It is cold and dark. You are lying in there. You’ve been dead for quite some time. Suddenly, your feet twitch. You weren’t dead, you were only asleep. You get up, walk over to the window, and the city is on fire. The city’s not on fire. The sun is shining, the trees are pristine. It’s the window that’s on fire, and the three birds on it. Your hands are on the windowsill, so you draw these hands back in horror and scream. You wake up. You were dead again, but you just woke up, so obviously, you’re a liar. You look at these hands. See these hands? Do you like these hands? Something about hands. Again, up. You walk into another room. Your mother is at the stove, her back toward you, cooking something delicious. She turns around. She is not your mother. This is not a room. You are not dead. At the window, the city is not on fire, but your glasses are, so you quickly throw them out of the window, and they burn three birds along the way. You go downstairs. Your mother is at the stove, her back toward you, cooking something awful. You look at the table. Your father’s clothes are there, lying about as if they were hurriedly thrown off. “Where’s dad?” She turns around. She is your father. You look back at the table, and the clothes are on fire. You wake up. Liar. You go downstairs. Your mother is at the table, her back toward you, cooking your father. Quickly, you put on your father’s clothes, pick up his newspaper, and pretend nothing has happened. You look up. Your father is at the stove, her back toward you, cooking something about hands. You look at these hands. They are not on fire. You take off your glasses and set them beside your newspaper. Glancing out the window, you notice three birds. One, two, three. They have enormous hands. You look at these hands. Yes, much larger than these hands. You look back at the window. Your mother is on fire. Dad accidentally poured the stove on her. You wake up in the exact same spot, in the exact same scenario. Your father is still on fire. The birds are applauding with their tiny, tiny hands. You look at these hands. No, these are your mother’s hands. You can tell because they are black and charred like your dead, dead mommy. What, are you crying? Little baby, crying because his bitch mother’s dead? Fucking faggot. You wake up in your mother’s clothes, which are still on fire. You withdraw in horror, sobbing on your father’s clothes. The birds shake their gigantic heads slowly, as if to say, “What a fucking faggot.” The room is cold and dark. Your parents are lying there. They’ve been asleep for quite some time. They wake up. You are dead. You wake up. You are not dead. Why must you do this to me. You walk over to the window. Where there was once a city now lies a crystal-clear pool. Three women are swimming in it, all naked and only one particularly attractive. You touch yourself regardless. They see you and laugh, shaking their gigantic hands at you, as if to say, “What a handsome young man, I wish he would fuck us.” You stop touching yourself because you have no hands. You lost them in the fire. The great fire. The long great fire of something something. Something about hands, there was something about hands, I know there was something about hands. In a moment. You wake up, swimming with two other women in a crystal-clear pool. You look down. You are not particularly attractive. You touch yourself regardless. The other women have no hands, but their stumps are warm and feel nice on your tiny, tiny clitoris. The three of you hop out of the water and dry off by hanging in a tree. The other two hung themselves wrong. They are dead. They have been dead for quite some time. They wake up. They close their eyes again. They have been asleep for quite some time. The room is cold and dark, and you are wondering if you should wake them up so that the three of you could go downstairs and do something in the kitchen, where your mother is cooking something delicious. You have been dead for quite some time. You have not been dead for quite some time. If at all you have been dead, it has been no time at all, or at least for so little time that one may say that you are not ever dead, but only occasionally pretend to be so. Something about parents. Oh yes. These hands, they are all over the women, you are tickling and stabbing, they are laughing and moaning. The hands, that is. The hands are women. These hands. Wait a minute, it was always these hands. These hands that wrapped around the doorknob, that lifted the eyelash off of her cheek, that pawed your bodies at the lake. Something about a lake. There was never a lake. There were never any birds. Only giant hands and tiny clitorises flying around. What the hell have you been doing? Are you all right? You wake up. The room is cold and dark. You walk over to the window and see nothing particularly interesting, except for three dead bodies hanging from a tree over a crystal-clear pool. You go downstairs. The police are at the stove, their backs turned toward you, cooking something delicious. They turn around. These hands are not the police. The police at the stove, the ones who just turned around, are, in fact, the police. They are arresting you for the murder of the three dead bodies at the tree. You look out the window. “What tree?” Excuse us, sir, we meant the two dead bodies on the stove. You glance at the newspaper, pretending that everything is all right. You look up. Everything is all right, except for your parents, who are hanging from the tree. They have been dead for quite some time. You turn to your darling wife and child and say, “Fucking faggots.” Hurriedly throwing off your clothes, you run outside to begin the day. You wake up. Welcome back. Obviously, you have been dead for quite some time. Let me show you around. This is what you thought was a kitchen. It is actually a table lamp. This is what you imagined were six women, only one of whom were particularly attractive. It is actually only one lady, but she has 10 enormous hands. She is your darling child. It seems just like yesterday or even a few seconds ago, she was a bouncy, bubbling baby, frothing in your lap, eating all of the furniture, spilling catnip on the cement as the two of you went on your early morning jog to the supermarket. You needed beets. Where on earth are the goddamn beets. You turn to Martha. “Martha, where on earth are the goddamn beets.” She turns around. She is Martha. Oh wait. No. No wait, yes, this is Martha. You totally missed what she was saying. “Could you repeat that, Martha?” She turns around. She is still Martha, and you still have no idea what she is saying. “Excuse me please, Martha, but could you say that again?” She turns around. This time, she is definitely Martha. She turns around. No wait. She is still Martha. Aren’t you forgetting something? “Martha, there seems to be something about these hands, these hands that fondled you on our wedding night and on many nights before that one, and also myself.” She turns around. She is Martha, but she is definitely you. All of this time, you have been constantly turning around and talking to yourself in the mirror. You idiot. You imbecile. You fucking faggot. She turns around. “We bought beets yesterday, don’t you remember?” Ah yes, of course, the beets thing was forever ago. And actually, what you thought was the beets thing was just a rock by your door. Let’s move along. Here is where you’ve been sleeping for the past few months. You glance in. A crystal-clear pool teeming with hands and babies--yet bereft of baby hands--lies before you. The babies have been dead for quite some time. They open their eyes. Did you think that children were innocent? Did you not realize that the mask begins with conception? You fool. You utter imbecile. Something about faggots. Hands. These hands. These hands that slap the faggots. Ah yes, in a past life, you were a professional faggot-slapper. I seem to recall that you set a record for slapping faggots. What was it, like 60 faggots in a day? That’s impressive. I didn’t even know that that many faggots congregated in such close proximity to each other. There were no faggots. What are you hiding? Show me thy hands. You open these hands. A dead bird lies on the open palm. Its foot twitches. Did you think that animals were innocent? You glance up. She turns around. No wait, that’s a mirror. Something about beets. No, we did that already. Are you dead again? You wake up. Clearly not. Hurriedly throwing your clothes back on, you rush out the door, tripping over your darling child along the way. She has been dead for something something something. No time for that. No time for dead babies, even if they are your own. Your sweet darling baby. Dead. And you tripped over her. That’s awful. Seriously, we don’t have time for this. You go downstairs. Your wife is at the table, her dead baby turned toward you, cooking something that smells like a dead baby. Okay, seriously, we don’t have time for this. You go back upstairs. The room is cold and dark. Well, better than dead babies. You lie down and go to sleep. You have been dead for quite some time. What you thought was you dead was actually a second table lamp, set next to the original. We don’t need two table lamps in here. Who did this. Martha, was that you? You fucking idiot. Okay, let’s take this table lamp into the next room. It’s cold and dark in there anyway. You open the door. This isn’t a room. This is a room, you just accidentally thought the opposite. Why does that happen sometimes? Anyway, this isn’t a room, it’s a window. The city is on fire. It has been this entire time. In order to cope with this horrifying sight, you have been constructing this elaborate fantasy to distract yourself from the true reality. Of course not. This is a room, let’s leave the table lamp here and move on. You open the window. Three women with tiny, tiny heads light down on these hands. You’re so excited that you crush them, in your excitement. “Oh sorry, I was too excited.” You open these hands, smeared with blood and excitement. Speaking of blood, where’s that fucking faggot father of yours? You run downstairs. He is at the stove, his back toward you, cooking something something something. You crush him with these gigantic hands. You open these tiny, tiny hands. A little bird is sitting there. It smells delicious. You pour him back onto the stove. More time for that later, but as it is, we have all of these table lamps located in this one room. This is highly impractical. Martha, if I find you, your bitch ass is fired. Let’s keep moving. The room is cold and dark. You have been laying here for quite some time. Not quite dead. Not quite laying. Sort of hovering, at an angle. A little unsettling. Martha, next scene please. You go downstairs. Your table lamp is at the table lamp, its table lamp toward you, table lamping a table lamp. It table lamps around. It is not a table lamp. It is Martha, holding a bunch of table lamps, the fucking faggot. “Get over here, Martha!” She shrieks, dropping table lamps left and right. The room catches fire from all of the exploding table lamps. Tour’s over, I guess. Back to sleep with you. Aren’t you forgetting something? Something something something? Something about these somethings? You look at these somethings. A something lies across them. You something it. You are something. No matter what you are, you are something. You are at least something. Something something hands. Something something these hands. These hands. Oh, these hands! Oh, I had nearly forgotten! I had nearly forgotten about these hands! These wonderful hands, I had nearly forgotten about! Oh, these wonderful these hands! You wake up. You are dead. You are obviously not dead. You walk over to the window. The city is on fire. You have never left this window. You have never woken up. This isn’t a window. Your eyeballs are on fire. Of course not.


