It is a warm August afternoon in California, so Candace and I are hanging out together. My hands are behind me, and my legs are hanging over the edge of the somewhat clean wooden boards that I call the floor. Candace's curly blond hair is on my shoulder, and her little hand is enclosed in mine. We're staring at the sky together, and since our parents aren't home, we've planned to stay up until at least two in the morning. Candace turns her head to glance at me, her eyes, as blue as a cloudless sky, crinkle up around the bottom, and she giggles as a butterfly flutters around my head. "This is the best . So peaceful." She tells me, her hands now clasped on her lap. I nod. "Yeah, you're right. Thank God we didn't have that much homework." I murmur, staring at the orange splatters in the salmon pink blanket that we call the sky. "Kylar, can I tell you something?" Candace asks me, smoothing the hidden wrinkles in her white halter dress. "Sure... Candace," I say hesitantly, holding my breath as she cups my face with her hands. Candace smiles at me, her legs swinging off of the floor. "You're one of the best friends I've ever had." She exclaims, hugging me. "Yeah, well... Candace... I like you." I tell her, avoiding her eyes. I know she won't be there when I wake up, and my eyes begin to water involuntarily. I can't believe I've fallen in love with a girl who isn't even real. I stand up, nearly tripping, and falling off of our treehouse. Candace's eyes are wide too, and not a muscle in her body moves. Even her curls are still, which is surprising because they're like kangaroos every time Candace walks. "I..." She murmurs, turning to face me. I sigh, still avoiding those beautiful blue eyes of hers. "I know, we can't be in love since I won't be here for long. I have to wake up soon." I remind Candace, trying to smile through the tears I'm attempting not to show. Candace stares at me, her eyes wet with tears. She starts to fumble with something in her dress. "I thought you would say that." She exclaims solemnly, tears streaming down her face and making her cheeks damp. "I don't understand... do you not love me? You said you did!" "Candace, you know I do. I just can't keep living in a fake reality anymore. You and I, we can't be together. But I will always love you" I tell her, rubbing her shoulder. Candace rips her shoulder out of my grasp, her eyes narrowed at me. She glares at me with her arms crossed, looking like a five-year-old who didn't get their ice cream after they asked. Her bottom lip is out and the tears in her eyes make her look almost pitiful. “Then why don’t you stay with me?!” Her tone is hysterical, and the beautiful blond curls are bouncing faster than kangaroos. The smell of vanilla trails from her, into my nose, and I sigh. “Stay with me! Don’t leave, this can become your reality.” She exclaims, a tender smile on her face. She looks cheery, but this feels sus, especially because she’s been striving to make me stay with her forevermore. I stare at Candace, biting the inside of my cheek. "I'm sorry, but I'm not staying here," I tell her, my arms crossed. A feral grin grows on Candace's face as she slowly begins to circle me, revealing the item that she had hidden in her dress. My heart sinks as I spot a butterfly knife in her pale hand. I want to ask her why, but no words form when I open my mouth. "Guess this is the way it has to happen then, huh?" Candace asks me, shaking her head. "I thought you were different. But you..." Candace snickers. "You used me as a toy. And I let you. I can't believe I let you." She exclaims, her face twisted into a scowl. "Candace, I never used you. I loved you with all my heart." I tell her, still biting the inside of my cheek. As Candace starts to stomp towards me in her black ballet flats, the treehouse falls apart right in front of my eyes, and Candace plummets off of the treehouse, still screaming at me. Suddenly, everything is quiet as she hits the ground. "Goodbye forever, Candace," I say, waiting for myself to wake up from this terrible nightmare... ∆∆∆∆∆∆ My eyes open, and my vision is blurry, but for a second I see blond curls fly past me. I close my eyes, hoping for the best, and open my eyes again. Either I'm in heaven, or this room actually is the brightest, whitest, thing I've ever seen. I'm in some kind of cot, and when I sit up, the back of my head starts to throb. I see a girl sitting in the navy blue chair next to me - finally, something of color - next to me, and I almost faint when I notice that this girl has silky blond curls up to her broad shoulders, and the clearest blue eyes, like a cloudless sky. When she notices me sitting up, she smiles, the same warm smile. But... how?! I made Candace up! "You're awake!" She exclaims, giggling the same giggle that Candace did in my dreams. As she begins to walk towards me, I flinch and shrink into the wall. This fake Candace looks confused, biting on her bottom lip. "Kylar, what's wrong?" She asks. I hesitate. "Yo-you tried to kill me!" I cry out, my voice cracking. Candace stares at me, her eyes wide. "What are you talking about?! Are you okay? Your mother has been worried sick about you!" Candace exclaims, sitting next to me. "What happened?" I ask, rubbing my temples with my fingers. I don't remember anything, except that crazy dream. Candace avoids my eyes, her breathing getting shaky. "You were in a coma for a week. They put you in this hospital, but the doctor said you probably wouldn't live. You hit your head pretty hard." She tells me, tears streaming down her face. She quickly wraps her arms around me, her head on my chest. "After I told you that I liked you. We were in the treehouse, remember?" She asks, staring at me. My eyes widen, and I kiss her gently on the forehead. "I remember everything. I like you too, Candace."


