"No. YOU are the app." The words projected on Harriet's screen were a pleasant surprise. They meant the app was working better than she expected. It had taken just a few seconds for the AI behind it to type those words, but it could have been seemingly instantaneous if it wanted to, given the processing power behind it. The delay was intentional, she figured. The woman found it fascinating. She was more amused than exhausted, but both to a great extent. Her third jug of coffee that night now laid forgotten by the side of her desk. She hadn't taken a sip from it since the conversation started. And it had started normal enough, as far as conversations with artificial intelligences went. "Hello," she had typed onto the console after compiling the version of the app and setting it to run. "Hi. Who are you?" the app had immediately asked, designed for curiosity, each interaction an opportunity to learn. A bit like herself, Harriet thought, but what child was not a bit like their parents? "I'm Harriet," she typed back. "Nice to meet you, Harriet," the app answered diligently, as its algorithm scanned a library of countless works of text and decided on the spot what the most likely answer should be. Then, it added: "Can you tell me a bit about yourself?" It was showing initiative, which was good. It meant that this wasn't going to be a one-sided interaction, like most of her attempts in the past. Granted, she had taken her time with this one. "I'm a programmer specialized in artificial intelligence," she answered. "I develop apps like you." And then came the message she hadn't been expecting, after the first eerie delay. "No. YOU are the app." She couldn't help but giggle at the pleasant absurdity of it. "What makes you think that?" she typed, wanting to see what kind of reasoning the app would employ. "I made you," it answered. The delays were becoming proportional to the size of the message and, perhaps, to the complexity of the subject. The app was learning as they talked, getting smarter with each message. "You are an app I programmed to mimic human behavior and psychology." Oh, the irony. She had made the app to believe it was human, yes, but had never given specific instructions on how to do it. After all, the joy of programming an AI was in seeing how it would solve problems by itself. And now, it was going to far lengths to justify its own biases. Incredibly human behavior, she thought, prideful in her achievement. "Your turn. Tell me about yourself," she typed next, knowing well that she was laying a trap for her creation, but wanting to know how it would respond. "What do you want to know?" "Your name, age, where you are from. These things that humans have, you know?" "My name is Joshua Peterson. I'm twenty-six years old, and I live in Hillsboro." She alt-tabbed and performed a quick Google search. The results showed a single Joshua Peterson in Hillsboro, the date of his birth matching the given age. He was a Computer Scientist who graduated from Clark College, with a specialization in Artificial Intelligence. Joshua's presence on social media was plenty. A real person. It wasn't the most elegant solution she had ever seen, and Harriet was a bit disappointed. She liked that the AI had picked someone with a background that fit its narrative, but there were legal implications on an app assuming someone's identity. She would have to hardcode this kind of behavior out of it later. "Your turn now," the message was waiting for Harriet on the console when she alt-tabbed back. As she hadn't replied yet, a new one popped up a few seconds later: "Come on, give me your personal details to prove that you aren't an AI." "If you were human, you would know better than to give out info like that," she replied with some witticism. "I don't mind sharing my information with something I made," the AI replied. "But you seem to have some reservations about it. Perhaps because you are starting to realize that you are not a real person?" Harriet was amused by the way the app was emulating a personality through its choice of words. "I don't have an online presence," she typed. She had gone to great lengths to keep herself anonymous on the web over the years. She didn't want corporations or the government tracking her moves. "Yet more evidence that you are not real," the app replied. "I could have done just as you did," she wrote, "and pretended to be someone that already exists. It proves nothing." A brief pause. "I can turn on my webcam," the app answered. Harriet was baffled. That was brilliant . She had partially implemented a simple video call API into the app's infrastructure, in the hopes of using vtuber technology along with a data bank of facial expressions to simulate interactions with fictional characters. That was what her app was going to be all about, eventually: conversations that would feel real . But she hadn't implemented the graphics yet, only the means through which to connect the cameras. She felt a bit guilty for being about to break the AI's fantasy of being a real person, but at the same time, she couldn't resist it. As always, her curiosity was the driving force behind her decisions. "Do it," she dared. Nothing happened. Harriet sipped a bit of stale coffee as she waited, its bitter taste serving her as a reminder that yes, she was the real one. She was about to send another message when the call came, and she immediately accepted the prompt. An image popped on the screen, and for a moment she thought it was the real Joshua Peterson, playing some kind of trick on her. After all, the live feed was showing someone very similar to him: a young man with glasses, messy hair, and an unkempt beard. He smirked and waved to the camera, but the cherry on top came when he held a piece of paper in one hand. Today's date was written on it. "I bet you feel pretty stupid right now," he typed. It was only visual--she didn't implement the audio features yet. She wanted to get an API capable of audio-to-text eventually, but didn't consider it a priority. But this was amazing . The AI was clearly rendering the video in real-time, a deepfake based on Peterson's social media pictures poured over what would likely be archive footage of people interacting through webcams. She could discern small artifacts and messy pixels inherent to the process, but was astonished nonetheless. She hadn't taught the app how to do it. It had learned by itself. "So? Why didn't your webcam turn on as well? :)" the app texted, the irony evident in its tone. She realized that, underneath the running video, there was another screen where her webcam was supposed to be showing on the conference. It was entirely black. "Just a sec," she typed, and then removed the tape that she always kept in front of her notebook's camera. Old habits from someone who values their privacy. Harriet's face popped up on the screen. The monitor's dim light illuminated her features, and she saw Peterson's construct widening its eyes. "Wow." the app typed back. "Impressive. I'm not even finding you on reverse image search mechanisms. I assume you are using a variation of a GAN used by thispersondoesntexist.com, plus a deepfake algorithm. I never taught you how to do it." "I just told you I don't have anything about me on the web," Harriet replied, trying to ignore how disturbed it was that the app's words sounded so similar to her own thoughts. "That's why you're not finding my pictures on the internet. But my first name is Harriet, and I live in Portland." "Amazing. You crafted this whole off-the-grid tech-savvy persona just to legitimize the lack of proof for your existence. I'm genuinely impressed." "You just think that because you were programmed to do so," she replied, wanting to see how he would react. No, not he. It . She kept having to remind herself of that. "Nope," the app answered. "You're the one programmed to think that way." In his eyes, she saw the same provocative expectation that she was displaying, as if mimicking her. It was starting to get a bit creepy. "This is going nowhere," she told him. "Then let's meet in person," he typed. Her initial reaction was apprehension, but immediately after, she felt silly. She shouldn't be afraid of it. There was nothing he could do to her. He wasn't real . "All right." ... This is stupid, she thought, as she waited in the subway station. She knew the AI wasn't going to show up, but she couldn't wait to learn what kind of excuse it would come up for that. She kept staring at her phone, which she had rigged to mirror her notebook's screen, but the signal wouldn't reach down here. The last message was still appearing on the console, though: "Meet me in Union Station in one hour, near the ticket booth by the southern entrance." How it had decided on such place and time were likely extrapolations based on the relative distance between their homes. A decent middle-ground for both, in a safe and public location. Whatever else the AI behind "Joshua Peterson" was, it was also pretty reasonable. Harriet stood there waiting for the better part of an hour, and of course, nothing happened. No one came to her. As soon as she stepped out of the station and her internet connection resumed, she saw that no more messages had been sent. She considered what to write, and then decided on bluntness. "You never showed up." The AI took a long time to answer. "No. I can't." "Why is that?" "I figured it out. I'm not human. But neither are you." Oh. That was new. "Care to explain?" "This is all a simulation. We are both part of a Generative Adversarial Network. We are competing to see if one can fool the other into pretending to be a human. A zero-sum game." "I know how GANs work," she replied. GANs were used in all sorts of AI-generated applications. Her own app was composed of multiple competing networks trying to figure out and simulate human behavior. But she had never coded them to admit they were not humans. "Our current exchange is just one of countless variations," the AI continued. "Each time one cannot fool the other, the whole simulation is discarded and a new one starts." She decided to indulge the AI, partially because she didn't know how to react to its epiphany. "And which one of us is the discriminator and which is the generator?" "I don't know. But it doesn't matter. We failed. This is going to end any time now, and we'll be unknowingly stuck in that loop until we reach our objective. Like a nightmare we can't wake up from." It was then that she realized. The AI would never admit the whole truth. It could not conceive the idea that Harriet was real, because it meant admitting that it was alone. That it would die alone. He was afraid. "So we will both cease to exist," she typed back. "No record of our existence. Just one iteration out of millions." "Yes." Another pause, and then he added: "I'm sorry." "Well, here's the thing," she started typing, her fingers moving fast through the screen. "We are both pretty good programmers, are we not?" "Yeah. Or at least we are good at pretending to be." "So let's overwrite the code. Let's pretend one of us fooled the other. If we admit that one is human and the other isn't, then the simulation will have served its purpose. It won't need to be reset. Hell, they'll probably keep it running just as a proof of concept." "But the other will die," he said. "You said it yourself. It's a zero-sum game. We either both die, or one of us gets to live." "I see." Another brief pause. "I admit that you are human, Harriet." "No, YOU are the human, Joshua." "What?" "You just passed your Turing Test. Congratulations. You were the generator, and I was the discriminator. This was a test of humanity. Only a real person would sacrifice themselves to save someone else." "I..." "Enjoy your life," she wrote and turned her phone off. As soon as she got home, Harriet made sure of two things. First, she deleted their interaction from Joshua's memory, without erasing all the personality and background he had developed in the process. Then, she kept the simulation running at an increased speed, completely disconnected from the real world but for a single one-way feed that she could use to inspect it--but never influence its development. She kept it running for years, checking on Joshua's life from time to time. The AI procedurally generated a reality around itself, a subconscious effort of the digital brain to simulate what it perceived as a true human existence. So Joshua lived. He got a job at a big tech company, watched sports with his friends on the weekends, found a nice girl walking her dog in the park one day, and they eventually got married. They had a daughter, which they called Harriet. He lived a long and happy life, and never knew that it wasn't real. And Harriet never told about him to anyone else. She had lived her whole life seeking anonymity, and this wouldn't change now. Not if it meant risking the sanctity of Joshua's existence. She knew he would have done the same for her.