As the emperor entered the throne room for the last time a scene of carnage lay before him. His guards lay on the cold, stone floor, slain as they desperately tried to defend him from his own people. He slowly approached the throne, stained with the blood of his soldiers, and sat down. He knew that the rebels would kill him soon enough. It was that fact which led him back to this room in particular. It seemed to him only fitting that he should die in the place where he had once ruled. Myriad thoughts were running through his head. How had he allowed this to happen? Over the course of just a few weeks, his empire had crumbled beneath him. The men and women over whom he had once ruled had turned against him in the blink of an eye. In an instant, his thoughts were disturbed by a small movement in the shadows, in the far corner of the room. His hand went to his sword and he was about to unsheathe it, but he stopped, partway. “Come out of the shadows rebel,” he commanded in a booming voice. “Face your Emperor with honour.” A young boy, no older than seventeen, stepped out of the shadows. He had a face which would have been quite handsome, were it not for the look of pure hatred which adorned it. “I suppose that you are here to kill me,” remarked the emperor calmly. “You look very relaxed for someone who is about to die,” the boy responded. “I made peace with my fate long ago. Death comes to us all, eventually.” “Why have you not drawn your blade? Are you too weak to even defend yourself?” asked the rebel in a snarl. “Enough blood has already been spilled my boy. I find no delight in death.” the Emperor replied, with a grim smile on his face. “I will kill you!” yelled the rebel, as he rushed forward towards the throne. “And for that I do not blame you.” responded the emperor. “However, before you do, I have one question for you. Why?” “Why?” echoed the rebel with a puzzled look on his face. “Why do you want me dead?” “You have failed your people! Under your rule the people are dying! You feast in your palace while people like my father die because they cannot even afford bread.” The emperor gave the boy a saddened look. “I suppose that you are right. I have failed my people. So, I suppose that it is time for me to pay for what I have done. I am so, so sorry.” The rebel raised his sword and prepared to strike. The sound of a blade piercing through flesh echoed throughout the walls of the chamber. The rebel collapsed, the look on his face no longer one of hatred, but one of shock. The emperor gave a long sigh and then rose from the throne. He turned to look at the dying boy lying on the floor. “I truly am sorry,” he whispered as he wiped away a tear and slowly walked away.


There is a time that is endless, it is endless. Endlessly running around the other times you endlessly failed to end this. This is not the time to.... How did you know? Know what? It was late in the evening And? He was in the study. What time was it? It was around the end. That's a good time. I would agree. The two headed monster went on like this for most of my stay in the little room. They refused to let me leave and simply argued about things I couldn't comprehend. Was it two? It was four? For who? For two. I listened and would occasionally try to break in to ask when they would move away from the door, but they continued to ignore me. Employ? Implore? It's all the same. Where was he again? In the study! It was late! Hours passed and they would not move. The room was small. The size of a child's room. It could have been my room. I'm not sure. There was a break in my thinking and then I was just in this room with this two-headed dragon keeping me from the outside. I had been meaning to go out into the main hall and mix with the others, but then this thing occurred. It occurred in my room and simply sat there and argued with itself. That's a silly thing to do. What's so silly about Billy? He's deeeeeeeeeeeee Ranged. Was I Billy? I began thinking back to the last thing I could remember, which was sitting on the bed and just humming to myself. I did this often before leaving the room. I am sure of that. I am sure that I needed to hum a bit before I got the courage to go outside. I looked around the room for evidence of who I was and there was nothing but a bed and a night stand. I opened the nightstand drawer for more information and found a bible and a coloring book. We addressed The address The address of where Billy is staying. Billy? I opened the book and saw my name scrawled across the top. Billy. Yes? "Billy - do you want to go out?" "Billy, what if you are out and can't get back in? Billy, have you thought of that?" They spoke in high pitched squeals and when they finally addressed me, I couldn't respond. Until then, I figured they couldn't see me. But then they addressed me. I put down the book and "I would like to go out into the hall." "You would like to go out into the hall? Dreeble?" "He would like to go out into the hall. Out into the hall with them all, is that it?" "I would like to go to the common area. I would like to leave this room and go out to the hall. I want to see the other people." "Isn't that nice? Be with the other people. That would be swell." "Swelled right up the last time. Chester hit him with a chair. Wouldn't that be a shame if Chesssssssssss" "Turd! He called you a turd, and hit you with a chair." "I don't care. I want to go out with the other people." "But you're insane." "He was outsane before, before they locked him up. Now he's insane. Inside the asylum." "I want to leave the room." I began humming and they went away.


With my eyes open I clung to the tiny speck of freedom I felt, even if for just a moment. I was not yet a prisoner within these walls. A part of me was hoping not to be greeted by the same, weakly lit ceiling that I have grown to hate over the last few weeks every time I wake up, but to my dismay, it was there, greeting me. I did not return the gesture. It would take more than fourteen days of complete isolation to get me to talk to inanimate things. I rubbed my eyes with my left hand and pet Sam, who lay beside me, with the other. His fur was soft, his breathing quiet and shallow. The hydraulics-system in his torso gave him an almost lifelike appearance. I wondered if he grew as hungry as I did. Tiny cubes, made out of some sort of solidified gas, used to roll down a hatch in the wall directly into his silver bowl. This was all he ate for the past two decades. He didn’t need to eat, but I guessed they wanted him to appear more real. And it helped, we had eaten together, almost every day. Everything felt so normal in his presence, as if nothing had happened. Sam was also the reason why I hadn’t lost my sanity in this time. He listened to me and offered me company. He had suffered through my outbursts when the sense of doom became too much and did not judge me for the manic laughter that had always followed after. When I had been well, I talked to him about Esma. How I missed her and that I did not intend to return to my cabin. Sam was alright with this. There was nothing I could do for him anyways. With no power and the emergency generators not powering his little bed in the corner of the room (which acted as a charging station), it was only a matter of time until he was gone. Did he know? Would I want to know, if my end closed in? I tried not to think about it. I was still young and had enough rations with me. Ever since the great migration I had always carried them in my backpack, which never left my side. Sam’s movement was imperceptible. His battery ran on its last legs. Poor thing. I took comfort in being able to lie next to him in his last minutes. I dozed off. There wasn't much to do here besides sleep anyway. When I awoke, my head was turned to the left and I looked outside the window. An endless panorama of black whizzed by at a speed of hundreds of thousand meters per second. Though something ele got me thinking. Almost infinitely many white points painted the dark background and gave it life. Every single one of these stars was home to who knew how many different kinds of celestial bodies, some of which could even house sentient beings. I liked to imagine what their day-to-day life looked like. Unlike us, they had no desire to conquer the universe. They felt no need to leave their bloody footprints on any other planet, that they called their own. If they could see us, they would be shaking their heads. To them, our mission of settling on a planet that no one even knew if it really existed, was as arrogant as it was folly. Intergalactic imperialists, that is what they would call us, and they would be right. In creating a generation starship, we had proven to ourselves that we had no shame to reduce us, the passengers, to the absolute minimum of our humanity. Progress through sex. I agreed with them. They had no idea how right they were about us. Just a few centuries after we had left Earth, roughly a thousand years ago, another ship had already been built. There had always been rumors that a faster, modernized spacecraft would catch up to us. Nobody really knew where these rumors came from, though some had their suspicions. Oftentimes I wondered if the Penultimo had stumbled upon us through mere coincidence or if it had hunted us like prey from the very beginning. The more I thought about it, the sure I was that it was the latter. Technology, energy and populace. With the promise of an easy life, almost the entirety of our people had boarded the newer ship without hesitation, when it docked onto us. Once the people had started migrating, we had hidden in various wings and sectors of our ship. In places that we had known the others would not care to check. Agonizing were the days we had spent in literal garbage, not making any sound. Luckily for us, our appetite wa suppressed by the olfactory torture we had endured. The thirst, however, had became unbearable, even for the toughest of us. All we could have done was hoping that whoever had been next would die as silently as everybody before them. Fourteen of us had found their demise there. I turned to my right. With each passing minute the solitude solidified itself again. Sam was there and I felt even lonelier now. A mechanical companion was of no help to me in this situation. Nor were the thoughts of an alien that hardly knew me, if at all. My eyes wandered the length of the room that I could see while lying in my bed. Chaos had taken over, I was just a guest and an unwelcome one, at that. It was even colder now but there was nothing else I could use as a blanket. If there even was anything left of use in here, I couldn’t see it in this darkness. The universe outside was unkind, it did not care to illuminate my chamber enough to see properly. Most of the light came from above. A thin red line, powered by what I could only assume to be an emergency generator. It ran from the middle of the ceiling to the door, one and a half meters or so away. Outside was the corridor that led to the various wings and, most importantly, the dining hall. This was where we all had met after we had felt the ground shaking. The Penultimo had taken off. We felt safe. Esma had been there as well, happier to see me than I her, it seemed, despite my foul fragrance. I enjoyed thinking about the time we spent together before the migration. The hours we had spent in this bed, uncaring about the rules or curfew or anything. Times like these reminded me of how much of humanity we had lost. We didn’t mind visiting each other, even if it meant walking for hours to reach the other one's sector. She gave me strength. Was she well? I hoped she was, and that had been able to convince the others to wait for me. Two days, that was the plan. In two days' time we should have met again in the dining hall, after every single one of us had scavenged as much as we could carry, before we would set out and map out more distant parts of the ship. “I have enough provisions for three days in my room. Might last longer if we eat a bit less,” I had said to them. With a promise like that, how could they not wait for me? I wish I had told the others where I went. Esma might have known, though I couldn’t blame her for not trying her luck when some sectors of the ship were completely dark. What would they even do if they found me? There was no opening this door. A safety mechanism made sure of that. How could I have known that forcibly opening the fridge would lock the door and keep me prisoner in here? With no power there was no other way of getting the food out. The absurdity of my circumstance made me laugh again. Sam purred weakly. That was two weeks ago. The rations that were meant for the five of us were already half gone. I wasn’t sure if I had eaten more than usual, though it felt like it helped. With every meal I hoped to replenish some brain power and come up with an idea to get me out of this mad situation. To no avail. The door was shut tight. My fingers rested on Sam’s head. I couldn’t feel him breathing anymore, nor any other movement. There it was. The end. I stood up and looked at him. He was alone there. And now I was as well. I picked him up and put him in his little bed. My fingertips were cold. My breathing became faster. I was standing in the middle of the room and felt like a giant, there was no space above me. I needed to get out of this old and sad air. When I looked at Sam, all I could think of were the last twenty years that he had spent inside. Why? Real cats longed for freedom, for adventure. But Sam wasn’t real. My love for him was more real than he was. His lifeless body filled me with anger. This anger was real as well. I was thankful that his eyes were closed. I wouldn’t want him to see me like that. It was funny. I tried not to laugh but I couldn’t stop myself. It was the most honest reaction I had since I got stuck. Laughter turned into desperation. My backpack flew across the air and slumped to the ground. I picked it up to throw it at the window again. Again. No stopping. Again. And again. With all my might I continued hurling the heavy thing at the glass. Again. The aliens must have enjoyed the one man show. A sight to remember, surely something that they would tell future generations. Again. Oh how they loved it. My ears hurt. I could not stop screeching. After my nineteenth throw something happened. The sound of a backpack hitting a glass was missing. Replaced by a dull noise, produced by the metallic curtain that had come down crashing to protect the window from breaking. It was shut, and the room was... brighter? Everything had changed. I fell to my knees. It took a while until I realised what had happened. With the window now shut and the illuminating stars gone, lighting had changed. My only source of light was the emergency sign on the ceiling. And a new one on the ground... I rubbed the sweat from my eyes and slowly followed the white line to a gap in the door. New light. Like an animal I rushed to it, crawling on the ground as fast as I could and, to my surprise, was able to open the door completely, without issue. I put my foot outside. Freedom. I had served my sentence and I was now free. Back on my bed, I started stuffing my backpack with everything I deemed even slightly useful. With the fridge in the doorway to prevent the gate from suddenly closing, I sat there for a moment. What now? Back to the dining hall? That would be a start. I doubted that the others were still there, I couldn’t blame them for thinking me dead. Surely they had left a message somewhere, considering the amount of food I had promised to bring. Or what was left of it. I took a last look around. It had been a long time since it was so bright in here. Sam was still in his bed, it looked like he was sleeping. It was thanks to him that I did not succumb to despair in the last two weeks. What would have happened if his charge had run out sooner? There was no reason to think about that now. I petted my friend’s head one last time and said my goodbyes. It was time to leave, there was someone else who was waiting for me. It was time to find Esma.


