“Meredith,” Her mother called through her daughter's closed bedroom door, “I have a meeting this morning and we're having company over this evening so I need some help around the house. Will you please change out the bathroom towels?” Meredith had to pause in the middle of getting dressed, take a deep breath in, and let it out as smoothly as she could. “...sure,” she answered, keeping her protestations to herself, and dutifully went about the task. She brought the dirty laundry downstairs and headed into the kitchen to have her breakfast. “Meredith,” Her mother called, following her into the room while putting on a pair of earrings. “Will you unload the dishwasher and take out the trash when you're done, please?” Isn't it obvious I'm getting ready too? Meredith thought to herself. “Sure thing, Mom,” was the correct answer though. She was in the middle of the dishwasher when four-year-old feet came padding down the stairs, followed by her mother's voice from the top of them. “I need to get dressed. Will you give Bailey some breakfast please?” “Will you let me get to school, please?” “Mewdith! Mewdith!” Her sister came running in, thrusting a half-dressed doll at her, before she could protest. “Will you help me dress my Barbie?” “You need to eat breakfast first, though.” Meredith politely took the doll, satisfied Bailey's request, and made her a bowl of cereal. Meredith finally got out the door but school was no better. She was a quiet, average student but today she felt like all her teachers called on her for the tough questions. “What do you think, Meredith, was Boo Radley a villain, a victim, or a hero?” in English class. “Meredith, would you show us how to find the quotient with these exponents, please?” in Math class. “Meredith, what is one difference between the presidential office and the British prime minister's?” in History class. “únete al Club Español! Join Spanish Club!” The Spanish teacher exclaimed to no one in particular at a hallway booth during lunch while Meredith happened to be in earshot. She wasn't even in Spanish class. She stopped at a bulletin board hawking various club meetings, event postings, and announcements. She was looking for a specific one: a poster promoting a Taylor Swift club she was trying to start. It was underneath a pile of cheerleading fliers. The culprits passed by while she was clearing away the obstruction. “The party this weekend is going to be wild!” Gwen, the head cheerleader, said loud enough to get Meredith's attention. “Too bad your parents don't let you out after dark, Meredith,” She snided to her, eliciting laughter from her two cronies. “What's the deal this time?” she continued, “Babysitting your baby sister or knitting with your grandma?” The laughter continued. The grandma dig was too far and Gwen knew it. “Aren't you late for making out with the quarterback or something?” Meredith's best friend, Yasmin, cut in just in time. The cheerleaders snide-eyed them and sashayed off. Successful dig returned for a dig. All week the rumor mill had been gossiping about fights and a breakup between Gwen and the quarterback and Gwen hated that there was dirt on her now. “How is your grandma?” Yasmin asked. “Her memory lapses are getting longer and she's getting crankier. She barely remembers anybody and they're giving her a couple more years at best.” Meredith teared up. “My parents are helping get her affairs in order.” “I'm sorry,” Yasmin hugged her. “I know you were close to her.” “Thank you,” Meredith dried her eyes and carried on, tired of her own name by the end of the day. She walked a long route home for some solitude, wishing she could just disappear. Not permanently or by some scary kidnapping or accident or anything. Just maybe invisible. For a day or two at least. She stopped to pick up a penny and then by the fountain in the park where she thoughtlessly tossed it. Her next stop was right outside of her house. She was confused. Mom said they were having company over, but her family's cars weren't in the driveway. Maybe they took them somewhere or picked them up? She shrugged and started inside for more shock. Another random teenage girl was playing with her sister. “Hey, do I know you?” Meredith tried to get their attention. “Hey! Bailey!” They just continued to mind their business, acting out their own stories with the dolls and toys. Nothing in the room was loud enough to drown out normal conversation. She called, whistled, and shouted to them again with no more avail. Giving up, Meredith turned towards her room. Ascending the stairs, she noticed something else odd: the family photos on the wall were different, fewer on display and showing fewer people. There was a familiar picture from her parents' wedding, a normal portrait of the two of them, and a shot of her parents with Bailey as a newborn, but nothing with Meredith. She was there for a family picture after her sister was born. She continued looking around the hall upstairs at the other displays but found nothing of herself; no school photos, no photos of her as a kid, not even family snapshots including her. Her perplexity grew. Where is she? What happened to her pictures? But more still was opening her bedroom door and not seeing her room. Her Taylor Swift and Harry Styles posters were replaced by abstract art pieces. Her plush comforter and colorful pillows were traded for subtler counterparts. The dresser was clean and sparsely filled; her clothes and personal items removed. The closet empty save for linens and toiletries a guest might need. A crazy thought dawned on her as she plopped on the bed but she refused to entertain it. Determined, She shot off the bed to search the family records and keepsakes, determined to find the punchline in this joke. She searched the house all evening only to come up dry. No birth record for her, no old report cards or art projects, no ribbons or trophies from her grade-level achievements. No baby things that Grandma would've made her. All the while, everything she seemed to find was for, about, or by Bailey. Come to think of it, Bailey seemed to have more toys than Meredith remembered. Peeking in her room while the sitter got her ready for bed, the room was definitely a lot more fun than how it was this morning: pink walls with Bailey's in wooden letters, colorful bedding, and toys everywhere. One would think she was an only child. Meredith couldn't remember Bailey ever getting a Kidkraft Mansion Dollhouse and so many Melissa & Doug toys. The Barbie Dreamhouse she grew up with happened to be a sturdy hand-me-down for her sister that eluded Goodwill donation for ten years but now that was nowhere to be found either. Giving up, Meredith returned to the dull bedroom to sleep and try again in the morning. Surely people at school aren't in on this too. Not hearing her name during roll calls felt weird and while yesterday she was all for being a more silent participant in class, today of all days entailed surprise Kahoot quizzes in all her classes. Every announcement about it made her groan. Of all days to be seen! Meanwhile, she couldn't greet her favorite lunch lady serving in the cafeteria buffet line and couldn't find Yasmin in any of their usual hangouts before it occurred to her to check the library. She forgot Yasmin always had more niche interests, but she embraced and respected them if nobody else did. “Yasmin!” Meredith called to her, “I'm having the weirdest day--” As happy as she was to see her friend, Meredith suddenly remembered she was talking loudly in the library and more so that she couldn't be seen or heard. Helpless, she watched her friend, sitting at a table by herself with her back to her, eating lunch from home while reading fantasy novels. Today she seemed to be the minority. Meredith wanted so much to remind her she was there, but it seemed she wasn't. It really was like she was never here. The thought started to make Meredith ache. She was physically and consciously in this world but the world didn't seem to know her. How can that even be? Quietly, she left school before lunch was over--no one would know she was gone anyways. She wandered her way toward the park. The weather was spring-like even though the calendar still said winter: blue skies, sunshine, fifty to sixty degrees, and a little breeze, so the place was busy. Pet families walked their dogs, though none barked at her. Balls and frisbees came her way but their owners wouldn't have seen her helping them. The people-watchers on the park benches wouldn't pay her any mind either, she thought. “Meredith?” That is until a familiar elderly voice crooned her name. It stopped her in her tracks, scanning around for the source, she spotted her grandma sitting nearby with a caregiver. Meredith couldn't believe it though. Her grandmother was forgetting her own name, much less the names of her loved ones. “Meredith!” Her grandmother started waving to her, the recognition registering in her voice and in the sparkle of her eyes. “Grandma!” Meredith ran to her, bewildered but more so grateful for the first recognition she experienced today. “But your dementia...” Meredith started while embracing her, “It's like you recognized me right away. And you see me!” “My mind is going further away than my eyesight, dear.” Grandma clucked. “No, not in that sense. I seemed to have made a crazy wish to disappear and now it's like I never existed! Nobody else knows I'm around...or not around...” “Oh, child,” Grandmother consoled. “You'll have many wishes in life, but your heart never forgets what's important. You and your family aren't always in my mind, but you're always in my heart. That must be how I can see you.” A tear ran down Meredith's cheek. It was the most touching thing anyone had said to her and also the most coherent conversation she had had with her Grandma in a while. “I love you, Meredith,” Grandma thumbed the tear away and kissed her granddaughter on the forehead. “I'd like you to meet my nurse,” she started to turn to make introductions, but at the same time, the nurse turned to her, taking her arm. “It's time to be heading back home, ma'am,” the nurse declared. “Oh, it is?” The elder was surprised, her memory seeming to relapse again. Meredith watched as she was led away. Leaving the park, she struggled with what Grandma said. It almost stung to imagine not being in anyone else's heart right now. Yet, they didn't know she did--or didn't--exist. What was important enough to be in hers right now anyways? School? Yasmin? Grandma? Her hometown? The spring-like winter day was ending with gray clouds, harder wind, and a drastic temperature drop. She had to hurry home and arrived to a storm of another kind. Before even walking through the door she heard Bailey wailing. Meredith burst