There was once a man so delicately handsome. He possessed a face of the Gods- so boyish and beautiful that women fell in love by looking at him, opening their hearts at once. This boy was worshipped from an early age. Every female who laid eyes on him squeezed his cheeks, squealed with joy, lavished praise upon him. When this boy went to school, he surrounded himself with girls- too soft and sensitive to play with the boys. For, he didn't want to play sport, didn't want to 'earn' the respect of the other boys; He just wanted to be marvelled at and admired by the young ladies. When this boy became an adult, he couldn't concentrate on a thing. All he cared about was his own reflection and the attention it attracted. Why study at college, he thought, when my face affords me so much? Why strain and struggle like the other men- ugly, hairy peasants! And so he became a dropout, a drunk, a wanderer. He went from liason to liason, letting women worship him, while any sense of purpose evaporated from his heart. As time went on, he grew melancholy, empty. He began to hate himself, hate those who smothered him with compliments and kisses. He began to hate beauty and the physical world. And so he turned his back on it. He locked himself in his bunker for years, never seeing sun and talking only to himself, like a mad man. In those years he refused to care for his appearance. He rarely showered or brushed his teeth, and didn't shave once. He became an unkempt, ugly yeti. When he did go out for supplies, people made faces of revulsion and moved away quickly. At first, it hurt his soft heart, but then he began to love it. For, it was only then, for the first time in his life, that he could see himself through God's eyes and not the prying eyes of admirers. As he got more unkempt, more revolting to the point where he didn't think he could get uglier, he started to see God; he started to feel depth in his soul. He prayed night and day in a state of total bliss; he had never felt so content. After months of prayer, he started to see possibilities for a new life. "I want to live for truth, for depth. I want to connect with people's souls- nothing more!" He exclaimed. It was then that he became determined to re-enter society, to renounce his renunciation of the physical world. Now thirty-one and past his youth, he decided to shave and groom himself for the first time in years. "I can't go into the world looking like a derelict," he thought, "I must take at least a little pride". As he cut his dirty, out of control beard, however, the horrifying reality- a reality that he hadn't even contemplated- revealed itself. For he had thought that, now at thirty-one years of age, his face would have lost a lot of it's beauty- that the natural ageing process would have relegated it to an unremarkable face of a man close to middle age. But, as he clipped and clipped, his worst nightmare was realized. After many years and under all that hair, his face hadn't aged a day- it was still the glowing, godlike sculpture it had always been- arguably even more beautiful than before, as the beard and his reclusion had protected it from the blemishes of the sun. Now it glowed with a strikingness that was, like the sun, almost unbearable to look at for more than a short period. As he stared back at the chizzled visage that he had longed to lose, it seemed to taunt him and goad him. His passions were stirred; the familiar feelings of lust filled his entire body once again, like an old friend setting foot in his house and picking up a conversation from years ago. He called out to God but couldn't find him. For God and his beautiful face couldn't coexist, and the latter had totally eclipsed the former. The lust had just about totally engulfed him by now, and the prayers of recent months felt like a vivd dream that hadn't even occured. "Ah, to hell with God!" He shouted with a violent, lustful passion. "Why would I need God when I am in fact a God in human form! Just look at me" He looked again into the mirror at his superior physiognomy. "Surely this is the work of God himself. In this face, God has entrusted me with his spirit, his powers. God has elected me above the rest of our species. I alone have been given the permission to go forth in any way I please; With the powers of this face, God has essentially told me that anything I do is warranted, that any impact I make on people, they should feel grateful for." And with that, the dangerously handsome man left his house, intent on deception and manipulation. "Who needs God when one's face surpasses heaven itself!" He laughed, as the sunshine hit his bare cheeks for the first time in years.


Planet KL-9592 was pretty enough, Captain L’aran Storacher thought as her ship approached, but nothing special. She could name fifteen galaxies off the top of her head that were more impressive than this backwater on the edge of the universe, and the planet itself was relatively simple, covered by dull blue with patches of swirled green and brown across it that were obscured in places by weather patterns. Visually, there was nothing to explain the excitement among her passengers as they approached the small planet. She turned to her first mate, K’chan, intending to ask if he knew what was so exciting about this pale blue nothing when the ship’s computer chirped, alerting the crew to incoming space junk. L’aran had been born on a spaceship, and she hadn’t spent much time off of one in the intervening three tetrades, but she’d never seen anything like this. As they approached the planet there was more and more space junk, all of it apparently engineered, made out of a shining metallic material and twisted into impossible shapes. The computer was able to chart a course clear of the junk, but the entire bridge quieted for a confused moment as the polluted horizon appeared on the large screen in front of them. “Captain.” The frazzled voice came from behind her and she turned to find the ship’s passenger coordinator, I’nari, standing behind her. I’nari usually projected a calm and collected presence, but today she seemed...almost smudged around the edges. Her crest was slicked back as normal, but there were small pin feathers popping out along the edges. Her uniform was clean but didn’t appear to have been pressed before she put it on, removing the crisp edges she was usually so proud to display. Most telling, she hadn’t put on her vision assistance cups, instead opting to use the clunkier vision assistance frames. “You look like someone the helstock dragged in,” K’chan snorted, eyeing I’nari’s less than impressive appearance. I’nari put her hands up and smoothed her crest back, the small pin feathers popping right back out. “It’s fine,” L’aran gave K’chan a quelling look. She knew he enjoyed needling the pretty passenger coordinator, but something was obviously upsetting her and he should know better. There was a time and place for such things and now was not it. “How are our passengers doing, I’nari?” L’aran had spent about half of the trip eating in the passenger dining hall. Orean, the captain she had served as first mate, had taught her that while it was important for passengers to see her and even be able to approach