“One-third of college students transfer before receiving their degree. Did you know that?” “I didn’t. You drove all the way back to our old high school just to tell someone that?” “One out of three means that in every threesome that happens at college, one of those people is so dissatisfied with the experience that they leave their school altogether.” “And, I guess, you also came to pick up that old violin swinging by your side. You’re planning to practice that thing at college?” “Practice having threesomes? You know I’m not that kind of girl.” “I meant your violin, Vivi.” “Now, the question that I’m getting at here is: why do so many students transfer?” “I can’t believe you returned only for the sake of that violin.” “Well, fine then, what else would I return for?” “No--I just meant--you had some great memories here. You were top of the class, so successful--everyone wanted to be you. At awards ceremonies, we all had your full name memorized: Miss Vaishnavi Shamala Ravichandran.” “I wouldn’t recommend being me. Getting a 100% as an average for a Latin class requires little sleep and lots of detailed nitpicking.” “You got a 100% average in a Latin class?” “Can we return to my point, Mister Nicholas Anirudh Williams?” “A 100% average implies that you never made a single mistake on any assignment, the class had a lot of extra credit, or that you slept with your teacher.” “I didn’t sleep with--the class was a bit of a joke, all right? It had a lot of extra credit. Now, can we please just get back to my point here?” “As you wish. What’s your point?” “As I was saying...I can only think of three reasons why anyone would transfer: they hate their original college, they’re trying to get into a better one, or they’ve changed their minds on what they want to study.” “I bet it’s usually the second one.” “Why? Is it so hard to believe that hatred motivates better than ambition can? You don’t think that the carrot is far less compelling that the stick?” “Which one got you to practice violin?” “ And we’re back.” “I’m just saying...there’s no way you’ll go back to practicing violin now. No matter your grade point average--you can’t ‘fake it till you make it’ for music .” “Oh, I never faked my academics!” “Heh, I know. But c’mon, you haven’t played violin in over a year now. You wouldn’t start playing now.” “S-Sure I would. And if I don’t, what’s it to you, anyway?” “It’s not--it’s not anything. So, what, are you thinking of transferring to a new college?” “What? No. No, that’s not what I intended to say.” “Then, what do you intend to say? You say so many things that I can’t read between the lines.” “I just meant--that it’s nice, isn’t it? Returning to the old stomping grounds. We ruled the school from this very orchestra room, didn’t we?” “You ruled the school more than me, remember? I found it all suffocating.” “Shhh...take a deep breath. You smell that? You hear it? The sweet scent of rosin, the sounds of squeaky stands and squeakier bows, even these blue chairs. Why does every orchestra space in every school have blue chairs?” “Hm. It is nice, you’re right.” “But I guess having good grades, doing a sport, and participating in a musical activity can make you seem like a ruler.” “You did a sport? On top of the 100% average?” “Although I regret my arrogance about it.” “You were never that arrogant.” “I pretended to be humble. Is pretended humility not arrogance?” “I suppose it is, but I never thought your humility as pretended, whenever you were humble. Were you on varsity?” “Hah. Orchestra didn't have varsity.” “I meant your sport.” “Oh, lacrosse? Yeah, I was. My friends and I tried to make being nerdy athletes cool.” “I found the whole concept of athletics suffocating. The jocks all sticking together and torturing the poor kids who weren’t athletic.” “You’re athletic, though. You’ve got those basketball arms.” “Basketball arms? Now, what does that mean?” “I just--you know what I mean, Nick!” “I’m sure I don’t. But to answer your implied question, yes. I was athletic, but that doesn’t preclude me from feeling bad for others. And I was a nerd, too, remember? Playing an instrument, having friends who were in orchestra, too.” “All those nerds, all your friends--I’m sure they appreciated your pity .” “Now, wait--I never said I thought of myself as better than others.” “You implied it. And when you said that your nerd status rested solely on your ‘friends who were in orchestra,’ you meant friends...like me.” “No, no! I just meant--” “Were you embarrassed of us?” “No. Never, Vivi, never. I was never embarrassed of you.” “Let’s see, you’re clever, athletically-inclined, and musical--a rare combination.” “I sense a judgement coming on.” “You knew the lingo, you’re only half-South Asian, and you’re ripped enough to shoot a basketball but skinny enough to fit between the people at parties.” “So flattering.” “All so you could switch between real cool people, and us , is that right?” “And there it is.” “Then did you miss your violin while you were on campus? Did you miss the orchestra?” “Well, not exactly, no.” “Of course, you didn’t. Classic.” “You know, it’s no shame if you did.” “First years are at higher risk of homesickness, especially if they have a pre-existing mental health condition or if they are out-of-state. Did you know that?” “Were you homesick?” “I fit in the categories for both of those risk factors. My risk is nearly doubled compared to most first-years.” “I didn’t know that.” “That first years have a higher chance of wanting to go home?” “No, that you had a pre-existing mental health condition.” “I hid it.” “Even from your friends?” “Even from you, dear Nick.” “Friends are meant to support you, to take care of you. It’s not too much to ask.” “For most friends, it is too much to ask. I’ve learned not to overextend my friendships. A stretched rubber band will break. It’s inevitable.” “Friendships aren’t rubber bands. And certainly not our friendship.” “You didn’t see us as your real friends. Why were you even friends with us?” “I did--I--” “Can I ask you something? Why does my interest in violin matter to you so much?” “It’s just...I just meant--” “Just meant what? Has college taught you to hide your meanings?” “Is that what college taught you?” “Isn’t that what college taught you?” “Vivi, listen to me. I’m ecstatic to see you today.” “But?” “No buts. I’m so happy to see you. I always am.” “I’m not, Nick.” “You’re not happy to see me?” “No, no, I’m just not...happy. My dreams came true, and I hate them.” “Hate them?” “Hate is too strong a word. It’s just that--so many friendships at these fancy schools are...transactional.” “So the rubber band snaps.” “So there wasn’t a rubber band at all, and I was just delusional. I thought it would be easier there than it was here, and now I still miss it ‘here’, even a year later. ” “Maybe you just had too high expectations.” “Was I not warranted in having them? Not warranted in believing that once I hit college, finally everything would fall into place? Instead, I’m just left with more questions.” “Isn’t that the point of college? The questions?” “You’re being evasive. Why do you care about my violin?” “Why do you care about the orchestra?” “Why are you here, Nick?” “Why are you here, Vivi?” “I’ve already told you. You’re the one being cryptic.” “It’s just--I was just visiting, but then I saw you duck in here, and I-I wanted to see you. I wanted to know if you ever...thought of me. At college.” “You wanted to see me. Your high school ‘orchestra’ friend. Your un-cool friend.” “No, now, wait a min--” “You know what? I’m grateful for your presence today.” “W-Why--” “Thank you for clarifying your intentions during our time together in high school. It makes me feel better to know that I was no better here than I was there. I was duped everywhere. Life is full of deceit and falsehood, and I was no better a person or student or leader here than there. And I never will be.” “Yes, you will!” “So thank you. Thank you for eliminating my worst fears in the worst way possible.” “I didn’t mean to! I--I’ve been trying to tell you something else.” “What else could you possibly have to tell me? What could you possibly even--” “I’m in love with you.” “What?” “And I always have been.” “No...” “Ever since you put that violin under your chin and smiled at me.” “Y-You put a violin under your jaw . Not your chin.” “Your jaw, then. But that wasn’t my point. I just want to tell you that I’m always thinking of you and your smile.” “My--My smile?” “And your jaw.” “That’s quite enough of that.” “Not the rest of the orchestra, just--just you. You and your violin. That’s how we met, you remember?” “You know, I think I’ll just be taking my little violin and my little innocent self and all my old memories of loyal friends and busting the hell out of here.” “Vivi, no. Wait.” “I don’t want to talk to you anymore. None of it was real, was it?” “Vivi, it was.” “You never wanted to be friends with us. You just saw a prize, and you wanted to go get it. You just wanted to get in my--” “No! I wanted nothing more than your happiness. That’s still all I want.” “I need to get out of here.” “Let me just tell you something first.” “You’re right. I guess I was meant to be in the world of fake friendships, after all. I guess I won’t be transferring. I guess I won’t be doing...anything at all.” “Vivi, I want you to know that people love you, that I love you, and that you aren’t alone. But I need you to know something else.” “Shut up.” “You don’t drive away people because you’re a weird orchestra nerd. You drive them away...because you’re everywhere all at once.” “You know nothing about me. You’ve made that abundantly clear.” “You’re spread too thin, talking a mile a minute, and here it didn’t matter, because we all were overworked and awkward, but there? There, people expect you to put in the work for your relationships. You have to slow down, figure out what you want, and stick to it. You have to listen to your heart.” “And how’re those ‘heart noises’ working out for you?” “Considering the way that you’re looking at me right now, I’d say that it could be going better.” “I have to go.” “You’re always going somewhere else.” “You really wanna know something? I used to have a huge crush on you in high school.” “ Really ?” “But I’m glad to know that college at least taught me one thing.” “And what’s that?” “How to figure out the difference between a sanctimonious asshole and your average nosy athlete.”