in, finding the living room looking like an aftermath of a tornado. Toys were strewn everywhere and not in a playful way. Bailey stood in the middle of the room, her face scrunched and skyward while she bawled. Mom knelt at her side, to be on level with her to soothe and attempt reasoning. But the toddler fists at her side holding a board book one moment suddenly launched it across the room the next. “Bailey Louise! No, ma'am!” Mom gave a stern warning but looked battle-worn. Disciplining the tantrum and preparing dinner were getting in the way of each other and Mother had to hurry to the kitchen to catch something boiling over. Bailey continued howling. Meredith was appalled by this Bailey. The sister she knew never threw tantrums this drastic. The mother she knew had practice...and an older daughter to assist at times. Meredith started to see value in what she always saw as motherly nagging to do chores or to babysit. Her involvement helped keep peace and order. More still, her sister was her other best friend. Meredith was starting to realize what was in her heart. “Bailey-bee!” Meredith cooed her sister's pet name while crossing the room into the eye of the storm, not caring whether or not she was seen. She wanted to help. Incidentally, Bailey's crying decreased. “Sing with me, Bailey-bee!” Meredith encouraged while starting to clean up her mess. “Our song is the slammin' screen door, sneaking out late, tapping on your window...” Bleary toddler eyes stared at her, emotions lowered to whimpering now. “How about this one?” Meredith changed the song, “Some day I'll be livin' in a big old city and all you're ever gonna be is mean...can you see me?” She stopped, making eye contact with her. Bailey just nodded. “Can you sing with me?” Meredith encouraged with a smile while picking up more toys. “You love this one! 'Cause the players gonna play, play, play, play, play, and the haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate. Baby, I'm just gonna shake, shake, shake....shake....” Bailey just shook her head no. Meredith put her hands to her hips and stared back at the child. The Bailey she knew loved those songs. The Bailey she knew was one of Taylor Swift's biggest little fans because of her. She forgot this wasn't the Bailey who knew a big sister though. Just then, Mom returned, having dinner under control and a little more fortitude regained to address her existing daughter's behavior. “Are you ready to talk like a big girl now, Ms. Bailey?” Mom asked, getting back down on the floor. “Behind you,” The toddler innocently blurted. “Behind me? What's behind me?” Mom was taken aback. Meredith suddenly realized Bailey was referring to her. She thought quickly. “Your imaginary big sister!” Meredith spouted back. “My imaginawy big sister,” “You have an imaginary big sister now?” Mom responded. “Uh-huh...” Their conversation continued as Mom got to the bottom of Bailey's thoughts and feelings that evening. Meredith slipped away upstairs to reminisce on sharing Taylor Swift music with the sister she knew. She wondered if she'd have to fill her role as an imaginary sister from now on? Most kids had an imaginary friend for a couple years. Would it be the same between her and this Bailey or would this Bailey always see her? Meanwhile, the outside was black, save for outside lights and headlights. The wind now howled, shaking anything outside, and rain pelted everything. Altogether too nasty to return to the fountain to make a new wish, Meredith thought. She lay in bed, listening to the nature storm when the door creaked open. Slipping through the crack was little Bailey, dressed in her pj's and dragging a blanket. “Imaginawy big sister?” Bailey asked as she entered. “You can call me Meredith,” she sat up. “Big sister Mewdith,” the toddler restarted, “Can I sleep with you? The storm is scawy.” “Of course!” Big sister welcomed, appreciating the opportunity. “You have a pwetty singing voice,” Bailey complimented as she settled into bed, “Can you sing another song, pwease?” “There's somethin' bout the way,” Meredith started “the street looks when it's just rained. There's a glow off the pavement. You walk me to the car and you know I wanna ask you to dance right there in the middle of the parking lot. Yeah...And I don't know how it gets better than this. You take my hand and drag me head first fearless...and I don't know why but with you I'd dance in a storm in my best dress, fearless....” Meredith dozed off around eleven-eleven as the storm subsided. At dawn, she woke with a start, sitting up in Bailey's room. The room she recognized, her old Barbie Dreamhouse on a shelf in the corner. Tiptoeing out of the room, she opened the door to the next one, revealing her room, full of her posters and belongings. She shuffled down the hall and down the stairs, noticing herself in every family photo again. She existed once more and wouldn't take her purpose for granted.


Slowly, my horse and I trot into the woods. The same sights greet me, the trees, the bushes, the flowers. I stare into the distance and see no movement. Then I call out to the animals of the woods. One shrill, high whistle. Then the ground vibrates and Angnes, my horse, whinnies: throwing his legs up in the air. All the animals come: the bunnies, the birds, foxes and raccoons, chipmunks and squirrels, birds, porcupines, opossums, and whatever other animals there were in the crowd that stood before me. "Hi, Aina!" one bird chirps. Those two words cause the animals to lose it. "Aina!" "You have to help me!" "Did you hear the news?" "I can't find my sister!" "I need help!" The pleas of help and latest news updates overcome me. How long had I been away? One day. "AINA, THERE'S A MONSTER!" one animal says. Everyone freezes and turns around to look at one chubby, fat raccoon. The forest is quiet for a moment, then everyone bursts into laughter. "Monster?!" "You're crazy," "I told you that Timothy needs to go to a lunatic asylum!" The raccoon: Timothy, is clearly offended and refuses to be ignored or laughed at. "I swear! I'm telling the truth!" Timothy cries. I stare at him. All I know is that monsters aren't real. "Timothy, how about you show us where the monster is?" I ask kindly. Panting, he points to the right. Everyone turns around to face the right. "Idiot, there's nothing there," someone mutters. "Robbie! Check what's over there!" I scream at the woodpecker which is perched upon one of the branches in the trees. "No, you do it yourself you lazy grandma!" he scowls. I stare at him. "I'm twelve!" I scream. "Who cares?!" he replies. How rude! I scowl at him, then trudge over to the right of the trees. Then I see who Timothy believes to be monsters: hunters. "Guys!" I pant. "Timothy's not wrong, hunters came to the forest!" As you could expect, everyone starts to panic. Then a twig cracks. Everyone runs to bushes or scurries up trees. A hunter walks over and picks up Timothy, pokes him, and carries him over to their truck. I clamp my hand over to mouth to hold back a scream. I hear Timothy helplessly screaming 'let me out! let me out!' to the hunters, but they don't understand woodland animals: it's useless. Slowly, another raccoon and I walk over to the truck, the hunters are nowhere to be seen. the other raccoon: Alice, does whatever raccoons do with locks, and it pops open. Timothy walks out. "Don't ever put me in a wooden cage again," he says, kicking the wooden cage. "Personally, I would've used a metal one," Alice says. I nod in agreement. "WHERE'S THE RACCOON?!" one hunter roars, obviously infuriated that Alice and I took Timothy. "I say we teach those hunters a lesson for trying to take Timmy,"one small raccoon says, beating his fists together. "And how do you expect a twelve-year old and a whole bunch of woodland animals to do that?" I ask. The raccoon shrugs and walks back into the crowd. "Oh! Oh! We could take their guns and shoot them!" Robbie yells. Everyone stares at him. "You know, maybe we should take Robbie to a lunatic asylum." a rabbit says. Murmurs of agreement spread through the crowd. "Hey! I'm perfectly stable!" Robbie says. He stands on his legs and walks off the branch. Everyone stares as Robbie falls to the ground. "Uh... Robbie?" I ask and touch him with my finger. He doesn't move. "ROBBIE!" Robbie chokes and sits up. "Totally stable," he coughs. Everyone in the crowd of woodland creatures sigh. "Okay, so what's the plan to get the hunters to leave?" I ask. The woods are silent. "Ooh! We could fly around and annoy them!" one raccoon screams. "No!" I smile. "They would shoot us all, dummy," one animal says. "Plus- not all of us can fly," another fox says. "We'll scare them." one fox says firmly. "Great idea, let's put on a circus and put on some clown makeup!" I say sarcastically. "Yeah! the fox grins. "No!" I smile. "Aw!" the fox groans. "Or we could go around biting them and-" one animal starts. "No!" I smile. "ALRIGHT WE'RE GOING WITH THE CLOWN IDEA!" one animal screeches. "Oh yes, great idea," I say sarcastically. "Just two little problems that obviously don't occur to you: one, we don't have any clown makeup. Two: you aren't the boss here," "YEAH I AM!" the possum screams. "Sorry dear Ally, but, obviously I: Stephan the fox and respected above all." a fox says. "No Stephan, I am more respected for I am your mother." another fox scowls. "Well, we live in the water, we have a territory of our very own. I, Felicia the fish, am obviously the ruler of the jungle." Felicia says. "Dear Felicia, the only reason that your species have their own territory is because no one would like to bear looking at your beady eyes, smelling your foul scent, or meeting you whatsoever!" a bear says. "I, since I have the full right gifted to me from Mother Nature herself,can eat you all: I, Betty the bear am the most powerful one in the jungle!" "What?!" I scream. "Guys, we're trying to get rid of the-" "No Betty, I'm your older sister. I am obviously the more powerful one." another bear scowls. "I'm the brother older than all of you! I, Bennedick the bear, declare myself king of the jungle!" another bear argues. "I'm a horse! As I being the only horse here, I declare myself Queen Angnes!" Angnes says. "I'm obviously smarter and more gifted than all of you, so I am the most respected," an owl says. "Who made you king, old grandpa?!" Robbie snaps. "If we're choosing leaders, I'm the most capable and the only female human. The only human to generalize, I should be the most powerful leader." I say. A powerful rumbling shakes the forest and panicked, forgetting the quarrel about who was the best forest animal, everyone scurries to the bushes. The hunters' green truck drives off into the distance, leaving a cloud of dust behind. "That went well," I shrug.