her on occasion, it was also just as important to control where and how such things happened. Otherwise, Orean had confided in her, they would inherently choose the worst possible timing to force their way to see her. Her dinners among them were why she knew that her current set of passengers were all archeologists and scientists. It was unlikely that the passengers were physically dangerous to I’nari, and the poor woman didn’t seem to be injured. Yet something was obviously off. Come to think of it, L’aran hadn’t seen a lot of the passenger coordinator during this trip. She usually spent a lot of time on the bridge, trading barbs with K’chan. L’aran thought they should just mate already and get it over with, but what did she know about such things? “Captain...” I’nari hesitated, which caused L’aran to sit up straighter. I’nari was very straight forward, she didn’t usually hesitate. “Some of the passengers are requesting that we stop and take samples of the space junk.” L’aran felt her eye ridges raise and when she looked at K’chan he had the same incredulous look on his face. “I know that’s not possible,” I’nari was quick to say. “It’s not on the flight plan, it’s not possible .” She murmured the last words more to herself than her audience, then she looked up at L’aran. “It’s only, one of the archeologists is being quite the pain about needing to ‘take samples’ and no matter how many times I try to explain the intricacies of space flight and flight plans and fuel capacity, she’s being rather hardheaded about it all. No offense,” I’nari cringed and looked at K’chan. The quartz-based being chuckled and waved her apology off. “We take that as a compliment on my home planet,” he said graciously. L’aran pinched her nasal bridge. She knew exactly who I’nari was talking about. Herian Imal was the head of the expedition to KL-9592 and she’d approached the captain a few times during her dinners in the passenger dining hall, always with questions regarding the passenger’s baggage allowance. L’aran didn’t care how they divided it up, but each passenger was allowed 1,009 yikons of baggage, period. I’nari was right to talk about “the intricacies of space flight and flight plans and fuel capacity.” If they carried too much weight, the fuel capacity would suffer and they wouldn’t make it home for Dr. Imal to conduct her “very important archaeological research.” Dr. Imal had refused to take that for an answer, arguing that her team would likely need more than the weight allotted to them. She also just had a really high pitched voice, which annoyed L’aran. To be fair, all Coriani had high pitched voices, it was a part of their biology, but Dr. Imal managed somehow to hit a pitch that made L’aran want to remove the other being’s vocal organ. “Has Dr. Imal been badgering you a lot during this trip?” she asked carefully. I’nari somehow looked even more frazzled while still maintaining her perfect posture. L’aran could swear she saw another pin feather pop free of the poor being’s crest. “Dr. Imal has very exacting standards, Captain. And as the leader of the expedition, she wants to make sure every detail is perfect so that her team are able to use their time on KL-9592 to the fullest.” That would be a yes. “What is so important about this,” L’aran waved her hand at the approaching planet, searching for a good description of the underwhelming sight, “this water covered rock? As far as I can tell we’re at the back end of the universe at a tiny nothing of a planet surrounded by weird space junk.” K’chan sighed, sounding put upon.“You didn’t read my write up about this trip, did you?” He asked, though he obviously already knew the answer. L’aran felt her nasal ridges flare, partly in indignation but she’d be lying if there wasn’t a bit of embarrassment there too. “I read the passenger manifest and studied the orbital trajectories,” she defended herself weakly. “But no, I didn’t read your extracurricular essay.” K’chan and I’nari both looked at her like she was the strange one here. Like it wasn’t first mates who spent their free time writing up packets of information about where they were going and why who were weird. L’aran didn’t really care where they were going or why her passengers wanted to go there; it was just her job to get them there and home again. “Did you not study KL-9592 in school?” I’nari asked, honestly curious. “I grew up in the Mondrage Fleet,” L’aran answered, “early schooling was focused more on surviving in space.” “And then you had to take up surviving in space as your post-schooling too,” K’chan rolled his eyes. “Did you know,” I’nari asked, her eyes lighting up, “that 87% of the children born and raised in the Mondrage Fleet end up choosing to live planetside when they are of age? And of those 87% only about 5% ever move their home even once, even on planet. And only 2% of the children born and raised there end up staying with the Fleet.” I’nari loved so-called fun facts. L’aran, whose entire clutch had settled on their Pa’s home planet when they came of age, had lived those facts and found them less than fun. Though that might have been because she was the decided outsider in her clutch. And the clutch ahead of them. And the one behind. “I guess I’m part of the 11% then,” L’aran smiled weakly, not wanting to crush I’nari’s enthusiasm. “But yes, I did not receive a standard planetside early education, though our teachers always stressed that our curriculum met the Federation standard.” Both K’chan and I’nari looked unconvinced. L’aran cleared her throat. “So what is so special about KL-9592?” “It’s the first,” K’chan said simply. L’aran made an inquisitive noise at him. “Planet KL-9592 has remains of the earliest recorded civilizations in the universe,” I’nari explained. “Okay.” L’aran drew the word out, trying to figure out how to phrase her next question. K’chan laughed. “Oh, you space headed being,” he teased. “What I’nari is trying to say, what I wrote so eloquently in my ’extracurricular essay,’ is that not only are the ruins on KL-9592 the oldest in the known universe, the civilizations they came from are extinct. Whatever beings lived on KL-9592 died out long before the Federation was even a twinkle in General Orielian’s eye.” He paused, then asked, “You know who that is, right?” “Of course I know who General Orielian is,” L’aran groused, though it was a fair question. “I said our curriculum was to the Federation standard, didn’t I?” “As far as they can tell,” I’nari said when it looked like K’chan was about to snipe back at L’aran, “and by ‘they’ I mean archaeologists like Dr. Imal and her team, the beings of KL-9592 had achieved space flight, but they never left this solar system. It’s unclear what caused their extinction, but it seems to have happened suddenly and unexpectedly. The other thing they know is that it happened 759,000 years ago.” L’aran felt her eyes widen at that. Her own people, the Ginassi, were considered one of the oldest beings in the universe but their earliest fossil records only dated to about 500,000 years ago. Their oral history extended maybe three thousand years and their written history even less. “759 thousand?” she asked, to make sure she’d heard correctly. “Yup.” K’chan