I hate it when people interrupt me. It makes me crazy sometimes. I live alone in a small one-bedroom house in east Los Angeles. I’m retired Marine Gunny Sgt. Alan Todd Singleton. I try like hell to lead a quiet life. I go to the VFW Hall every afternoon for a beer...or two. Sometimes the language gets salty when too many beers are consumed and a fight breaks out during these afternoon outings. I’ve lost track of how many morons have interrupted my conversations in the last year, and how many tough guys I punched out for the offense. But, I have to be careful these days because the management is threatening to ban me if I get in another fight. I’ve taken to drinking at the bar now, and not at a table with others. I banter with the old Marine bartender, but avoid getting into any lengthy conversations with him. The only reason I go to the VFW is to remind myself that I can be sociable. A normal guy. It’s a way to keep in touch with the human race without getting too intimate with anyone. I have too many secrets. Too many things that burden my conscience. It’s the nights that are really bad for me. Things happen. Violent things. My memories of my night excursions are almost always vague the next day. A convoluted series of snapshots and conversations. Sometimes I have to clean blood off my arms, face, and clothing - which I usually just burn. One thing is clear; I hunt humans at night. I never stopped after coming back from my third tour-of-duty in the Nam. That was in 1970, and this is 2018. I’ve lived all over the United States these last few decades. You can see why I would have to keep moving. Too many deaths in one area over a period of time attracts too much heat. The cops set up taskforces and the pickings get slim. Then it’s time to move. I’ve managed to last a year here in east LA, but I suspect my time is coming to an end. Maybe forever. Skill and dumb luck will only take a man so far. I’ve beaten the odds thus far. I know that. Especially after last night. The weird thing is I remember almost everything that happened. I was walking aimlessly on North Eastern Avenue near the Santa Ana freeway, when three home-boys stepped out of a front-yard and blocked my path on the sidewalk. They laughed and flashed gang signs at me. I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I never took Spanish in high school. The volume of their curses rose and they all three pulled out their switchblades - slowly swaying them in front of me. I grabbed the first wrist, twisted it, took the knife, and slashed the gangster’s throat! It wasn’t like I moved that fast, but I never wasted a move, and immediately grabbed the arm and wrist of the second assailant, twisting and breaking it like a twig. The third attacker lunged, as I threw the second down one down with a judo move. I moved sidewise and let his momentum carry him by me...off balance. Then I tripped him and watched him hit the concrete sidewalk with a thick thud. His neck was twisted at an odd angle and partly hanging off the curb, when I turned my attention back onto the last remaining attacker. He was crying and holding his broken arm, and didn’t put up any resistance when I put him in a chokehold and snapped his neck like a dry branch. No one came out of the houses. I was alone with three dead men, and thinking, “Mission accomplished.” I think it’s time to go. The media is blasting about last night’s murders. Cops are as thick as fleas in my neighborhood this morning. Groups of angry, and probably scared, gangsters are patrolling the hood...looking for answers. Looking for me. A week later. Ft. Lauderdale, Florida It was easy finding a VFW chapter with it’s own hall here. Lots of old military farts like me come to retire. Ex-Marines, Army, Navy, Air Force. We all like living in the sun. Keeps our old bones warm. I wonder if there are any others like me out there that still carry out night missions? I’ll tell right now...I wouldn’t be surprised if there were. I haven’t met one yet, but it seems like I can’t be the only trained killer in America that continued his craft after leaving the military. I don’t mean by going to work as a mercenary or glamor bodyguard. I mean regular guys like me that chose to stay out of the limelight...and hunt. Guys who don’t need an audience when they slay their prey. True hunters, like myself. Think about it. As It Stands, as a veteran, I’m always exploring issues that deal with the military.


The winters were always cold, but this winter seemed to want to freeze us to death. I shovelled driveways to make a buck while my office was closed due to a faulty heating system. It seemed to make more sense for us to freeze at home instead of while miserable at work. Don’t get me wrong; my work is satisfying. Being stuck in place longer than our Windows ‘98 computers - not so great. I’m not alone in shovelling the driveways, although it feels like it most of the time. My buddy Chase has been helping me out with the driveways in our area. He’s a people person, whereas I am far from it. It always seemed to surprise him that a woman would be so terrible at speaking to other people because apparently, that’s “all we’re good for.” So after I punched him, he changed his mind, and I guess that’s how we became good workmates. He deals with the customers we - no - I shovel for. I’m the muscle of the operation and I’m certain I barely have any strength left after the weeks of relying on the repetitive task for income. We were on the last driveway for the day and we were far from certain to take the homeowner’s offer for the job. This elderly couple practically was trapped inside because their driveway was too much for them to handle. It was pretty understandable for them to struggle with it, I mean, the place was a mansion. Chase and I stood at the edge of the driveway looking at the snow and ice that blocked us from the door. He, for once in his life, put down his coffee and took a shovel to help me shovel at least a path to the door. Only after a few minutes, Chase and I were left gasping and sweating from shovelling barely a dent into the couple’s driveway. We knew that we couldn’t stop or the sweat would freeze us to the ground right there. Keeping up our pace, I heard Chase start to sound like he was in pain, so I called over to him where he was. “Are you okay Chase? You sound like you’re giving birth rather than shovelling!” He let out a slight laugh. “It’s a bit of pain I’m getting in my head”, he replied. “Is it a migraine? Like the ones you’ll usually get around this time of the year?” I waited for his reply but he seemed to stop altogether. “Chase?” I turned to see he was just standing still, looking up to the sky. “Mel, does it look like it’s going to snow some more?” He turned to me and I saw a slight panic in his eyes. “It kind of looks like a storm is coming”, I said. Suddenly, panic hit me too. We were three quarters done the driveway when the mansion’s door creaked open revealing a slim man wearing a parka and snow boots with a shovel in his hand. “I’ll dig from this way to help you guys get through faster! They’re calling for a bad storm heading our way!” The man seemed anxious but I doubted it was from the oncoming storm. As he shovelled, he kept looking back at the door as if in hopes for someone to be there. We finally broke through the pile and met in the cleared path. He told us to bring the car up on the driveway so we could stay inside for a bit now that the storm was growing eerily close. Chase pulled up, taking his time, while I went inside upon the man’s invitation. He took off his hat, scarf and coat revealing a stronger build of a man with a complexion that looked nearly coffee in colour. He gave a slight chuckle as I realized I had been looking at him for too long. “I guess this is your first time in this area? You’re pretty trusting for not being able to see my face.” “Why wouldn’t I trust you? My business partner and I know of the couple that lives here. You’re obviously their son.” He seemed very welcomed by my statement and I couldn’t quite place why. Was I good at talking to people after all? As if the storm was right behind him, Chase came rushing in with his papers, my bag, and his coffee in hand. I took the things from him and he ran back to the vehicle to bring the shovels inside. Out of breath, he tried to explain his eagerness to come inside. “The storm looks like it’s a few blocks away...but it’s not snow.” We looked at him with defeat as he said, “It’s freezing rain. We’ll be here for a while.” The man who invited us appeared to have an idea and headed towards the large pantry in the kitchen when a minivan suddenly pulled up outside the house, startling Chase, who’s back was turned to the door. A man rushed out of the driver’s side of the vehicle and assisted the passenger beside him out of the car as well. I stood in panic at the sight of his passenger struggling desperately to make it to the house’s front door. “Please help us! I’m begging you to let us stay until the storm passes....we can’t make it to the hospital in time and the car is no place for someone to stay in her condition.” Chase stood aside and gestured for them to enter so they came in, rushing to find a comfortable place for his wife to lay down. I was still standing at the doorway when the room fell silent as the man who invited us, came back in to see we had let two more complete strangers into his home. Instead of seeming annoyed or bothered by the additional people, he turned to the woman who was now laying on his couch and asked, “When are you due?” She turned away from him and her husband spoke up. “Possibly any minute now.” He sounded desperate but his wife seemed to just want to suffer in silence. I spoke out of turn and it seemed to startle the heavy silence. “So I’m Mel. That’s Chase. We work together. Who are you guys?” I looked at everyone’s blank stares and saw Chase give me a stern look in disappointment. “They are the Reed family. One of our higher-end clients,” Chase mumbled at me. At that moment, the wife’s expression changed to one of confusion. “You mean, this isn’t your house, Mel?” She seemed near worried. “No, Chase and I were just working on clearing the driveway when the storm was getting closer, so he invited us in.” I pointed to the man standing with a tray of food in hand. “Ah yes, I’m Carter. My parents own this home, they’re actually upstairs right now.” He looked around the room at everyone’s understanding expressions until he locked eyes with the pregnant woman who looked absolutely disgusted with him. He continued to speak warmly despite the sense of sudden tension. “Are you alright ma’am?” “Does it look like I’m alright?! I’m going to give birth and we’re nowhere near the hospital!” She became very cross with Carter for what seemed to be no reason and initially I chalked it up to the possible contractions, but something seemed very off with when she reacted. I couldn’t quite place why she was angry and found myself unknowingly zoned out while looking at Carter again. There was just something about him that seemed approachable and kind, unlike the people I’ve worked with or knew when I moved here. My odd train of thought continued as he spoke with Chase and the couple until the sound of Mrs. Reed screeching in pain sliced the conversation apart. Mr. Reed let go of her hand in an attempt to save his own as he began to descend into a panic. Just as I was about to ask how I could help his wife in labour, Carter spoke with urgency, “Sir, I know this isn’t ideal, but I believe your wife will be having this baby here. I am a nurse and I can assist in the birth of the child.” Without a second thought, I piped up, “And I’ll help!” Carter smiled my way and we looked for some sign