Letter I August 2010 To Briggs and Mac, If these letters have found you, it means that I have been gone for five years. It also means that the time has come to clarify my life and career, which, as you are aware, I guarded passionately. I apologize for this secrecy. For reasons explained herein, however, I hope you can understand my reasoning. I hope you find some amount of interest in the life your grandmother and I pursued. Please keep these stories safe and within our family. Your grandfather, M.H. In 1975, I began working as a private investigator. Growing up, see, I was enamored with the daring adventures of Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes and the relaxed, yet pinpoint astuteness of Stout’s Nero Wolfe. I recognized early on in my career that my work would be incomparable to the heroic and oftentimes otherworldly feats found in a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novel, but I was able to provide real assistance to people at times, and that was all I ever aimed to do. In the small city of Henton, where I lived, my early investigative work typically involved exposing small-scale insurance and tax fraud, discovering the whereabouts of missing persons on behalf of their families, and, on occasion, the menial task of uncovering the lies of unfaithful spouses. By the mid-1980s, I had established myself as a competent and reliable private investigator in the underground scene. Unlike many investigators I knew or heard of, however, I had little hubris in my work. I often turned my findings over to local and state police, with which they would locate a perpetrator or a missing person and proudly take the credit. This system worked well for me. The individuals and families who contracted me were aware of the facts I uncovered and would pay me accordingly, allowing me to stay relatively free from any limelight. Anonymity was not only a personal preference of mine, but my name and face remaining out of the newspapers gave me a considerable advantage in my reconnaissance. Media attention seemed, to me, antithetical to private investigating, and I never understood why so many of my colleagues were overtly focused on it, oftentimes more so than solving cases. The anonymity I desperately worked to maintain, however, was tested for the first time in April 1987. I was sitting in a diner early one morning, drinking coffee and reviewing notes from a case I was working on when a man I had never met quietly slipped into the booth seat across from me. “Mr. Leslie,” the man said gently. I looked up and removed my reading glasses. “Can I help you?” I asked. “I hope so,” he said. “If anyone can, then it is you.” I gathered my papers in a stack and sat my pencil down on top of them. “Well,” I said pointedly, “I am quite busy at the moment. Perhaps you can leave a message with me or your phone number?” “I know you are a busy man, Mr. Leslie,” he said, “but there is a situation, and I know of no one else who can help resolve it.” I remained quiet, studying the man. “I work hard to ensure that my activities remain out of street gossip,” I said. “I’m not sure who recommended me for your situation, but I am just a journalist, not a first responder.” When outside eyes and ears began to pry into my work, I often simplified my job to the role of journalist; this helped keep unwanted inquiries away. “Lee Ivers told me to find you,” he said. The hair on my arms raised at hearing the name, but I remained calm. “Lee Ivers,” I said flatly, concealing the fact that my interest had been piqued. “And how do you know Mr. Ivers?” “My father used to work with him, and they were good friends,” he said. “Unfortunately, as you know, Lee passed a while ago, but before he died, I discussed with him my situation, and he referred me to you. I was hesitant to find you, but I don’t know what else to do.” “I see,” I said. I leaned back in my booth, crossed my legs, and sipped my coffee. I studied the man a moment longer, then moved my stack of papers to one side of the table and rested my arms on the open space before me. “Empty your pockets,” I said to the man. He hesitantly took out his wallet, keys, and pocket knife and sat them on the table. “And your gun?” I asked. “No gun,” he said. I looked at the man blankly. “Very well,” I said. “I’m sorry I could not help you.” “It’s in my pants,” he quickly said. “No more lies,” I said intently. He nodded. “Now, tell me about your situation.” He looked down at the table. “It’s my sister,” he said. “Go on.” “She married a man-a bad man.” I waited, allowing my impatience to become visible. “Mario,” he said. “He beats her up every day.” “Go to the police,” I told him. He looked at me in disbelief, as if I was the one personally abusing his sister. “Look, I’m not law enforcement,” I said, “and I’m not a hitman. I’m an investigator. I use evidence and clues to answer questions. I’m not some servant of justice. You claim to know of me, and of Lee Ivers, so I presume you know this.” He looked at me desperately. “He is the police,” he said. I paused. “I don’t follow,” I said unamused. “He is a police officer over in Rock Falls,” he said. “A powerful one.” “Not always the most pacifistic bunch,” I said. I paused momentarily. “I haven’t caught your name, by the way, sir,” I said. “Jordan-Jordan Caruso,” he said. “Well, Mr. Caruso,” I said, “as I mentioned upon your arrival, I am working on a few important things at the moment, and I--” “I wouldn’t have come to you unless I was desperate,” he interjected. “It’s not the violence. He’s making her do all kinds of stuff-stuff she doesn’t want to do.” I raised my eyebrows to him and waited, silently insisting that he get to his point. “He’s running an entire drug and weapons operation from their home. He makes her package drugs-dangerous drugs-and store weapons in her closet. And when she doesn’t do what he says, he beats her.” As the man spoke, I jotted notes on my yellow legal pad, but soon his emotions consumed him and forced him to stop. “I don’t know what to do,” he said. “She’s scared. And I’m scared for her.” “Very good,” I said plainly, and I slid my notepad over to him. “Please write your phone number here,” and he did. “I’ll be in touch,” I said. “So you will help?” he asked hopefully. “Perhaps,” I said as I began to re-organize my papers around the table. “I am quite busy, as you can imagine. There is no shortage of crime and no shortage of worried family members requesting my assistance.” I continued to organize my papers and write notes while the man remained seated. Finally, I looked up at him and nodded politely, indicating that our meeting had concluded. He collected his things, stood up slowly, and left the cafe. As the door closed behind him, I hurriedly gathered my papers, stuffed them inside my briefcase, and finished the remainder of my coffee. I slowly approached the door and watched as the man walked briskly down the sidewalk. Lee Ivers dead? I thought to myself as I watched the man. I had spent the better part of the last decade hunting people, and I suddenly felt-for the first time but not the last-that forces were conspiring to hunt me . I carefully followed the man as he paced down the sidewalk. When he reached a car parked on the street, he looked around cautiously and entered its passenger side before the car quickly sped away. A week passed before I called the number that the man had left on my legal pad. A woman answered. “Good morning,” I said. “I was hoping to speak with Mr. Caruso.” “I’m not sure if anyone is home at the moment,” she said. “Do you mean Jordan or Mario Caruso?” “Busy men, I assume,” I said. “I’m looking for Jordan. We spoke a few days ago and I was hoping to speak with him again about something important. Would you mind leaving a message for him?” “Of course,” she said. “Friday, April 17,” I said. “9 a.m. I will be at the cafe.” She began to speak, but I hung up before she could get a question out. I immediately phoned my wife, Logan. She ran a florist shop in town by day, but she spent considerable time and effort assisting me with my cases, and without her, very few of them would have ever been finished. Whatever Watson was to Holmes, or Goodwin to Wolfe, she was that and more. While I possessed a keen ability to read people and situations, Logan Leslie-who used her maiden name, Logan Moore, for the sake of precious anonymity-was as stealthy as a fox and as witty as a coyote. “Moore Flowers,” she answered. “Friday morning,” I said. “9 o’clock.” “Where?” she asked. “Cafe. Black car,” I said. She remained quiet. We kept things intentionally short at all times, but she could sense there was something more. “Our guy might be back,” I said finally. “ The guy?” she asked cautiously. “The same,” I said. “Tread lightly,” and then I hung up. On the morning of April 17, I sat in the booth at the cafe, drinking coffee and scribbling notes, as I waited for the man to arrive for our meeting. At 10 o'clock, he entered the cafe and slipped into my booth once again. “Good morning, Mr. Leslie,” he said politely. “I considered our conversation from last week,” I said. He was shocked by the abruptness but looked delighted when he registered what I had said. “Normally, I wouldn’t get involved with such a case,” I said. “I do not know of you, for starters, and I don’t do business with folks I do not know. Secondly, police department scandals are particularly delicate circumstances.” He nodded. “The juice is often not worth the squeeze, as you might imagine,” I said. “Moreover, I prefer to maintain good relations with the enforcers of the law, even when they do not thoroughly enforce it upon themselves.” He nodded again. “However, you tell me that Mr. Lee Ivers referred you to me,” I said. “He did.” “I guess you are aware, then, that Mr. Ivers and I worked together several years ago.” “I do. He had many great things to say about you and your work.” “You claim that Mr. Ivers has died, yet I do not recall hearing of his passing.” Disappointment overcame the man’s face. “You didn’t know that he passed?” he said softly. “I did not,” I said, “which surprises me, as it is my job to stay abreast of such news.” “I’m so sorry you did not know, Mr. Leslie,” he said. “Unfortunate,” I said. “He was an excellent businessman.” “He was,” the man said. “He taught me a lot.” As we silently reflected on Lee’s passing, the waitress stopped at our table. She was holding a coffee pot and carefully refilled my cup. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked the man. “No, thank you,” he said. “Thank you, ma’am,” I said as I admired her outfit. “One sugar, correct?” she asked me as she laid down a single sugar packet on the table. “Right,” I said. She smiled and nodded her head before continuing down the aisle. “So, Mr. Caruso,” I said, “would you mind filling me in on what you have in mind concerning your brother-in-law’s enterprise? It seems that you have all the information you need to uncover his unlawful activity. Why do you need me?” “Well,” he said, “Lee told me about your connections to law enforcement. I was hoping that you could compile some information on what he is doing and report it properly-somewhere higher than the local police-that way it can be handled legally. “I see.” “My sister told me about a warehouse where everything is stored-drugs, money, guns-everything.” “There doesn’t seem to be much need for an investigation then,” I said dismissively, “which is, of course, my job. You know where everything is-go burn it down. Or, better yet, take your sister and leave town.” He looked down at the table again. “I’m scared,” he said. “I’m scared my sister will get hurt if anything happens. I know he can find us.” Again, I slid my yellow legal pad over to him. “Write down the address,” I said. He did, and he slid the notepad back over to me. “Mario is going out of town on Tuesday morning,” he said. “I can drive you there Tuesday night and you can see the operation.” “I’ll meet you there,” I said. “10 p.m.” “Thank you, Mr. Leslie,” he said, “thank you so much.” I was already reading over my papers and making notes as he said this, and this time he understood that our meeting had concluded. He stood up and left the cafe. As he exited, I looked over at the waitress, who was removing her apron and letting her hair down. When I arrived at the address the man gave me, I found an old warehouse, with a black car parked on the side of it. I entered cautiously and was