Eggs wasn't his name; I made that up after we had gone our separate ways, never to see each other again. From this distance - and time here is the geography; this story is 30 years old - some details are scant; pieces are missing, and I appear as a stranger even to myself. I remember the boy on the beach, the girl in the pink skirt and the sugar. Those parts of the story are clear. We had caught the same flight from London to Bangkok. For Eggs, Thailand was his destination; I was on a stop-over before returning home to Brisbane. I had spent the previous three years backpacking around Europe, bragging rights being my only goal, “Hey, I backpacked around Europe.” Have you ever gone looking for something and did not know how to find it because you didn't know what you were looking for? You’re aware something is missing, a piece that prevents you from completing the puzzle, but which piece and where could it be? In the sand dunes of the Negev desert? On a beach in Portugal? The Scottish Highlands? I had hoped backpacking and living outside of my comfort zone might shake me awake so I could see. I roamed from Jerusalem to Pamplona and nothing. My eyes stayed firmly shut. I could not see what I was looking for. Then I met Eggs. I imagine we met at the airport, at the luggage carousel perhaps. I watched him lift his backpack, and he would watch me do the same. He would have thought, "Aww, another backpacker," and nodded, like we shared a bond. He would have walked towards me, a cheeky grin parting his pinched face, hair hidden under a bandana that told me what he wanted it to, that he was cool, dude. He was as young as me; a razor blade had barely scraped his chin. Yet he looked aged, as if, like his backpack, he carried more weight than his stature could support. He was friendly and forward. I can only claim one of those traits, the former. It took more than two drinks for me to say hello to a stranger. Not Eggs. He marched straight towards me, with a smile. Happy, perhaps, that he'd met a like-minded traveller (I guessed my backpack drew him to this conclusion) or, he saw in me a taxi fare to the city centre. Who doesn't beam at a half-price cab? "Off to K road then?" he said, slinging his pack over his narrow shoulders, legs buckling under the weight. I wanted to prop him up. He was not a big guy, by any measure. His accent, though, was huge. I knew England enough to know Yorkshire was his home and Leeds United was his team. I'm guessed he was here for the beaches. I guessed wrong. "Yes," I replied. By "K" road, he meant Khao San Road. I knew his lingo because I, too, had studied the guidebook, reading, and highlighting places of interest; the best places to eat and sleep; how to get from A to B. To my housemates in the cold Victorian terrace we shared in London, I gave the impression I was cramming for a University exam; so intense was my interest. I just didn't want to get anything wrong. “Come on then, we can share a rickshaw.” I didn't have time to think about it and trotted off after him, like an obedient dog, and he had whistled, "come." Any attempt we made to converse, cramped as we were in the back of the rickshaw, soon proved pointless. Here drivers considered the horn a far more critical tool than the brake or clutch and rode it endlessly. Our attempts to get to know each other were drowned out by the needless, Honk! Honk! Honk! In the guidebook, sensibly called Southeast Asia on a Shoestring, I highlighted several hostels recommended for their cleanliness and price. Eggs, it turned out, had been to Bangkok before; I was privy to visit number three and he already knew where we were staying. "'Driver, 'ere,". The driver slows to a stop in front of a tallish, narrow building, plain, several stories high, sprouting from a garden terrace with a bar and somewhere to eat. Guests pouring milk over cornflakes gawked as if we had just descended the steps of a spaceship. We were like aliens in our clothes, still smelling of Persil Ultra Clear, our skin a delicate shade of English winter white. Our rooms were simple concrete boxes with a ceiling fan, a mattress on the floor, and a mosquito net hung above. Mine had brown water stains leeching from the corner cornicing. Our baggage stowed in lockers, we rendezvoused in the garden bar to drink and watch “K” Road like it was a movie marathon. Twenty-something-old kids tanned and tattooed or like us, clean, waiting, and willing to go native (all it took was a beach, sarong, and half an ounce it seemed) strode the streets, up and down, back and forth, owning it. And in a sense, they did. Once a rice market, the road was now home to this disparate lot; kids in gap years, kids with trust funds, kids with drug problems, kids escaping home, their lives, parents, and church. Here you could get lost. Is that what I wanted? To lose myself. I told Eggs about my travels around Europe; how I milked cows in the Scottish Highlands, the time I dropped acid at Glastonbury and spent the night dancing to the Orb in Joe Bananas rug store. Not to forget being so stoned in Amsterdam I concluded a geometrical equation contained the answer to the meaning of life. Running with the bulls. Oktoberfest.. And so on. “You’re gonna love it here mate, the girls love guys like you and me,” was his response. I didn't realise we were talking about girls; I thought we were sharing war stories. But as I learnt, over beers and cigarettes, Eggs had only one story to tell, and it involved pussy. Eggs shared his yarns, from a trip he took to Australia, a vacation that sourly disappointed him. He rattled off the backpacker hotspots - Cairns, Byron Bay, Sydney, the Outback. It seemed Eggs had failed to get laid in any destination. “What about the reef?” I asked. “Did you go snorkelling?” He mumbled about being too hungover, and we moved on to the next subject. "Thailand," he said. "This is the place, you'll see." Will we? I didn't do well with girls. I figured I would, one day, when I’m ready. I was happy not to get laid. I wasn't a virgin. I just didn’t get the fuss. There was the odd time, usually because the girl threw herself at me like a cannonball and I a castle waiting to be conquered. That was the case in Israel. In London, there was this girl too at a party. Both times left me feeling empty. No surprise I didn't want more. Eggs told me about a girl he met on his last trip and hoped to find her again. I failed to sleep well. Perhaps it was the beers perhaps, the jetlag, the spider the size of my hand that laid in wait on the ceiling or the melancholy I felt. We met for breakfast. The guidebook said to have yoghurt each day in these parts to prevent the shits. So I did. Not him. "Two fried eggs, sunny side up on toast," he told our server. I told him my plans for the day; a visit to the Reclining Buddha, one of the largest statues in Thailand. He nodded, "Yeah, yeah, sounds great, mate," and then our food arrived. My yoghurt crowned fresh fruit and was delicious; Eggs' eggs were pale and runny, the whites barely set, the toast anaemic. He reached for the sugar bowl and sprinkled a teaspoon of raw sugar on each egg. Before I could even gasp in horror, he told me I should try it. "Bloody delicious." I passed. For the short time, we knew each other, his breakfast did not change. Hence Eggs. He tagged along on my sightseeing day. We shuffled barefoot through the temple, lit incense, threw pennies into a wishing well and afterwards, I went to buy a souvenir. He told me no. "Don't waste your money mate, save if for the girls tonight." We ate noodles cooked in a broth for lunch by a lady sitting on a plastic tarp on the footbath by the temple. She ladled the soup into big bowls and offered us china spoons. Eggs squatted Thai style to eat his. I stood. I was not that agile. The soup was good. Eggs asked if I had a girlfriend. I said no. “The girl, the one on the island, she has a sister.” "So, you're coming to the islands with me then?" I queried. "Yeah, mate, someone's gotta show you the ropes." What, to hang myself? It wasn't that I didn't like Eggs; he was fun, for a minute. But his endless chatter about girls only deepened my own anxiety about sex. Couldn't we just take a boat cruise to the floating markets without me having to hear his threesome story? He planned our last night in Bangkok, which was spent drinking rum and cokes in a bar with no name, just a pink neon sign that screamed Girls, Girls, Girls. On stage, a Thai girl danced, if dancing was the right way to describe a naked woman popping ping pong balls from her vagina. A snake was draped around her neck for added drama. Men of all shapes and ages cheered and leered. Scantily dressed waitresses worked hard for tips. For extra, I could take one to a back room and "sucky, sucky, sucky.” “See,” Eggs punched me on the arm, “I told you.” Ouch. He chatted with one girl who toyed with him, she was the cat, and he was the cornered mouse. It was both painful and playful to watch. He placed his hands on her hips, only to have her push him away. This game continued until the penny dropped, and he put some Baht notes in a jar that rested on a drinks tray she carried. His hands could stay for a little longer. Girls threw themselves at me too, but my polite yet firm "no thank-you" was met with hostility. Saying no in a bar advertising girls, girls, girls was a no, no, no. So, I left. I told him I was going across the street to watch the kickboxing. "Aww, come on, what about her, over there?" He pointed at one of many girls working the bar, like my refusal to play cat and mouse has something to do with sex appeal. I told him I’d see him in the morning and spent an hour or so watching two young men, their bodies all muscled and tattooed boxing with their feet, glistening with sweat. I relaxed. Spectators picked sides, made bets, drank beer. We all cheered and jeered. I ate from a street vendor and found a rickshaw to take me back to the hostel. Sleep evaded me. Was this backpacking? Bars and temples? At breakfast, he asked how the kickboxing was. “I just had a beer and left.” I lied. I had about three. I enjoyed myself. “How was the girl?” “Not good ‘ah?” “What, a dud root?” “You won’t say anything to anyone, will ya?” “Of course not.” Who the fuck did he think I was going to tell? “She had a dick.” To this day, I do not know how I kept myself from bursting out in laughter. We caught the train south, where we took the ferry to the island from our final stop. We rented bamboo huts on the beach and hung in a communal area where we ate lunch and read Wilbur Smith novels left by other backpackers. We smoked pot and watched the sunset. In my journal, I wrote, "Why am I here?" "Can you ride a motorbike," Eggs asked at breakfast? “No, can you?” “Sure, Lets hire one, you can sit behind me.” We rode from one beach