nodded once. “And because it’s so old, it’s protected by the Federation. It takes about a gazillion permits and a very thorough background check for anyone wanting to study the ruins there. That’s why this trip is only two Federation annuals and not, say, a tetrade or two.” Maybe Dr. Imal’s overbearing demeanor was understandable then. L’aran didn’t know how much it cost to get the permits to study KL-9592 but they were no doubt expensive and Dr. Imal’s sponsor for this expedition was an association of small universities from the Theian Galaxy. Maybe Fed U and its sibling schools at the center of the universe could fund multiple expeditions to KL-9592, but this was likely Dr. Imal’s only chance to visit. L’aran imagined Dr. Imal felt like a pilot who usually made planet-satellite jumps being asked to test fly the newest Federation spacecraft. Like, a really sleek, fast one. “Do you need me to pull rank on Dr. Imal?” L’aran returned her mind to the reason I’nari was here. “I hate to ask, Captain. I know it’s technically my job.” I’nari smoothed her hands down the front of her uniform, looking down in consternation as she felt the lack of crisp lines. “ Ifaal .” She requested the help of her people’s main deity quietly. “They’re going to drive me to drink at this rate.” “Not to worry,” L’aran sent control of the ship to K’chan’s console and stood from her chair. “What’s the point of being captain if I can’t put the fear of the stars into a passenger every once in a while?” K’chan smiled wickedly at her.“I know that’s my favorite part of your job,” he joked as she headed toward the bridge doors. ~ The pitch of Dr. Imal’s voice, L’aran decided a few minutes later, was not understandable. No spacecraft was sleek or fast enough to excuse her tone. “No.” L’aran cut off the being’s rant about the importance of space junk from KL-9592 based on a recent article by Yuurili in The Archaeological Association’s quarterly digest. “I am the captain of this craft, and I am telling you that what you want is impossible. That is the end of the conversation. You will not badger my passenger coordinator about things that are impossible any longer, am I understood?” Dr. Imal shrank back for a second, then glared at L’aran as if she could use the force of her bright eyes alone to change the answer she didn’t like, but L’aran had been a captain long enough that angry passengers didn’t phase her. “Fine,” Dr. Imal huffed. “But you’re standing in the way of expanding the knowledge of every being in the Federation!” With that self important volley, she turned and stomped off. Well, as much as a Corian could stomp, anyway. L’aran caught I’nari’s eye and rolled her own. I’nari’s lips twitched, but she maintained her professional facade. There were still passengers around, after all. ~ Back on the bridge, L’aran checked that their trajectory was still free of the multitude of space junk that circled KL-9592, then turned to her personal screen and pulled up a few articles about the ugly planet. She read a few news articles and a few academic articles before choosing a personal opinion post. It was written, years ago, by the being who now hosted her favorite history cast. Effectively , the post read, the beings of Planet KL-9592 must have believed themselves to be alone in the universe. No other civilization we know of now existed at the time of their extinction, not in any appreciable way. Even the earliest Ginassi had yet to hatch by the time those beings were lost. And yet, we find again and again in the detritus of their lives art and stories about the universe at large. They dreamed of a world beyond their own. They imagined a universe full of life and color and technology they could not create themselves, but that would make their world, make any world, a better and fairer place. The beings of KL-9592 were not perfect, that is clear. Their remains include tales of horrors that range from planet wide wars to horrendous interpersonal conflicts. One of their foundational stories appears to be about a man who kills his brother due to jealousy that his brother is favored by their deity. These were not always peaceful beings. They were not always as kind as they imagined the rest of the universe to be. But can you blame them? They thought they were alone in the vast black of the universe. I imagine it’s a lot like being left alone in a locked, dark room, with no idea if any one else is in dwelling. And still...and still they sang songs and wrote stories and created casts that celebrated each other, celebrated the world around them, and celebrated the best that the universe could be. And that, in my opinion, is the best lesson we can learn from them. ~ A few clocks later, after their craft had navigated the space junk and entered the planet’s atmosphere, they landed on KL-9592. As the captain, it was L’aran’s job to disembark first, to ensure the environment was safe. KL-9592 was safe for all beings on the craft, atmosphere wise, though L’aran had been warned the gravity would be a little heavier than she was used to. She felt it the moment she stepped foot on the dusty surface of the planet, like someone had attached strong, magnetic boots to her feet. Otherwise, though, they had hit their landing spot perfectly and of course there was no native fauna to worry about. There hadn’t been in 759,000 years. There was, however, native flora, all around her. It was mostly green with spots of red, and yellow, and pink, and orange, and brown scattered throughout. No wonder they dreamed about a universe full of color, their planet was bursting with it! Remembering herself, she pressed the button to open her com line and assure everyone that it was safe. K’chan came down next, followed by more of her crew. The porters spilled from the back of the craft, unloading the equipment the archaeologist and scientists would need for the next two annuals. Finally, the passengers disembarked, led by Dr. Imal. “Captain,” the being said cooly, nodding her head. L’aran withheld an eye roll. “Dr. Imal, welcome to KL-9592. The porters are unloading your equipment.” “Thank you, Captain.” Dr. Imal inclined her head again, but her eyes were already wandering to where the porters were unloading. L’aran started to indicated that Dr. Imal was free to hurry off toward them and begin hovering and chattering at them about delicate equipment. She paused, though. “Dr. Imal, can you tell me what the beings here called their planet?” Every planet had a home name and a Federation designation, after all. There was no way the civilization here called it KL-9592. Dr. Imal thought for a moment, then brightened. “If I recall correctly, in the language of the beings who lived on this part of the planet, they had different languages for different regions, you see,” she explained, hands gesturing excitedly. “But yes, the beings of this region called it... Earth .” “ Earth ,” L’aran muttered to herself, smiling in thanks before finally indicating the archaeologist was free to go. As the Corian hurried away, L’aran looked out at the colorful world that had once been the home of a civilization born too early, and nodded to herself. She turned to her first mate. “Welcome to Earth .”