greeted by Mr. Caruso, who was sitting in a chair next to a woman holding a large package. “Mr. Leslie,” he said pleasantly, “thank you for coming.” “Considering the circumstance you claim to find yourself in, you do not appear to be a man who is nervous,” I said. “Why should I be nervous?” he asked. “Occupying a dangerous man’s domain,” I said, “does not strike me as a calming task, especially when it risks your sister’s health.” “This?” he asked as he put his hand on the woman’s thigh. “This is not my sister, Mr. Leslie. This is my partner, Marta.” “Shocking turn of events,” I said lamely. “And I assume,” he said dramatically, “that you know who this is?” Lee Ivers stepped out from behind a metal beam. “Surprise,” he said. “Not really,” I said. “A relatively lame attempt at one, rather.” He laughed grossly. “And what now,” I asked directly. “Straight to business, huh?” Lee said, smiling. “You know, I’m surprised we got you here so easily.” “I got myself here, Lee. Don’t flatter yourself.” “Well,” he said, “in any case, a rather simple ultimatum is what we propose to you.” “I never particularly fancied ultimatums,” I said. “Well, Mick,” he said, “we can certainly make your decision for you if you prefer it that way.” “Whatever options you think you have for me,” I said, “I can assure you that I have more.” “Perhaps,” Lee said, “we just kill you then, and leave you none?” I chuckled. “If it were that easy,” I said, “I suspect it would have been done a long time ago. We both know that people have tried before. I believe you were even one of those people at one time. Peculiar, isn’t it?” Lee Ivers took a couple of slow steps toward me, and Jordan Caruso slowly stood up from his chair. “I believe I was,” he said as he approached me. “And I have waited to see you again for a long, long time.” “I’m sorry for your mistake,” I said. Lee laughed quietly to himself and reached a hand behind his back. Before it retrieved its intended item, a loud shot rang out, and Lee collapsed to the ground. Jordan Caruso reached for his weapon, but I had my pistol trained on him before he could retrieve it. “Relax,” I said calmly. “Throw the gun on the ground and put your hands in the air. Slowly.” He dropped his gun and raised his hands as he looked down at Lee Ivers’ body in shock. “How’d you do that?” he said. “Why should I not kill you,” I asked him. “It wasn’t my idea,” he said shakily. “Ah,” I said, “just following orders.” He remained silent. “I will leave you to clean this up, should you wish to,” I said. “And I assure you that I will find you again the instant I hear of any arms or drugs being distributed from your facility here. I suggest that you dissolve this operation or move it far away from here.” I released the hammer of my pistol, tucked it back into my pants, and took a few steps backward. As I turned for the door, I saw from the corner of my eye that he was reaching for his weapon on the ground but before he could retrieve it, another shot rang out and the woman screamed. As I got into my truck, Logan was already waiting inside for me. “Thank you,” I said to her as we pulled away. She looked over at me. “If anyone gets to kill you, it will be me,” she said, smiling. “Hopefully it doesn’t come that,” I said, “but I’d be honored.” In a world where anonymity is paramount, see, there is little room for enemies-particularly for ones who desperately seek the unnecessary evil of revenge. My philosophy, however-and that of your grandmother, too-is not to locate enemies and eliminate them. There is certainly no shortage of men who would consider me an enemy, and most of them live peaceful lives remaining far away from me. It is those who rear their nasty heads at us, rather than remain in the shadows, that meet fates such as these. As for the story of Lee Ivers and how I came to know him, that is for another time. M.H. Leslie


Your wedding day is supposed to be magical, romantic and the most memorable day of your life. You are excited and can’t sleep the night before. You and your bridesmaids sit up all night talking. Every bride wants it to be perfect, right? Nothing can go wrong. For my friend, things were working out perfect. The wedding date was set. We had gone together to pick out her wedding dress. Oh, it was beautiful and she couldn’t have looked more beautiful wearing it. I helped her with invitations and picking out the wedding cake. She and the groom met with the pastor at her church. No, nothing could go wrong. Then it happened. She woke up in the morning of her wedding day in pain. Not a small pain but an I want to scream pain. Her jaw was swollen and throbbing. It radiated up the side of your face to your head. The gum which had been a little sore the past few days was now throbbing. It felt as if every tooth in her head was in protest. “How can this be happening?” she cried. “I’m getting married today.” This was happening to my friend. Yes, she had an impacted wisdom tooth. “We aren’t going to panic,” her mother calmly said. “I’ll find a dentist. Everything will be fine.” She gazed at her daughter’s swollen jaw. “Everything will be fine.” Her mother found a dentist who would see her. They rushed off leaving us bridesmaids waiting in limbo. Would the wedding go on? It had too. How do you tell over a hundred guest the wedding is postponed? I called the groom to let him know. I felt he should. I then found myself calming him down. “It will be fine. I’m sure the dentist will know what to do.” A few hours passed. The bride was home wisdom tooth in place and two prescriptions; a bottle of antibiotics and another filled with pain pills. The wedding was in two hours. We began the process of getting her to the church to prepare for the big moment. We all prayed nothing would go wrong. Now to say the bride was happy would be an understatement. The pain medication made her giddy, well drunk would be a better word. She couldn’t even put on her underwear and hose. Her mother and I, the maid of honor had to do it all. I fixed her hair and applied her makeup. When we were done, she was beautiful even if her smile was a little crooked. She stood at the mirror admiring her image. “I look pretty good,” she said and staggered a bit. I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I hope she can walk,” I whispered to her mother. The wedding was a few minutes away. The wedding began. The groom his best man and groomsmen waited at the altar. The groom was nervous. Everyone could see it, but few knew there was an underlining tension he held buried inside. Although he hadn’t seen his bride, he knew the her condition. He prayed silently nothing would go wrong. He and his groomsmen watched with smiles as the bridesmaids walked up the aisle in rhythm to the music. The bridesmaids and I stepped up to the altar. The groom glanced over at me. “Is she okay?” he whispered. I gave him a nod. The wedding march began. I jumped nervously and turned to wait for the bride to enter. Family and guests turned in their seats waiting to view the bride. The air was filled with magical anticipation. On her father’s arm the lovely bride appeared. Her white veil covered her face. Her father wore a pride, but nervous smile on his. She appeared composed as they walked up the aisle together. No one would ever know she was high. No one would ever know just hours before she was in excruciating pain. The groom stepped down to meet her. I held my breath for a moment and let it out slowly when everything moved as planned. Her father gave her hand to the groom and he escorted her to stand before the pastor. “Dearly beloved we are gathered here...” All was going well. The vows began. The bride pronounced each word, each vow with preciseness and didn’t stumble once. The groom was smiling happily down at her. She looked so beautiful. Soon they would be married. Nothing could go wrong. “May I have the rings?” The pastor asked. He held up the two rings. “In ancient Rome it was believed that the vein in the fourth finger of the left hand ran directly to the heart. It became a tradition that wedding rings should be worn on this finger as a pledge of love and a life together. As all rings they are a circle. What might be the significance in this? Your lives together seem to go out into the future in a straight line. In the end that line meets at home and in the heart. These rings represent your journey in life together.” He handed the rings to the groom and bride. The tension grew for everyone who knew her condition. Would she drop the ring or say something wrong? She placed the groom’s ring on his finger and repeated, “I give you this ring as a token and pledge of our constant faith and abiding love.” She placed it on his finger. I think you could hear the sighs of relief. The groom held out her ring and waited for her to hold out her hand. Then it happened. Her drugged state of mind took everyone by surprise. Instead of holding out her left hand for the ring, she presented the groom with her right. He gazed at it for a moment and whispered. “Give me your left hand.” She gave him a confused look and jabbed her right hand at him. “Left hand.” She shook her right hand at him giving him an angry stare and blurted out for all to hear, “Put the ring on Jay.” Not even the pastor could hold back his laughter.


I’ve been exploring the cosmos in this Shuttle for a while, if I had any track of time I’d say I’ve been out here years. I have seen the stars and the planets, hell I’m pretty sure I’ve seen extraterrestrial life. I’m not alone out here. It’s time for me to go back home, to see my family and my friends. I’ll publish my diary so that people can read my story and let their imagination go wild. I can see the sun, I’m getting closer and closer to home. I pass by the planets, taking pictures that I can look back on in the future. My journey has been one of great interest. As I grow closer to the Earth, my heart beats faster and faster due to the excitement of knowing the things I will recieve once I’m home. I’ll surely be known worldwide as the Man who went to the edge of the Universe and back. This trip was my best decision ever, and coming home will be even better. If I really wanted to I could’ve stayed in space until I died from lack of food, lack of water or lack of oxygen. I can only imagine the kind of letters I will recieve. I can only imagine the wealth I will have. I can only imagine how many people would treat me as if I were royalty. I will spend the rest of my life basking in glory. I will spend the rest of my life signing autographs. My life will be a life worth living. Home is so close now. I can almost feel the gravity pulling me in. Who knows, maybe the shuttle will crash land and I will die. Maybe my dreams of becoming famous are just dreams and not fact. Maybe I’ll have 5 seconds of excitement. Maybe I’ll go back to being just a regular guy. Maybe I won’t even be known. Maybe I’ve been out here so long that... nobody remembers me, or that those who do, are long gone. The possibilities either terrify me or fill me with joy. I am a man who is stuck dreaming. I am a man literally living in the past. What if instead of being given glory I’ll be outcasted; someone who has been in space as long as I have may not even be considered human. There’s only one thing I know for sure, and that is that I’m coming home. I hope I’ll be given some sort of award. If I do return to no prize then my entire journey will be in vain. Perhaps my life has no good ending. Perhaps the happy ending I’ve always wanted never existed. Perhaps my very birth was a mistake. What if me existing has ruined the flow of existence, and that my mere presence disrupts the fabric of life. If I were to die, would anyone even know I ever existed? What if I’ve been building a legacy that will never be remembered? God, this journey has really made me realise how insignificant we all are. There’s no point doing anything when you can do nothing. Perhaps we are in a simulation, and nothing that we do will ever matter. Of course there is some worth to living, maybe it’s the constant pursuit of knowing the meaning of life? Maybe at the end of the day we are all something. Something that can change the world, but chooses not to. Well I suppose you’ve had enough of my rambling. I’m coming home, and I’m coming home now. I’m closer to the moon now, and soon I’ll be back home. I pass by the moon only to notice a slight problem... The Earth is not here.