to the next, ate fish and chips at the more touristy end of the island and then backtracked to where we were staying. I read and watched fishermen cast nets into the still water. Eggs wanted to nap before going out. That night we hit the bars. The area had all the charms of a drunken 21 st party. Most drinkers were Australians, Poms, or Kiwis, living up to stereotypes. Everyone was having fun. Everyone, that is, except me. Eggs had no intention of making friends, hanging with his English patriots, or singing, “I Come From a Land Downunder.” There was only one thing on his mind, and I felt obliged to tag along. “This is it,” he said. The bar was brightly lit, and fairy lights formed a crude canopy over the sandy path that led to the front door. Eggs told the waitress who serves us rum and cokes the girl's name, and soon, she and the other waitresses all started to squeal with excitement. They sounded like seagulls being fed chips. "He's back. Her Knight in shining armour is back," I imagine them saying. The girl appeared a few minutes later, throwing her arms around him. They talked for a moment before she went back to work. “When the bar closes, we can go back to her place, you can meet the sister.” “I’m tired,’ I tell him. “Don’t be like that, you promised.” Did I? The sisters live in a small dwelling constructed of besser bricks that needed a lick of paint. It's clean enough. There's a small portable television, a refrigerator and a kettle. However, no kitchen and a poster of Tom Cruise, dipping his Ray-Bans in his Risky Business pose, was tacked to the wall with sellotape. A plastic pot plant lent a splash of colour. We all sit on the sofa and the elder sister serve Cokes. Soon she and Eggs disappear. The younger sister, dressed in a tight-fitting pink miniskirt shuffled closer to me. "Nice music," I lied. The brand of Thai disco she played was, to be polite, was like listening to a cat drowning. She took my hand and eased me into her room, sitting on the polyester pink bed sheet and urging me to do the same. I sat. She took her top off. I did too, and before I could reach for the button to my shorts, she took charge. “Do you have a condom?” she asked, “No worry. I have one.” When I’m done, I stand and gather my clothes. She sees that I am leaving. “You do not like me? What is wrong?” I shrugged “I thought you wanted girlfriend?” I never said that. I felt as shitty as I could making my way back, to the beach hut, the sound of the waves guiding the way. I knew where I was going. In the morning, Eggs returned with his girl. Her: “You not like my sister? What is wrong with her?” Eggs: “You shouldn’t have gone with her if you didn’t like her mate.” Fuck off. I only thought that. He and the girl took off on the bike. I spent the day alone, walking the beach, reading. In the evening, Eggs returned, alone. “You really upset her mate.” There was a full moon party on a neighbouring island in two days. We biked to the ferry and caught the boat across. The girl stayed behind. She had work. Since disembarking Thai Airways Flight 101, I managed a smile for the first time. We ate magic mushrooms, drank rum and bought amphetamines at a pharmacy. The drugs, the music, the moon, the people, the dancing all created a spectacle I fell into, head first. I lost myself to the beat. Seeing other guys shirtless, I followed suit. Although the truth is everyone was fitter than me, so I hesitated, but finally, I told myself, no one cared. I felt a rush of both adrenaline and freedom, my mind blooming like a flower in the sun. I felt sexy for the first time. This boy danced near me; his skin pale like the moonlight, a tattoo of flowers and a tiger wrapped around his bicep. He smiled at me as he twirled in the sand, his hands running through locks of soft dark hair. The tattoo was beautiful. So was he. I tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey,” I said, “I love your tattoo.” His smile turned to a snarl; “Bugger off will ya,” he snapped, turning back to a girl. The smile wasn’t meant for me. I moved away but looked, every now and then, just to catch a glimpse of him, if just for a second. Was he the missing piece? If only that smile was for me. I found Eggs. He danced with some girls. He still wore his t-shirt, his hair hidden under a bandana, his face was pinched, he still looked old. I danced towards him. “Hey,” I said. “This is fucking amazing.” “You should put your shirt back on,” he said. “Why?” “It’s not you.” Everything made sense, right then, at that moment, on that beach, under that moon, in that country, on that day, in that year, the music at 180BPM. It all made fucking sense. Yes, it was. “I need to tell you something,” I said to Eggs. He shook his head; “Don’t.” He, too, turned his back to me. The night finally yielded to dawn, darkness to light, waves broke gently on the sand, the earth was in rhythm with the DJs, and I can recall, like it was yesterday, me, this me, the one writing this, looking out towards the horizon, far from home, the sand shifting beneath my feet.


The loud chime of the clock rang once, twice, three, four times, each one shuddering the floor of the clocktower, and therefore, Teo. He got up, bones still clattering from the vibrations, picked up his brown leather-covered case, and ran down the winding steps of the tower, out into the crisp early autumn air. He sprinted across the cobblestone streets, short mousy hair blowing across his forehead. The afternoon sun shone, reflecting off the water, yet hardly warming up the cool London air. Leaves blew through the wind, and drivers shouted as Teo rushed in front of horse-drawn carriages, weaving his way through the 4 O’clock traffic. He waved a friendly hello at a fruit stand as he hurried by, flipping a shining coin to the vendor as he passed. Out of breath, he arrived in front of the tall iron gates that were his destination. He stood there for a moment, pressing his back up against the gate, holding his case against his chest, bent over, breathing heavily from the exertion. The gate swung open, and he stumbled backward into the courtyard, landing on his butt, and dropping the case on the dusty ground. “Pfft.” Teo saw Marigold standing over him laughing. “What’s so funny?” He asked indignantly. “You!” She giggled. Teo stood up, dusted off his pants, adjusted his suspenders, and affixed his bowtie to sit properly underneath his collar. Scowling mockingly, he punched Marigold’s arm. “You got me all dirty!” he teased her. “Why are you all fancy anyway?” She asked, attempting to raise an eyebrow at his outfit. “Don’t you r-” She cut Teo off, saying “Nevermind! I want to show you something!” and motioned for him to follow. Picking up his case, Teo raced after her, not wanting to be left behind. Together, they darted through the garden. Even at a glance, the garden was a sight to behold. A beautiful stone path wound through it, with garden beds on either side. They were filled with multicolored lilies, purple, pink, and orange tulips, bright carnations, and an outer ring of towering sunflowers. The air was filled with the sweet scent of nectar and sneezing, as the pollen found its way into Teo’s nose. After rushing through the garden, Marigold led them down a dirt path Teo never remembered going on or even seeing. “We’re almost there, come on!” She called behind her shoulder. Teo ran to catch up and nearly slammed into her as she stopped suddenly in front of what looked like a brick wall, although it was hard to tell with all the ivy covering it. “Ta da!!” Marigold gestured to the wall. “Ummmm...” “Let me show you inside!” Marigold was bursting with excitement, so Teo just sighed, and obliged her. Peeling back the curtain of shining ivy, Marigold ran her hand along the brick wall. She stopped when she came to a brick that was slightly indented into the wall and pushed her weight against the spot. A door swung open with a squeal of rusty hinges. Teo followed her inside, intrigued by what he had just witnessed. Marigold picked up a rock, a good bit larger than her fist, and set it down in the doorway, so it would remain open just a bit. Teo looked around in wonder, marveling at what was before him. It was the most wondrous thing he had ever seen, with high brick walls creating a large room-like expanse, only lacking a roof. Teo estimated that it was as big, if not bigger, than his residence, in the clocktower, or at the orphanage. The ivy that scaled the tall brick walls reflected the sunlight off of its leaves. A willow stood in a corner, its branches of lush green leaves peering over the top of the walls, a woodpecker perched within its branches. The ground was covered with a spongy green moss with small footprints indented in it as if an animal had been there recently. There were flowers growing in scattered rows. There were white ones that looked like floating dancers, purple ones that grew in bunches like lilacs, and the crown jewel of it all. Coral-colored roses surrounded by their own thorns, protecting them from the rest of the world. Next to him, Marigold’s drawn-out breath synchronized with his own, as together they breathed in the scent of this magic. They watched as a chittering squirrel scampered across the top of the walls, as a beetle munched on fallen leaves, and as the woodpecker pecked at the trunk of its tree. “Marigold,” Teo began, somewhat sharply. “I am in awe. Truly. But I’m leaving for boarding school today! That’s why I’m dressed like this!” Marigold sighed loudly. “Teo, don’t you see? That’s why I needed to show you. Everything here-” She gestured around the garden, “Is endangered!” And once she said that something clicked for Teo. The floating dancing flowers, the purple one that resembled lilacs, and the coral roses. He had never seen them before, and now he knew why. “You’re leaving today, which is why you need to have these.” Marigold held out a fistful of small drawstring pouches, presumably from her pockets. “Uh, what do those have to do with anything?” “They have seeds. Seeds to all of these plants. You need to take them with you and plant them somewhere at your school. Because I think this garden-” Marigold gestured around her again, “ Is the last of many of these plants.” Teo took the pouches she had held out, and together they walked back to the main house. Marigold grabbed a piece of parchment, a quill, a piece of string, and a botany book she had acquired from the library. Looking at the book for reference, she carefully wrote down the name of each species, how they needed to be planted, and where. Marigold rolled up the parchment, tied it with the string, and handed it, along with the pouches of seeds, to Teo. Together, they walked in silence to the train station. Teo bought his ticket, and as the train pulled away, he released a seed into the wind.