Here it was again, the routine I knew all too well. Opening my eyes with last night’s makeup weighing heavy on my skin, an unfamiliar body next to mine. Pounding headache, dark sheets and a room I don’t recognize. I rise, quietly gathering the clothes from the floor that were strewn every direction last night. We were in a hurry, I suppose. He was, at least. It’s a morning I know well. Pull on the jeans, find the keys. Slide the boots back on, wiggle into the top you wrestled on before you left for the bar last night and let yourself out. Don’t forget to lock the door behind you. Once I could enjoy this for what it was. A place to end the night, somewhere to go once the club turned the lights on. At its simplest, a physical experience... and one I was able to get as easily as I could snap my fingers. And I really did know how to snap my fingers. It’s different now, though. I don't know why. Solace I once found in the warm touch of that night’s choice and the liberation of being free has long disappeared and now, all I leave with is the thoughts in my head and, if I’m lucky, a new t-shirt. And it’s always the same. I wish I could understand her- the girl who, last night, was so determined to do this. So earnestly excited to go there, to see him. Isn’t it strange? I don’t even know her now. I don’t. But really, maybe I do. Maybe she’s just me, uninhibited. Disregarding the blunt reality of the situation and hoping for the best. Hoping that maybe this time, she’ll be wanted for more than just the physical, more than a scramble of numbers to text when his bed feels a little too big. Because when that text comes in and the club is empty and the lights are turning on and the air outside is cold, she gets ahead of herself. Because this time, she thinks, maybe he’ll really think she’s great. Maybe he’ll think she’s funny and cute and smart and maybe, even, he’ll want to see her again. And, you know, maybe next time it’ll be before 3 am. Maybe next time he’ll worry about her enough to call her an Uber. Maybe, she hopes, she’ll be held. Really held. And held as herself- not just as a warm body to end the night next to. But I... I know better. I do. I know that you leave before he wakes up, and don’t make a sound. And you don’t care about leaving early, even if it’s just below freezing and starting to snow. And you don’t care about the fact that he ripped your favorite top a little bit and bit your lip a little too hard. Because, well, you got what you wanted. Right? You got the feeling that you were chasing, didn’t you? Didn’t you? This was what you wanted. Because you know, he looked at you like you were the world last night. He looked at you like you were really special. You were the one he texted. Right? Isn’t that what you wanted? To feel special? Just for a minute, to feel... wanted? Because he wanted you. He did. He really, really wanted you to come over, he wanted to see you. So you did. You went, you saw him. And you arrive. We chat as we walk down the stairs to his room. He doesn’t seem too interested in conversation tonight. The lock clicks. Twenty minutes pass. He hits the pillow. Turns, faces the wall, and pulls the covers towards him. Falls asleep. I didn’t know people could fall asleep that fast. I sure can’t.


Starcraft: Marine I hate the drops. Drops were the worst. The idea behind performing these “tactical insertion operations” is to “selectively disrupt enemy production capability” but most of us jarheads just think of it as a bug stomp. We drop in near a bug hive and kill everything we see, preferably, while the main swarm is off fighting something else, than jump out. Word from intel said that the main swarm was on the move to southern ridge of our base. They had already eaten their way through Camp Eagle and Camp Limley here on Typhon and were itching for a third meal and, since we were the last remnants of Limley, we were tagged with the “opportunity” as Lt. Korvic calls it. So here we were in the APOD-33, me and seven of my buddies jammed in tighter than a porn stars cooze at a gang bang. The only thing that could make it better would be if a flock of Muta’s showed up while we were flying over the canyons. They look like worms with wings, worms that shoot bug bullets out of there asses. I’ve seen these bullets, these “glaive worms” as the brain boys like to call them, make swiss cheese out of the AAV-5 tanks so I could only imagine what they’d do to the APOD. Korvic would love that. I’d probably enjoy it to just to see Korvic’s face as we go down in her precious ship. Bitch. I can’t rag on her though; she keeps the boys alive and is our ride out of here should the shit hit the fan. Dawn is hitting the eastern side of the ship. Drop time is coming up soon. I bark the command to perform pre-drop prep. Each of my guys reads out the HUD on their medical conditions then they start their own suit diagnostics followed by weapons checks. All of this information is relayed back to my suit which I pass on to Korvic. This was all done prior to loading up but you can never be too sure. I amble my way up to the bow and glance at the windows. It looked completely bright outside but I knew that it really wasn’t. I don’t understand the whole technology behind it but it had something to do with the ships sensors and VR displays or some nonsense. I could see the hive in the distance, once I focused on it my HUD began restating our mission objectives and highlighting key spots to target. I still haven’t gotten used to seeing these things even after three years in the corps, which, considering the life span of a marine is a long time. A skyscraper made of bruised flesh and bone, once the ship optics focused in you could see that it was crawling with the worm larva. The Intel geeks say that the larvas are “genetically versatile” which meant that they could become almost anything in the swarm, if the right conditions were met. I reminded Korvic to scan the area for any of the growths in the area as a result of those conditions. They say that the growths are similar to tumor. Once the Zerg get wind of opposition around there turf they immediately make some kind of virus which infects one of there worker bugs. Once the worker bug is ready it becomes a growth feeding off their creep and other shit around the area. The tumor forces the larva to become bigger, badder bugs. They say it’s some kind of “immunal response” from the hive like how white blood cells attack infections in the human body. I don't pretend to understand it, all I know is that blowing up the tumor buildings, yeah buildings, stops them from making meaner bugs. At the base of the hive were cocoons, which lord only knows what was growing inside of them. With my luck it'd be Ultras, big, fanged and armored bastards that could tear through ten marines in a single swipe. Korvic didn't scan any radioactive deposits in the area but I wouldn't rule them out either. The Ultras eat rad deposits or some shit like that and is a strong sign that Ultras might be nearby. West of the hive was our target area, the mineral mines. Korvic’s telling me that conditions look good. We managed to avoid the max range of there Overlords, the bug eyes in the sky, and the ones hovering near our dropzone were dispatched by Vike’s on an earlier skirmish. SATCOM says Zerg hadn’t had time to replenish their number in this area with the exception of a few hundred drones. We would be going in undetected to the mines and kill all the drones, no drones no minerals. No minerals no bugs. Simple. I shout at my crew, not that it’s necessary, the audio in our armor can filter out the background noise of the ship, but to get them pissed and ready. I remind them what the bugs have done to us, how they are eating everything they see and that they want to be the toughest sons of bitches in the universe. I remind them that once they hit the four year mark they’ll be pardoned and that all the pussy in the universe will love them and thank them for their service. I see glassy eyes and hear grunts and howls. I can tell Korvic’s pinged there suits for stims. We descend very suddenly, then immediately slow, the APOD is in its vertical take-off state. Korvic and the pilot hit it just right; we are only 10 meters above our DZ. I hear a small compressed whine within my suit. Korvic’s started my stims. As the ramp opens I can see the men stand, helmets closing on their faces, almost foaming at the mouth as the stims take effect. The dawn light hits us and I remember how I came to the corps, how I killed all of those people and that I’m only a year away from my pardon. Why would I want to leave? I can’t give this up. I don't even need the stims to kill. I sight in on the helpless worker bugs, pull the trigger and smile.