She dragged a finger through the sand again, watching the valleys she was creating intersect then crumble. “Did you hear me, Sarah? I said, ‘Will you marry me?’” Jake swallowed and looked around, all of their friends were starting to wander off sensing the awkward tension and wanting to distance themselves. Sam was shaking his head, a silent attempt to deter Jake from further embarrassing himself. Sarah still didn’t respond and began poking holes in the sandy highways she had traced around her legs. Jake snatched her hand and she finally looked him in the eye. “I don’t want to get married.” Jake could feel his mouth gaping open like a fish and snapped it closed. The last of their friends peeled away, letting the couple have a moment of privacy. “Why, Sarah? I thought you loved me?” She just shrugged, rolling the comment off her shoulders as if he wasn’t falling apart in front of her. Jake dropped her hand and stood up. She turned back to the sand, not in embarrassment or sadness, but in genuine disinterest. He had the sudden urge to kick sand in her face, to make her hurt the way he was hurting, but he didn’t. Instead Jake stomped away, feeling his face burn and to his shame tears stinging his eyes. He really thought she would say yes. He had asked all of their friends to come watch him propose. Sure, he didn’t have a real ring yet, but he didn’t think she cared about that kind of thing. He thought she would find the twisted ring of grass and flowers romantic. He crumpled the makeshift ring in his hand before throwing it on the ground. He had put himself out there, heart full of love, certain she felt the same. It was fast, but they had been together every day for months and had known each other since first grade. They worked side by side and sometimes Sarah would hold his hand at lunch so everyone knew they were together. Just last week Sam had announced to everyone that Jake and Sarah should get married. Jake could tell it embarrassed Sarah, but she hadn’t disagreed. How could he have misread everything so poorly? No, he couldn’t be this wrong. He knew they were in love. He had never been in love before, but it wasn’t something you just made up for fun. It wasn’t make-believe. Jake wiped his eyes and turned back to beg Sarah to reconsider, to remember all the good times. He wanted to remind her of that moment she was moved to a desk near his, when they first began spending their free time together, when they first said ‘I love you’. But Sarah was gone. The sand was pockmarked from her fidgeting and he thought he could see her hair ribbon half-buried where she had been sitting, apathetic to his declaration while he took a leap of faith, laying his heart bare. Jake whirled around, looking for Sarah in the sea of faces. He recognized everyone there, but couldn’t find his Sarah until... There she was, her pink cotton candy dress still dusted with sand, her hand firmly planted in Sam’s. He was smiling down at her as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Jake fell to his knees, tears streaming freely now. When Jake had invited him to witness his shame had Sam known? Had they already been secretly together behind Jake’s back, or was Sam taking advantage of the moment? Jake’s hands curled in the sand and he began throwing fistfuls in his anger, his sadness. His other friends glanced over from where they were now walking in groups, gossiping about him and Sarah. He hated them all, he hated Sam, hated Sarah. He marveled out how quickly his love shifted into something ugly full of rage. He didn’t know what to do with all of these emotions bubbling up, overwhelming his rational thoughts. Jake kept crying and flinging sand at the world until he finally began to tire. He didn’t notice when Kelly sat next to him, delicately arranging her rainbow skirt around her legs, waiting for him to calm down enough to see her. Jake took a few more sobbing gasps before realizing he wasn’t alone. “That wasn’t very kind of Sarah.” Jake laughed at the obvious statement but nodded his agreement. “I really thought she would say yes. I thought she loved me.” Kelly smiled sweetly at him and gently took one of his hands in hers. She uncurled his fingers and carefully wiped away the sand before linking her fingers with his. “I’ll marry you, Jake.” Jake looked at her in shock and saw she had slid the crumpled ring of grass onto her finger. Kelly had been waiting for Jake to notice her for over a year. She had watched him and Sarah get together, had watched them laugh and hug while she sat in silent agony. Kelly had been Jake’s friend since kindergarten and had loved him ever since he shared his goldfish crackers with her. He had been the only one to help her when she fell in the hallway, dropping her crayons and crying in embarrassment. He had knelt next to her and offered comfort, just as she now sat comforting him. She pulled him up to his feet and hugged him tightly, not caring what people might say. Sarah had hurt him and already moved on to Sam, Jake deserved to be happy too. She knew he might not feel the same way. Kelly knew she might feel the same rejection Jake had just experienced, but it was worth the risk. She held her breath and stepped back, watching Jake’s face transition from confusion and into something close to joy. He nodded with a smile and reached out to link their fingers again. The bell rang and just like that, Jake’s heart began to heal. He felt lighter as he and Kelly walked hand in hand out of the sandbox and back toward the classroom. After all, the heart of a second-grader is a resilient thing.


“How long has it been since you’ve seen Chloe?” Irene’s mother asked as she bent over to smell her newly cooked eggs. Irene jumped, startled. She’d never been very good at preparing anything, so she’d walked into the kitchen planning on hauling the cereal and milk out of the cupboard and calling it a day. But her mother had gotten there first. Her mother, a natural early bird for most of her life until... Well, until they lost dad. Irene smiled, this might be a sign that her mother’s depression was finally clearing. At the very least, it might turn out to be a good day for her. “Five years,” Irene said. She vividly remembered the last time she’d seen her best friend at the end of the summer after their high school graduation. Chloe would soon be leaving their small town in New Jersey for New York City to follow her dream of starring in musicals and Irene was headed to Italy a few weeks later to study graphic design. They met at a coffee shop, the very same coffee shop they were due to meet this afternoon, five years later. “It is so great that you two have stayed in touch all these years. Tere says she doesn’t talk to any of her old friends anymore. Too bad, such nice girls.” Irene frowned. She wouldn’t call her older sister’s previous friends nice, exactly. Smarmy up front and bitchy behind your back, yes. Nice? Definitely not. In fact, Irene knew Tere wouldn’t call them friends either. They were just a group of girls she’d hung out with in school because no one else would take her. Actually, it was high time her shy and introverted sister left them all behind her. Most had married or gotten engaged in the ten years since they’d graduated high school, and were on a fast-track to becoming their equally bitchy mothers. But what Irene and Chloe had was real. Irene knew that. Somehow, in the endless turmoil of teenagerhood, she’d been lucky to find someone she genuinely liked and who genuinely liked her back. They’d met as shy, quirky first graders who got grounded for colouring outside the lines and had since shared more than a decade’s worth of companionship. Irene’s phone buzzed. looking forward to this afternoon!!!! :) Chloe texted. Four exclamation points? Irene thought, amused. Oh dear. Her phone turned itself off and she found herself immediately turning it back on. The clock read 8:30 am. Five hours to go still. Me too , she wrote, we haven’t talked in so long, you have to tell me everything. They’d texted each other incessantly during the first few months of college, Chloe had suggested they Skype, but their respective busy lives kept getting in the way. Irene was in Florence visiting distant relatives who were dead set on showing her every inch of the city, Chloe had an audition for a short film, Irene had work, Chloe had pilates class. Eventually, what had been a tumultuous river of texts and gifs became the odd “How are you doing?” and an annual birthday call. Chloe and Irene had promised to visit each other the following summer, but this plan didn’t pan out either. Chloe was always saying she was too busy and Irene soon gave up asking. And then there was the fact that Europe beckoned, so she spent her summer backpacking with some new friends. Time passed. Irene graduated and got a job at a magazine. What exactly was going on in Chloe’s life was a total mystery to her, as she eventually stopped posting about life as a newbie actress on her Facebook and her transfer to Instagram was cut short after a single post. Then Irene’s dad died and her mother froze inside her grief. By then, Tere was married with two kids and living in Los Angeles, so caring for their mother fell to Irene. Coming home wasn’t the plan for Irene. It was the furthest from the plan Irene had ever been. And she didn’t know what to do next. It had been her and Chloe’s dream to leave their small, boring New Jersey town for bigger things. Irene found that despite the situation she now found herself in, she had had the many adventures she’d so longed for. It had been cut short, but she’d found success in freelancing and planned on moving elsewhere once her mother’s condition improved. Question was, what had life dealt Chloe? *** Life had clearly not dealt Chloe punctuality. It was 2:30 pm. She was already an hour late. “Would you like to order something else while you wait? A coffee?” a waiter inquired of Irene. Irene pushed her plate (which had previously held a panini), casually leafed through the menu and didn’t see much that appealed to her. Espressos put her on edge, she remembered this particular place’s americanos as too watery, and several years in Italy had ingrained in her that cappuccinos are more of a morning drink and never consumed after a meal. “I’ll have a latte,” she told the waiter. “Irene!” someone