I didn't see that one coming. My name is Gino Conti. One morning last summer, I sat on my front veranda in January before it got too hot. It was a serene summer morning, and I enjoyed the tranquility. The last slice of toast from my breakfast was a lovely end to the meal. As I sipped my tea, I gazed at my farm, admiring the progress of this season's sugar cane crop. I was anticipating reading the newspaper leisurely, something I rarely got to do when I was farming. I had retired a few years back. My son Gino Junior now farms my land next to his own, and I get a share of the profit. Although it gets hot and humid here in the summer, it would be another beautiful day. It was a moment that caught me entirely off guard. Out of nowhere, I saw Gino's ute tearing down my driveway. He screeched to a halt, spreading dust and gravel in all directions. He jumped out of his ute and slammed the door, his face a mix of urgency and concern, his eyes searching for mine. He was on my veranda in two strides. He threw his hat in the chair and started pacing the veranda. I could see that he was agitated, so I said "Hi, Gino, what's up?" Gino Junior said, his voice trembling with shock and disbelief as he spoke. "I'll tell you what's up, Dad. I just received a phone call from a woman who thinks she might be your daughter." "What?" That completely blindsided me. I said to him "I am seventy-two years old. It's a bit late for me to get another daughter suddenly." "I haven't dated since your mother, God rest her soul, died four years ago. I never had an affair; I wouldn't have had the time; I was working all the daylight hours that God sent me." "Who is she? I have only ever dated three women. The last of them was your mother." Gino Junior said "Her name is Jean Jacobs, and she said you knew her mother during the war." Gino said "Well, that narrows it down a little. I dated Suzie Connors briefly during the war, but then I met and married your mother in June 1946. Suzie lived in town, and she was the Librarian. She Married Bob Johnson in 1949 after the war. 1 I would have known if she were pregnant. The other girl I dated was Alicia Adams, a land army girl I had worked with during the war. That ended abruptly when the Government decided to release us internees in 1943. I had no time or way to let her know what had happened. We just got up and ready for work one morning when a truck was waiting to take us back to Cowra. She would have thought that we had been moved onto another farm. We were busy getting the hell out of Cowra before they changed their minds. It took me a month to get back here, walking, working where I could, and hitchhiking while generally heading north." "How old was this woman?" I asked. Gino said "He hadn't seen her, but on the phone, she sounded like she was a few years older than him". "He wanted to break it to me gently, and he had asked her to ring at 9 am tomorrow to arrange a meeting and to bring all her paperwork and photos." I had to prepare with the anticipation and uncertainty of tomorrow's meeting looming over me. I needed a haircut, a freshly aired suit that didn't smell of mothballs, and a clear mind to face this unexpected turn of events. Gino said, "It's OK, Dad. I will drive you into town to get a haircut today. I will pick you up at 9:15 tomorrow, and we will sort this out. I told her to bring all her paperwork and photos with her. All I need at forty-four is another sister to contend with. I already have two of them." Gino took me to town for a haircut and bought cake and biscuits to entertain her. The further into my day I got, the more nervous I became and the more bad-tempered Gino became. He started muttering that she would want a share of my money. I told him to "Settle down. I haven't even met the woman yet." After an anxious night, Gino rang me just after 9 am and said he would pick me up. I told him I was ready and had my glasses with me. The moment had arrived, and we pulled into Gino's front yard simultaneously. Gino bustled us into his kitchen too quickly for me to notice anything about her. However, I could look at her when we faced each other while Gino boiled the kettle. She seemed so familiar to me. 2 I could see myself in her eyes, the same eyes all my children had, creating an instant bond between us. At that moment, I knew she was my daughter. When Gino finally sat down and looked at her, I could see that he noticed it as well, and he accepted that he had a sister. All his anger suddenly deflated, which went a long way to calming the atmosphere. Then Jean introduced herself and pulled three photos and letters from her handbag. Jean explained that her mother, who had been Alicia Adams before she married, had recently died. Jean had found these photos and letters amongst her effects. She had only discovered that her dad was not her father, and she thought I was. I gasped when I saw the young photos of my beautiful Alicia and me. I was fixated on them for a minute; then, I handed them over to Gino to see. Jean handed me the letters in the order they had been written for me to read, fifty years too late to have done anything about them. I could hardly read them as tears streamed down my face, and I was busy wiping my eyes and holding Jean's hand. As I read the letters, I was saying "My daughter, My daughter." I had no idea I had left my beautiful Alicia in such a predicament. I loved her; I would have married her if I had known. It was cruel of the Government not to let her know we had been released. I am so sorry that Alicia had to go through all that alone. She sounds terrified in her letters. I said "Alicia was courageous to keep you in that time." With the photo of Alicia and me in my hand, I gazed at my newest daughter. I could see how beautifully Alicia's and my features combined to make this grown woman. After the hundred-and-one questions we had between ourselves, I was getting to know my surprise daughter a little bit. I was sorry that Alicia had died. I loved that woman and deeply regretted being pulled away from her so suddenly. However, we would have been moved to another harvest sooner or later. Internees had no say in the matter. We talked all day until five p.m. when Gino introduced Jean to his family as they came home from school and work. Gino's wife Maria suggested they have a party tomorrow Saturday for Gino's sisters and their families to meet my daughter Jean. When Gino took me home that night, I turned to him and I said "I didn't see that one coming." 3


There were answers I thought I’d find begging on my knees. The only thing I received were bruises that dotted my skin like angry kisses. I didn’t find salvation in inaction. I did not find it through respite. It was through movement that I saw clarity. It was through movement that I saw it. A hundred feet above me, an orb of azure light swirled in place. I was alone in the Chanokian forest, three miles down the Trenton path when I saw it. It didn’t look real. Nothing new ever does. Not presents or people. Not letters of acceptance or the look of disappointment on a face you thought you’d never fail. And not an orb of azure signalling you’re not alone in the universe. I don’t remember the next moments. Or several weeks after-- as a park ranger explained to me as we sat in their operations cabin on the north side of the forest. Ranger Dan, a surly, white haired Santa knock off, told me I had been missing for over three weeks. Three weeks! I thought I had missed thirty seconds at most. It felt like a lazy day where the first overdue steps you take against bring the blinding sun and an otherworldly shine to everything you see. That wasn’t the case. Friends kept calling me after they heard I had been found. Most were relieved, others were angry. None of them understood. I couldn’t tell them. They thought I was lying. That the trauma had packed away the memories like unwanted presents deep in the closet. I couldn’t tell them because nothing was there. No one had taken me away. Not that I could remember. There were no marks on my skin. No disturbance on the ground where I was found. Even my clothes and pack were in the same condition as when I had started the hike. Eventually I was left alone. Less people wanted to talk or commiserate once they realized I wasn’t holding out on them. I can’t say things went back to normal. Because I know I had been changed-- but I couldn’t say how. It was in the little things that I noticed. Lights were brighter. Sounds louder. It felt like I had upgraded from an analog television to a 4K home theater with surround sound. I began to feel an outward presence of individuals around me. A magnetic field-- some small, some larger-- that they would emanate. Part of me wanted to rush back to my friends and tell them what was happening. The other part knew I needed to keep this to myself. I had already been the source of controversy. I didn’t need to be poked and prodded or worse, locked away for minor delusions. I didn’t kid myself, it could all be fake outside of my own mind. Still, the occurrences began to increase. Soon I began to have dreams that didn’t seem to belong to me. I walked through hidden paths between time and space-- and upon waking a thrum sounded from my chest. I felt more beacon to the unknown than member of humanity. I returned to the forest without my pack. I didn’t think I’d need it for the second time. The trees shifted gently in the wind and I listened to their whispers. The pine needles squished into the muddy path beneath my feet as I drifted along. I waited for more. No orbs swirled overhead. I continued through the forest in a daze. Had I really seen it? Had I ever even gone? My questions stirred within me and the thrum returned. I looked at my chest to see an azure light. I smiled and looked above.


The first day of the revolution was not a happy one. Many of my neighbors were grey with anxiety as we lined up outside City Hall. It had been less than an hour since the military police had thrown down their weapons and surrendered. About a dozen men emerged from the destroyed police station with their arms raised. None were spared. For many of my friends, it was their first time committing murder. You could see it on their faces. Their lips quivered and their eyes sunk under the weight of their Catholic guilt. Despite all their talk, my friends did not yet have the stomach for murder. But I did. There are many reasons why I was the de facto leader that day as we marched on City Hall. I had always been vocal dissident. I had lost my family and my farm to the regime. There was an American reporter in the village and I spoke the best English. Despite this, I suspect that I was able to lead because I was the only one in the village who had killed before. The thought makes my mouth go dry, but I fear it is true. Numbness to violence may be all a leader needs. When we arrived at City Hall, I had the men of the town form an orderly line in front of the building. They stood ready with makeshift weapons; mostly gardening equipment. The men who had not fired a shot at the police station were placed closest to the door. They needed to share the responsibility of the revolution. They needed to taste murder. The mayor and his staff did not leave the building immediately. My friends and neighbors grew impatient under the Latin American sun that beat down on them. I heard them muttering to each other, “Why don’t we drag them out?” or “Can’t we just burn this building down?” I continued to wait. It would be better this way. After some time, the mayor emerged. He exited the building alone but, as he closed the doors behind him, we could see his staff waiting inside with terrified faces. I stood closest to the door, away from the ranks of townspeople standing before the building. The mayor dabbed the sweat from his light-brown forehead and approached me. He was dressed in his best clothes. I had forgotten that it was Sunday. As the fat man came to a stop before me, I addressed him by his fist name, “Good afternoon, Guillermo.” “And to you, Señor Alvaro,” he replied in a calm, subdued voice. The only other man near us was the American reporter. He scribbled in his notepad, trying to translate despite his weak grasp on the Spanish language. “It is a lovely day, isn’t it,” the mayor said, as if to himself. “They are waiting,” I said, pointing to the crowd. “They do not look very eager, Señor Alvaro. They seem more afraid than I am.” “Then I will give them strength. That is what a true leader does.” “A true leader,” Guillermo said thoughtfully. “Tell me, Señor Alvaro, are there any members of the military police still alive?” I shook my head. “Once the capital hears of this, they will burn this village to the ground. No amount of leadership can save you from their army. They will destroy each of those men and their farms. They will rape their wives and slaughter their children.” “These are desperate times, Guillermo. You have pushed us to this level.” Guillermo nodded sadly. “I am sorry you think that.” The mayor looked up at the gentle clouds and asked, “Is there any way I could convince you to spare the rest of the men in City Hall?” I shook my head again. “I didn’t think so.” Guillermo sighed before speaking again. “Very well. Give me a moment to prepare myself and I will go.” “The people have waited long enough,” I said. “You go now.” “You arrogant child,” Guillermo said, looking at me with scorn, “thinking you can command a dead man.” The mayor looked at the crowd for a few seconds. Nobody spoke. Even the wind was silent. “Are you ready?” I asked after almost a minute had gone by. “No,” Guillermo said. “But I will go anyway. I encourage you to spare the rest of the men in City Hall. The army may be more lenient if you make this compromise.” “There will be no compromise,” I declared with conviction. “Maybe greed has corrupted your judgment, Guillermo, but we will not show compassion for evil men. As long as we fight for a just cause, no army in the world can defeat us. That is something you can never understand.” He did not look at me with disgust, anger, or disdain. Looking into his eyes, I saw sadness. “Tanto orgullo,” he said to me. “Te destruirá, hijo.” Without another word, he walked towards the crowd. The men raised their weapons, but none wanted to take the first swing. The mayor did not slow. It looked as if he would walk right through the crowd. At last, one man brought a shovel down on Guillermo’s head. He fell to one knee as blood shot from the wound. Another man struck him in the side and the mayor was on his back. The mob began to form a circle around him. “What was the last thing he said?” the American reporter said behind me. “Such pride,” I said as I watched the bloodlust spread through the crowd. “It will destroy you, child.