of confirmation from Mrs. Reed. She looked between the two of us, sweat rolling down her face now. “Only she can deliver the baby, I don’t want you touching him when he’s born.” Her voice remained fairly steady despite the pain. “I can’t deliver the baby! Are you out of your mind, just let him instead. I’m certain the baby will be safer in his hands!” All she could do was shake her head at me so Carter left and I followed closely beside him, genuinely happy that I could leave that conversation. We headed up the stairs to a linen closet where Carter silently gave me blankets and cloths to carry as he filled a bucket of hot water from what appeared to be his bathroom. He gave a gesture for me to come in, so I did and he proceeded to close the door behind me. “Sorry, I know my parents are asleep at the moment...they haven’t been feeling so well recently.” “Oh, so that’s why we’re in here.” He gave a slight laugh at my response. “I can tell you’re a good friend. I wish I could get that woman to see me the way you seem to. I could help so much more during the delivery but you are going to have to just be good at following directions for now. I can’t go against what she wants, that wouldn’t be right of me.” “She’s just stubborn and -” The sound of Mrs. Reed struggling interrupted my train of thought. “Mel, we’re going to have to hurry so please don’t space out no matter what you see, okay?” I nodded in agreement, growing more and more nervous about what was to come. ~ Carter miraculously managed to get Chase and myself to a point in the delivery where at least the baby’s head was out enough to see there would be no complications but then Mrs. Reed suddenly stopped pushing and once we turned our attention to her, we saw she looked about as pale as the sheets. “Is she prone to fainting?” Carter hurriedly asked Mr. Reed who was looking as though he was about to cry. “She’s had some issues before but I’m- I’m not sure.” Mrs. Reed began to try to readjust herself on the couch. Cater realized he really had no way to explain to us how to help her with the pregnancy. So there he was; the first person to ever call me a friend, on his knees begging Mrs. Reed to let him help her. And still, with her life and the life of her child on the line, she was as stubborn as she was before but suddenly, she looked to me instead. She saw how I looked at Carter with wide eyes and finally, she gave Carter consent to help. Mr. Reed looked relieved as if his pulse finally normalized. Carter stood and I couldn’t help but watch in amazement like a little sister watching her older brother do what he’s best at. He placed a hand on her forehead and asked for Chase to get a cold compress. Seeing him in control of the situation suddenly gave me the courage I needed to help to the fullest. “Do you need me to do anything, Carter?” He looked between myself and Mr. Reed. “Mel, you stay where you are. Make sure you still see the baby’s crown until I’m able to get Mrs. Reed pushing again.” I looked at Mrs. Reed’s determined face as the ice pack wrapped in a paper towel was placed under her neck. “Mr. Reed pass me those pillows behind you. I’ll need your help with this.” I stayed in my place as Carter and Chase each took one of her legs as Mr. Reed pushed the additional pillows under to take off pressure from her spine. As if right on queue, Mrs. Reed found her strength to push with her husband beside her. Moments passed of Carter coaching me through holding the baby as it comes out and the whole room finally took a breath when we heard the baby cry. I never expected to feel so overjoyed when I saw Mr. and Mrs. Reed with their new baby boy. I stood up to go wash my hands when Carter came up beside me to do the same. He looked down at me with a caring smile. “So, um, I’m still really surprised you trusted me to deliver the baby, Carter.” I tried to avoid looking at him in the eyes but somehow he found a way for me to look at him. “It’s really only fair. You trusted me when I invited you in and you stayed after you saw how I looked.” “But nothing is wrong with the way you look.” I genuinely couldn’t understand what he meant. He continued to explain. “It’s really sweet that you still don’t understand. I wish my friends were more like you. She didn’t want me to deliver the baby because I am much darker than her. But I appreciate that it doesn’t phase you.” “Wait... seriously! That’s why? How are you putting up with this right now?” He grinned at hearing the baby coo. “I put up with it because that baby’s life is worth it.” I reached out my hand to shake his and when he did, I looked into his eyes to make sure he knew I wasn’t lying. “Consider me the first friend who will never judge you because you’re black. But you must promise me something in return because I think that’s what friends do.” “What? Don’t judge you because you’re ginger?” He let out a hearty laugh. “No...” He looked surprised at my seriousness, “Don’t ever tell Mrs. Reed that I was born and raised in South Africa. I think she’d ban me from holding her son if she finds out.” And just like that, I laughed and smiled genuinely for the first time in what felt like years with Carter. Chase seemed to be in awe across the room at my ability to hold a conversation since that was the one thing I could never do. Maybe all I needed was a true friend to talk to.


I used to travel a great deal. Part of that was due to the nature of my job but the rest fell back to a life-long interest in seeing quant little country towns. Frankly, I loved touring the wide-open road in my sporty convertible and discovering new haunts along the way. It made the soulless drudgery of life a little bit more bearable for me. In all of my years traveling for work or pleasure though, I never uncovered another place quite like the strange little town of ‘Newton’. It is unique. I stumbled across this virtual time capsule by pure coincidence. I’d meant to take the freeway to a much more familiar destination but somehow missed the turn. From that point on, my plans went completely off the rails. All of a sudden I found myself smack dab in the middle of a bizarro ‘time warp’. Honestly, I could scarcely even believe the place was real. The sleepy little community I discovered by pure happenstance is an amazing tribute to a bygone era. Every car which passed me by on the road was a vintage automobile. At first I assumed I’d stumbled onto a classic car parade, or a showcase rally for professional restorations but there were no newer model cars anywhere to be seen! It was genuinely startling and that wasn’t the only odd thing either. Not by a long shot. Everywhere I looked, I saw long outdated technology and forgotten signs of the past. The gas pumps didn’t even have a ‘pay at the pump’ feature; and ‘regular’ fuel was still an option there! I was dumbstruck by the very notion that leaded gas was still available. I thought it had been outlawed for years. Another thing which struck me as rather strange was the unwavering commitment each motorist had to honk at each other as they passed by. It wasn’t an angry, blaring blast of fury to release frustration either. They just tooted their horns lightly at each other and then waved, as a polite greeting. Frankly, watching that social exchange was surreal. I’d never witnessed anyone honk their horn as a gesture of respect. In larger towns and metropolitan cities I’ve frequented, a horn blast is primarily used as a sonic weapon. A few sharp honks are typically issued to chastise the poor driving skills of the other driver. There in Newton however, I found it to be an exclusive courtesy response. Before I could expend any more effort analyzing this incredibly different behavior, I witnessed a number of other startling things. The town had an honest-to-goodness drive-in movie theater and a soda fountain counter downtown! It was a welcomed slice of lovely Americana which I assumed was long gone. An involuntary smile crept across my face as I drank it all in. Unsurprisingly, the prices for food, fuel, and other general commodities were in line with the same distant time period. I stopped in to look over the available wares of a Woolworth dime store. It was eye-opening! The atmosphere was that of the early 1970’s ‘home town USA’. Even the dress style of employees and the customers suggested ‘a blast from the past’. Large collars, sideburns, wingtip shoes, and horn-rimmed glasses dotted the idyllic landscape. Small kids were outside jumping rope and playing hopscotch on the sidewalk. In one well-manicured neighborhood, I witnessed a young man delivering newspapers door-to-door by his bicycle! The whole thing was incredible. At first I was too stunned to do anything other than walk around and stare in bewilderment at the unexpected time capsule. That soon however gave way to opportunity. At the town dealership, almost new looking classic cars were available for used ‘clunker’ prices! I had to decide whether I wanted to buy a stunning 1969 Dodge Charger, or a beautiful Corvette Stingray for the equivalent of couch cushion change. In reality I wanted to buy both of them and a dozen other underpriced ‘treasures’ but no business in town accepted credit cards. I only had enough cash in my wallet to buy one of those jaw-dropping beauties. If there had been an ATM, I would’ve loaded up a whole car carrier full of gas-guzzling American muscle cars of the past and miscellaneous antique finds. Unfortunately that wasn’t an option. Back driving on the main highway, the motorists honked at each other and waved dutifully. I was a bit amused to realize that I wasn’t worthy of a honk from any of them. Obviously they could tell I was ‘an outsider’. I found myself envying those tight-knit townsfolk who knew and respected each other. It never occurred to me that I wasn’t honking at any of them first. Once I realized that in the sleepy bygone town, you probably had to give a toot to get one, I initiated the process and received my very first friendly honk! I was thrilled and it made me grin again in fulfillment. It felt absolutely fantastic to finally be accepted in such a personal way. Right then and there, I decided I was so in love with the magical place that I wanted it to become my hometown too. I begrudgingly drove my ‘new’ 1969 Charger Hemi R/T back toward my current home address with a level of satisfaction I’d never experienced before. I had honest intentions of packing up all my possessions and permanently settling in Newton immediately, but I decided there was always time for that necessary responsibility later on. It felt too good behind the wheel to spoil the moment. Instead I gripped the stick and desperately wished to continue acclimating to my newly-adopted home. It was completely intoxicating. I received dozens of courtesy honks and waves from my new neighbors as I tried to locate the interstate on ramp. The sooner I gathered up my things, the sooner I could initiate my permanent departure from my old life, and start my new one. I was certain the way out of town had to be nearby but I couldn’t manage to locate the exit. There were no signs. I must have driven in circles for hours. Finally I threw up my hands in surrender and gave up. Leaving to tie my loose ends just didn’t feel important anymore. I was hungry and Dave’s Drive In has a special on a burger, fries, and a chocolate malt milkshake for $1.35. A man’s gotta eat, right? Luckily, the miracle of 5G Internet even reaches the outskirts of Newton airwaves so I’m sending out this final notification to my friends, family, and employers. I’m not coming back. I’ve found a great job as a mechanic at Rawston’s garage, a good apartment downtown, and tomorrow I’m going to ask out Sarah the waitress from the soda fountain.