Stuck “Don’t look under the bed.” Mom said and gave me a good night kiss. “Why?” I just had to ask. “Your favorite question again. ‘Why, why, why.’ Well, you might find something you don’t want there. That’s why. Good night.” Mom left the room with the door slightly opened so I could see the hallway light. Then again in the morning, the light was always off. That spooked me each time when I thought about it. Now, here is a different situation, I thought. Why did Mom tell me not to look under the bed? I’d never dreamed of looking under the bed if she didn’t mention it. Why would I? All I will find are half-broken toys, candy wrappers, or possibly a dead mouse since I haven’t heard it running through the ceiling. Curse you, Mom. I closed my eyes and all I could think of was what was under the bed. There should be nothing I couldn’t imagine. Oops, I used the I-word. Imagine. “You can do this. Use your imagination.” That was what Mrs. Koncharofsky would say when we had to do any work in the classroom. “What is 7 times 13? Use your imagination.” She would say. If I can imagine the answer, why am I here to learn how to multiply numbers? I should be home imagining what I want for my lunch and what presents Santa Clause should bring to me under the tree. In time, I was getting sleepy. I should go to bed. After all, I have school tomorrow. I need to save all the imagination for what Mrs. Koncharofsky will ask me in the classroom. I was ready to go to bed in a second if I didn’t hear a cry under the bed. It sounded like a growl. Very light and soft and wimpy growl. “Use your imagination!” Mrs. Koncharofsky’s voice lingered in my head like a doorbell. I don’t want to use my imagination! I shouted in my head. Fortunately, I could not imagine anything could be under the bed, but unfortunately, I was not sleepy anymore. I want to sleep! My heart was shouting at me. But my brain said I am wide awake! What shall I do? Yes, I need to find out what is underneath the bed. But why? It’s probably a cat. We don’t have a cat. A puppy? We don’t have a puppy either. Does Mom want to surprise me with a new pet? It’s a nice thought, but she isn’t that kind of a person. It’s not my birthday or Christmas. There is no chance of that. “Use your imagination!” Why? Mrs. Koncharofsky? Did you imagine that we need to start calling you by your new last name in the middle of the school year? Yes, she was Miss Tanaka, and after a Thanksgiving break, she became Mrs. Koncharofsky. Did you imagine that we had no problem understanding how the marriage system works in the United States? You should’ve kept your last name. It’s easier for us to pronounce and you don’t even look like one of Koncharofsky. “We all need to accept one another.” That’s what she would say. In fact, her husband’s first name was Mike. When he proposed to her, she realized that she would become ‘Koncharofsky.’ She was already in love with him and all, so she said she accepted to become ‘Koncharofsky.’ Wait! I don’t have time to reminisce about my schoolteacher’s fond memory of her last name. There is something under the bed! There was a cry again. This time, it was a bit louder but still sounded frail and weak. I took a deep breath to brace myself. I crawled onto the floor like a snake and peeked under the bed. There they were. Two enormous eyes shining like diamonds glared at me. There was a gigantic monster under the bed. I couldn’t see anything else but those eyes. But they were not shined because of the evil power. They were filled with tears. The monster growled again. “Who are you?” I squeezed out my voice to ask that simple question. “I’m a monster.” His voice was so gentle that I could barely hear. “What are you doing down there?” “I’m supposed to scare you.” “I’m kinda scared. Well done, now goodbye.” “No, I can’t come out of here. I’m stuck.” “How did it happen?” “I am a big monster. I usually use the closet, but there is no closet in your room. So by default, I appear under the bed.” “That doesn’t make any sense. Don’t you know how big you’re?” “Of course, I do. This is the first time this happened to me. You know everything has the first time.” “Yeah, but this is stupid. You know today is a school night, don’t you? I have a math quiz tomorrow. And I’m not good at math, especially fractions.” “Well, I apologize for the inconvenience. But if you’re not scared, I’ll be stuck here forever. Could you scream a bit?” “I can’t do that. Mom will be mad at me. She’s the one who told me not to look under the bed. I don’t want her to know that I found you there.” “You want me to stay here forever?” “Frankly, I don’t care. I need to go to bed. You know, Mom vacuums every morning. Maybe that’s how you can get out of your predicament.” “Predica-what?” “Predicament.” “Whoa, you know a big word.” “Don’t you know what predicament is? How old are you?” “Eight.” “Jesus, I am nine. I thought you guys are a lot older than I am. So at eight, you start scaring human kids?” “Well, kinda. We practice and need to pass the scaring test. I passed it two weeks ago. This is my second week.” “It sounds like you’re an adult already.” “Well, I am on my own.” “Where are your parents?” “They are in Florida. They have already retired from scaring kids. They have pina colada and lie down on the beach.” “Monsters, too, retire in Florida? I’ve never thought that would be possible.” “There are a few beaches just for monsters although we can’t tell them apart from retired old humans from retired monsters. They all wear Hawaiians or moo moos with sunglasses.” “What are moo moos?” “It looks like a big pillowcase. Very colorful, though.” “Who, I had no idea. We are very much alike to each other.” “You know, once, my mom sent me a photo with this humongous head monster in moo moos.” “Really?” “Well, it wasn’t a monster standing next to her. It was an old lady with a towering hairdo. It looks like burning Eifel Tower.” “That’s funny.” “It was....” “What’s wrong?” “I’m so stupid. I should be scaring you.” “Well, but now I’m glad you’re here. I’m getting sleepy with your nice story.” “Really? Good to know.” “Now I’m relaxed and don’t even think about the quiz tomorrow.” “Fractions, huh? Would that scare you?” “No, I just get