My daughter held my hand, standing over me as I lay in the hospital bed. I could see her tears sliding through the slight wrinkles on her face and into her white hair, but she was smiling. She smiled because she knew this was how it was supposed to be. I brought her into this world and raised her into a great woman like myself. That was my purpose in life, and now I was done. So I closed my eyes and let myself slip away into blackness. I expected for my mind to settle; for my thoughts to stop moving. But they didn't. I was still here. I was still conscious. How? The blackness slowly started to fade. I could see a faint white light coming in. I opened my eyes to find myself still in the hospital bed, but my daughter was nowhere to be seen. I was all by myself in an empty room. But just as quickly as it came, it was gone. I was staring into blackness again with just my thoughts. Then it all happened once more. The light began to come back. I opened my eyes. I was still alone in the same hospital room. What was this? The blackness returned, and the process repeated a third time. But once I opened my eyes from the blackness for the fourth time, I was no longer in the hospital bed. I was lying in my own home. Alone, in the bedroom that I never thought I'd see again. I was beginning to panic now. What was happening? After a few seconds, the blackness came back. Then I woke up once again in my bedroom. Then the blackness returned. This cycle repeated over and over again. I could feel myself gripping the bedsheets beneath me. My heart was racing, and yet my body felt almost more comfortable than it was before. I noticed that the pains in my neck and ankles were slowly starting to relieve themselves after each blackout. It happened another ten times. Twenty. Fifty. A hundred or so it felt. I tried screaming out, but this cycle didn't seem to end. I couldn't count how many times the blackness flashed in front of me. It felt like I was going on several hundred now. Maybe even a thousand. I woke up in my bedroom once again, but immediately I noticed this one was different. I felt something cold resting on top of my hand. The blackness returned. I woke up again, and that cold was still there. I turned and looked to my side, and was hit with a brick of emotion. I could feel tears forming on my face. There he was. My husband, fast asleep. The man I had loved and spent almost my entire life with was somehow here, alive and holding my hand once again after all these years. He still looked so beautiful, even in his old age. The blackness returned, and I woke up again to my husband's face. This was repeated continuously. Sometimes he was asleep, other times his eyes were looking back at me as he smiled. Now I didn't want this to end. At this point, I figured out what was happening, I think. I was moving through each day of my life, starting from the very end, for just a few seconds. Waking up within each morning, to see a glimpse of that part of my life. I was falling backwards through time. I woke up next to my husband hundreds of more times. Sometimes, I'd reach out and give him a small kiss, or pull him in for a close embrace. It felt like it would never end, and I didn't want it to. It now began to feel like the blackness had returned a few thousand times. I could now start to see my husband looking younger. A little colour was returning to his hair. The wrinkles were fading from his face. I could even see some muscles returning to his body, which made me smile. I travelled through several more years. Maybe even a few decades, but I wasn't counting. Sometimes little things would change. We'd wake up in a hotel room, or suddenly he’d have a very thick beard that slowly grew shorter. I felt younger in my own body, and my husband looked like he was reaching his thirties himself. I didn't want to leave this. I didn't want to lose this man again, and yet he had no idea what I was going through. I woke from the blackness again and saw something different. Lying peacefully asleep, between my husband and I, was our daughter. Once more, I was flooded with a wave of emotions. She looked to be only six years old. This must have been the very last time she crawled into our bed, afraid of a nightmare or a thunderstorm. I noticed her eyelids fluttering as she dreamed, completely unaware of the gorgeous old woman I would watch her grow up to be. I blacked out again. When I woke up, she was gone. I began travelling through several more years. Sometimes, I'd see my daughter again, but most days she wasn’t there. However after she vanished for a few hundred days, I realized she was gone, once more. God, please no! I just wanted to see my baby girl one more time. It wasn't long after that when my husband suddenly vanished too. There I was again, alone. I laid there, peacefully, and watched as the bedroom around me changed into my old university dorm, but I wasn't paying attention to it. My thoughts were locked around my husband and my daughter. My dorm faded again, and I woke up in another bedroom. This one was much smaller. It was covered in posters, pictures, and pillows. Dirty laundry was sprawled across the floor. I recognized it right away; it was my childhood bedroom. I hadn't been there in more than seventy years. It was just one more thing flashing in front of me that I thought I'd never see again. It felt like I was flying through years now. The pictures on the walls and the items on my dresser were changing. I could feel myself growing younger. I opened my eyes, and there I was. Laying in a different bedroom, sandwiched between two other bodies. It was my parents. This must've been the very last time I crawled into their bed, afraid of a nightmare or a thunderstorm. My heart felt tired from all the emotions I'd gone through, yet there I was again. Looking at the faces of the two great people who'd raised me into who I was. I felt so small compared to them. But once again, it was all gone within a few seconds. I continued down this tumble through my life. Occasionally, my parents would flash in front of me for a few seconds. My bedroom began to fill itself with more toys and stuffed animals. I could tell that I was quickly approaching the end. The world around me grew bigger, but my bed grew smaller with me until it transformed into a small crib. I found myself, once again, panicking at the thought of what was going on around me. It was only several moments ago that I had accepted death. I had said one last goodbye. Yet, here I was. Wanting to cling to all of these people who made up my life. I didn't want to let go. Life wouldn't leave me when I was ready for it, but now that I was no longer ready, I could feel it fleeing once again. I opened my eyes once more. I felt a large pair of arms wrapped around me. I laid naked and screaming, looking up at a young woman's face. It was my mother. I could see her tears sliding through her smooth young cheeks and into her dark hair, but she was smiling. She smiled because she could see what she had created. She brought me into this world and raised me into a great woman like herself. There I was, for a few final seconds, at the very beginning of my life, until I felt it all fade away into blackness once more; this time for good. \ This is my first time posting here. I put two hours aside this morning to write this after I was struck with some inspiration. The idea came from a WP over on that sub, but it was deleted before I could write it, so I figured I'd post it here.


Microdosing by J.D. Savanyu I grew up playing stupid 2D games, and now I’m making stupid 3D games. Upping the ante with each “immersive digital experience” to distract the players from their pathetic little lives. More character customization, more choice-driven narratives, more melodramatic cutaway scenes, more blood, more boobs . . . and shorter product development phases, pushing programmers like me to the breaking point. Thank god I discovered “Daddy’s Little Helper.” Three o’clock sharp. Time for another cuppa java, discretely spiked with lysergic acid diethylamide. I have to employ a bit of stealth, because California has been legalizing everything in the lawbook lately, but they still haven’t legalized “looney tunes.” Of course I’m not taking enough to get looney, or daffy, or balls-trippy. Just a little microdosing to maximize my productivity at DreamPixel USA; a wholly owned subsidiary of a Japanese conglomerate. I watch the clouds swirling in my coffee, thinking the sound stuck in my head is about me . . . the tinny MIDI overworld theme to Ultra Chaos 3 from 1989, back when I was a hopelessly awkward dork at Pleasant Valley Middle School. GamePro Monthly called it an “RPG tour de force,” and it turned me into a digital zombie, crawling on my thumbs through an 8-bit wonderland, crafted by Masanobu Eguchi. *“Hey mom, I wanna go to the Stanford School of Game Design, so I can be the next Masanobu!”* *“Oh, sweetie, why don’t you do something that actually helps people? Like being a doctor, or a social worker, or a highway engineer.”* *“No way! I’ll make a game that’s twice as good as Ultra Chaos 3, and they’ll pay me a gazillion dollars, and those schoolyard bullies will be living in a freakin’ cardboard box and begging me for lunch money!”* None of my bold predictions came true, much to my dismay. Nobody can out-design Masanobu; “the game guru of Harajuku.” I’m dropping acid in a desperate attempt to avoid the poor house, while Masanobu drinks vintage Karuizawa whiskey at a five-star Kobe steakhouse in Kobe. I reluctantly return to my glowing plasma screen, surrounded by fellow PixelDreamers. The sterile soul-crushing smell of Silicon Valley oozes from every crevice of our “open team workspace.” Ah, here we go. The magic chemical kicks in, and that nagging undertow of chronic depression washes out to the Frisco Bay. It’s just a matter of time before they legalize this shit and throw commercials for it all over the airwaves, just like Viagra before it went generic. Some struggling actor will try to sound natural while yakking over a bubbly remake of “Feelin’ Groovy” by Simon and Garfunkel: *“Having trouble focusing? Falling behind at work or school? Microdosing can make a world of difference, so ask your doctor about Acidera! (Ahem . . . side effects may include rapid heartbeat, increased blood pressure and body temperature, hallucinations, paranoia and distressing flashbacks. Do not consume more than one microdose tablet per day, or these effects will worsen and may cause dangerous life-threatening behavior.) Microdosing truly CAN make a world of difference, so get back in the groove with Acidera! (Buh-da-da-da-da-da-da, feelin’ groo-vey!)