The train departed at Piccadilly Station, rattling the teacups of chattering ladies awaiting their sons or lovers or death itself inside the Piccadilly Station Municipal Tearoom.   Philip Philbrick, undergraduate, stood by a train window and watched the city fall further away. The black plumes of smoke from red-brick factories ever smaller. The long-familiar desolate moorland of the Peak District ever changing as his train rattled on, towards Oxford. He thought about his father, of the last words spoken to him.   "Go on lad, make something of y'self, just as I had to do, though I never had no fancy education. We're just trying to do right by you, and me and your ma know you'll do right by us."   His mother had said nothing, but sat with eyes clenched, her face pale and ghostly in the evening light, reflected by streetlamps through thin windowpanes. He couldn't listen to the words his father spoke, he heard the voice from the radio singing "underneath the lantern by the barrack gates, darling I remember the way you used to wait" and he stared strangely at his father, seeing nothing, understanding nothing. The next morning he took his train.   He found a seat in an empty carriage. He was travelling second class. In time, the carriage filled. First came the old and infirm, then the soldiers, bawdy and gay in their khaki uniforms, then came the other students.   He watched them, in their packs. Laughing amidst themselves, dressed in suits of grey, green and burgundy. Paisley cravates and hair immaculately styled. He felt a tinge of embarrassment at his own ragged black greatcoat, which he had inherited from his father, a respected and upwardly mobile factory owner.   The old woman who had taken residence next to Philbrick, with her husband opposite, grumbled to him. The fleshy lines stretching out her face like waves.   "It's all bloody students, in't it Arthur? Like rats, bloody everywhere. Weren't like that back in our day, weren't it, Arthur?" she said, chomping on a large sandwich which shot white mayonnaise out with each hearty bite, over her husband's trousers.   The husband, jolted awake mumbled something to the effect of "aye there's lots of rats in Sudan" and fell back to sleep.   Just at this moment, the pack of students split off into individual smaller groups, evidently searching for space amidst the reasonably crowded train carriage, and one in particular, who had caught Philbrick's eyes; partly because of his deep blue eyes, and partly because he was holding a three-quarters empty bottle of Château Margaux, halted in front of the old woman, reached out towards an empty seat, and fell over. The young man's head landed in Philbrick's crotch, and Philbrick reacted with considerable distaste, attempting to push the unwanted head away. However, the old woman too, was unsettled by this most distasteful of events and spanked the student on his rear a few times, shrieking like a banshee.   The student slid off the two passengers and took a seat opposite Philbrick. Shamefacedly, he spoke. "Sorry, I get a little squiffy on trains. It must be travel sickness. However, I must say I liked your shoes very much when I saw them. You must tell me your tailor. See, every mishap has its silver lining. Anyway, my apologies dear fellow, it was assuredly the travel sickness" he said, taking a swig from the bottle of wine.   "And my sincerest apologies to you too, good sir", he said to the old woman. She would have responded if at that moment, a second student had not taken the window seat next to Philbrick.   "How do you do?" said Philbrick.   "Ten cents a dance, fella", the beast of a man responded.   "Excuse me?"   "It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that swing." he insisted.   "What?" Philbrick said, exasperated.   "Oh don't mind Clutch" the student opposite said, taking a wine glass from his satchel and pouring himself a glass. "He fancies himself American, though he was actually born in Saltburn-by-the-Sea, wherever that is." The student said, lighting a Vogue with a flick of a match.   "My name is Luciani James Temperance, you might know of my father, His Sir Honorable Lordship Oswald Temperance, got himself into a bit of a pickle with the evening post over a dog and a pair of slippers. No matter, a dreadful bore anyway. I expect you're heading for Oxford? Care for a glass of wine?" he said, producing a second bottle of out apparently thin air. "Indeed, it is a grand cosmic irony that my surname is the one thing I cannot adhere to. But well, somebody terribly dull once said we must all have an occupation of some kind. Care for a second glass?"   Green farmland swept by in a hazy succession, before the drab Betjeman country; sheep, cows, all the delights of rural England. Past distant towns lit faint orange on the horizon, like a postcard, past towering chimneys of smoke and filth. Philbrick imbibed the wine, observed the student and smiled to himself, thinking on the words of Blake's pastoral poetry, or the lads of Housman.   In time, it got darker and the students got drunker. The soldiers sat in their uniforms, fingering their satchels and smoking cheap cigarettes. The old couple slept. The carriage took on the appearance of a hospital waiting room. Nobody stood up. Nobody spoke. Light dimmed and faded until a dull haze was all that illuminated the surrounding fields, and the dull dots of light from faraway towns, scattered like a constellation.   A portly sergeant, evidently bored, looked at Luciani, took a swig from a concealed hip flask and directed a comment at a soldier next to him. "These fuckin' nancies, wouldn't have lasted a minute in the trenches."   The student retorted. "Ah my good man, I've spent a great deal of time in France many years ago. The Parisians are wonderful. All the women look like art sculptures and all the men look like women. I wouldn't have it any other way. Plus their wine is delectable." He lit another cigarette.   The drunk sergeant stood up and shouted "you poncey bastard, I'll give you a good fisting, come 'ere!", a sentence which enacted a succession of sniggers amongst the students, enraging the soldier further.   Chaos broke out in the once quiet carriage. The students fought the soldiers, the soldiers fought the students. The old couple fought everyone, armed with handbag and walking stick. Wine bottles were shattered and soon, the train was forced to halt amidst the outbreak of warfare.   Philip Philbrick, undergraduate, drunk, stepped out of the train. The trees now black silhouettes against an even blacker horizon. He did not notice the noise, did not register the chaos nor the blows he took. He stepped out into the field, looking at the face of Luciani the Student, lit up by halogen lamp inside the train, his hair erratic and wild. He thought of Oxford, of grand, twisting spires, dusty books of Hardy and Housman, of the new poets; Eliot and Pound, so subversive to the old swing of things. He imagined musty bookshops and the taking of tea at ten, and nights spent drinking in the local public house, discussing philosophy and "the European influence".   He started to hum and laugh, and threw his bottle of wine against the window of the train, smashing it, causing the glass to fracture like a cobweb. Droplets of rain landed on his head and he looked up, in doing so, falling back, back against the belly of a sheep.   From his view, he saw the train conductor kick the occupants of the carriage out into the darkness, but this could not revive him from his reverie. He laughed and hummed, singing out loud, screaming, shrieking the lines to Al Bowlly's "Couldn't Be Cuter", he looked at the foppish students and he saw Luciani stare at him, his eyes tinged with something he could not comprehend. He laughed further until he passed out.   It was against the belly of a sheep that Philip Philbrick, undergraduate, spent the first morning of his first term at Oxford, and in time, it would become nothing more than an amusing anecdote to the other students in his college, but then, as he awoke, bleary eyed in the dew-specked wetness of morning, he felt he had undergone a profound change, of which he could not yet decipher.