yelled, and Irene turned to see Chloe ram through the door in plaid pants and a stylish adobe blazer worn over a white button down shirt. Her curly blonde hair was tied up into a hurried ponytail. It appeared that her bright, bold colours and vintage-only phase was over, and she looked tired. “Sorry I’m late, dad had a meeting with a client that went longer than expected and he needed my help taking notes,” she whispered in Irene’s ear, breathless, as she hugged her. “Wait, you work at the law firm now?” Irene asked, shocked. She couldn’t for the life of her, imagine her lively friend in such a dull profession, yet here she was. “I do this and that. Mostly just secretary work,” Chloe shrugged as she sat down, “Surprising, isn’t it?” No shit . Irene sat back in astonishment as the waiter took Chloe’s order. Acting had always been Chloe’s dream and five years ago, she’d announced to Irene that she’d gladly waitress while her career panned out if that’s what it took. She swore that she would rather die than work at her father’s lame office. “Even more surprising is that I’m actually enjoying it. Maybe more than acting,” Chloe continued, “Anyways, what about you? What have you been up to?” “Graphic design, freelance mostly. I moved back two years ago.” “That sounds fun. You were always a creative sort of person. And it’s going well?” “Yeah. I mean, it’s not the best-paying or stablest job but I love doing it. Was your acting not working out?” The waiter brought Chloe’s order and she shoveled some salad into her mouth. Gulping it down, she shook her head. “It was, actually. Finally.” Irene took a sip from her latte, and instantly regretted it. The coffee was much sweeter than she remembered. “Everything I’d ever dreamt about until then was coming true,” Chloe said, “But then I realized I didn’t like it very much at all. The toxicity of the industry, the staring, the way my success seemed inevitably tied to my looks. And New York City’s kind of awful. I needed to get out.” “So you came back here?” “Home’s home.” “But you hated it here,” Irene blurted out, dismayed. She couldn’t believe Chloe had come back willingly to the town that was tied to so many terrible memories, to so much bullying she’d experienced for her large bug eyes and tall, muscular frame before they found each other. Chloe’s eyes narrowed, “More like strongly disliked. I just needed to see the world beyond, you know? I don’t regret New York City, but I’m simply not a big city person. Besides, Harry wants us to settle down here after the wedding. He never knew his grandparents and when we have kids we want them to have a supportive network, so- ” Irene stopped listening. Her head hurt, and she felt her friend slipping farther and farther with every sentence that passed between them. Chloe was not only planning on living the same life as her parents, but she was also marrying a local? And not just any local, if Irene’s instincts were correct. “Harry. The Harry Dodie?” That filthy rich manchild who smoked pot and was an asshole to every girl in their class, yet always managed to have some busty blonde head over heels in love with him? Irene had to admit that he was conventionally good-looking, but come on! Chloe sighed, “I know right? But yet, that Harry Dodie grew up. We all did. ” After a thoughtful pause, she continued, “Anyways, enough about me. Anyone special in your life?” Irene cleared her throat, “How would teen Chloe feel about grown-up Chloe now, do you think?” “Mortified.” They laughed. For the first time since she’d walked into the café, Irene thought she caught a momentary glimpse of the Chloe she knew, or thought she knew. “I don’t believe it myself and I still ask myself if I’m not making a huge mistake, but I actually feel good about it. What about you? You were always the rebellious one, always plotting her next adventure , so how would teen Irene feel?” “Mortified too. She’d tell me to pack up and leave. But I can’t. Not yet.” “Your mother?” Irene nodded. Chloe’s phone chimed but she ignored it and planted her elbows on the table and looked straight at Irene, “Adulthood is strange, isn’t it?” she mused. Irene sat back. “When you’re a teen, you think you’ve got it all figured out. Or at least, the general direction of where you are headed.” Chloe’s phone now rang, “It’s my dad. I’ve got to head back to the office.” “Let’s meet some other time, okay?” “Of course.” Irene thought about what Chloe had said as she drank the remnants of her very cold latte. She’d always been the weird kid and had once regarded staying in her tiny town as a death sentence, the very worst fate that could befall her and her restless creativity. But she’d grown up, and for better and for worse, she’d changed. In their own way, neither of them had known for sure where their lives would take them. What was for sure, though, was that it had taken them somewhere. They’d changed. They weren’t teen Chloe and Irene anymore, best friends forever. They were strangers again in a sense. And that was okay. They were both home again for the foreseeable future, there would be plenty of time to get reacquainted.


* This story mostly occurs a month before this story and shares the main characters.* * This story occurs several decades before this story and shares none of the characters.* * This story mostly occurs a few days before this story and shares the main characters* *None of the stories to be read to understand this story, but they provide context.* The line starts to tighten; Tim has his first catch of the day. He starts to reel in the fish with a smile on his face. The fish fights back. It tries to swim away from the boat pulling the line with it. Tim moves the line with the fish to avoid snapping the line. The fish must be a big one like a catfish. His family would be so proud if he brought home a catfish. After a long battle, he finally has his catch, and it is a smallmouth bass. Tim sighs as he sets the meager fish down. How can he ever hope to join a fishing crew if he can only catch small fish. Patience is widely stated to be the best way to catch a fish, but Tim is sure there must be other aspects to the craft. Tim sits and daydreams of catching the largest fish in the ocean and providing food for his family. The sun is descending through the sky, and Tim rows back to shore. He places the boat in its spot on the docks, and Isaac, the dockmaster, takes care of ensuring that it is protected. Tim takes his fish into his village. He passes by several fishing and hunting parties with larger catches of meat. Tim conceals his smallmouth bass with shame as he walks up to the meat storage center. "Hey, Tim, how's it going?" Velma says. The smell of food is enough to bring a smile to anyone's face which is why Velma has a reputation for being the most cheerful woman in town. Her joy is powerful enough to cause the corners of Tim's mouth to rise. "I brought you this?" Tim looks down as he places his sorry excuse for a catch on the table. Velma smiled as she picked it up. "Awesome," she set it behind the counter and gave him five dollars, "I am sure your family will appreciate it." "Okay," Tim ran out of the meat storage center. He couldn't help but feel looked down upon by her. He runs back to his house and finds his mom crying at the table. "Mom?" Tim asks as he walks towards her. She looks at him with fear in her eyes. "I hoped you would come back later," she says, "Tim, please sit down." She brings him over to the couch and sits next to him. She rubs his face before embracing him in tears. Tim hugs his mom awkwardly. "Tim, at the start of the Mieran War, some of the more paranoid villagers hid landmines surrounding the village. It was a huge controversy that happened long before you were born. After weeks of fighting, we finally got them to remove the mines," her lips shake as she continues, "We thought they removed all of them." The wind shakes the car as Tim drives through the storm with his mom and neighbors in the backseat. Without access to the proper monitoring equipment, they have no idea that they are in the middle of a hurricane that has just made landfall. They are well-aware of the branches that the wind is using to strike the windows. They are also aware that their village has been destroyed, and without access to any emergency organizations, they have no chance of rebuilding it. A large branch hits the front window causing the car to briefly swerve. Tim concentrates on the road. He feels his fathers medallion on his chest. He has to save his family. They will survive. He hears a window crack behind him. "What the hell, man?" Stephen walks to the edge of the shore. Tim is floating in the middle of a lake, "We have been looking everywhere for you." "Shh, I have become one with the water," Tim says. "That lake could be contaminated or something," Stephen says. "Then, I will truly become one with the water," Tim says. He hears a splash from the shoreline. "Marla!" Stephen says. "Come on. The water is fine. We deserve it," Marla says. "No thanks. I will stand watch," Stephen says. Tim and Marla splash in the lake. Stephen sits on the edge watching. "Hey Stephen, if you aren't going to join, be the judge of our contest to see who can hold our breath longer," Marla says. "Whatever," Stephen shakes his head. Tim and Marla go underwater. Tim was raised in the water. He knows that he can beat her. He closes his eyes and imagines himself in the air. He feels the water shift when Marla emerges. Tim comes out to mock her, but he feels something missing. "Guys, I lost it," Tim starts to panic. He dives back into the water to look for it. "Uhhh, what is going on?" Marla guards her face from the splash as Tim emerges. "I need to find my medallion," Tim goes back into the water. He tries to open his eyes to look for the medallion, but the murky water impedes his vision. He panics when he comes up. He needs his medallion. He feels a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, it is okay. I got it," Stephen holds Tim's medallion in his other hand. Tim grabs the medallion and hugs Stephen. "Thank you," Tim says. "No problem, now let's get out of the water so you don't lose that," Stephen pats Tim on the back. The three of them move out of the lake. Tim holds the medallion and stares at it. It is all he has left of his community. He has to protect it.