* Those side effects haven’t effected me yet, but they surely will. If I’m not careful, I might trip balls, fall into a jail cell, and lose my dream job (which turned out to be a nightmare.) Keep your head in the game, buddy-boy. We’re working like hell to get Magic Gino: The Mandolin of Destiny out to market in time for the holidays, so millions of spoiled brats can unwrap the latest installment in the best-selling game franchise of all time. My current assignment is the warp zone; a secret easter egg in World 1. Gino has to squat down on a white brick wall for five seconds, then he gets sucked down behind it and magically “warps” to World 8, where an evil sorcerer imprisoned Princess Bianca deep inside a gothic labyrinth that would make Count Dracula green with envy. That sexy wench has gotten kidnapped a billion times since ‘82. I guess she spends too much on royal gowns, and not enough on royal guards. The LSD tickles my neurons and makes a ginormous heap of C++ seem far less bewildering. In the back of my mind, I hear the voice of Nick Rafka, a fellow forty-something software engineer, devouring a vegan burger yesterday afternoon in the DreamPixel cafeteria. “The effect of microdosing is mostly placebo, just like those overpriced ‘antidepressants’ from Big Pharma,” Nick claimed confidently. “I say it’s half-and-half, just like the clouds in my coffee,” I replied wittily, and took a big bite of non-vegan bacon cheeseburger. “It’s a bunch of pseudoscience, promoted by clueless talking heads like fucking Doctor Oz.” “Maybe you’re right, or maybe you’re wrong,” I murmured wearily. “By the way, I wish I could take a time machine back to the good ol’ 90’s, before the government allowed TV commercials for prescription drugs, with all those nauseating side effects.” “Oh yeah, I’m totally nostalgic for the days when you could eat dinner in front of the idiot box without being reminded of your own mortality.” Back to the current situation, however mundane it may be. I press the “render” button and reveal a lush Tolkein-esque landscape, where Gino battles a vast army of enchanted lizards, porcupines, hedgehogs and Venus flytraps; doing it all for the glory of love. He won’t stop fighting until he defeats the evil arch-alchemist Dante Machiavelli, and then he’ll fuck the brains out of that brainless blonde princess. (Only in my imagination, because this is an E for Everyone franchise.) Who am I fighting for? Nobody but myself. There's no princess waiting at my “castle” in the Mission District. Nobody to kiss my face and scratch my back and make me forget about the endless digital rat race. A little red-haired girl broke my heart in a thousand pieces at Love Creek High School, so I rejected the entire concept of romance. Computers became my only friends . . . but what glorious friends they are. I love how they serve my every whim, 24/7, with no complaints whatsoever. They never take a coffee break or demand a ridiculous pay raise or sue your ass off at the slightest opportunity. I took the red pill and stayed in wonderland, seeing just how deep The Matrix goes. It’s nine o’clock somewhere. Right here. The acid catches my feet and sends me flying through a midsummer night’s waking dream, in a cheap Korean car. I pop some Fourplay into the CD player, and smooth jazz from the grunge era soothes my wired nerves. The neon lights of Silicon Valley race by in a dazzling particolored sheen, like an ethereal court jester on a cosmic stage. As I've gotten older, I've realized the immense wisdom behind the trite expression “life is more about the journey than the destination.” Less about winning the game, and more about playing like hell ‘till your eyes bug out of your head, like mama always said. Achieving virtual nirvana with a $500 console, made in China. The Frisco skyline peeks over the horizon. Home sweet home, no matter how high the crime rate goes. A pair of San Mateo police cars zoom by with sirens blaring, jolting me back to reality. One little mistake and I'll lose everything, rotting in a jail cell with robbers, rapists, and ruffians. I have to stay focused on my epic quest, like Gino the Brave navigating the treacherous wilderness of Subcon-Westphalia. There's no fair maiden waiting in my humble abode, but that little red-haired girl is out there somewhere, breaking hearts like a serial heart killer. Maybe I'll bump into her someday, and perhaps we'll make amends. I don't believe in soulmates, and I don’t believe in karma, but I do believe in hitting the reset button. Exiting the interstate and floating down to a paradise city, where the money is green and the girls are pretty, with neon hair and black leather skirts and VEGAN BITCH tattoos. I fantasize about them every single night, and the stay the hell away from them every single day. An SF squad cruiser turns on its siren, pulls up right behind me, and stays right behind me. Oh shit, oh shit. I wasn’t going that fast! I pull over in front of the Sticky Rice sushi bar, and he takes his sweet time getting out of the cruiser, building up suspense like a master showman. Easy now. Play it cool, and don't be a fool. Remember that cops are only human, with children to feed and clothe and buy video games for. The world has turned into one big crazy RPG, and everyone is using a cheat code. “Sir, are you aware that you were going fifty-two in a thirty mile-an-hour zone?” “I was? Damn. Sorry about that, Mister Officer.” Mister Officer? Crap! The stress is making me sound like a burned-out stoner from the Haight-Ashbury glory days. “Also, your brake light has burned out.” Jesus fucking Christ. I work my ass off to make those stupid games, and I have zero mental energy left over. A digital zombie, indeed. “License and registration, please.” I dig through my pockets, but I can't find my license. Shit! I took my dummy wallet along this morning (in case I get mugged on Market Street,) but I forgot to put the real one in my zippered pocket. And I forgot to put the registration papers back in the glove box after renewing the license. Shit, shit, crap on a fucking cracker! “Sorry officer, I forgot to bring that stuff with me. I’m having a bad day all around.” His mustachioed mouth curls into a hungry grin, sensing a big score. Something to brag about in the locker room down at the station, and boost his chances for a promotion. Every profession is all about egotism, no matter how noble anyone claims to be. “Step out of the vehicle, please.” Fuck-fuckity-fuck! I emerge from the transport unit, dazzled by a gleaming dystopian backdrop, like Night City in Cyberpunk 2077. He goes right for my briefcase and finds the “looney tunes” lickety-split, like a well-trained bloodhound. Deep shit, buddy-boy. You slipped off a ladder in Dante Machiavelli’s castle and fell into a giant vat of lava. “Look what I found, Mister DreamPixel,” he remarks while holding up a baggie full of jagged little pills. “You must be one of those Silicon Valley microdosers.” “Bingo,” I mutter under my breath. “If everyone else jumped off a cliff, would you jump too?” Game Over.


As I step out of the car, reluctantly leaving the heated seat and the warmth of the confined space, and am instantly hit with the bitter cold wind of classic Melbournes mid-July. I walk around to the boot to pick up some shopping bags, The wind irritatingly whipping tendrils of my hair, that I fruitlessly tried to bat out of my face. The car park was deserted, save for a few lone cars of Coles employees that dot the also empty street. The bright white light of the supermarket looks to offer much better protection from the bitter wind, so I picked up my pace, closed the boot and hopped up onto the sidewalk. Bundling up my scarf and pulling the hood of my sweatshirt higher up onto my frozen face. I walk through the painfully slow automatic doors and am relieved to be greeted by the warmer atmosphere inside the supermarket. I personally find that supermarket shopping is best done at night. It means fewer people, less crowding and means I can crank up my music as loud as possible without having to worry about the odd looks I gather when people don't “appreciate” the smashing music of the great Nirvana, etcetera, etcetera. This overall makes walking around the endless aisles much more manageable. At currently 10:45 pm the only people who seem to be milling around the supermarket are an older woman and a group of unruly teenagers. So I plug my Airpods in, grab a basket and begin making my rounds through the aisles. As I make my way through the supermarket, stopping periodically to grab stuff off the shelves, By the time I make it about halfway, I notice how strangely deserted the place is. I turn down my music and look around. The old lady must have left, but I didn't notice her leave and the sketchy group of teenagers disappeared as well. As I continue to wander around, I notice that there is also no longer any staff waiting at the registers or unpacking boxes of assorted foods in the aisle. Though I normally come late, it never has this level of silence and emptiness. In not generally a paranoid person, but I have the strange feeling I’m being watched. I turn the corner into the cereal aisle. Boxes of artificially coloured, overly sugared cereal boxes line both shelves. Their equally on-brand, bright cheerful packaging mocks the creepy tone of the supermarket. I make my way down the aisle and turn right. I can hear footsteps, slow quiet footsteps eerily approaching but when I turn around there is no one behind in the aisle. Then suddenly the lights go out. Immediately plunging the supermarket in total darkness. A round of gunfire splits the short silence and loud shouts fill the entrance area of the supermarket. I don’t reckon these people are those teenagers. I drop my basket, my eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness, It bounces as it crashes to the ground. l stay standing, frozen in fear. The basket's contents roll about on the floor, spreading out around my feet and disappearing under the shelving in the aisle. The lights slowly go back on but remain flickering as if someone is purposely turning the light switch on and off. I almost laugh, it’s giving off very Stranger Things vibes. All of a sudden I am no longer alone in the aisle. There is someone at the other end. Even through the periodic flickers of light, I can't make out any of the person's facial features under their hood. It’s pulled tight around their head, kind of like mine, but theirs, It's underneath some kind of leather jacket. They seem to be wearing a strange kind of haptic suit, that covers from neck to feet, which are covered in some futuristic light-up kind of shoes. The world seems to spin and sway out of proportion all at once and I shuffle my feet, almost stumbling over a dented can of beans. The shouts start up again, but now they are getting closer, I can hear someone shoot their gun up into the ceiling, plaster falling into the aisle next to me. The faint sound of empty bullet shells clinking on the floor. Before I can even say a word, the strange person breaks out in a sprint right for me. I can feel their cold hands, urgently close around my upper arm pulling me along back through the aisle. We dive over the registers and break out in a sprint for the exit to the supermarket. The people might have seen us because I can hear their footsteps and their shouts drawing closer. The person still has me, firm in their grip, I hopelessly stumble on after them. “Where are we going?” Feels like a stupid question to be asking now, this situation just keeps getting weirder and weirder. Their response is drowned out by the shouts of the people running out of the supermarket. I glance behind us. These people are covered in a similar but black bodysuit, but with some strange black bug-like helmets, with glowing red lights. And then the machine guns go off. And they are shooting right at us. The first round of bullets pierced the cars to my left and my right. The next round pierced the flailing corner of my jacket. “What's happening?” I yell with much more alarm this time. “We have to get out now.” Her voice shocks me. Sounding weirdly familiar. Before I can even turn to see how close the machine gun guys are, she pulls out a small grey orb and we dive behind the nearest car. The dive knocks off her hood. I’m staring at a face that seems all too familiar to belong to a stranger. I’m staring at me. “We have to leave this place now. you must follow me, you are in danger. You must trust me and follow the instructions that I give you, ok? Do you trust me?” her voice full of authority. She throws the orb and it explodes in bright purple, which illuminates the ground and a swirling cloud appears, almost like a portal. The words leave my mouth before I could process them. “Yes.” Without hesitation, she pushes me forward and we fall into the light.