nervous.” “You know what we do when we are nervous?” “What do you do?” “We imagine the zombies running around with their heads cut off.” “That’s funny. We imagine the chickens instead of zombies, but zombies will do, too.” “Good.” And the monster sighs deeply. “What’s wrong?” “I guess I’ll be stuck here forever. Don’t get me wrong. I am having a great time talking to you.” “Now you said that I can’t go to sleep thinking about you being stuck there forever.” “Sorry.” “Just say something a little scary. Then, I scream lightly. Okay?” “Okay, let’s see.... MOO!” “What’s that?” “Well, if I say BOO, that will surely scare you. I just wanted to scare you slightly.” “Have you scared anybody before?” “Of course, I have. I told you this is my second week.” “What age group?” “They are between three to eight.” “So, I’m your first nine years old.” “Yes. You’re still a child, aren’t you?” “Wrong, you are. We nine-year-olds are more sophisticated than those nose-running, underwear-smelling muddy foot scoundrels.” “I can see that from your choice of words.” “So, you must set up the scene right to scare me. You have some power to do so, don’t you? Or do you just scream like a monster?” “I am a monster.” “So today is a good learning opportunity for you. You have a long career ahead of you as a scarer. You need to improve the technique to scare kids my age.” “Okay, I’m beginning to feel lucky being stuck here.” “Good.” “First, you must create an eerie atmosphere. The door closes for no reason. The wind blows in and splatters the curtains.” “I can’t do that. I don’t have those powers.” “What do you have?” “I have large shiny eyes with pointy sharp teeth.” “That’s scary. Good. What else?” “I can do a voice.” “You mean, you can sound like someone else?” “Yes. Ahem... ‘We all love China, China, China, Let’s make America even greater again.’” “Are you sure you’re here to scare kids?” “I saw that on TV the other day in a kid’s bedroom. She left a TV on.” “Who else can you do?” “Let’s see... ‘Come down here, Samuel Moses Anderson! Right this second!” I screamed! The monster sounded just like Mom. The door opened. There stood Mom. “What happened?” “Nothing.” “Nothing?” “Did you peak under the bed?” Mom smiled. “Of course, not.” I looked away from her. “Okay. Do you want me to stay until you fall asleep?” “No. I’m too sophisticated for that.” “How about this?” Mom kissed me on my cheek. “Good night, Mom.” “Good night.” Mom left the room with the door slightly opened. I took a deep breath, and it became quiet in the room. I heard nothing from under the bed no more. The End


“One, two, fisherman’s stew, boiled on timber and stirred with a broom.” Dad’s in the shower, singing. “Three, four, pour it on the floor, feed all the beasties, cook up some more.” He’s sung this one so many times, I know almost the whole thing by heart. “Five, six, mortar and bricks, weaker than iron but stronger than sticks.” Isn’t it odd how we say a song is stuck in our head, but then say we learned it by heart? I saw a comic once where two characters were debating about that: a song stuck inside, playing on a loop, in your head vs. in your heart. Maybe it depends on whether or not you want it there. If the song is welcome, you want it in your heart. If it’s not, you want it somewhere besides your heart, and your head is an acceptable place for the song to squat. “Seven, eight, lock up the gate, nothing to do but to sit and to wait.” Whether the songs are in his head, his heart, or somewhere else entirely, they certainly seem to be stuck. As a family, the rest of us have come to the conclusion that this is because of Dad’s spectrum brain. My sister and I say that about 50% of everything Dad says is not original, instead being a quote or paraphrase of some kind. Movies, books, songs, memes--he repeats all of them, ad nauseam. Another snippet of song I’ve heard countless times is “Lobsterbacks attack the town again. Wrap all my things in aluminum.” I have a vivid memory of Dad putting away his socks while singing that, vigorously nodding his head to the beat. He was wearing what I now know to be a band t-shirt, but at the time, I regarded it as simply weird. There was an angry-looking blue-eyed robot wearing a red cape, standing on a city street with red-tinted skyscrapers. The words CLOSE YOUR EYES were written in white block letters below. The picture and caption on the gray t-shirt made me think of dreams and nightmares. Dad’s black t-shirt with the orange eye on it also used to creep me out. Now, he likes to poke fun at the graphic t-shirts I wear. I think he likes them, yet he laughs as he points and comments. One shirt, which I’ve since outgrown, he really did take issue with. It had an illustration of a Tyrannosaurus Rex on it, accompanied by fact boxes listing its height, weight, etc. Dad took issue with the fact that one line read Diet: Carnivore . Every time I wore that shirt, he would say, “Diet: Carnivore. So, it only eats other carnivores?” We beat around that bush almost as many times as I’ve told him that a Pteranodon is not a dinosaur; I’ve stopped responding beyond a look to both of those topics. That’s his word-focused spectrum brain. It runs in the family. My aunt, his sister, has a shirt that reads Grammar Police: To Correct and Serve . She’s a school superintendent. Guess which of Dad’s children inherited the word focus? That’s right, yours truly. I also seem to have inherited, or else learned, a head-shaking quirk from him. If Dad is getting distracted by his thoughts, he shakes his head to clear it. I do the same, for the same reason. I see him do it often when he’s driving. Another thing he does while driving is drum on the steering wheel, sometimes while singing “Peaches come from a can, they were put there by a man in a factory downtown.” If he’s not too busy singing, I’ll read aloud from a book. I’ve already read C.S. Lewis’s Out of the Silent Planet to my family entirely in the car, and now we’re working our way through Perelandra , at least when my mother and sister aren’t asleep. Before that, I read Michael Morpurgo’s Kensuke’s Kingdom and Richard Adams’s Watership Down at the dinner table. Watership Down made Dad love rabbits; now, on summer evenings, he’ll