“Cut the crap George, and stop making excuses for yourself. You leave first thing in the morning for work. You make it back for dinner maybe once every week, and even then, your eyes are glued to your computer the entire meal. On the weekends I’m the one that takes our daughter to her after school classes. Dance, art, piano. Have you been to ANY of her recitals?” I take a moment to catch my breath after finishing my rant. George shakes his head, “I’m not making excuses Alice. Someone has to put a roof under our heads and food on our plates. My job requires me to be 100 percent committed and that’s simply what I do. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to spend that much time with Cassie, but it simply isn’t possible. I just don’t have that spare time.” I run my hands through my hair in frustration, “God damn it, George. Then MAKE time. Cancel a few meetings, take a day off. I don’t know! Do something so that you can actually spend some time with your family!” my voice raises an octave as I speak. George throws his hands in the air. I’ve pissed him off too. “I’d love to, Alice, but like I said, someone needs to make the money, and you don’t have a job.” he points out coldly. “Yeah, I don’t have a job!” I laugh sardonically, “And you want to know why. It’s because I’ve decided to dedicate my time and energy to raising our daughter!” George stares at me blankly. “Honestly, I wouldn’t even consider her your daughter considering how much time you’ve spent with her.” I grab my wallet from the kitchen counter, open it forcefully, and throw the debit card in it on the dining table. “You think I can’t find a job? You think I can’t make money. Well, let me tell you something. I earned all the money in that debit card through the job that I quit five years ago so that I could focus my attention on raising our daughter! I made that sacrifice! And now you're using my unemployment as an excuse for your lack of time!” The room seems to shake as my voice bounces off the walls. The air feels tense, and it feels as if the world would collapse at any moment, burying us deep under the ground. My eyes get watery, and I turn away from him, wrapping my arms around my body in a futile attempt to comfort myself. No, I’m not going to cry. Not in front of him. “You promised me.” I whisper, “You promised me this wouldn’t happen. It’s not fair, especially for her.” My eyes glance over to the corner of the living room across from us, and I see Cassie, our five year old daughter, crouched in a corner, arms wrapped around her knees, head down, curled in a small ball. George’s gaze follows mine, and his expression softens, the anger draining from his face. “It’s not fair to her. I know it.” I pause and turn to look at him, “And I thought you would know too.” *** “You’re a real asshole, you know that?” my mother screams at my father who sits on the couch lazily. His feet are propped up on the living room table, and he hasn’t taken off his shoes. My mother hates that. He’s still wearing his clothes from work too. A black slim fit suit with a white dress shirt underneath. He hasn’t bothered to take off his tie, and his clothes still reek of the ghastly smell from the cigarette he probably smoked with a “business partner” before coming home. My father had left his briefcase on the ground, and the papers in it sprawled all over the ground. “I’ve told you so many times to take your shoes off when you come into the house.” my mother picks at his clothes, “And these clothes! God, the smell! Go take a shower and get yourself cleaned for once! Alice is ten years old. I don’t want her breathing in all those chemicals!” My father doesn’t budge. “I’ve had a long day at work, Melissa. Can you give me a break and just let me relax for a second, god damn it!” he yells back at her. I cover my ears, bracing myself for the screaming that I know will only escalate from here. My mother’s face turns bright red like the tomatoes she’s cutting up for supper. She unties her cooking apron and throws it on the ground aggressively. “You’ve had a long day? Are you kidding me?” she laughs in disbelief, “You see this house? What’s different about it from last night?” My father doesn’t answer. His eyes are glued to his phone, ears closed, shutting out the furious voice of my mother. “I’ll tell you what’s different. It’s clean, unlike after you and your business friends decided to have a meeting at our house.” she points to the dining table, “Last night you and your “friends” stayed up till 2 in the morning discussing your “business”. You were so loud, I had to put earmuffs over her ears to get her to fall asleep with all the noise. I got maybe three hours of sleep, and then, I had to send our daughter to school. When I came home, I found the dining table a complete mess, and I had to clean after full grown men!” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” my father says simply, eyes still stuck on his phone. “Your papers, documents, notes, were scattered everywhere, and I, out of the kindness of my heart, decided to help you organize every single one of them. Do I get so much as a thank you? No. ” my mother inhales deeply, “And I haven’t even mentioned the beer bottles you and your “friends” were drinking while you were ''working”.” Then, my father jumps up from his seat and begins yelling too, “Don’t use that derisive voice with me, Melissa. I get the work done and earn the money. I keep a roof above our heads and food on our plates!” I shudder. When my father raises his voice, it means things will only get worse from there. Shaking in fear, I creep out the living room and slip out the back door, tears streaming down my cheeks as my parents continue to vociferate in the house. Running down the street, I make my way to George’s house two or three blocks away from mine. Once I climbed the steps and reached the front porch of his house. I pause to catch my breath and wipe my eyes of the tears that the wind had dried for me. Then, I brush my hair to the sides of my face, tucking it all behind my ears. Calming myself the best I can, I ring the doorbell and wait. I don’t have to wait long because the next second I hear the trampling of steps racing down the stairs and a click of a lock from the other side of the door. It swings open wide, and I come face to face with George. He seems even more out of breath than me, probably from all that running he did to get to the front door. His curly ivory black hair is in tangles and wet from a shower. His large hazel brown eyes stare at me in disbelief. He’s wearing black and white stormtrooper pajamas, and a bright green toothbrush is clenched between his teeth. Geroge stares at me for a moment more, then grabs my arm and pulls me into his house, shutting the door tight behind him. “Alice! What’s wrong? Why are you here?” He props the toothbrush out of his mouth and glances up at the large antique grandfather clock that sits by the stairwell. “It’s bedtime. I didn’t think we’d scheduled a sleepover. Did we?” I shake my head, “No. It’s my parents. They’re fighting...again.” my voice is a soft whisper, an echo compared to George. My entire body trembles as I recall my parents' yells ringing in my ears. George drops his toothbrush on the ground and pulls me into a hug. His fuzzy pajamas are soft on my skin, and he smells like cotton candy flavor shampoo. “I’m sorry, Alice. It must be really scary.” he says. I hug him back tight as I hear the footsteps of his parents approaching us. George must notice too because he releases me, turning towards his mother who has her hands on her hips in an interrogative manner. “Now, George” she says, “I don’t remember you and Alice scheduling a sleepover for tonight. Did you make plans without telling me, dear?” Then, she notices my puffy eyes which are beat red from crying, and her questioning attitude quickly shifts. She kneels down to look at me and runs her hands through my hair. Her eyebrows crinkle together in worry, “Alice? Are you alright sweetheart?” she asks. “It’s my parents, Mrs.Williams” I whisper to her, “They’re fighting, yelling, screaming.” I cover my ears as if to block out the sounds. Mrs.Williams nods and places my hands in her, “Let me give your mother a call and let her know you’re safe. I’m sure she’ll be alright with you staying here tonight. How does that sound?” “Thank you.” is all I have the strength to say. Mrs.Williams checks the time on the grandfather clock, “Well, you two have school tomorrow, so you’d better be going to sleep now. George, why don’t you have Alice sleep on the bottom bunk of your bed. I believe the sheets there are clean.” With that said, George and I head up the stairs to his bedroom where he finishes brushing his teeth. After calling my mom, Mrs.Williams comes to us and hands me a clean set of pajamas which have pink unicorns on them and smell like strawberries. “You left these at our house last time you slept over.” she says, “I figured you could use them tonight. I washed them the other day.” I nod obediently, thank her, and take the clothes into the bathroom to change. Once I’ve slipped them on, I unwrap the plastic from the hotel style toothbrush and brush my teeth. George knocks on the door, “Alice, are you done? I think we should go to sleep. It’s kinda late.” “Okay.” I respond, and we both find our beds, him, climbing up the ladder to his, and me, crawling beneath to the bottom bunk. As I pull the soft comfy blanket over me, I hear George murmur something quietly. “What did you say?” I ask “I said that I promise you that we will never fight like your parents do. We’ll be friends forever. No fighting. No yelling. None of that.” he says confidently, his voice no longer a vague whisper. I smile, “Are you sure, George? I don’t even think not fighting is possible.” “Nope. It is. I promise that when we grow up I will never fight with you, ever.” “I promise too.” I respond as my eyelids grow heavy, and I drift into sleep. *** “We promised, George. We promised each other.” I repeat quietly. George walks towards me and pulls me into a hug just like he had so many years before. “I’m sorry, Alice.” he whispers, “I didn’t mean to break our promise.” I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder, wrapping my arms around his waist. Tears flood down my cheeks as I feel the warmth of his skin on mine. Over his shoulder, I see our daughter, Cassie, crawling out of the corner which she had been hiding in. “Is it over, Mommy. Are you and Daddy not mad at eachother anymore?” She tugs the hem of my shirt and looks from me, to George, then back to me. “It’s over, Cassie. Mommy and Daddy are sorry. It won’t happen again.” George answers for me. He scoops her up into his arms and plants a gentle kiss on her cheeks. “And Daddy’s sorry. I promise I’ll spend more time with you sweetheart. It’s my fault.” I look at him, and he gazes at me. An ineffable message passed between us. “A promise is a promise. Let’s work together to keep it.” George says as he pulls us all into a tight hug.


(Brief mentions of drugs and sex) It is dark and it has been for some time. I don’t know how long I have been in this location. I have to say though; it is quite comfortable, being between two soft pieces of fabric. I’m okay being here. I am not being man handled like I was before. Although, I do miss my friends. I had plenty of friends before someone placed me here. I had all kinds of friends. There were usually a few of me, but Abraham Lincoln and George Washington were always there and occasionally I would see Ulysses S. Grant and Benjamin Franklin. I feel a human hand around my body. What is this? Am I being removed from my comfortable spot? Is this daylight I am seeing? I can’t remember the last time I saw daylight. “Look at what I just found in my pocket. It’s 20 bucks.” A woman’s voice says. Followed by a man’s voice saying, “drinks are on you tonight.” And I know I will no longer be in my comfortable spot. Someone will place me in a wallet and be rejoined by friends. “Hello, friends,” I say. “Hello,” they all say back. Even though I have never met these particular friends, I already know them. It’s mostly George Washington but there is a Lincoln here too. I am the sole Andrew Jackson. As we travel together, we discuss our travels. Most George Washingtons have similar stories, traveling with other George Washingtons and being exchanged for petty things like a bag of chips, a can of soda, and packs of gum and then given as change. Many have spent their time in bodegas, supermarkets, and the occasional sweaty strip club but one of the George Washingtons in this wallet has been to a Macy's which the other George Washingtons are all keen to hear about. I have been to Macy's as well Nordstroms and Bloomingdales, so I am not that impressed by George Washinton’s story. I have also been to a ski resort and a casino in Las Vegas. Those were my most exciting trips, but I too have seen plenty of bodegas and supermarkets. I try to sound interested in these stories but they are all the same. “Two Budweisers please,” the woman’s voice says as I am yanked away from my friends. I am happy I will now find new friends. Hopefully, these new friends will have more exciting tales to tell. I usually travel with other Andrew Jackson’s and hope to be reunited with a few of those. Their tales are more interesting than George Washington or Abraham Lincoln’s tales. The tales of Benjamin Franklin are almost always interesting. They seem to see a lot of white powder, naked women, and people with questionable morals. I am placed on a hard surface for a minute or two before being handled by a rough hand and placed in a neat stack, facing the same way as other Andrew Jacksons. I am happy to see them. Once again, even though I have never met these particular friends, I already know them. We greet each other and follow with telling stories of where we have been. But as with most cash registers, we see friends come and we see them go at dramatic speed until it slows and then stops. We are all familiar with what happens when it stops. Some of us go into a large envelope, a few may go into a pocket or a wallet, some of us remain in the register. As someone takes us out and counted, we wonder who will go and who will stay. Benjamin Franklin and Ulysses S. Grant always goes away. They almost always keep George Washington and Abraham Lincoln in the cash drawer. For Andrew Jackson, it is usually a toss up. I feel myself lifted out the register and placed on the same hard surface I was before. I pray to stay. Staying means seeing more friends come and go the next day. Going means being put away, perhaps in another drawer and perhaps in an ATM. Although there is a rumor that some disappear for good. When they place George Washington and Lincoln back in the drawer, I pray it is time for me to go into the drawer. I hold my breath before being placed in the envelope with other Andrew Jacksons and a Benjamin Franklin. From here, we remain together. We travel but where we are going, no one is sure. We are likely to end up in a bank, but sometimes it is back into a wallet and sometimes a drawer. As we move from place to place, we all speculate together where we will go. Until someone pulls us out of the envelope. I take in the new surroundings, trying to speculate where I may be. A home? A store? An alleyway? But it appears we are in a bank. This is the least desirable place to be for a dollar bill. I look at the numbers on my fellow Andrew Jacksons. None of them are lower than 2018. I look at my number: 2014. I was hidden away between those two pieces of fabric for so long, who knows how old I had become. From what I know, you don’t see a bigger gap than eight numbers between the other Andrew Jacksons and I worry. What happens now? I am moved from place to place, being separated from the Andrew Jackson's I arrived with and joined with new Andrew Jacksons. Someone mixes us up and counts us and they move us again and again. Someone moves us between drawers, envelopes, hands, and trucks. And then I hear a noise I have never heard before. I hear the screams of my friends. Even though I have never met these particular friends, I already know them. And their screams are terrifying. It is not until I get closer that I understand their screams. They are being torn into small pieces. As I get closer, I scream too. Until I am torn into small pieces too. They have shredded us all. Now instead of Andrew Jacksons, there are strips of what used to be Andrew Jackson, George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Ulysses S. Grant, and Benjamin Franklin. But now, no one can tell who we used to be, we are now all worthless and are now ready to sleep after a lifetime of exchanging from one place to the next.