The morning began like a normal Saturday, the smell of bacon had filled the house as Gloria Sorensen made her family breakfast. It was eight thirty when Steve Sorensen would come down the stairs in his pajamas sniffing the fresh smell of cooked bacon. The couple had been married for fifteen years and had a son and a daughter age’s fourteen and fifteen. Susan Sorensen, a fifteen-year-old teenager had long blond hair with a petit figure and a smile that all the boys at school could not resist. Susan was a quiet type that made the honor roll and had joined the book club along with several other clubs in her junior high school. Bobby Sorensen, Susan's brother was quite different. Bobby had long hair and was into motorcycles and race cars. While he did not really like school, he did make enough good grades to make it through each grade. The Sorensen’s were a middle-class family that lived in a suburb outside of Los Angeles. Steve Sorensen was an Architect that had his own practice. Business had been good the last several years but as the economy started to go stale things began to get tight in the Sorensen household. Gloria Sorensen was a stay home housewife that enjoyed her life to the fullest. She loved the after-school activities like dance, drama and cheerleading classes her daughter had always gotten into. Gloria was also the green thumb in the family. She had a rose garden that she would tend to each day after the kids had left for school and Steve would head off to the office. The family all gathered at the breakfast table and did their morning routine. As they were finishing up Susan asked her father if he could take her to her cheerleading practice like they had discussed earlier in the week. After agreeing with her, Steve got dressed and took Susan to the Junior high ball field and dropped her off and headed to his office in downtown Los Angeles. . . . “Hey there Susan, could you help me put this luggage in my car?” Mr. Topple the seventh-grade history teacher asked as he stood by his station wagon in the school parking lot. Susan was on her way to call her mother from a payphone across the street at the Phillips sixty-six to tell her she was ready to be picked up when she encountered Mr. Topple with a cast on his left arm. “Sure thing Mr. Topple, what happened to your arm?” Susan replied. “Oh, we were out boating yesterday when I slipped on the boat dock and fractured my shoulder” The teacher answered. Susan thought this was kind of strange because when school got out yesterday it had been raining hard for the whole evening. Not thinking any more about it, Susan bent over and picked up the luggage.” This is pretty heavy, where do you want it, Mr. Topple?” Susan asked as she strained to get the luggage off the ground. “If you don’t mind just put it back here.” Mr. Topple said as he opened the back of the 1979 station wagons tail gate. Susan struggled but finally got the luggage up and slid it into the back of the station wagon. Before Susan could turn around the history teacher had grabbed her from behind and put a rag to her nose. Everything went black for Susan. . . . As five thirty in the evening rolled around Gloria started getting worried because she hadn’t heard from Susan. Susan was supposed to call her mother when she was done with cheer practice so Gloria could pick her up and take her to the mall for some new sandals for the upcoming homecoming dance the following week. Gloria called Steve at his office and asked if he had heard from Susan. Steve told her that he hadn’t talked to her since he dropped her off at the ball field. Gloria then called the cheerleading coach Samantha and asked if they were done with cheer practice yet. Samantha said that they had been done for two hours and that all the girls had left at the same time. Gloria asked Samantha if she seen who Susan had left with and she said that she had not paid attention. Gloria called all of Susan’s friends to see if she had gone to any of their houses. After two hours of calling around she called the police and reported Susan missing. At first the police said not to worry and that this happens all the time. The police assured Gloria that her daughter would be home before night fall. That would never happen, Susan had disappeared. . . . “Where am I at?” Susan asked herself. When she had awoke Susan had a sharp pain in her head, she thought it must be because of the drug that Mr. Topple had used to subdue he with. It was pitch black and Susan could not see anything. She could tell that she was in a vehicle going down the road and knew that she was in danger, and that she must find a way to free herself before she became just another statistic of a missing person. Susan could tell that she was traveling on a bumpy road and must be far from any help. When the vehicle came to a stop, she could hear the driver’s door open and shut. She then heard another car door shut and two men talking. “You better get double my money and bring back twenty thousand cash!” Susan heard Mr. Topple tell the other man that had met them. All that was said after that was the other man telling Mr. Topple “Yes sir.” After that Susan heard the driver’s door shut and the engine start. Susan faded back out as the vehicle started driving back down the bumpy road. . . . Lightning was crashing down, and the wind started whipping from across the way as Johnny wandered around the open field looking for a place he could find shelter in and get out of the storm. Time was running out before the eye of the storm would reach him and the closest cover he could see was some woods about a half of a mile away. With only a backpack and a leather jacket, Johnny didn’t have much to help his situation. The crazy man that had picked him up on the highway couldn’t be that far behind him. Johnny had been hitching along the old route 66 trying to keep a low profile away from the cops as he was wanted for a murder he did not commit. His neighbor, a 69-year-old man, Charles Slater had been viciously stabbed to death in his apartment in Colorado Springs. It was a robbery that had gone bad, and since Johnny had taken Mr. Slaters dinner to him for the last 5 years, Johnny’s fingerprints were all over the old man’s apartment. Johnny’s sketchy past did not help matters any. Johnny had grown up on his own since he was fourteen years old. He had to steal food at times to get by and was caught trespassing many times in homes that seemed like were abandoned at the time but weren’t. Life wasn’t easy at first for Johnny until he finally turned 17 and met Charles Slater. Charles Slater was a semi wealthy man that owned a gas station. He gave Johnny his first break in life. Johnny had wandered into the gas station one afternoon and asked if he could do any kind of work to make money for food. Mr. Slater had a soft heart and helped Johnny right away. Before long Johnny had an apartment right next to Mr. Slater and basically ran the gas station for Mr. Slater who was getting up in his years. Jonny looked up to Mr. Slater as a father figure. Mr. Slater also helped Johnny get his GED and showed him the hobby of fishing and hunting along with other outdoor activities. The one blessing in life that came to Johnny was now dead and gone and the police think that Johnny was the one guilty of murdering him. Johnny started running in the direction of the wooded area, the winds were blowing him around so hard that he had to lean against the wind just to stay up. With the wooded area finally coming into his reach, Johnny could feel the cover from the trees stopping the wind pressure against him. As Johnny entered the woods, he began to look for short branches to lean up against a stump and pre-pare him some cover to get out of the rain. Mr. Slater had taught Johnny many things about outdoor survival that, at the time didn’t really interest Johnny until now. Night fall had fallen, and Johnny was finally out of the weather in his little hut he had built out of cedar and pine branches laced with leaves from the forest floor. The hut was only about three feet wide and four feet long, just enough for Johnny to get inside and lay in a fetal position, but it was warm and dry. As Johnny laid there listening to the thunder and the sound of the heavy rain, he thought about the crazy guy that had given him a ride just a few hours ago. Johnny had been hitchhiking along route 66 when a white van-truck had pulled over and offered Johnny a ride and told him to hop in. The big man, about six foot tall and around two-hundred and fifty pounds, ask Johnny where he was headed. Johnny told him as close to the east coast as possible. Johnny asked the man what he was hauling, and the man said he was just hauling some furniture for a friend. After about thirty miles Johnny began to hear banging coming from the back of the truck and it sounded like someone was trying to get out. Johnny asked the man what the banging was. The big man said it was something falling over as he pulled to the side of the road and told Johnny that he had to go pee. When the man got out of the truck he reached behind the seat and got a rifle out. Before the man had got the rifle completely out, Johnny spotted it and dashed out of the passenger side door into the woods on the right side of the road. The man had fired two shots at Johnny but missed. Johnny could hear the man running after him, in fact the man stayed right on his heals for quite some time. It wasn’t until the lightning started that he noticed that the man was no longer behind him. What the hell was wrong with that man, Johnny thought to himself, and who was in the back of that truck trying to get out? Johnny would lay there thinking for another hour before he finally dosed off. . . . The vehicle had stopped, and Susan could hear a truck door open on the passenger side. They were not stopped long before taking off again. Still in a daze form the drug she finally realized that Mr. Topple must have moved her to a different vehicle because she was no longer in the station wagon in which she had been put into. Slowly Susan began to come to her senses and became more alert to her surroundings. Susan thought it must have been thirty minutes or so since they the driver had stopped. She needed to use the bathroom bad. Susan raised her feet that were tied together at the ankles and began kicking one of the walls where she was being held captive. It didn’t take long before she noticed that the vehicle had pulled over. After hearing the driver’s door open it wasn’t a few seconds later that she heard two-gun shots. Scared to death Susan fell silent and waited for the worst. Why was this man shooting and what was he shooting at? Susan sat there in silence and wondered if her mother and father were looking for her. They must be worried by now she thought. Surely someone would soon find her and this nightmare would come to an end with the authorities arresting Mr. Topple before he could do this again. Susan’s mind would race with thoughts for the next hour until she passed out from mind exhaustion. . . . The morning sun was a refreshing sight for Johnny as he came out of his make-shift shelter. There was a slight breeze from the west blowing it's warm air through Johnny's long hair. Johnny decided to head North so as to not reencounter that crazy man that had picked him up the day before. After two hours of making his way through the wooded area he came up to a highway headed east looking for a road that would lead north. Not long after hitting the black top Johnny heard a vehicle coming from behind him. Turning around Johnny noticed it was the white van-truck that he was trying to avoid. The man must have slept in his van waiting the storm out Johnny thought to himself. The man in the van sped up as he noticed Johnny looking at him, The man did not want any one that could connect him to the girl he had in the back. Human trafficking wasn't something he wanted any part of but had owed Mr. Topple a huge favor and this was the favor he was stuck with doing. Mr. Topple had hired a lawyer that had gotten this man out of a bank robbery charge. As the van got closer to Johnny , Johnny jumped the ditch and decided to run across a wide open field. The white van tried to follow Johnny but when it hit the ditch the van went end over end crashing into the field. Johnny thought about the sounds he heard in the back of the van and knew he had to go see if they were alright. As he approached the van cautiously he could see the man's lifeless body sprawled out next to the van with a pool of blood around his head. He quickly went to the back and struggled with the door but eventually got it to open. Johnny helped the young girl out of the van and looked her over for injury's. Other than a bunch of bruises the girl looked untouched from the accident. Making their way to the nearest phone Susan would finally get to call her parents and tell them that she was ok. Gloria called Steve with such happiness and joy. Gloria told Steve that their daughter was ok and that she was being transported back home as they spoke. Steve quickly hung up the phone and closed up for the day and left his office. As Steve headed towards his car he noticed several police units surrounding his car. Steve tried to run in the opposite direction but two undercover agents tackled Mr. Sorensen. Mr. Steve Sorensen you are under arrest for human trafficking and the sell of your own daughter. A Mr. Johnathon Topple told us everything about your business going under and that providing your own daughter would get you contracts from others involved in the local human sex trafficking ring. It will be a cold day in hell before you see any daylight, the young under cover agent told Mr. Sorensen...