He placed a slice of avocado on the plate next to the poached eggs and toast. He set the plate on the serving table and rang the bell. The waiter came over and picked up the plate. He closed his eyes for just a minute. Being the chef of one of the best five-star restaurants in the country was exhausting. He was working on one of his new recipes when he heard something vibrating against the counter. He thought it was his phone but didn’t see it anywhere. He focused back on the dish adding lemon zest to the mixture. It was several minutes before he heard the vibration again. What was that? He wondered as he went looking for the source of the vibrations. After a minute, he found what was vibrating. It was an electric knife. That was odd but maybe the batteries were old. He turned it off and went back to his recipe. This was going to be one of his best dishes. He added some vegetable stock to his pot. It began to boil. The whole kitchen smelled delicious. He finished the dish and sent it out. He was cleaning up his work station when he heard the vibrating again. He went over to the electric knife. It was turned on again. How could that be? No one else had been in the kitchen since he turned it off. He shut it off again and went back to cleaning. A little while later, he was working on a decadent dessert, when he heard that vibration again. He was starting to become uneasy. He walked back over to the knife only to find that it had moved from where it had been. This was extremely odd. He reached for the knife when it darted towards him. He jumped back. The thing was possessed; it had to be. The waiter walked through the doors at that time. “Marty, this thing is trying to attack me.” He said, keeping his distance from the counter. The waiter came over and looked at the knife. “Sir, are you feeling okay?” He put a hand to his forehead. Maybe he had been working too long or maybe he was losing his marbles. “I think I’m going to go home early.” Marty looked at him, as if maybe he were sick. “Would you call Joanna and see if she could cover the rest of my shift?” “Of course, sir. Go home and get some rest. I do hope you feel better.” He went home, took a hot shower, and poured a glass of wine. He sat down in his recliner. After drinking the whole bottle of wine, he fell asleep in his chair. Images filled his mind of the knife chasing him. It was definitely one of those dreams where his legs were stuck in mud, and he couldn’t run fast enough to get away. He woke up drenched in sweat. He couldn’t go back to sleep after that. He didn’t usually watch much T.V. but tonight he flipped through the channels. It seemed like the only thing that was on was SYFY shows involving robots. He finally turned the tube off and went to his library. He thought about reading but most of his collection was horror or suspense. Finally, after several hours, he went to bed. He was able to sleep a little bit without any dreams. His alarm went off way too quickly. He dragged himself out of bed and wasn’t sure he really felt like himself. He chalked it up to not sleeping the night before. He got dressed and headed back to the restaurant. As soon as he walked through the door, he heard the vibration of the knife, but then it stopped when another employee walked in. It was all in his imagination. It was all in his imagination. He steered clear of that part of the kitchen though. And when he was alone, he swore he heard the vibration of the knife. There were times it even sounded like it was moving across the counter. It was all in his imagination. He almost had himself convinced too, until he felt a sharp stabbing on the side of his foot. When he looked down, the knife was literally trying to saw through his shoe. He screamed and jumped up on the counter. A group of employees rushed through the doors. The knife instantly went dead. The color had drained from his face, and he noticed that he was bleeding from his foot. The other employees were shocked by his response but were even more shocked when he explained what had happened. One of them came over, picked up the knife and took the batteries out of it. They finally convinced him to come down off the counter. As he looked into each of their eyes, he saw something that scared him but also made him mad as hell. They each had the same look of unbelief and concern. They thought he was going crazy. It was when their boss came up and suggested he go to the hospital, that he lost all control. He sank to his knees and began crying. He repeatedly stated that he wasn’t crazy, that the knife was after him. Finally, Joanna came over and helped him calm down. She then helped him to his feet and out the back doors. She went home after several hours of hysteria. She had bandaged him up and given him some medicine to help him sleep. He was finally tucked in and sleeping when she left. She was worried about him but figured that he just needed a goodnight’s sleep. She hoped that he would be alright. He woke up feeling more like himself, but he hadn’t forgotten the trauma from the day before. He had regained control though and was ready to prove his point, and possibly face his fears. He went to the restaurant. It was before opening so he would be by himself. That was both good and bad because he could maybe prove that without prying eyes but if he got into trouble, he’d have no one to help him. He walked towards the knife. Someone had cleaned the blood off. With unsteady hands, he put the batteries back in. The knife instantly turned on and began moving towards him. He reached over it and turned it off, but watched it for a long time. After a minute, the button flicked on, and the knife began to move towards him. He shut it off once more only to watch it turn back on. He wasn’t crazy. The knife was chasing him. He shut it off and took the batteries out. Joanna came in early. She had a feeling that she needed to be there. She found him in the kitchen, the knife was laying on the counter with the batteries out. “Can you do me a favor?” He asked with a strange calmness in his voice. She felt uneasy but agreed. He put the batteries back in the knife, but it didn’t do anything. “Will you leave the room but stay where you can see in?” She sucked in a deep breath and agreed. She walked out and peered through the window. As soon as she left the room, the knife came to life. It began skittering across the counter towards him. She watched him turn it off, and watched the button move on its own to turn back on. After a few minutes, she walked back in the room. The knife went still. He took the batteries out. “I’m not crazy.” He said with the same calmness as before. She shook her head. No, he wasn’t crazy. Without another word, he gathered up the knife and the batteries and headed out the back door. He threw them in the dumpster and closed the lid. He was always skeptical when he was around an electrical knife, and there were times when he swore that he heard the vibration, but he wasn’t crazy.


Yeah, I Know, but Mine Really Is Special Everyone likes to think that their wedding is special and unique. But the truth is, if you’ve lived a long time it’s likely that you’ve been to many of them. In general, I’m not a fan of attending weddings. I go when they’re with people I like and for whom I’m happy. But they’re long and they follow a fairly predictable pattern: 1) House of worship 2) Vows 3) Matching dresses/suits, 4) Time lag between the ceremony and the reception, 5) Cocktail hour, 6) DJ 7) Entrance of the bridal party 8) Standard dinner menu 9) Father-daughter/Mother-son dance 10) Catching of the bouquet/garter 11) Wedding cake Of course not everyone does this, but it does seem to be the template that has continued to be followed. Consequently, with the exception of the bride and groom and their families, these events are likely to be forgotten by most, except for the residual remembrance of a nice feeling on witnessing an event where people are all united in celebrating something positive. Weddings that stay in the mind of everyone in attendance forever, are those that have some dramatic, unexpected, component. These could be: 1) The bride or groom showing up horribly late, leaving people to imagine the worst 2) A knock down drag out fight 3) An inappropriate toast, revealing some better-to-be-kept-under-wraps, secret 4) Food poisoning which affects all in attendance 5) A celebrity in attendance Having been to many, many weddings and not having had any of the above occurrences take place, there hasn’t been much to remember about nuptial celebrations. At the risk of falling into the cliché offered at the beginning of this piece, I’d like to think that my and my wife’s(Allison) wedding is the exception. To be fair, we were a relatively older couple (53 and 44) and weddings at an older age are often less traditional. However, for a pair of fairly traditional people, we opted to deviate substantially from the cookie-cutter model. These were the elements of our wedding: 1) House of worship-neither my wife nor myself is the least bit religious. I’ve seen many couples who, despite their lapsed beliefs and practices insist on being married at a religious institution for no other reason than it’s expected. Allison and I found a place where we could have the ceremony and the reception-An out building of a hospital which is used strictly to raise funds for the hospitals auxiliary activities. We were married by a cantor which was a nod to the fact that we both have a Jewish heritage despite not being in a temple except for funerals (and weddings) in many years. What is even more true is that the cantor was a long-time friend and we could ask her to dispense with the usual proscriptions about Jewish life which we would not be following and just sounded hypocritical. 2) We did write our own vows which were not clever, or intentionally humorous, but they were heartfelt. 3) We didn’t have a traditional bridal party. We went to our closest friends, and gave each a job. A few were selected to hold the canopy, one gave a reading, one helped officiate. My cousin played the guitar as we walked down the “aisle” which was the space between the rows of chairs on the veranda of the event space. 4) There were no flowers. When my mother-In-law to be, shocked at this, asked Allison what she would be holding as she went down the aisle, she said, “the only thing I want to be holding is Ed’s hand” 5) After the ceremony, everyone went into the space which we populated with small bistro tables. Old habits die hard and people were asking where they should sit. I kept saying “anywhere”. 6) There was no traditional dinner. The wedding took place on a Sunday afternoon. We opted for very high end hors d'oeuvres. My in-laws upon hearing these plans a month earlier, informed the family they should eat before coming to the wedding. 7) No DJ. No band. No dancing. A friend of ours who is a professional pianist plays in cabarets. As a wedding present he offered to provide music during the reception. In addition, our friends, many of whom our musical theatre performers stepped up to sing. So if you walked into this scene, and didn’t know it was a wedding, and it wasn’t 3 o’ clock on a Sunday you would think you walked into a piano bar. With talent. Minus the drunks, with the exception of one of my cousins. 8) We did have a photographer, but at times he got so caught up in the entertainment that he forgot to take pictures. They weren’t good. Amazingly my drunk cousin took great pictures so I could forgive her for her slurred rendition of “I Will Always Love You”. 9) No mother-son dance- my parents were long deceased (sad, but cuts down on the drama). No father-daughter dance. Allison’s parents had long given up on her getting married so they were just glad the wedding was happening. 10) No bouquet/garter throwing. We both find this grotesque. 11) We did have a cake (chocolate/hazelnut-which is apparently, not done but it’s what we like). As a topper on the cake there was an EZ-Pass. Of course everyone was surprised and amused and it gave me the opportunity to tell the story that this was the first gift I ever gave to Allison. It was to make it easier (and less expensive) for her to cross the George Washington Bridge to get to me. I decided to leave out of the story the fact that I hate to drive and I would have given Allison ten EZ passes and a Toyota Camry if it meant I wouldn’t have to drive to central New Jersey. While I still don’t like going to weddings, I would have been more than happy to have been a guest at mine.