: Brief profanity and brief violence The K-Pop drowned out the sound of the vehicle. Even with the sunglasses, Tucker had to continually squint as the low September sun filtered through the tree limbs. The placid, predictable concrete of the city was miles behind him, replaced with the wild, untamed...whatever this was. Trees? He guessed. In between songs he caught glimpses of his father's music--quite a variety, he observed, but still not really what he liked. His phone chimed. A message from Heather. "So no hangout?" she asked. He wanted to pour all his feelings into this message, but didn't. Instead, he cleared the screen, put his phone in his lap, and continued to look out the window. It wasn't long before the car slowed and turned down a gravel driveway. They were plunged into the dense woods, and the day turned into a faux night until Tucker's eyes adjusted. He thought about sending Heather's chat reply just then, but he was out of service. He wondered if Uncle Henry had WiFi. His dad tapped him on the shoulder, then tapped his ears. Tucker reluctantly took his earbuds out and put them back in the charging case. "You excited?" Tucker shrugged. At least his dad had the decency to turn the radio off. "I feel ya." "I could have just stayed at home." "We talked about this." "I know." "You're not old enough." "Yeah, I know." "Soon though," his dad said with a smirk. He always tried to lighten the mood with these kinds of serious talks. They passed by a rusted--something. Tucker thought it looked like a robot with teeth on the bottom. Probably an abandoned project from the 1920. At this point moss had claimed it. The car finally stopped and Tucker's dad turned off the engine. Tucker's skin tingled from the absence of asphalt of the 2 hour car ride. He and his dad got out and stretched their legs. The lake was visible through the fall foliage. The air was a few degrees colder than on the road. His Great Uncle Henry--from Tucker's dad's side--was already out the door. The two men greeted each other warmly. Despite being a recent inductee into the 90's, Uncle Henry was pretty mobile, still not needing a cane or walker. His wife, Nancy, died ten years earlier after being bed-ridden for nearly three years. But Uncle Henry's appearance still mirrored that of his dad's and--annoyingly--his own. Although Tucker still didn't sport the pure white beard of his great uncle or the peppered one of his dad he was still cursed with the wide jaw and pronounced underbite. One thing he did have going for him was the sparkling eyes, that grew more jovial with age. Tucker still kept a stoic face, thinking back to a good reply to Heather. As his father and great uncle continued to catch up, he wandered around to the side of the house to take a look at skeleton of the addition. Fresh lumber was already encased in plastic sheets, and the outline of a stairway snaked around the outside of the walls. Moister was on the wood, but Tucker still smelled the fresh timber. His dad and uncle were actually discussing the project right now, Uncle Henry waving his finger toward the work progress, mentioning "vacation rental" and "before the good Lord takes me out." Okay, yeah, Tucker admitted, this would be a neat place to have a vacation. But not when your original weekend plans were to hang out with a cute girl. "Tucker," Uncle Henry beckoned. "I just baked a pie. Come on in and have some." His dad was already up the porch and inside the house. Uncle Henry looked back coyly, and said, "And I have some beer for ya," only to be met with Dad's scolding, "Henry!" Inside the two men continued to talk about life, leaving tucker to hang out by the unusually comfortable couch. A slice of pie was eventually brought to him. "Sorry, burned the crust," Uncle Henry apologized, as he did every time he cooked the pie. He swore by his late wife's cherry pie recipe, but was never able to execute on it. Tucker remained by himself, scrolling through his phone, waiting for a signal, and trying to seem like he was listening to the conversation. Eventually he grew bored after finishing the pie and trudged upstairs. The room his uncle usually set aside for him was cluttered. At first it just looked like trash, but upon closer inspection Tucker noticed the yellowed pages, the typewriter font, the faded pictures of a 20-year old Nancy, glammed up and smiling broadly at an angle toward the camera. And a revolver, just lying there. And...a detonator? After recovering from his early-stage heart attack, Tucker recalled--Uncle Henry did espionage work for the CIA in the late sixties and and into the seventies. It never really interested him much. But there was something about seeing the old work stuff, in person, that piqued his interest. "Oh, that stuff, meant to clean it up," Uncle Henry said, who had appeared beside him. "But you can stay in this room for the time being." Uncle Henry led the way to the room across the hall. "So you did some spy shit?" Tucker asked. "Watch your damn mouth." "Sorry. You were a spy?" Uncle Henry opened the door to the adjacent room. Cold air rushed out. "Yes, I thought I told you about it." Tucker shrugged. "I guess you did when I was younger." Tucker's dad called out a farewell to both him and Uncle Henry. Uncle Henry replied. Then Tucker said, "Did you ever kill anyone? Like 007?" Uncle Henry smiled. "No. I was lucky." "You ever almost die?" "Yes, one time in particular." "Can you tell me about it?" "Yes, but first, I want to get your help getting the walls up on the addition outside. I'm hoping we can finish before the sun sets." Tucker sighed and his shoulders dropped. "You got any WiFi yet?" Uncle Henry wasn't phased. "No." Tucker shrugged. He could either sit on his bed bored or help his Uncle out. "Okay, fine." Tucker grabbed his duffel bag, threw it on his bed, then donned some fall gear to combat the cold. When he ventured outside, the sun had already set behind the hill and cast an evening red onto the lake. "Over here!" Uncle Henry called, three nails hanging from his lips. Eventually the lure of the Internet-connected world wore off, and Tucker was even tempted to conclude that it was therapeutic to help his great uncle. Mostly he just held boards in place as Uncle Henry nailed them, trying not to laugh any time Uncle Henry smacked his thumb and threw a flurry of obscenities. "Don't tell your folks I said that," he would say after the pain wore off. But soon Tucker would have to squint to see what they were doing. "Well, we have a few more boards, but we can finish in the morning. Let's grab some more of that pie." Instead of sitting at the dining table, Uncle Henry brought the pie tin up to the room with the scattered paperwork. "It's alright--all this is declassified. The worst that you could do with it is get a scammer trying to buy it on eBay for free. Here, try to eat the pie over here. I don't want it to mess anything up." Now Tucker was able to take a closer look at some of the papers. Most of the writing was in either Russian or German. Some French. Uncle Henry was a busy guy. Tucker reached for a folder when Uncle Henry beat him to the punch, abruptly yanking it out of the pile and raising an eyebrow. "First," he said, opening the folder. Inside was a fuzzy black-and-white photograph of a man in a trench coat, about to cross the street. Balding except for a strong ring of hair. Sunglasses. Tucker thought of joking that they needed zoom-and-enhance in the seventies. "The most dangerous mission," Uncle Henry said, settling himself into a chair. Tucker leaned against the wall, picking up his pie. "You have to remember, my only job was intelligence. I wasn't supposed to take this guy out; Bedivere Filipov. I was supposed to find the name of his major customer." "How'd you do it?" "He was a Russian weapon's dealer post Cold War. Didn't like how the Cold War fizzled out. So I thought, 'Weapon's dealer. What if I was a weapon's supplier?' I worked closely with other Russian spies to establish a business, and feed a paper trail to make it look like I'd been around since the thirties. The ruse worked. We got our man. Filipov did it covertly, but we were able to set up an appointment. "We didn't want to risk having a wire or anything surveillance-related. Filipov was powerful and had many layers of security. I would have to go in without any protection or wire, get the info, and get out." "Were you scared?" Uncle Henry nodded. "But I had to do it. Lives were at risk. So on the date of our meeting I got through every level of security. My heart was pounding. Everybody was greeting in their usual Russian way. I was still playing an American, so I didn't need to worry about appearing Soviet. Anyway, I finally entered Filipov's office. He was very tight lipped. But I hedged a bet that he was desperate. There were other, more notorious, arms suppliers in Russia. If I walked out on this deal, there was nowhere else for him to turn. Which gave me some leverage. "Anyways, Filipov wasn't saying anything. I was hoping the names of his customers would slip out, but they never did. But then I took a risk and I said, 'Americans must pay. I need your assurances that the weapons will be distributed to the right people.' I remember Filipov's eyes flashed. His mask slipped. I got him. He told me five customers. Though he said he had seventeen, he teased me with five, which was plenty. "His assistant started to get nervous, and then discretely walked up and whispered in his ear. After a little back and forth, Filipov tensed up. He slowly reached under his desk. His assistant carefully reached behind his back. "I sprang from my chair. A bullet grazed my arm, right here!" He rolled uphis sleeve and pointed to the back of his arm, revealing a scar. "I was out in the hall. His security was all over me. But there was a window down the hall, so I sprinted for the window, took a breath, and jumped out the window. "Bushes broke my fall, but I was caught. I scrambled to get out of the bushes as I heard a siren go off. I realized that was for me. They were after me and they were either going to kill me or torture me. Didn't want to find out which. Just as I came to my feet two nurses walked by. They eyed me with a fearful curiosity. I grabbed on of them and shoved a knuckle in their back, feigning a gun. 'Get away!' I screamed in Russian, 'I'll kill her!' Her assistant did run away. 'Now, get me out of here,' I said to the nurse that I had. "She hesitated so I pushed my knuckle further into her back. Her feet started shuffling toward a door guarded by a soldier. He raised his rifle, but the emotional pleas from the nurse won him over, and he backed away from the door, keeping his weapon trained on me. "I carefully backed into the door. Then, at the last possible moment, I kicked the woman toward the guard, opened the door, and closed it before I got shot. I raced back to base, and, boy, I had a story to tell! "During debriefing I told all the details. But everyone was stern-looking. I wondered why. Finally, the director asked, 'What are the names of the customers?'" Uncle Henry's face fell, then he continued. "'I forgot,' I said. And I really did, truly forget. I forgot every single one of the names. I sat in the room for half an hour, racking my brain. The other agents waited. I worked through the alphabet, I retraced the steps in my head, but I could not remember a single name. "They brought doctors in. They hypnotized me. They told me to go home and get some rest." Uncle Henry snorted. "Yeah, you try sleeping if national security is dependent on faulty memory. "Days go by...months go by...still--nothing. I was so distraught I had to leave my job. I took early retirement, before they fired me. Even now, to this day, for the life of me, I can't remember their names!" Uncle Henry looked down at the folder, lost in thought. Tucker could almost see the reflections in those sparkly eyes--the disappointed faces of the other agents. His distraught uncle at a dining room table at night, crying in front of Nancy, unable to keep in together. Then, abruptly, he closed it. "Well, that's all for tonight." "Got any more stories?" "Yes, tomorrow. It's getting late." Uncle Henry got up from his chair and turned off the light, leaving the hallway night light on. Tucker sat in the darkness for a bit, still absorbing the story. He took the phone out of his pocket. Still no signal. He put his phone on flight mode to preserve the 75% battery life, then took his great uncle's suggestion and went to bed. He again scrolled through the Heather's messages before falling unconscious. Did she like him? Jury was still out. He put the phone aside and closed his eyes. The room lacked curtains, but without city lights and with the overcast sky, the room became pitch black. He heard his great uncle snoring in the other room. Or was he snoring? "Mfr--Shyam!" He thought he heard. Strange, he didn't know his Great Uncle talked in his sleep. Ah, that was because he usually slept in the room across the hall so he didn't hear him. Now the wall carried over his sound. He still breathed--were they words? Almost. Hey! Maybe a new language! "HrrrrmmmmmmmSssssshhhYam! FarrrrrraGOoooo!" This continued for a few minutes. Eventually the murmuring stopped and soft snoring was heard. Entertainment for the weekend, Tucker thought, and turned to his side, snuggling into his bed. The next morning Tucker and Uncle Henry continued to work on the addition. The walls were finally up. They took a trip into town to buy the siding. Uncle Henry bought