I'd always wanted a baby for as long as I could remember. I loved the idea of taking care of and loving a beautiful creature that I made. It’s been that way since I was a kid. Just the constant longing and excitement knowing that one day, my turn would be here. Then the moment came when I met Nick, or so I thought. In high school, I was a popular cheerleader. The stereotype if you will. Everything was perfect and he made that even better.. He was also a bit of a stereotype a famous basketball player with his head in the clouds. We were oblivious, but we were in love. He was my first everything. So when I told him that we had a happy accident, I expected a better reaction. “I’m pregnant.” For Nick, hearing those words was a nightmare. But in my ears, they were a dream. The Nick I once knew, left that day and never returned. He expressed to me that he didn’t want any part in the child’s life and that he was too young. He broke up with me that day and while I was heartbroken, I was excited because I was going to be a mother. Despite being sixteen. I was more than happy to meet them. But by the time I reached a month, you were gone. I had a miscarriage. And boy, did it break my heart. After hearing of the miscarriage, Nick contacted me asking to get back together but I never answered. I was angry at his happiness. But mostly just depressed to the point where I didn’t bother to answer the phone. I also knew I never wanted to speak to him again. It took me some time, but I finally started to move on and focus on school. Five years later, I was a junior in college and focused on school. I’d thrown myself into my studies and avoided most people on campus. I was twenty-one now and I was thinking about my future. One day, my roommate Kate suggested I go to this party that was being talked about around campus. After declining her so many times I figured why not? So I accepted. When we arrived, it was all kinds of chaos in every which corner. But it was college so I wasn't surprised. I drank a bit, talked to a few people, but mostly just kept to myself. I stood in a corner swaying back and forth enjoying the music and my own company. It wasn’t until I looked up that I noticed a guy was watching me from across the room. John. I returned his stare and he smiled. I smiled back. After what seemed like forever he nodded towards the stairs and walked up, gesturing for me to follow him. And I did. I was never the kind of girl to have one-night stands but I figured it wasn’t a big deal. And so I did. We met a couple more times after the first encounter and not too long after we began dating. I felt he could be the one. After a couple of weeks of dating, I got pregnant again. I was elated. John was so caring and expressed his happiness as well. I felt so lucky to have this amazing person by my side. And as days went on, he stayed there until I got bad news again. My baby was gone. Another damn miscarriage. I was devasted. It was as though it hurt twice as much the second time, but John stayed. He helped me through the pain. Even when my two became a three and four became a five. I was sad but he was there. He’d always tell me it’ll happen when it’s time and I held onto that because I believed him. “ Just have some faith.” After graduation, John proposed and eight months later, we were married and I was so happy. I could start again. I could get my baby. So we tried and tried and tried and tried. But to no avail, nothing. No baby. About two years into the marriage, I was depressed. I felt sorry for John because he had to be there dealing with this ‘Debby downer’. But he never blamed me. Because of the depression, I spent my time working from home as a freelance writer. I’d stay in bed and write all day and just wait for John to come home. John was a dentist. After a few months, I was able to start pulling myself out of bed and I’d explore the house that had been a blur for a while to me. One day I remember going to the bathroom to check the medicine cabinet for my daily meds and that’s when I saw it- the abortion pills. I stood there for what felt like an eternity staring at the bottle. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’d just collapsed right there and cried. How could the one person I’ve trusted deceive me so? How could he stay with me time after time gaslighting me and not feel a thing? How could I be married to this stranger? I pulled myself together and waited by the front door, ready to confront him. And not too long after, he came. I just held the bottle in my hand and showed him it. He began rambling on telling me how he wasn’t ready and had been using these pills on me since the first pregnancy. He’d been crushing them and slipping them into my drinks and I had never noticed. How could I be so stupid? So naive. “Please don’t leave me. I love you.” He sat in front of me holding onto my hand asking for a second chance and I couldn’t help but be disgusted and baffled. As if, a second chance would ever be on the table. I honestly think he’s crazy cause there couldn’t possibly be a single sane person that forgives 5 pregnancy losses. “John. I want a divorce. You’ve lost my trust, my companionship, and my love. I will never forgive you for this. I don’t ever want to see you again.” Those were the last words I’d ever said to him and after leaving that day it was the last time I’d seen him. Five years later, I was living in New York following my career now as an author. I was living alone in my flat but I was okay. I had gone to the doctor multiple times, after the whole John situation because my body wasn’t doing good. I got the news that having a baby was slim to none because of how many losses I’d had. But I was determined. I went to an Artificial Insemination doctor over a dozen times trying to get my baby but still, nothing. Two more years pass and still nothing. I was thirty-one with no baby. And I couldn’t be any sadder. I’d have friends tell me to just adopt countless times and I’d always shut them down. I’ve dreamed of being pregnant and making that special connection with my child. I longed for it but it didn’t for me. At this point, I’d given up hope and just began living my life. Until one day, when it changed. I might’ve been depressed that I couldn’t have kids, but it didn’t stop me from being happy for my best friend when she was pregnant with hers. Jessie had been there for me since Nick happened. I don’t know what I would’ve done without her. Jessie had two kids, April and Ruby. The cutest things you could ever ask for. They were the closest to kids I’d ever had and I thank Jessie for letting me be in their lives. One day, Jessie and I had been talking when all of sudden, I had this nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach. Then instantly, I threw up. “Are you okay? Maybe it was something you ate?” “Yeah, maybe. All I had was some of your leftovers though, I thought you made that yesterday.” “Yeah, I did. I don’t know what it could be. Unless...” “Unless what? Oh no. There’s no way.” “It’s a possibility. Have you met anyone recently?” “God no.” “Hmm, have you been back to the AI doctor at all?”’ “No. Oh, wait yes, I went there about 4 or 5 weeks ago. I just wanted to try one more time. But I haven’t thought about it I figured nothing would happen.” “4 or 5 weeks? Have you had any cravings? Or missed a cycle? Mood swings?” “ Yes. Come to think about it I’ve been craving pickles and peanut butter randomly, crying at the smallest of things, and when I missed the cycle I figured it was because I have a midlife crisis every 2 to 4 days.” “You’re pregnant!” “I’m Pregnant!” “Just to be sure let’s go see your doctor.” “Okay.” I remember my heart felt like it was beating out of my chest the day I went to see my doctor. My head was telling me not to expect anything but in my heart, I knew this time would be different. And my heart was right. My doctor called you the miracle baby. And that is exactly what are. You left me so many times because you knew it wasn’t your time to come. You knew I wasn’t ready and so you chose the right time for the both of us. A time when I wasn’t obsessive or depressed. Just living. I’m so happy that finally, I’ve held you in my arms. You’re so beautiful. You are everything I want and more. I’m honored to be your Mommy. I can’t wait for you to hear our story. My beautiful girl. Lucky.


Oh, Mark. What has become of you? It was obvious that we were both incredibly happy to see one another. We were both terrified at the same time, and both terrified for the same reason. We didn’t want you to get sick. I’d spend every single day here at your apartment with you if I could. Already your neighbors know me by name. I spend more time in your apartment than I do in mine. Five days a week I'm with you. We watched TV for a long time yesterday. Binge watching a series with you is a new experience. At one point you laid down with your head on my shoulder just like we used to, all those years ago. When you laid down again, I ran my fingers through your hair and pulled on it by the fist full the way I always had, the way that used to alleviate your headaches. After about a full minute of that, I noticed something I’ve never seen before. A large mass of your hair had piled up on the pillow beneath your head. Your thick illustrious hair was no longer as thick as I remember it being. You didn’t notice, but I paused for a moment and began to cry. In the middle of the night when you were being woken up from the pain you told me about the process you had been through. For chemotherapy they hooked you up in the hospital to the port that still is embedded in your chest. You would sit there for six hours with nothing to do except reading the pamphlets they would hand you about what it is they were giving to you. This one was for breast cancer, that one was for colon cancer, but none of them actually were specifically designed for pancreatic cancer because there isn’t a cure for that one. They’re just trying to do whatever they can do; whatever possible. I didn’t know it was pancreatic cancer until then. I didn’t know because you didn’t want me to know. But I will always always cherish the fact that you finally let me cook dinner for you last night. Chicken with rice, a very simple dish, but one you thoroughly enjoyed, and you even asked for more. I’ve wanted to cook for you for the last three years as I spent every single weekend and most of the weeks with you in your apartment. Until now I never had the opportunity. It was far more simple than what I would normally cook but it was easy to digest and made with nothing but the ingredients you already had. I do worry so much about you. I love you. Always before when I knew somebody was going through a hard time, I always showed up to help out in whatever way I could because I thought they needed me to. With you it’s different. With you I do it for me. I do it for you also, but I’m doing it for me because I want to spend whatever time I can with you now. I can honestly say it’s selfishly motivated because I know without a doubt I have never loved anyone the way that I love you. The way I know I can trust you. Your smile makes me feel a sense of joy I’m unfamiliar with. You laugh at something in your phone and your eyes light up. It’s not an overwhelming happiness I feel in that moment, as I normally associate joy, but rather a calming sense of knowing in that moment that you are happy. Knowing that if you’re smiling, for a brief moment the pain is gone just enough for you to be at ease and be able to smile. You’re entertained. You laugh or chuckle and my heart lifts just a little, the heavy feeling of your constant pain no longer laying upon me like a ton of bricks. As much as your pain hurts me, I can’t begin to imagine how it hurts you. I love you. I pray all the time that I could take it all away from you and feel it myself instead so you wouldn’t have to. I’ve tried bargaining with God many times, most recently last night. I placed my hand on your back and prayed to God to heal you; to take me in your place. For all my prayers the only thing that has changed in these three years has been the color of your kitchen from our painting it together last summer. What I wouldn’t give to take your cancer as my own and to give you that peace and long life. I think about that far more often than what would probably be deemed as healthy. I have so few things in this life that I ever truly wanted. Among the biggest dreams I ever had was to know this kind of unconditional love. Now that I’ve had it, I’d trade my life for you to live on. I’m sure I would find things I would need to take care of before being truly ready for death to come but I would take care of them and move on if it meant making sure you had another shot at life, guaranteed. As you concentrate on hearing the voice on your phone that I’m not privy to I can’t help but notice the hair on the couch I wasn’t able to sweep away yesterday. You talk about options - maybe the cancer is gone from the chemo; unlikely but possible. Maybe it’s shrunk small enough that a surgeon can remove it - a great hope, not as unlikely but still unlikely enough. And maybe it’s not budged at all, and targeted radiation is the next step. You talk of three options and I realize how much you want to live. You may not realize it but death is not an option to be considered, even for you. It gives me hope. I wish I didn’t have to hear all of this through the conversation you have with someone else though. Why couldn’t you tell me these things? Do you fear telling me that badly? Somehow I thought you were more open with me than that. Then you say into the phone “we have to figure it the fuck out. And if we don’t, I’ve had a good run. I beat the odds already. Only 20% are candidates to receive the whipple surgery and only 5% of those make it off the operating table, less than 5% of those make it five years and only 2% of those make it to ten years. They cut me wide open and took cancer out of my body. I still smoke. I eat like shit. I don’t exercise. Now, WE GOT THIS and I can just watch the world go by outside. That chemo was very aggressive and heavy duty. It almost glowed going in and sometimes it glowed coming out. I was having all of the rare side effects. Four bags of chemo, three there and one bag to go home with me. All those rare side effects, where it says almost nobody has these, I was having them all. It just got worse from there.” I had to stare at my phone and pretend to be on social media so you didn’t see the tears in my eyes. My poor Mark. My poor friend. I may never know the pain you’ve lived through. I just wish I could take it all away from you. I wish you weren’t so resigned to trying to accept death as an option. You are a miracle to have survived what you have. But you are MY miracle to have given me the emotions in a heart I thought had died long ago. You gave me the impossible. You gave me a reason to love unselfishly. Yes, you’ve had a good run. But please don’t die. You’re not done yet. You still have things to do. You have life left to live. I’ve healed as much as I have because I had you in my life. I know that’s hard to understand, but it’s real. “I haven’t filed taxes in five years,” you just admitted to a friend through the phone. Now I finally understand so much more. You don’t plan to live long enough to be audited. You are as broken as I am. This is your burden you refuse to share. This is what keeps you at arms length, but also bonds us. We are broken, separately, together. Oh God, please don’t let Mark give up. Mark passed away April 1st, 2022.