‘TIL DEATH DOESN’T US PART by Richard Wright “Ok, fine. I’ll do it,” Jerry said. “But I don’t know if I can make it all night. I’m sure it’s just going to make me go stir crazy.” He looked down at the ground and actually wished he could have kicked a little dirt on her. But he restrained himself. “Would you please just trust me for once?” Sally said, brushing her brunette hair out of her face. “I really think you will be surprised when it’s all done. You won’t know until you finally try it.” “I have tried it,” Jerry argued. “Remember, you tried to get me to do this a few days ago and it was a lame suggestion then too.” “It was not,” she fired back. “You just couldn’t stand to stay all night long, or even for two whole minutes. You thought you would be bored and so you took off. But just remember who had the better time.” Jerry’s face formed a slow grin. “Hey, I had a blast. I just wish I could have been there to see the people’s faces when they realized their garbage can lids had been superglued on.” He began to laugh out loud. Sally let him have his moment, then said, “But you would have had more fun if you had stayed with me. You could have seen people here. They came by all night long, and they will again - trust me,” Sally pleaded with him. The two of them had been friends for just over a couple of months, after they had both attended a party across town. Although they had known about each other for some time, since they went to the same high school, it was only that night of the party that they finally had a real conversation. She liked his build and jet-black hair, while he commented how nice she had always seemed to be. They even laughed together about classes they liked and teachers they hated. But they also learned they could not be more opposite in their personalities. Sally had always known that Jerry was more of a free spirit, whereas she was more quiet and not quite as popular as he seemed to be. Though she had friends and liked to be around others, she wasn’t as crazy as Jerry, and was never comfortable being the center of attention, which was his favorite place to be. Even if it got him into trouble. Nor was she as fond of practical jokes, for which Jerry seemed to have a knack and about which he bragged constantly. She enjoyed the occasional surprise to a friend once in a while, but she didn’t crave joking around like Jerry did. His antics had even won him the nickname “The Joker” in school. But now they were here, together, tonight. Just the two of them. She had to make this work. It might be her last chance with Jerry. “Maybe you’re right,” he finally spoke. “I suppose I’ve never really given it a fair shot. I just don’t like being bogged down in one place for long. I have to be on the move , you know?” “Oh, I know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I think the best way to torture you would be to tie you to a chair. Or chain you so you couldn’t move. That would drive you out of your mind.” “HA!” Jerry laughed again. “But we both know you can’t do that.” “Don’t remind me,” Sally said. “Hey, it’s always worked for me. No one has ever complained....well, not for at least a week now. I seem to have hit a slump.” Jerry was referring to his “streak,” as he liked to call it, of mischief around town. He was always seeking to get away with some silly thing or another. It was only a month earlier when he had managed to scare a cow out of the barn over on Farmer Henry Simpkins’ property and followed it as it ran down County Road 37, until he heard the cops’ sirens in the distance. Jerry left the cow running and fled before anyone could figure out what had happened. It was all over the paper the next morning. Then just over week ago he had convinced the Father Gideon that there was an air-draft problem in the chapel on Cedar Street. Jerry would sneak in the back of the church during services and caused the candles to blow out. It freaked out the attendees, and disrupted Father Gideon’s train of thought during his sermons. But no one ever saw or heard Jerry. He was too quick and too quiet for them. But now Sally was suggesting he couldn’t just settle down and stay with her in one place for one entire night. Well, too bad for her. Since she had thrown down this gauntlet, he would show her she was wrong. “So, what’s the deal then? What are we going to do here anyway?” Jerry asked. Sally quieted her voice, as if someone else would hear them, even though there was no one around that Jerry could see. The sun was almost completely gone down the horizon, and the night winds were beginning to pick up. “We’re just going to stay here all night-“ “--and do WHAT?” Jerry said, impatiently. “Scare people.” “But that’s boring. You know I already do that. All the time.” “Yes, but you haven’t done it here,” Sally said. “Well, what’s the difference? Just because it’s finally Halloween and we’re in a graveyard?” “No, silly, because you’ll be with me again.” She beamed her brightest smile at him. He looked at her, and realized that he had always suspected she wanted to be more than friends. He admitted to himself that, while she was pretty enough, he just didn’t exactly feel the same way about her. Finally he said, “Alright, just this once. For you. But don’t get used to it.” She moved closer, as if to touch him. “Jerry, why don’t you want to stay with me tonight?” He pulled slightly apart from her and glanced away. “I just....I don’t really like to...you know...get close to people. Not like that. I never have, Sally. It’s not you, it’s just--“ “--I get it,” Sally replied. She turned slightly away from him so he couldn’t hear her deep sigh. Then turning back, she said, “Well, even so. I think we will have a lot of fun here tonight. It’s right up your “Joker” alley. I promise not to get in your way...although we would have more fun doing it together.” “Fine,” Jerry said. “Just don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. I don’t like that. If something I want to do bothers you, then you’ll just have to go your way and let me go mine. Ok?” While his words stung a little, she nodded and said, “Ok.” They had to wait a while before the first people showed up, and they didn’t look much younger than Jerry and Sally. Obviously, they were only a small bunch of other teens trying to prank other people on Halloween. But Jerry had promised he would stay and try. So he and Sally came up with a plan. They would each hide behind a different headstone and wait until someone came close. Then, they would wave their arms and make ghostly wailing sounds while slowly rising to their feet and see how many people they could scare. The full moon was out and its dim glow through the dark clouds cast the perfect level of light around the barren premises. But no one even came close to where they were. So, they tried moving closer to those other people to see if that helped. But that didn’t work either. The teens who broke into the cemetery were obviously more interested in scaring each other than in being scared by someone else. It’s like Jerry and Sally weren’t even there. Jerry had never felt so ignored. So after a while he gave up. “See,” he told Sally, “this is LAME.” He watched as the little punk kid in front of him took off running after some girl in a tight sweater, threatening to ‘get her,’ wondering how such idiots were actually smart enough to break in without getting caught. Jerking his thumb after the kid, he said, “I told you this was a dumb idea.” “Now wait, don’t quit on me,” she begged. “You promised.” “Yeah, but come on! I’ve been more excited watching paint dry.” “I know but...it’s not quite midnight yet. That’s when the real fun happens.” Sarcastically, Jerry replied, “You mean, more fun than THIS? Oh yay.” “Well, I’m sorry,” she whined at him. “I can’t control what other people do, I can only control what I do.” The wind picked up a little more, growing louder, and leaves started to rustle heavily around where they stood together. The oak and willow trees on the property began to dance against the sky in the motion of the breezes. This would have been a perfect time to make another plan, but neither of them felt like talking anymore. Yet Sally couldn’t give up now. Her own real plan could not be foiled. It had to work tonight or she could lose Jerry forever. Finally she spoke. “I’m sorry, Jerry. This was supposed to be way more fun. This is not how I though this night would go.” Jerry sighed. “It’s ok. You can’t help it. You and I are just too...I don’t know. We just define fun in different ways.” She looked down at the ground. “I guess you’re right.” Somewhere in the distant night, they heard a dog bark. After another moment, Jerry said, “Look, I think I can still salvage this night, if I can just go somewhere else. We can hook up again some other time.” Suddenly Sally looked up. “Jerry, you can’t do that. Please, please just stay here with me.” She leaned closer to him, wanting so much to just hold him close to her. Jerry looked at her, at the longing in her eyes. He felt so awkward. How could he say what he wanted to without hurting her? He measured his words carefully: “Listen, Sally. I think I know what you’re trying to do. I think it’s what you tried to do the night of that party.” He paused. “Sally....I owe you an apology. For that night. I am so sorry about what happened.....what I did. It was wrong. And most of all, it wasn’t fair to you...it should never have happened.” They continued to stare into each other’s eyes. She could not look away, and she would not let him look away. When he tried, she pivoted her head so he would keep looking at her. She knew it wouldn’t be long now. “Jerry,” she said, “I understand. Please don’t blame yourself. I don’t blame you at all. It was an accident and I’ve forgiven you.” She noticed a tear starting to form in one of his eyes. “There was nothing you could have done to avoid what happened.” “I could have laid off the drinks,” he said. “I fooled myself, and I guess I fooled you too. When you asked me for that ride home, I said sure, just to prove I could handle it. I wanted to prove I was ok to drive....but I wasn’t.” He looked down at the ground and Sally noticed he started shivering. Sally’s kept her voice calm. “I actually knew you’d had a little too much that night, Jerry, and I could have refused to go with you, but I trusted you would be ok. I wanted you to be ok. I just wanted to be with you. To have you take me home. It was something I had actually dreamed about ever since we first talked...” Her words trailed off as she glanced down too. Then, through the darkness, they heard the sound of the clock tower at the entrance to the cemetery as it begin to peal its loud chime bell. Midnight had arrived. At first, the bell sound startled them, but with each chime they both relaxed. After the final tone sounded, they were looking at each other again. Jerry now had tears in both eyes, and Sally was smiling at him. “What?” he asked. “What’s with the grin?” She began to spin around with her arms waving above her head. “Oh Jerry! You did it! You stayed. I’m so happy!” She clapped her hands in front of her chest. Jerry just stared. “I don’t understand.” Sally cheered again and again, while Jerry just looked on, confused. “We did it, Jerry. It’s finally over.” “What are you talking about?” Then, from behind him, a deep, gruff voice spoke. “Well, congratulations, Sally.” Jerry whipped himself around, and saw a large older man standing before him. He had salty gray hair and wore a uniform with large golden buttons down the front. “Hello, Jerry. It’s nice to finally meet you - face to