a Rockstar and a muffin for Tucker. Henry just stuck with coffee and a trail mix. They returned to work until it started to rain. Uncle Henry claimed rain was a sign from God to stop work. Tucker couldn't agree more. "You talk in your sleep," Tucker said as Uncle Henry made sandwiches. "Yeah, that's what Nancy told me. I told her she farted in her sleep. That shut her up." "You had more stories?" "Yeah, that one I told you last night was definitely the most harrowing. Should have given me PTSD, but the most it did was prove to me I'm senile. There are other stories that are more entertaining." Tucker listened as Henry told another one about a clumsy partner who never let his clumsiness show because Henry was good about covering for it. "I kept him around because he was really good at connecting unrelated ideas," he explained. "Saved a lot of lives." Eventually the rain gave way to sunshine, and they continued to put up siding, Henry on a ladder, lips playing with the iron nails, Tucker handing him the slats. Then, finally, evening hit. Henry toasted some bread and peanut butter. They both ate it ravenously, too beat to prepare anything more substantial, and retired to bed. Tucker closed his eyes. He didn't last long. Again, his uncle with the talking. This was just too good, Tucker thought. He had to record it to show Dad. Quietly, he retrieved his phone, turned down the brightness all the way, then tiptoed out into the hall. He quietly turned the knob, and slowly pushed Henry's bedroom door open. Just barely illuminated by barely-dim lighting, Henry lay sprawled on his bed, wearing just his underwear. Tucker opened his video app, just as Henry started talking again. The audio quality was gonna be good. He hit record, and the camera app chirped, causing Uncle Henry to stir slightly. But he didn't wake. He still continued to murmur gibberish. After the five minute mark, Tucker felt it was enough. He closed his phone app, then quickly tiptoed back to his room. His dad was so gonna get a kick out of this! The next morning, during breakfast, Tucker looked at the video of his Great Uncle talking in his sleep. He wasn't sure if the audio would be loud enough. Oh, no, it was. Tucker grinned. "Ggggrrrrhhhhhr...Joh.....JOhhhh....siiiiii...." Tucker snickered. He didn't know he would have this much fun at his uncle's place. "Is that me?" Uncle Henry demanded. He stood in the kitchen doorway, bleary-eyed, wearing a stained t-shirt and sweat pants. Tucker was about to hide the phone, but--despite Uncle Henry's half-awake appearance--he snatched the phone away. His face flushed. "You went into my room and recorded me--" Then it went pale. "Well...I'll be damned." "Language." "Shyam Hahn," he repeated. "That's right. Hahn. And Tsvetan Miles." His face suddenly brightened. He kept the phone and walked away, muttering nonsense to himself. "Uncle Henry?" Tucker asked. "My phone...?" His pace quickened. "Tucker, put on some pants. We're heading to the Langley!" Within 5 minutes the two were in Uncle Henry's growling tuck, speeding down the freeway. "Turn it up! Turn it up!" Uncle Henry demanded. "Put it close to my ear! Haha! Yes, That's it!" Then, as he continued to look at the road he repeated to himself. "Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley...Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley..." He continued this mantra until he checked into Langley and asked to see the director immediately. A fifteen minute waltz of talking with a retired director shortcutted the process, and Tucker was then following his Great Uncle into the director's office as he chanted "Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles....Presley..." Despite Henry's suddenly flamboyant display of enthusiasm, the director at Langley regarded him with professional disinterest. "May I help you Mr. Carter?" "I got it! I got the names! The Filipov case from 1974!" I can't believe it! Can you believe it Tucker!" He then repeated the names to the director, who nodded curtly, then turned to his computer, typing a few things, clicking a few things, then printing something out a piece of paper. "They thought I had forgotten! But I hadn't! It was all in there! All it took was this young MySpacer here--" as he tousled Tucker's hair-- "to jog this old coot's memory! Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley...Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley..." Without ceremony, the director handed Henry a sheet of paper. "What's this?" Henry asked. "A report of the Filipov case. Turns out a rogue operative took care of the job. A few minutes after your escape, the operative used the chaos of your escape as a distraction to set off a bomb. Filipov and his entire staff died in the blast." "And the customers?" "They disbanded. We soon arrested them. They're in an Austrian prison for war crimes." Henry's shoulders sagged. "Oh." "Thank you for bringing us the intel, though." "No wonder they were declassified." The director nodded solemnly. Suddenly Uncle Henry brightened. "But I still remembered!" He exclaimed. "Come on, Tucker, let's go get some ice cream!" "It's 9 in the morning." "Best time for ice cream!" The two left Langley, Henry dancing to his new rhythm: "Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley...Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley..." Tucker still had one more day with his crazy uncle. And he had to admit, that didn't sound like such a terrible idea.


Imagine you are going for a stroll through a forest. It is a beautiful day; sunlight is peeking through the top of the canopy to dance among the trees. The path is gentle underfoot, almost soft, padded with the many leaves that have drifted to the forest floor. The wind tumbles from tree to tree, rustling the leaves as it twists overhead. The birds sing softly to one another and flit from one branch to the next. You take a deep breath and your lungs fill with cool, crisp air. A bright purple flower nestled between two ferns catches your eye. It is not too far off the path and you begin to wonder to yourself if you should go have a look. You veer from the path and trudge over. It is beautiful. Vibrant purple petals are complemented by a bright yellow centre. You kneel beside it and lean in, breathing deeply. It smells familiar but you cannot quite place it, an almost citrus-like smell. *Oranges? No. Lemons maybe?* You smile and thank the flower for making your day, standing up to make your way back toward the track. The slivers of sunlight that make it through the dense canopy feel like warm kisses against your skin. You look up, welcoming them with a smile as they dance across your face, contrasting against the cool forest air. You look back down at the sprawling expanse of forest, the thick brush obscuring your view to the path. You walk for a little while, soaking in the view before you realise you probably should have come across the path by now. You decide to retrace your steps; get back to the flower and start again. But as you turn around you are not quite sure which way you came from; it all looks the same. *Was it that way? Or maybe it was over there.* You pick a direction and start trudging through the thick undergrowth. It is not long before you start to feel a pang of worry. Playing out scenarios in your head. You pick up the pace, it feels like you have gotten into a thicker part of the forest and you are now having to push your way through the thick undergrowth. Your shirt catches on a stick and tears. *Fuck.* That somehow made the situation feel a little more real and you start to panic. You keep pushing through. If you could just find the path, a creek, anything to use as a landmark. You start running through all the survival tips you know from movies and books. Looking up, you realise the sun is starting to get low and pick up the pace. The forest is slowly darkening. After what seems like an hour you stumble across a trail of sorts cutting through the forest. The panic subsides a bit and you heave a sigh of relief. You pick up the pace and jog for a bit, following the trail. You check where the sun is and estimate there are around two hours of light left. As long as you get back on the main track, and hurry, you should be out before dark. This trail is fairly easy going but seems more like a side trail. You hope desperately that it links back up to the main path. A flicker of colour on the trail up ahead pulls your attention, there is something hanging on a bush. You press forward and notice a small piece of fabric tangled in the branches; it looks strangely familiar. Looking down at your shirt you realise it is the piece you tore off earlier. The trail you have been following is your own and you have been going in circles this whole time. Your heart sinks and stomach drops. Feelings of dread wash over you. *Fuck, fuck, fuck!* You stop and look deep into the forest, praying that something, anything might look familiar. Nothing. You spin on your heel and there is a giant wall in front of you, towering high into the sky. Your heart skips a beat. *What the fuck?* You cautiously reach out, fingers touching a cold gritty stone. It feels almost... Menacing. You recoil from it and look back over your shoulder, the forest is gone. In its place is a long, dark cavernous tunnel. Your heart is racing, and you keep looking from the wall to the tunnel. You sit on the floor and put your head in your hands, slapping yourself a few times. *This isn’t real. This is not REAL!* You look back up and see the dark hallway stretching before you. After what seems like an eternity you stand up and take a shaky step towards the tunnel, then another. Before you know it, you are heading further in. The light starts getting dimmer and darkness begins to envelop you. *Fuck this.* You decide you don’t want to do this and spin around. Your head bumps straight into something solid. The wall. It has moved and is blocking your exit. You start shaking. *This is some horror movie shit*. You cannot turn back. One step at a time you walk into complete darkness. Every time you go to turn around the wall is right there. Stopping you. Taunting you. Suddenly, your arm brushes on something and you freeze. You can hear your own heart thumping. You reach out a shaky hand and feel a rough hard surface, it is a wall. You realise you must have been walking crooked and take a step the opposite way. You bump into another wall. You reach out both arms and feel walls either side. *What the fuck? Is this getting smaller?* You turn around just to bump back into the wall behind you. You want to cry, to scream. There is only one way to go. Forward. You keep reaching out to feel the walls on either side. You go from having to stretch both arms out to feel them, to bending at the elbows. Eventually, both sides are brushing against your shoulders and you have to start shuffling sideways to keep moving. Your head bumps into something and you suddenly realise you have to crouch. Your hands become clammy and your mouth is dry, you are finding it hard to breathe as you are pressed lower and lower. Shuffling sideways in an awkward half-crouch until you are pushed to your hands and knees. The cold hard ground becomes damp and slippery. A tear streams down your face and you decide to try and move backwards. Your foot is met with the resistance of the wall. You cannot even turn around, you try turning your head to look behind you, but the space is so small your nose scrapes against the wall. You sob as you press forward, walls closing in further, forcing you onto your belly. You pull yourself along the ground, scraping your fingertips against the floor to drag yourself forward, your head is forced sideways, face scraping the wet floor. The walls of the cavern squeeze against your chest and your back, tightening your lungs. You try to look up but the stone pushes against your temples. You wriggle one leg up to try and get a foothold, your knee gets stuck. You go to move it back; it is met with resistance as the wall closes in behind it. You try to pull your arm toward you, but it is wedged, and no amount of straining will make it budge. You cannot move. You cannot go forward. You cannot go backward. You try and wriggle your way out of it to turn your head. But the roof is so tight that you have to keep your head sideways. Your chest feels like it is in a giant sandwich press, each breath cut short. An icy cold begins creeping up your legs, your stomach, your chest. Water so cold it makes you gasp for air, your chest constrict and your muscles cramp. You try thrashing as more water fills the tiny space, desperately trying to move but every muscle, every limb, is frozen in place. The water rises until it covers one nostril. You tilt your head as far as you can, temples scraping against the harsh stone roof, pursing your lips to the side to take a breath. The cold stings against the side of your face, one eye fully submerged. A small amount of water comes in with each breath and you sputter and cough. You try and catch your breath but each time you exhale it feels like the walls are crushing you and more water splashes in your mouth. Your lungs are burning, and you are sputtering and coughing. *This is it.* Water floods through your nostrils, your chest heaves. You take a massive breath and air rushes through your lungs. The walls disappear and you are in a forest. A bright purple flower nestled between two ferns catches your eye. It is not too far off the path and you decide you should not go have a look.