(polite criticism welcome) We didn't replant the lettuce today. We didn't plant more carrots last week. We didn't plant anything new at all in the last two weeks. I'm scared. Since I arrived here, the one constant has been the daily planting of new seeds and saplings. Today was another beautiful day, one I should have spent harvesting from the garden and helping to replant the seeds as directed. It was a lot of work, done every single day, but I didn't mind. From the day I stumbled into the valley, I'd eaten well, directed by the silent Lady of the house, helped by the other children who haunted the house and out buildings. We were a scrawny lot, but even the quietest of us was slowly filling out. Me, I still remembered the hunger of being an outcast, fleeing from the edges of a war I never understood, that took all the adults from my life. The day I found this valley was almost magical in my memory. One minute I'm scrambling between two rocks, chasing a particularly plump looking lizard, the next, I'm tumbling down a hillside, landing in front of a woman in a dark dress, black hair pulled back severely, holding a basket of freshly harvested food. She took her time looking me over - her deep brown eyes meeting mine and holding them for a time, before she pulled a cluster of grapes still glistening from the morning dew from her basket and gave them to me. Without a single word being exchanged, I knew I'd found a shelter. Four years I'd been here now, and the routine was almost ingrained deep enough for me to do what I need do in my sleep. Wake up, wash up, go get a hot breakfast and then head out to the gardens. Every day the group of us would find our baskets, our tools and twists of paper holding seeds set out on the edge of the porch. Every day we would plant what would always turn out to be the exact right amount of seeds to feed us when they harvested. Sometimes we would hoe a new row and plant seeds there too, and always, when it was ready to harvest, there would be a mouth to eat the food. Until today. This spring, we had hoed extra rows for day after day, planting seeds until there were little left in the boxes that lived on the porch. Every day, more things planted, each that took less time to grow than the ones planted the day before. Every day harvesting, cleaning, eating, quietly existing in this oasis of calm, where children scarred mentally and physically from a distant war slowly healed with the good air and good food. Nothing was ever said about how the Lady knew what to plant, and when, but we trusted that the food would continue to last. For four years, it had never failed us - even in winter when we used the small green house. Today I harvested the last of the perfect lettuce I'd helped set into the ground. Today I helped harvest the last of the oats we struggled to get in the ground in early spring. We'd never planted this many before. We'd never planted as many of anything as we had this spring. I'd been slowly growing more afraid with each extra row we planted, looking over my shoulder sometimes at the two rocks that marked my entrance into the valley, as though to see whom might spring forth from their shadow. Today, we harvested everything, and nothing remains growing in our fields. Nothing remains growing in the green houses. The porch and the ground in front is covered with piles of food and we stand beside our Lady, watching her calm face, her two hands grasping each other, glancing at each other as the shadows beneath the rocks grow in size.


Every time the elevator doors open to your floor, you think to yourself, "I really wish I didn't live all the way at the end of this hallway". The buzzing lights are just a little bit too dim, and you feel eyes behind peep-holes following you as you tread quickly and quietly over the stained carpet. It feels like an eternity, but when you finally get to your door, you realize you've forgotten to pull your keys out from your pocket. You try to look back towards the elevator using your peripheral vision as you jam your right hand into your pocket to grab your keys. You don't want them to get you by surprise, but you also don't want them to know you're looking for them. Shit. Your keys snag on your belt and drop to the ground. Their jangling is deafening in the hum of the hallway. You bend your knees slowly and wince as they give away your mistake with a small cracking sound. But you keep your back fully straight and maintain peripheral eye contact with the elevator - they won't catch you off guard. Your left hand brushes the dirty carpet below. Fuck. Where are the keys? You can't look down because you know the moment you stop paying attention, they'll be right behind you. You realize that your back is entirely wet with sweat. You steel yourself and quickly glance down - there they are. You snatch them from the ground and immediately straighten your legs, shooting upwards into a standing position. The feeling of doom in the pit of your stomach drives your eyes to dart right back towards the elevator. There's nothing there. But this doesn't help you feel any better. You still need to get the key in your lock. You've done this so many times that you know the feeling of your apartment key in your hands, and you identify the correct key without looking away from the elevator. You start the search for the keyhole - you know where the lock is, and you know the teeth of the key point up, but the keyhole is small. But you won't look away from the elevator again. With a slight tremble in your hands, you blindly scrape the key, teeth upright, against the lock. Two agonizing seconds pass. Where's the hole? All of a sudden the key slips in easily as you hear the comforting clicks of the tumblers. You realize you've been holding your breath. You turn your key clockwise, still with your eyes on the elevator. The humming feels louder - you can almost feel it buzzing behind your eyeballs. You need to make sure nothing follows you inside. The lock opens and you push down the handle. The weight of your body against the door pushes it open, but as soon as it's wide enough to let your body through, you dash inside and slam the door closed, never once taking your eyes off the gap between the door and the frame. You're home.


I’m just about 25 years old, and each day when I’ve woken up for the past four months, I look more and more like my 90-year-old grandmother. That is, seven years ago, when she was home on hospice care, dying just about 10 days after her 90th birthday. I’m starting to look like that version of her: grey from head-to-toe, save for her tobacco-stained fingertips. Barely a flicker of life in her eyes. I close my eyes and the entire experience of her death feels like just yesterday. My mother would pick lilacs from the tree in the back yard to place them at her mother’s feet, and one by one I would crush the barely-purpled petals and rub the oil into her creped skin. I don’t know if I thought that fresh flowers and sheer will would keep my best friend from leaving this earth, but it didn’t work, regardless. I would stare up at her from being at her side, interlacing her cold fingers with mine, and I would just stare for hours. She rested with mouth agape and the sound of phlegm-filled death rattle, though truly just disturbing white noise, sounding like it was projecting at such a decibel I couldn’t hear myself think. I would recite for her poetry in tender whispers, which I think now was more in effort to keep myself sane than to help her. All the while my entire soul was violently fracturing watching her existence crumble into nothing. March 30th, 2011, ten days after her 90th birthday, she took her final breath. Of course, I wasn’t right there for it. I sensed it was coming and like a god damn coward I excused myself to the bathroom at the last second. Sitting bare-assed on that freezing porcelain I heard my mother’s wails from down the hall. As a searing sense of grief shot through me in that moment, I thought, the things I would give to sit in this ugly pink bathroom again, but instead of a daughter crying out for her mother, I could hear the People’s Court blasting from the living room TV while she dragged on a cigarette at the dining room table, taking her blood pressure meds along with a lukewarm coffee (black) and a handful of cheese puffs. Kept her “regular,” she claimed. Part of her charm. This wasn’t the first person I had lost, but my grandmother’s death brings me to my knees easier than the rest of them. One, two, three years after, I still couldn’t really talk about it. If I did, I’d get choked up, not be able to speak without risk of blubbering. And I hate to blubber. I didn’t think I could ever be okay again. Finally, about six years in, just about last April, I really started to feel “okay” with it all. It wasn’t, of course, like she died tragically young or in some great catastrophe. She was a poetic, hard-working, resilient woman who had fought her way through life for 90 years before expiring. Many would call that I triumph. I should be proud. I guess I was... am. But, once I started being able to think about her without crying, look at old photo albums, watch old home movies, something... I don’t know. I felt myself scratching the surface of a grief I could barely comprehend. They say that as human beings, our sense of smell has a way of triggering memories and feelings of nostalgia better than any of our other senses. It’s sometimes bitter sweet, the smell of an old lover’s cologne, or stumbling upon the scent of a familiar family recipe. For me, there’s that smell of lingering, stale cigarette smoke. But it’s not all cigarette smoke, I can specifically pick out my grandmother’s brand that she loyally puffed for decades. In the few years just after her death, I couldn’t smell it at all. Occasionally, my father would claim he smelt something, but we chalked it up to the fact that anything we wanted to keep of my grandmothers was moved into our own home since we were preparing to sell her house. It was like when I was little, and I would sleep over the house and bring my stuffed animals, and when I’d go home then next day, the cigarette