I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a ri I’m supposed to write it ten times but my left hand starts shaking so I can’t hold the pen steady and the back of my head is buzzing and I have to do deep breaths like Dr. Spinoza showed me. In for four counts, out for five. In for four, out for five. In for four, out for five. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. it is green and slimy and slightly pulsating. I wear sweatshirts to try to hide it, even in the summer, but I know people are staring at it anyway. I have to keep my arm tense and outstretched a little, because it is actually a tentacle and it is cold and slimy and I don’t want it touching anywhere else on my body, and I have to keep the fingers on my right hand in a tight fist because if I unclench them they might not come apart since tentacles don’t have fingers. I’m not crazy or stupid, I know that people have two arms and no tentacles. But I can’t help thinking that I might have a tentacle instead of an arm, and that’s why people stare at me. When I had a girlfriend she would tell me that people weren’t staring at me because my arm was a tentacle, they were staring at me because I was holding my arm funny and clenching my fist and also I smelled a little bit bad. I can’t get in the shower without walking past the mirror, and if I look in the mirror I might see that my arm is a tentacle, so before I started seeing Dr. Spinoza I only showered once a week and squeezed my eyes closed the whole time. When I first met Emily, I only thought I had a tentacle for an arm some of the time. I told her about my thoughts on one of our dates and she laughed at me, and I laughed too. But then when I started to have the thoughts all the time she started pushing me around in front of her friends, and pretty soon she decided she didn’t want to date a guy with a tentacle instead of a right arm anymore and she broke up with me. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I finish my ERP therapy exercises for the night and decide to reward myself with a cookie and a glass of milk before bed. I have to wake up early tomorrow for work. It was hard to find a job that someone with only one working arm could do, but I finally found a job at a call center selling herbal supplements. I don’t think they work, but at least over the phone people can’t see my tentacle arm. In the kitchen, I open cabinets and get down dishes one-handed. It was weird, at first, using my left hand for everything, but I’ve mostly stopped dropping stuff. I opened the fridge and pulled the half-gallon of milk off the top shelf. But the movement was clumsy, and my left arm sent a bottle of ketchup tumbling towards the floor in the process. I have excellent reflexes. As soon as the ketchup topples, my right hand shoots out and snatches it from midair. It is cold, probably the coldest thing my right hand had touched in months. Condensation is already beginning to form on the bottle, making the plastic feel slightly slimy. Or is it my hand that feels slimy? It must be my hand, turning into a green slimy tentacle. The floor slips from beneath my feet. I open my eyes but don’t see anything at first, my eyes not yet adjusted to the dark. There is no floor under my feet; I stretch my toes as far as I can but feel only... what? Water, I think. I’m suspended underwater. The back of my head buzzes. Breath in for four counts, out for five... The water is warm. I’m underwater and breathing fine. I have to go to work tomorrow, I need to get out of here, but as I raise my arms to swim upwards, I see that I don’t have arms, I have tentacles. They are green and slightly pulsating. They are covered in mucus, allowing them to slice cleanly through the warm water. I am so much stronger than I have ever been, with no bones in my arms weighing me down. I could lift a car. I have tentacles for arms and as my eyes adjust I can see that everyone else does too. In the distance I can see more people moving effortlessly through the water, propelled by tentacles that cover their body. They are happy. They do not stare at me. One man is closer than the rest, and he is looking at me, though not unkindly. He has red tentacles for arms, and a dozen other tentacles coming out of his chest, his shoulders, his back, his groin. “I need to get back,” I tell him. “I have to work, and if I leave the milk out for too long it will go bad.” He doesn’t respond, but keeps looking at me, not unkindly, and a moment later gravity returns I am lying on the kitchen floor in a puddle of milk. I sit up. The back of my sweatshirt is soaked. I shiver, chilled by gusts of A/C. I hug my arms to my chest, attempting to warm myself. I have two of them, thin and bony things, a bit grimy and now half-soaked in milk. I miss my tentacles.


It’s been a long week, and I may or may not have put off a huge project until the last minute. Again. It’s a problem. Anyway, I rushed to the library to find a book to do my entire research project on. I had to do the research, write the required three page essay, and create a visual example. I told my parents I had finished last week. Needless to say, I lied. I rushed through the library doors, but something caught my eye. There was a sign that said they were going to close at 7:30. That’s in one hour! I should not have put this project off. My grade depends on this! It is the last assignment that will count towards our grade, and I’m not doing too well grade wise. I’m smart, but spend more time with athletics than school. I went straight to the nonfiction section. Nothing in particular caught my eye except the clock, which was ticking closer and closer to 7:30. I chose the book closest to me. It was about the Civil War. It’ll have to do. I rush to the nearest table and open up the book and pull out my computer. I scan the table of contents. Nothing caught my eye, except for this one chapter towards the middle called the “Anaconda Plan.” You may not know this about me, but I love snakes. So naturally, I flipped to that chapter. It wasn’t about snakes, but it was about a plan that was based upon an anaconda’s habits and movements. It was actually very interesting. I got so sucked in that I didn’t even notice when they said they were closing. I noticed about an hour too late. I was in the back of the second floor, so no one noticed me. I was kind of freaking out. I mean, I was probably locked in a building that wasn’t my house. You may be wondering why my parents haven’t called me or anything. Well, they are out of town tonight, so I’m on my own. It was about 8:30, so I wasn’t tired. I decided to find another book about the Anaconda plan. I would do my research on that. I found out some really interesting stuff. I managed to write a four page essay and decide what I wanted to do for the visual presentation. I decided that I would do the presentation of the plan. I just needed the materials. I was also going to make a map of the plan to show. It would be awesome and I would totally get an A on the project, which is what I needed to pass the class. After I finished writing the essay and planning my presentation, I realized how tired I was. I looked at the clock and it read 11:43. It was really late. I should be in bed getting ready to fall asleep. I mean, I had school in the morning, and the project is due during the first class, so I had to find a way out. I tried to walk around the library to find the door, but I was really dark, and I could barely see anything. I walked into a bookshelf and several books fell off the shelf. I tried to put them back, but I still couldn’t really see, so I just did my best. Apparently, I didn’t do a very good job. I tripped over two books that fell on top of each other and knocked some other books over. I just gave up and went to find a door. I somehow managed to find the door, but it wouldn’t open. I turned around after what felt like an eternity of trying to open the door, and decided to find another exit. After stumbling around in the darkness, I began to grow tired, which caused me to trip onto another bookshelf and sent books flying. I was too tired to try and find them to put them back. I just wanted to be in my bed. I found my way to the back of the building and found another door labeled with one of those light-up exit signs. I tried to push it open, but it wouldn’t budge. I pulled out my phone to use the flashlight, I don’t know why I didn't try that before, but it was dead. The little light that the exit sign gave off was just enough for me to notice a little lock on the handle. I pulled out my house key and tried to use it. I hope that it would, but it didn’t. I was ready to just give up. I sat down on the floor next to the door and just started thinking of ways to escape. I had seen shows on TV that have people escaping using the vents, but those were too high up for me to reach. They sometimes use bobby pins to pick a lock, but I didn’t have any. Then I remembered seeing a sewing section in the library when I rushed in a few hours ago. By some miracle I found the section and searched for a stray pin. There was a table by the shelf that had a few pins in a bowl. I grabbed the pins and raced to the door, knocking who knows what to the floor. I don’t know how you are supposed to pick a lock, but I tried my best. I got pricked a few times by the pins, but getting out was more important than caring about something so trivial. I heard a click and tried the handle again and it worked. But nothing so great can last forever. When I opened the door, an alarm went off. I snuck away knowing it would only be so long before the authorities showed up, and I didn’t plan on being there when they did. Once I felt as if I could not be easily seen, I bolted towards my house. I got there in a matter of minutes, I'm a good runner. I fumbled with the keys a little and ran straight to my room after locking the door behind me. I was so tired, I just laid in my bed and went straight to sleep. I woke up the next morning to light pouring into my room. I looked over at my clock and saw that it read 9:00. Of course, I slept through my alarm going off and missed the bus to school. And the project submission. I walked over to my backpack to pull out my computer to turn in the project online after I sent an email using my mom’s email to the school calling in sick. I learned a very valuable lesson that night. Never save your work until the last minute, and if you do, charge your phone and watch the clock. This was the story I would tell my children and grandchildren when they started middle school and high school. I hope they listen to my story and learn from my mistakes.