He burped. Not very loud, as he was struggling to keep straight, but the stench of alcohol made it clear he’s been here for a while.  “Ye know, kid, many a seaman think a capn’ should fight better ‘gainst his old ship, but every capn’ knows better. Some good sea dogs might think his captain pities the ship, but that ain’t it. Mates and masters start to get it, aye, but only capn’s fully grasp it: ships be jealous. They ain’t a little, no, they got pangs o’ jealousy, they’re wretches. Been a first mate meself, only twice I seen the hardiest men wet themselves over easy battles. Capitain Hecter himself got near dead when fighting old Margahole with the Gray Shroud. Now, Margarita at her prime was a sight to see, but even then it would hardly be a match to the Shroud - those gray sails were something else, and that fleetness while carrying those cannons was something uncanny. Margarita was abandoned after a successful raid got her slow and bruised.”  He took another gulp. Went down like water.  “We was ready and thinking none too stupid to face us, and that old tub showed up, more holes than a doily and not even all the cannons there. Capn’ knew it better than his own arse, so we thinking, eh, that should be easy. Then I saw ‘im piss heself, right there, white and frozen as if not in a hot Caribbean noon. What I wasn’t seeing was the nimble the Margarita got. I swear you she looked like the holes were fixed, though we could still see’em all there. And cannons fired far as we never could and damn, they got good too. Captain Hecter lost his left arm before we ploughed our first ball in her broadside. By the end of the day, Captain had lost his legs too, and the Gray Shroud took a beating like it fought a man-o’-war. And that’s why Sir Hecter got his rum company. The captain has always been good with rum, made his own stuff and knew what we seamen liked, and it was a better trade for one without legs. But I digress. Here, kid, I was to talk about jealousy.”  He spit at the ground and took such a large gulp it looked like he drank air.  “Thar be a ship called Ivory. Or was it? Nah, the Elephant. Ah, hell, what do we care. She traded in ivory, raided mostly, I be calling her Elephant. Thing’s worth a fortune. Ivory I mean. Done Capn’ Cyril filthy rich. But riches be good for none when ye time’s come. Mayhaps be bad, even. Make’em stop seeing. And when’em see no more, crap happens. See, Capn’ Cyril was a first class raider. Heard o’ some nice guns up in America and came for grabs. Sailed north all the way to the summer ice ‘fore ‘em, and found some nice ship flying the Union Jack there too slow and too protected for her own good. Had to be it. A damn bloody massacre ensued, ‘cause Cyril wain’t no brave fool. He got ‘em at night and rid himself of a few lighter scouts before they could even see ‘im. After hearing the boom, they ran, but none too quick. The Elephant sunk a frigate before all were at their posts, but the others got ready and sailing and shooting. Quite a load of iron flying everywhere, the frigates shooting and a galleon fleeing, but those dark sails made the Elephant nigh invisible at night. Cyril got a frigate to shoot the other, and mercilessly broadsided the survivor. The last frigate stood blocking the way to the galleon, or was it a carrack?, and was so violently rammed down when trying to shoot that even the cannons went flying. And that’s when the boom came”  He got the bottle again and started swigging like it was fresh water after he was stranded and rescued, and no one could tell if not for the smell of rum. “Whoa, easy there!”, I said.  “Bollocks. No use in easy, kid. Ye be no legend if facing easy, innit? And Cyril seen raining fire. Agh.Bloody mess, worst than me. Elephant be lit then, I’ll be damned, but wasn’t stopping none. No, none. Bloody sailors musta pissed’emselves. But shoot and boom and raining fire once more. Cyril seen mortars, but not that. That be witchcraft, thar be something in the carrack. So see he must and see he did. He was taking a beating, aye, but he was reaching her alright. A few well aimed angels and the main mast was down. Galleon was already slow, took all she had to keep moving, snail like and at all. Course they reach ‘er, and they beat ‘er, and they board ‘er. Bloody mess kept on and on and on, and gunpowder and steel were loud as a party, a damn long party. I know nay how many died from Cyril’s crew, but none Bretons live to tell, none but a prisoner kept there who thought a miracle she got released. She was a scoundrel, aye, but hell if any knows what she did to be locked. But Cyril, oh she got him good. He was flying high after that victory, but the wench made him forget all. ‘Course he got all that treasure and them guns, but the wench got to warm his bed every single day after. That’s when he made the big mistake. He told the whole crew they were to be wed. And the first mate would be the one to wed them. Now the first mate was a wary fellow, and though burly as can be, he was in no way a stupid man. He tried to warn off the captain against such a thing, saying he’s never seen a successful ship driven by a married couple, but Captain Cyril was having none of it. So it was, kid, and they wed. That night the mate sure as hell was the last one sober, and the only to see what looked like a gale starboard. He thanked God almighty they were anchored, and went to see the night’s watch. The crow’s nest was empty.”  He drank again, finishing the bottle. By the looks of it, there wasn’t much left.  “The watch was pissed drunk and passed out on the deck. Oh he was gonna taste some flogging, aye, but that was matter for the morrow. Some storm forming starboard and some dark heavy feeling made the mate as restless as he felt the sails to be, raised as they were. Then they weren’t. Ship was shaking and no one on the wheel, sails suddenly down and you could swear the anchor had never been dropped. Ship began to turn and sail windward, into the storm, and better than if the first mate himself was driving ‘er. Things happened fast, and no one could help but to hear a devilish cry, as if some angered, betrayed woman had just enacted her furious revenge. And right in the middle of the storm, it was all anyone could do to hold on. The mate was the first to be thrown overboard, as the Elephant used the very wheel he was struggling to control to overpower him. He surfaced and caught his breath in time to see the just married lass being hurled to nothingness, and the ship calming as if a furious beast giving up life after a rough hunt. No one could control the ship in that storm. The only one able was at water, now maybe half a league away. They crashed and sunk right there, cursed by their own vessel, and not a single one of those souls was free from her curse. The mate wrote it all in a letter and threw it in a bottle to sea, and that’s how me grandpa learned of the tale. Said he died soon after.”  He actually managed to sip something more from that bottle.  “So, kid, hear this: sail north of the Jack Bay close to Little Inagua at the wrong time and ye might still hear their screams in the storm. And don’t dare go near ‘em, else they’ll drag you with’em. There always a red lightning coming from that hellish ghost weapon they stole, and you can’t hide, as the captain’s always searching the sea around for that lass he lost. Now you know, kid. I’m getting another bottle. Wait for me here, ‘twas nice talking and I got a few stories more to share. Damn rum can’t keep me drunk for a full minute anymore. One day I hope I’ll remember the name of the ship.”  “Don’t try too hard,” I said, “or you might have a stroke.” Once he was gone, I walked away. He seemed indeed incapable of keeping drunk for long or ceasing to talk. Sure he’ll find someone else to bother with his lies and won’t even notice it’s not me. Captain Hecter’s first was actually called Slingshot, a quick and steady brigantine. The jealous ship was called Lady Margatia, after Captain Cyril’s mother. Good thing its name’s been forgotten. There were survivors from the galleon raid, else he wouldn’t have this tale to tell as I never wrote about it. He also got the shipwreck place wrong, but Lady Margatia is indeed jealous and never much liked waiting, so before she wondered, it was time I moved.