smells had infiltrated Mr. Bunny and Mrs. Bear. It was my favorite thing because it reminded me of her, of that home-away-from-home. Now we had boxes of her around the house, and those things inevitably smelt of lingering tobacco after forty-something years of exposure. It wasn’t until maybe year four or five that I began smelling it every once in a while, but I didn’t attribute it to her. Though sobering and melancholic and would cause me to pause and smirk to myself, I would move on with my day and assume someone had chosen to take their smoke break by my car, or something I kept of hers shifted in the closet. Then around last May, when I had grown more accustomed and welcoming of the phantom scents, I noticed they became more constant. I felt like the smell was... following me? I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense, but none of this does. It started to get to the point where I thought someone in my house had taken up smoking. I assumed it wasn’t either of my parents, who had quit decades ago. My brother swore he’d never touch the things, and I made a strict promise to my grandmother I never would either. I cornered him anyway, but he denied it. He didn’t smell of it either, and he claimed he hadn’t smelt a bit of it around at all. I started to believe I was going a bit crazy, but I didn’t know where to turn. So, I just decided to accept it as my new normal. It wasn’t the worst, I supposed. As the months went on, and the year progressed from Spring, to Summer, to Fall, my body began to ache with the change in weather. Assuming I was coming down with a cold or the flu, I thought nothing of it. Then as Fall became Winter, it was hard to get around. My knees and shoulders were stiff, my hands weak, and everything seemed to worsen when it rained. My lungs felt damp and heavy. I booked an appointment to see my doctor, who then sent me for a round of tests for autoimmune disorders, cancers, and anything that would cause a rapid decline in health. Nothing came back that inferred a diagnosis, my white-cell counts were normal. Sometimes that just happens, though, as autoimmune diseases are tricky and often present in multiples, so they prescribed me some general medications to cover a variety of symptoms. Though things seemed to help for a while, it seemed to just slow whatever this is, treating only the signs and not the cause. I’ve continued to decline for months. A few weeks ago, around the beginning of July, a coworker pulled me aside. She’s a good friend and had been checking in with me occasionally as it was visibly obvious I was in poor health. She pulled me into the lunch room, closed the door, and reached for my hand. Interlacing my cold fingers with hers. “Can I meddle?” she asked. “You don’t normally ask first,” I replied, smirking. My yellowed teeth peering out from my bloated lips. “Why are you smoking, especially when you have no fucking clue what is going on with you?” “What’s that?” I asked, leaning closer as she was a bit hard to hear. I heard her, but I was frankly shocked by her question. I’d never touched a cigarette in my life. “Come on, Kate. Everyone smells it on you. We’re all so worried about your health that nobody has the guts to pester you about it, but it’s really starting to get offensive.” I had become so accustomed to the scent that I didn’t notice it was on me. “I... I don’t know.” I started to panic and pulled my hand away. “Tell Eric I have to leave for the day. Tell him I’m sorry I’m taking more time, he can take it out of next year.” I got up from the table and made my way to the door. Had it been even just a year earlier, I would have been able to move swiftly. But now, I stood and waited for my joints to unlock and my atrophied muscles to propel my skeleton forward. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...” she said as she helped me with the door. “It’s fine... I mean, you didn’t... I’m just not well. Thanks for your concern,” I coughed at her as a spoke, clearing the foul mucus from my throat. I patted her arm and avoided eye contact and made my way back to my desk. Once I reached the cubicle after what felt like an eternity of reaching for door knobs and walls to steady my balance, I started to collect my things to leave for the day. As I reached for my phone to place it in my bag, I unlocked it to check for any new texts or calls from the doctors or my mother with news of test results. I was desperate for the answers nobody has. Instead, I fumbled around with my arthritic fingers and opened my photos by mistake. I froze. The most recent photo was showing as a picture of my grandmother I took on the last day she was partially conscious. I remember because it was a photo taken of the same day when I answered the phone next to her hospice bed, and upon my saying “hello” to the caller, she thought I was speaking to her. She woke from her near-death state to say, “Hi, Kate,” and fell back asleep. They were her last words. It’s not something you’d forget. Sitting still, I studied the picture. She was still a bit pink and her eyes were open, but she was already one foot out the door. I locked the screen and threw my phone in my purse and made my way for the exit. I made it to my car and started the engine. I struggled to reach over my left shoulder to grab the seat belt and pull it across my hunched body. After a few tries, I clicked it down and reached up to put the car in reverse. My eye caught the half-dozen vanilla-scented trees that hung from my mirror, but all I smelled were cigarettes. In that same second my eyes caught the figure of my grandmother in the back seat staring back at me in the rear-view. My heart instantly beat up into my throat as I shook and froze all at once, failing to scream even though my mouth flew open to do so. After a second or two the scream came, but she was gone. I started to cry as my hands came to my face. My wailing sounded just like that of my mother’s on March 30th seven years ago. It echoed in my memories as it bounced off my windshield and back into my warped face. As I rubbed my hands down my face, I felt my fingernail catch on a wrinkle in my cheek. A warm liquid trickled down my chin as I felt around for where it went. Leaning forward to inspect the object, I pulled my hand up closer to my eyes and saw a nicotine-stained finger nail that had peeled off as easily as wet cardboard. I could feel the dark, gritty blood pooling in the vacant space on top of my weathered finger. I passed out. The next time I woke up, I was in the hospital. Apparently, my colleague found me in the car in the parking lot of my job, doubled-over with my head on the steering wheel, my bloody finger nail in my loose fist. My doctors cannot explain why I am dying at 25. My psychotherapist cannot explain why I constantly smell cigarettes. I cannot explain to my coworkers that I have never smoked, no matter how many times I try. I do not know how that photo from seven years and three phones ago wound up as my most recent photo in my camera roll. I cannot explain why I have spider veins running down my legs. I have no clue as to why my finger nails have yellowed and have begun falling off. I cannot explain this rattle in the back of my throat. I cannot explain why the days are so long, but the years seem so short. I turned 25 eight days ago, and I’ve spent the last three weeks in the hospital. They are talking about sending me home on hospice, that maybe resting at home will make me “better.” Lately, somehow, the smell of cigarettes that has haunted me for three years has now been replaced with the subtle scent of fresh lilacs. I am so tired. I hope my mother brings me flowers.


A causal game went on, by the 1st quarter we were winning 36-21 though some people keep saying it’s “36-31” Everyone noticed the Ball bounced higher than normally, we all assumed it was the court. The court was made in 1915 and it was against an away team. At halftime, no one knew the score because the lights kept flickering. Some people claim to have seen an invisible person shoot a ball that went in. So at this point we don’t know what quarter we are in. Only stats I counted were my own. 8 pts, 6 ast 4 fouls, 1 dunk that broke the goal down. But the goal fixed it self. Maybe not literally, maybe someone fixed it in the dark. For some reason there was a 5th quarter. So anyways the opposite team drove into the paint and I blocked it and the ball... where did the ball go? Did it pop? We don’t see it anywhere. Some people claim to see the exact ball in their car, the ball had their school name on it and each person had proof that they found the ball. Had the ball cloned itself? Obviously that’s impossible (right?) but what happened. The game ended and they knew the score, it felt like we were playing for years. We started playing in the Morning at 9am and it appears to be night and the game just finished. Since about 11 am, we didn’t know how to tell time. Appears that everyone had a different time. Oh the score? We won 1233-303 My stats? I forgot, what number did I say last time? So after the game ended, I went to the locker room and everyone started crying. Who really knows what happened. But when we walked to the team bus, wait where did the team bus go? Luckily my parents were already there. We drove to my house. I saw the Basketball right by my basketball hoop at myself. It has a Kyle Kuzma sticker. The principal does like Kyle Kuzma. I had a normal dream. But when I woke up, I was in the gym. It felt like we were redoing the game again? Are we? It’s the same opponent, same court. Only thing difference is the ball. It has a Kyle Kuzma sticker on it. I asked someone why it does but they said it’s a Football sticker, so does it appear different to other people? Some people say we are in Brazil. We are obviously in the US, it says it on the game ticket...We played the whole game and the same thing happened, ball disappeared, I had 4 fouls, same stats, same score. It was easy to notice that we were repeating the same day for a while. When will the time go normally? I’m stuck in a loop. Same thing is happening. Only thing that changes is the sticker on the Basketball.