face.” The man’s cold eyes made him look as if he were about to offer a scolding lecture. “Who are you?” asked Jerry. But the man stayed silent, staring. “Jerry,” Sally said, “I would like you to meet Mr. Daniels. He works here in the cemetery.” Jerry studied the man’s face some more and said, “Wait....have I seen you around here before?” “Not unless you have eyes in the back of your head, Sonny. But I’ve certainly seen you, fleeing this place. You’re a hard man to catch.” Then to Sally he said, “I’m glad this finally worked tonight, Sally. I really am too old for this.” Then, Mr. Daniels spoke to Jerry again. “You see, Jerry, you have committed multiple violations against the rules. I have come to finally set things straight with you. Normally, when a person dies, their spirit can be free to go lots of places. It feels quite liberating, in fact, once a spirit is free from its host body.” Then his tone turned more serious. “Unless, of course, that person did something awful in life - like take another life, or two. Then, the rules are different. Those people don’t just get to flit around to wherever they want whenever they want. They get confined to one place only, and they have to stay there.” Jerry looked at Sally, not fully understanding. She said, “Jerry, you hardly got here when you became so excited to leave that no one could stop you. Ever since your body was put in the ground, Mr. Daniels here has tried to catch up to you, to keep you in your place. But he never could. So, he came to me and asked for my help.” Now Jerry understood. “So that’s why you wanted me to stay here tonight. You knew that by midnight on Halloween I would be caught.” Mr. Daniels said, “I’m sorry, Jerry, but those are the rules. I am here to put you where you belong - forever.” “Wait,” Jerry protested. “You mean I have to stay here, in this graveyard, forever?” “Yes, Jerry,” Sally said. “Right here where you were placed, two months ago.” She pointed down, and Jerry looked down and read the headstone, the one with his name on it. “Nooo,” Jerry began to wail as panic set in. He looked back at Mr. Daniels. “I can’t do this.” “Oh please, don’t complain to me,” Mr. Daniels bristled. “It’s only because you were not in control of your senses and had an accident that you aren’t being confined to somewhere else for all eternity. But, you did take a life, along with your own - that night of the party, when you and innocent Sally here drove off the road and...well you know what happened. You were there.” “But Jerry, there’s good news,” Sally piped up. “You don’t have to be alone. You’ll always have me. I will be right here with you, right here in this cemetery, and you and I can finally be together.” Jerry looked back at Mr. Daniels. “Wait,” he protested, “this isn’t fair!” “Enough!” yelled Mr. Daniels. “You may not have liked following rules when you were alive, but in death, you WILL do what you are told! Now, be gone!!” With that, Mr. Daniels threw both his hands over his head and Jerry’s ghost suddenly poofed into a cloud of smoke, which spiraled downward into the ground in front of his headstone. And then, all was quiet. After a moment, Sally and Mr. Daniels began gently floating along together to another near-by headstone. “Thank you, Mr. Daniels,” Sally smiled at him. “I cannot tell you how happy you’ve made me.” He smiled back as they came to a stop. “My pleasure, my dear. I cannot tell you how happy you’ve made me . Upper management gets so impatient with me when I can’t keep those wilder spirits under control. Maybe we need tighter spirit security at the perimeter fences. Anyway, I’m glad you’re finally going to get what you deserved in life, but never had. Enjoy your boy, Sweetheart.” And with that, Mr. Daniels waved his arms over his head again, and Sally’s ghost also poofed into a cloud and spiraled down into the dirt in front of her own headstone, where her body had also been buried just two months earlier, right after the accident that killed her -- and Jerry too. Now, the two of them could remain together forever in this graveyard, as friends for sure, and maybe even one day as lovers. Sally was convinced that Jerry would eventually come to see things her way. After all, now that he would never be able to leave her again, she had all of eternity to work on him.


I would be in a deep sleep. Then my mom would wake me. Time to go to church. I’d close my eyes. I’d start dreaming. Then my mom would wake me again. I’d ask to stay home that day. She’d say no. Then I’d protest more, but it was no use because I always ended up walking out the door in my khakis. My mom and I sat in the same pew for every sermon, and that had been our spot my whole life. Our Southern Baptist services had lots of structure. First we would pray. Then we’d sing a hymn. Then the deacons would pass around the offering plate. Then we would sing another hymn. After that was fellowship, where people would walk around and shake hands. When that was over, there’d be the pre-sermon prayer. Then the preacher would preach. Then he’d finish the message. And then we’d pray one more time. Finally, we would leave. That was the structure every Sunday. But there was always one extra step for me. And that was because of this woman named Dotty Hayes. Dotty sat in the pew right in front of me. She was a widow and had been for a long time. She’d never become a mother, and I’d heard people mention how she’d had a hard life. I didn’t know how old she was, but I’d always just figured she was 75. What stuck out about Dotty was her smile. It was odd, but I always felt like she meant it. She’d smile and show her large upper teeth, which were not dentures, and on each side of her mouth, a sharp point would form. At the same time, her eyes would squint to the point where they were almost shut. Nobody else smiled like that. Dotty Hayes, the extra step in my Sunday morning. Every service, directly after the pre-sermon prayer, right before the preacher went into the message of the day, Dotty would turn around and hand me a piece of old-fashioned red candy--the kind where the wrapper was made to look like a strawberry. What Dotty didn’t know was that I am allergic to a food coloring called Red 40: the very Red 40 that gave those old-fashioned strawberry candies their color. Red 40 is found in many delicious drinks and snacks. Growing up, I had to stay away from all kinds of treats. Fruity Pebbles, Skittles, Hawaiian Punch. My allergy also meant that I could never eat those little red candies that Dotty gave me every Sunday. When I ingest Red 40, I break out into hives, and I itch, and I'm consumed. Then the hives become a rash that can last for weeks. It isn’t life threatening, but it’s a pretty bad sight. Sometimes, with certain things, I’d risk the reaction. One summer, I broke down and ate some Twizzlers and then had to wear long sleeves for the next two weeks so nobody would see the streaks and patches all over my arms. Dotty’s red candy was how I discovered my allergy in the first place. It happened like this: I was five and it was Sunday morning and I was sitting with my mom and I was looking at my Batman action figures and Dotty turned around and she smiled and she handed me that candy and I ate it and then I got hives on my arms and I itched and I was confused and I was sad and we left early that day and went to the doctor and found out that I was allergic. We never told Dotty what happened. We didn’t tell anybody in the church because we knew they’d go straight and tell her. My mom didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She instructed me not to tell Dotty about my hives and to just accept any future candy and put it in my pocket and act like I was happy to get it. It turned out that every Sunday after that emergency room visit, I would get a piece of old-fashioned red candy. And every Sunday, I would smile and thank Dotty and put it in my pocket and act like I was glad to get it. I liked my Sunday morning acting exercises. My performances were good, and Dotty always believed them. I knew because she’d smile that weird smile with those eyes nearly closed and those knife points on either side of her mouth. I did something weird, though. Weirder than Dotty’s smile. I’ve never been officially diagnosed, but I’m a hoarder. I’m not as bad as those people on TV, but I can’t stand to throw things away. Starting around middle school, when I’d get home from church, I’d go to my bedroom and put my new piece of red candy in the top drawer of my nightstand. I did that every Sunday all the way to when I graduated high school. I ended up with a huge collection. My nightstand’s top drawer was big, and it was filled with years of Dotty Hayes’ red candy. My friends noticed this and thought it was funny. One time a girl came over and she judged me for it. That didn’t bother me, though. My collection of red candy wasn’t hurting anybody--so long as I didn’t eat it. Two days after my high school graduation, Dotty died. Her neighbor found her slumped over in her rocking chair. I was sad when I heard the news, and in dramatic fashion, I walked into my bedroom and opened the top drawer of my nightstand and stood there and looked at all that candy she’d given me. The funeral was later that week, and I went with my mom. It wasn’t too different from a normal Sunday at the church house. The congregation made up most of the funeral attendees, and Dotty’s family had even gotten our preacher to do the service. We sang songs, prayed, listened the the message, and prayed again. Then we filed out of the funeral home and went and had lunch. Then came the first Sunday service after Dotty died. After the opening prayer, the preacher took a few minutes to talk about her. Then he looked at her empty seat in the pew in front of me and recited a verse and some people in the church started crying. Then we went back into the usual routine. We sang the first hymn. Next was the offering. After that was another hymn. Then the fellowship where I had to shake hands with people. Then the pre-sermon prayer. And then it came time for me to get my candy, but Dotty wasn’t around to hand it to me. I had expected to be sad, and I was, in fact, very sad. I didn’t make a scene, though. Poor old kind Dotty. When I got home, I went to my bedroom, to my nightstand. I opened the top drawer and stood there staring like I’d done a few days before. There were so many red candies that I could smell them from where I was standing. Poor good-hearted Dotty. Poor odd-smiling Dotty. Then I got an idea: *Maybe I ought to pay some kind of tribute.* I reached into the drawer and grabbed a candy. I unwrapped it and held it in my hand. Red and hive-inducing, it almost glowed in its glory. I knew it would mess me up, but I ate it. Then I ate another one. After that, I ate another. Then I went ahead and ate more. Those candies had a loud crunch to them. They were tasty. I went on for a good while, until I couldn’t chew anymore. By this point, I’d consumed at least half the collection. I had even gotten into some of the old ones with faded wrappers. My teeth hurt, and my arms were itching. I went into the bathroom and found a packet of oatmeal remedy. I drew my bathwater while pouring in the oat fix. When I took off my shirt, I knew that this was going to be the worst spell I’d ever had. I looked at myself in the mirror over my sink. The hives were all over my torso and my arms and my neck and my face. And then I saw it, and I don’t care what anybody says. On my chest. Right over my heart. The hives formed an image. A face. It was Dotty Hayes. Smiling that odd smile.