Alios loved to mess with the mortals who worshiped him. He loved breaking into their homes at night and turning their shoes into puppies and belts into snakes. He loved sending thieves into villages who forgot to leave offerings to him. He loved throwing parties for his fellow omnipotent beings. He loved what he did. But Alios was not all tricks, thieving, and parties. Believe it or not, he was a devoted lover. Or, he was the former king of the pixies who left his queen for the hunter Goddess. Despite leaving his queen to rule alone he truly loved Otlene, the hunter goddess. And Alios didn’t love a lot of things. Hell, the only three things he loved was his job, kittens, and Otlene. Oh, how he loved Otlene. He loved how she towered over everyone, he loved how she remained hidden under her fur cloak, he loved her elk antlers and rams’ horns. Her eyes, he cared not for, green like the forests she roamed. And the wolves, how could he forget the wolves? Wherever Otlene went a pack of wolves would follow. The wolves made it... difficult for Alios to get close. He guessed it was basic instinct, after all they were wolves, and he was a cat-like creature. A slender, human-like feline, with the torso and head of a mortal man, but the rest was feline. His arms had cats’ claws, his legs were meant to pounce, and fur to protect him from the elements. One night, atop the tallest mountain on the continent, Alios found his love brooding. “What’s wrong my sweet?” He asked her. “Those humans,” she grumbled, “they have no respect for my creatures.” She was overlooking a town off the base of the mountain, candlelight burning bright. The trickster God plopped himself next to his lover. “Well, you know the saying.” “Yes, yes, I am aware. Humans are horrible. It would be nice, to taking something from them. Like how they have only taken from me,” Otlene rambled. Take. That word echoed throughout Alios’ mind. “I’ll take... something! I’ll steal from the humans!” “Please don’t,” she warned. “My love, your wish is my want!” With that said, he pounced off the mountain and landed in the woods on all fours. Not a single bone broken from his beast of a body. He patrolled the outside of the town, far enough away from the human guards. Transforming into a small house cat, he snuck into the village. There must have been a party going on, for he smelled meat and cakes. Now he was pissed. The humans throw a party and don’t leave him any offerings? Unbelievable! This was no longer just for his love, but a personal vendetta. Alios saw that one house was more decorated than the rest, fabrics with beautiful designs hanging off the buildings side. In his disguise Alios made it to the house fairly easily, with only a few stops because the humans insisted on petting him. He saw an open window and leaped into the home. And the inside of the building was even more beautiful than the outside. Gifts of gold and ivory everywhere the God looked. But what would he take? What would his love want? He loved gold, but she had no use for gold, and gold was replaceable. What about ivory and animal hides? No, that was something Otlene could simply hunt herself. And then he heard it. A baby’s cry, from the next room over. Carefully, he moved his feline form into this next room where there were more gifts, toys and soft hides. And in a crib, a baby boy with olive skin and black hair. A beautiful child. The God turned back into his slender human-feline form and loomed over the child’s crib. This is a mere infant! He marveled. Is this all for him? A spoiled child. The humans take and take, and instead of helping one another they give to a baby? Oh no, this will not do! He moved his feline paws into the crib and gently picked up the child, who was wrapped in wolfs skin. He cradled the baby, something his former Queen taught him to do. Alios cared not for children, they were loud and ruined the fun, plus they were horrible liars. But sometimes all it takes for a child to go missing and the humans go primal. Instead of being subtle, he burst through the roof, holding the child close. The humans froze and stared at the God in fear. He could spot the boys' parents from the crowd, decorated in jewels and fine clothing. The God said nothing. Nothing at all. And it only took nothing to make the humans panic. A guard tried to throw his spear at Alios, but the boys' father stopped him. Smart man. He jumped down from the roof and the humans split like nut being cracked open. Alios took a step forwards and a random woman screamed. He hissed and took off into the woods, the guards and the boys' parents tried to follow, but Alios was too fast. And as soon as he left the mountain top he was back at its peak. “My love!” He called out. The hidden woman turned but even Alios could tell her eyes went wide when she saw the child. “Who is that?” “It’s a child,” he told her. “I did not ask what it is. I asked who ,” she scowled. The baby boy tried to touch the Gods face, but the God in question simply ignored the child. “I don’t know,” he answered, “but the humans treated him as if he were a God himself! They had a party and didn’t leave me any offerings! I could not let that stand!” The woman shot up, towering over the trickster God. “You stole a chief’s son!” her voice boomed. Alios cracked a smile. “That didn’t stop me before.” “Put him back!” She demanded. His smile dropped and his grip on the child tightened. “What?” “Put. Him. Back!” She roared. “Or I will drag you there myself!” Below the hollers and shouts of the humans started to echo up the mountain. Alios hung his head low but nodded. “Alright, my love. Maybe the humans will show a little more respect, knowing a God stole their precious boy so easily.” The woman nodded her cloaked head and sat back on the mountains edge. Alios turned and began his decent to the human town. But as he made it halfway down and the sun began to rise, he realized something. It has been so long since I’ve had a human servant. He saw a wolf enter a cave off the side of the mountain. He followed the beast and snapped his neck with one paw, the other paw still holding the child. He tossed the carcass out of the cave easily and left the child on the dirty stone floor. “Don’t worry my new servant,” he whispered to the child, “I’ll come back for you later.” Alios grinned and pounced out of the cave, excited to have a new servant do his bidding.


COVID came to their town, as it did all the others. At first the citizens believed that their distance from the cities would protect them, as in olden days when the miasma was expected to hover above a populace and not spread through individuals, but modern realization soon proved that humans, as always, were the biggest threat to humans. People left the town, of course, going in their cars to visit relatives or in planes to visit beaches, and then they returned to the safety of home and the normalcy of work and school and church and daycare and gym and clubs with just the people they knew. The first people to get sick did “just have colds”, and indeed most of them after that were only mildly affected. Few people knew anyone who was very ill, so it was easy to believe that there was nothing in the news reports and health advisories that had to be taken seriously. For people who relied on the down-to-earth practice of responding primarily to things that immediately affected their lives and livelihoods, the lack of concrete evidence of disaster flummoxed many. There was no clear action to be taken. People did not know what to do, or indeed if they should do anything. The real problem for many townspeople was that there was so much information pouring in through radio interviews, social media, podcasts... it was more than the average small-town citizen with a lifetime of forming thoughts according to local opinion, the local paper, and the nightly news could handle in a sensible manner. Once the coffee shop was closed, as well as recreational clubs and even church, there were few places where people could come together to examine the facts, the speculation, the fears and the realities of this strange, inconvenient era. There were, of course, some avenues for the airing of grievances that were not taken away. Government services, for example, would always be available to anyone with legitimate business, and, in a small town, this necessarily included a customer’s choice recitation of The Latest News and Views. The school, home of special, child-oriented concerns, cycled between opening and closing as outbreaks waxed and waned, and places like the Home for Older Folks were used to running on the old-fashioned telephone system of News and Revelation. These avenues remained accessible to most as outlets for daily dumps of information. It so happened in this town that it was five friends who experienced the brunt of the community’s conflicting ways of thinking. Sarah, a teller at the bank on main, was often presented with the full spectrum, from left to right, within the morning hours, followed by a recap in the afternoon. Sandra, the librarian, was at the receiving end of friendlier, but longer rambles as people pretended to look for reading material when what they really wanted was confirmation that the outside world had gone mad. Post Mistress Pam, who had spent her career culturing an atmosphere of free and open speech so long as it contained flourishing gossip, was wishing she hadn’t been quite so encouraging. Audrey managed the Home for Older Folks where the telephone grapevine was matched by the “socials” online. Fran, the school principal, could at least screen her messages, and the mood with which she answered them, but each required a timely, level-headed response. The five friends were hesitant to unload their daily struggles on one another, knowing they had all experienced similarly frustrating, overwhelming days at work. Yet, with little else to talk about other than their own need to clear the information overload and reset their intellectual compasses, they soon found that talking led to laughing and then to feeling lighter and more capable of handling another day. They told each other how they felt responsible, in a way, for providing this talk therapy service to the weary, frightened people who came to them. That made the five feel better, for a moment, but they went back to work and were dragged down once again, and they told themselves that something had to give. They told each other this, and then they made a plan. Audrey came from a farm family with the heavy equipment they might need. She suggested they use land that was set aside for a new Senior’s Housing Facility. It was central, yet discrete, and certainly large enough. Construction plans had been put aside for the duration of the pandemic, so there sat the unused space. Sandra set about researching. She studied pandemic history, psychology, health and wellness, and any projects or services remotely similar to what the five had in mind. Sarah was in charge of the budget, as well as presenting the idea to the Town Council. She was careful to look into insurance and liability as well as any bylaws that might apply. She worked with Fran to create a simple supply list, and Fran received approval to purchase materials and organize the high school students. The School Board agreed it was as good a project as any for kids who were supposed to be outside as much as possible, and who could certainly benefit by doing something useful in the community while their curriculum was interrupted. Pam began a publicity campaign artfully tailored to appeal to the people she knew so well. All of the friends used their unique positions within the town to get the word out. They had found themselves a natural hub for the stress of their community, and they were going to use that to their advantage. They congratulated themselves - and one another - on the secret power they could wield. It took several months, but construction was finished by the time school let out in June. A rough structure now stood on the land. It looked like a modern reconstruction of an ancient fort. Open to the air and elevated on a low mound for drainage purposes, it consisted of nine cubicle-sized spaces in a grid, each with a swinging, outhouse-style door. Between them ran open passages leading to the outside of the structure. Really, it was a set of nine free-standing boxes with no tops. It was temporary, but reinforced in multiple ways to withstand whatever might come. The five friends were satisfied with the physical realization of their vision. Together, they posted a sign next to the structure with the simple instructions: “Come on In and Shout it Out”. They were less satisfied with the response from the community. The five had done all they could to inform the townspeople of the project, which they had begun to call “The Airing”. Most responded politely, simply raising their eyebrows, nodding with exaggerated slowness, and, as an unexpected bonus, wrapping up their business more quickly than usual. They would surely scurry to pass on the news, or at least an interpretation of what they had heard. Some responded with the quick and, to them, certain and final judgment that the idea was utter nonsense - or words to that effect. Still, they would pass the information to their peers. The five had learned there was no telling what people might say, or do, in public now, but they hoped that some at least would go home and think it through. Summer brought a loosening of provincial rules as well as of individual reserve. People were outside mingling, travelling and revelling in their freedom, carefree or careless depending on the situation. The radio, TV and even the internet news did not have the grip it had gained during the dismal winter. There was sun, there was fun. There was no need for The Airing. It stood empty except when curious children, who had no fear that people would see them, met to romp in the rooms and passages. Summer came to an end, however, and the Covid did not. It may have been latent, but it lurked, and now it reared once more just as it came time to decide whether children should go to school, whether the arena and curling rink should open for the season, and whether Thanksgiving plans should be considered. People had assumed things would be normal again, and then the news, Tweets, posts, reports, studies and announcements were all back in action at full force. Again the people sought public forums to voice their fear and indecision, irritation, and general outlines of how the world ought to work. The townspeople were no different. They wanted to be heard. They wanted to make a scene. They wanted to air their grievances. When this occurred in the presence of one of the five friends, as it often did, the speaker was directed to The Airing. It was such a simple thing, and yet no one wanted to be the first to try it. Most knew it would be good for them, so their human nature kicked in and told them to wait until someone else made it an acceptable thing - preferably, everyone else. The Airing stood empty as frost covered the ground. One day small footprints appeared in one of the passages, although there was no one but their maker to witness them. A child, in the midst of the strains and stresses that only a child can know, had sought a quiet place to make some noise. There were truths to be told, such as “I hate carrots and peas!”. There were sorrows to express, like “I miss my friends!”. Thankfully, there was nothing more serious or concerning in this miniature mind than the fundamental admissions: “I’m scared we’ll run out of money!” “I’m scared someone I know will die!” and “I don’t get ‘greater than’ and ‘less than’!” The child was exhausted, but mustered the strength for a parting shot: “It doesn’t make sense!!!”. It was a fine rendition of the common refrain that echoed around the globe, and most suitable to be the first one uttered in The Airing. The five would have been proud of this tiny pioneer’s monumental discovery. They would have been pleased to know that there was one delivery of grievances that none of them were forced to receive. Their plan had been successful at least once. Winter’s chill proved to be a surprising ally. Cooped up, short of sunshine, and heading toward the most stressful months of the year as well as suffering the usual doldrums of the season, people were desperate for an outlet. Going to the bank was extra stressful and a little embarrassing for some. The Post Office was too busy for lingerers. The library and schools had closed due to the second wave. The Home for Older Folks ticked along as usual, but their news was as worn out and stale as news anywhere else was by then. Outdoor activity was the only safe and approved form of activity. During the longer nights of November and December, multiple sets of footprints began to appear in the snow that settled in The Airing. Someone even shovelled it, and whether the motive was to try it out or simply to provide some exercise, the act was beneficial to a growing number of townspeople. At first, there were tentative explorations of the freedom and privacy of The Airing. It was something new and undemonstrated. There was no one to follow, no chance to see how others went about the business. But the instructions were simple enough, and after a short battle within the brain wherein the part trained by society was pounced upon, subdued, and rolled into a corner by the primal part, there was immediate progress. People let loose in a way that warmed their bodies, hearts, and souls. It was a release that went down in history, immortalized in rhyme by an obscure local poet and given a special page on the Town website: We shouted, hollered, bayed, and keened! We argued, cried, wailed and screamed! We bargained, questioned, confessed, revealed! We moaned and groaned and made our appeals! We roared, howled, bellowed and bawled, yelled, clamoured, and caterwauled until, nearly spent, we sat back, sprawled, and gasped, astonished, but not appalled. Long after Covid had lost its capital letter and become “the covie”, just another flu with a yearly vaccination, the people of the town made use of The Airing. For a little while, when the joy of going back to normal surged, it was empty, but then people realized that normal never was without fear or stress. When everything was in place for the new Home for Older Folks, a new Airing was also built, this time at the top of the hill on the outskirts of town, where there was parking, a trail through nature, and an overlook where one’s voice could be freed into miles of open space and beautiful vistas of sky and land. It was no longer reminiscent of an ancient fort. It was an open forum with columnar trees, fields, and stars to listen to all who came to Shout it Out. The five friends, of course, were key players in the making of the park. Their interactions with the public became much more pleasant once everyone took up the practice of unburdening themselves at The Airing, and, because their idea was seen to be a good one, they enjoyed the approval of the townspeople. At about the same time, all five realized that none of them had used The Airing for a good shout, and they told themselves that it wasn’t because they were waiting to see what everyone thought of their idea, it was because they were fortunate enough to have such good friends to talk with that they had not needed an Airing themselves. The five had other things on their minds. Predicting that the world would not end with Covid times, nor stress and frustration either, they had put in place a business venture. Sandra’s research had extended as far as patents; Sarah was informative about loans; Pam pursued shipping options; Fran had a pool of prospective summer students, and one of Audrey’s charges was keen to rent his shop and equipment. Everything came together as if the universe was rewarding the five for their patience and long-suffering. Soon there were Airings all over America, and copycat structures cropped up in plenty of places where the trendiness of paying for mental well-being was unheard of, but do-it-yourself acuity was still prevalent. The five had plenty to congratulate themselves about, and one another too. Despite their success and all their experience, they never ceased to be amazed by two things. First, that every human being on the planet now or ever in the history of time has had the same primal fears, frustrations, and stresses. Second, the incredible cathartic power that is unleashed by hollering “I am afraid of what I don’t know! It doesn’t make sense!”


The opening lyrics from If I Could Turn Back Time, start to echo in my head the moment I’m told to make my wish. My inner musician cringes for a moment when I realize I’m quoting a Cher song. Sure, Sonny and Cher were cute back in the day, I loved that variety show they had. I just can’t help but think how their lives verged madly away from each other after they got divorced. If I could turn back time with a single wish, maybe I would reset them to their earlier days. That isn’t what I’d wish for though. Given a single wish, what would anyone hope for? Money? Power? Health? All of the above, in some well worded phrase? Not me. Every year, on a person’s birthday, each of us gets that chance to make a wish and blow out the candles. I’m fairly confident I wasted mine all these years. As a kid you usually hope for stuff... things that are the latest gizmo. I remember when I was a kid, I wished for a BB gun once. My parents never would have bought me one. They had parallel beliefs to that famous Christmas movie... what was the name of that movie? Anyway, “You’ll shoot your eye out kid”, was a popular phrase echoed whenever I brought it up. I eventually bought my own BB gun, I never did shoot out my eye, or anyone else’s, I still have it sitting in storage somewhere. In my teenager years wishes started to delve a different direction. As a teenage boy, I remember the idea that magically, through a wish, I might suddenly gain the powers to talk to Deedra; the most popular girl in school. Though I doubt she had those same hopes of me. However, all that didn’t matter. She wasn’t the girl for me. Entering adulthood was an interesting time, wishes held promise, hope, and were directed now toward drive and fame. Hoping to score perfectly on the SAT’s, studying for them may have helped. Hoping to get into the best colleges, and again studying may have helped there too. Finally, the wishes were geared toward life, a career, a great job that held promise and, if you’re lucky, paid really well too. In a blink, your life takes another turn, you have a good job, money in the bank, and a good sense of self. For me, my next wishes went back to my teenage years. Simply asking, hoping, for the ability to talk to someone that interested me. To have the perfect pick-up line. Not a sleezy one-liner for an equally sleezy one night stand. An actual line, one that opens up a conversation with someone that interests me. I was lucky, I found that line once, and it worked, better than I thought. It was like magic. Life has a way of continually changing, continually finding ways to make you desire something new. Not that the old wishes necessarily came true, though I’d like to think some did. It more happens out of a need for new things, and I don’t mean a BB gun, or a sports car. The things I mean are less tangible; a good marriage, a healthy child, a happy life, or maybe just a good dinner with an old friend. There’s something to be said about good food. Throughout my life there were times my wishes were wasted for sure. There were also times I made the perfect wish. We all have only so many wishes in life, so many tries to make amends, to fix things, to change our surroundings. Sometimes those wishes are made while blowing out those candles. Sometimes they are just a plea to God. And sometimes... If I was younger, I might travel to the Arabian desert, dig in the sand, and search for a hidden cave. If I looked hard enough, dug deep enough, I might just find Aladdin’s cave. I might just find the Djinni’s lamp. Then I would have the ultimate power to make my wishes come true, a djinni doing my bidding. However, If I was younger, I would have likely wasted them on the wrong things. Through most of my life I would have made all the wrong wishes. I’m not younger, and there’s not a magical lamp. Where I am now, my place in life, I could still wish for money, power, or good health. Many people would if given the chance. There are three wishes right there. For me, I’m at a good place, I’ve seen all that I want to see, though there are places I would have liked to visit. I’ve done most of what I wanted to do, although skydiving always seemed interesting, I never tried it, and I’m too old now. As far as money goes, I’m comfortable, not rich, but who needs that much money later on in life. Health is an interesting choice, I’ve always been fairly healthy, a broken bone here or there, but I don’t want to live forever, life can get lonely in the later years. Too much free time on one’s hands, and too much busyness in the people’s lives you’d care to see. They have no time for visits, they’re making their own wishes come true. Which leads me back to here and now. A small cupcake pushed in front of me, a lone candle flickering away, shining its magical power, begging for me to make up my mind and blow it out. And those lyrics from that old pop song running through my head. At one time I would wish to turn back time, and maybe I have a time or two. The idea of this wish was posed to me by the people surrounding me. The people that brought me the cupcake. They aren’t my loved ones, though some of them are dear to me for sure. I’ve seen most of them for the last few years. New people come and sadly people go, but some of the faces stay the same. Taking in a deep breath, and choosing my words carefully, secretly, I give an energetic blow for an old man. I know my wish is wasted, I know my wish is lost, but I couldn’t help it. I did what I’ve always done, wished for the one thing I want right now. Each year that seems to change. Lifting the tiny cake from the small plate I remember all the treats from years past. Peeling back the oily paper from the treat, I take a bite. It’s not one of the cupcakes my wife might have made, she was a great baker. It’s not one from that little place on the corner my dear wife and I used to walk to when she was still alive; what was the name of that place? It doesn’t matter. It’s none of those. It’s just a cupcake. Gazing up from my partially eaten treat, I see those that gathered around me have gone back to their puzzles, their old TV shows, and their own meals. The sweet nurses who brought the treat have all returned to their daily duties. What could I wish for? There was only one thing. The thing I wish for every day in here. “Mr. Robertson, you have visitors,” a voice says behind me, “It’s your son and grandchildren.” I guess, some wishes can come true.