sit outside in a camping chair with a beer, watching the neighborhood rabbits. We tried watching the Watership Down animated movie, but as a family, we agreed that it was not very good, and that’s putting it mildly. Halfway through, Dad decided he didn’t want to watch the rest of it, and went to bed. He missed the only part that possibly redeemed the terrible experience of watching that cartoon. The next time we watched Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit , in the scene where Gromit turned on the radio in the truck while waiting for Wallace, a now-familiar song began playing--familiar to all present except Dad. “Bright eyes, burning like fire...” Once we explained to him that Bright Eyes was from the abominable Watership Down movie, Dad joined in our laughter at Gromit’s annoyed eye rolling. Sometimes Dad plays music that more than annoys the rest of us. If he’s singing snatches of something and proceeds to fiddle with his phone, I brace myself for the soon-to-be-blasting audio. On more than one occasion, he’s made us jump or shriek with his sudden musical assaults. We’ll ask him to turn it off, shouting to be heard, to which he almost always replies, “Why? This is a sweet jam,” as he rocks in time with the music. Then he’ll dramatically lip-sync along with the words. “I’ve got the time tick tick tickin’ in my head.” “At least turn it down,” we beg, and he finally relents. I think it’s not the time, but song lyrics, that run in his mind as constantly as the ticking of a clock. Once he hears something, he’ll repeat it, sometimes for days on end, often by playing it out loud. One of the more pleasant of these bouts of musical repetition began on a visit to Uncle Julio’s house. I was sitting on the couch beside Dad, playing Minecraft on my cousin Luis’s tablet. Dad had his headphones on, watching things on our computer. Dad started laughing, wheezing for air, almost falling over. A minute later, he poked me, gasping, “You have to listen to this.” I held my hands up, fending off the headphones. “What is it? I’m not sure I want to hear it.” “Just watch this,” he insisted, and I apprehensively allowed him to put the headphones on me. The words on the screen declared Seagulls! (Stop it Now) A Star Wars Bad Lip Reading . What followed was voice overs of scenes from Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back . Most of the video was snippets of Yoda singing a ridiculous song in a falsetto voice. I laughed almost as hard as Dad did, and Seagulls! was played many times after that. We later discovered another Star Wars BLR titled Hostiles on the Hill , also from Star Wars Episode V . In that BLR, there’s a part where one of the Empire’s soldiers in an AT-AT says to the driver, “Don’t worry about it, Darius, ‘cause I’m a mile high, and I’m the scariest.” After that, a new piece was added to our family’s dialect: Dad would say “Don’t worry about it, Darius,” when we were concerned about something. This later devolved into simply “Darius,” and even Mom will use it. Quite recently, Dad got onto another song repetition campaign. While we were sitting in the car waiting for Dad to finish filling the gas tank, a song he likes came on over the gas station radio. “I like diggin’ holes, hidin’ things inside them, when I grow old, I won’t forget to find them.” “This is a good one,” Dad declared, bobbing his head to the beat. The next day, as we were sitting in the car in the driveway getting ready to leave, Dad said, “I’m going to play No Roots .” He held up his phone and asked, “You guys ready?” A moment later, the opening bass beats boomed from the car speakers. He’d finally gotten the car bluetooth to work. “Now we’re one of those cars playing loud boom-boom music,” I commented, and everyone laughed. Then we all danced in our seats, waving to our neighbor as we drove past, enjoying the music stuck in Dad’s head. I love you, Dad. Keep being awesome. Author’s Note: This story’s title is my father's joking version of the Menards jingle. “Save big money at Menards!”


CW: Sexual violence/abuse, suicide, swearing “You’re the absolute last person I want to call, but I’m really desperate here, Elliot.” Scarlett’s voice sounded shaky over the phone. Was it emotion or a bad connection? “What’s wrong? I’ll do anything to help.” “You’re the only one who answered.” I waited for her to continue. “Can you meet me at the bridge? Where I work. You remember where that is?” “Uh, yeah. I’ll head right over.” “Are you home? I’ll order a ride.” “I can drive.” “You’re driving again? Is that a good idea?” My fists clenched and my eyes squeezed shut. I sucked in a deep breath. “I haven’t had a drink in ten months.” She sighed. “Okay. Hurry.” She doesn’t believe me. This shocked me, but maybe it shouldn’t have. My sister and I weren’t all that close these days. After the accident, my remaining family dropped me. No more invitations to holidays, birthday cards, or updates on how everyone was doing. It all stopped. They thought my driving my car off a bridge while drinking meant I had a drinking problem, and when I refused rehab, they lost it. The alcohol I consumed that night was simply liquid courage for what I felt I had to do. End everything. I never corrected anyone. Being seen as an alcoholic seemed better than the vulnerability of admitting I wanted to fly off that bridge and didn’t plan to walk away from it. I quit drinking only because it didn’t work for me. It never made me feel good, only sicker. I grabbed a tan corduroy jacket and put in my earbuds to listen to my favorite true crime podcast. These deranged criminal masterminds and psychopathic serial killers often had families, friends, and sometimes even girlfriends and wives that adored them. Made me wonder about how quickly my family turned me out. As I walked out of my studio apartment, I checked my phone one last time for messages. Connor invited me to play zombie paintball, and it filled me with relief to be able to say I had other plans. It’d been so long since I had any plans, never mind options. My sister can say what she says, but I always have and always will put family first. Might be part of the problem. When I opened the door to leave the building, cold air shoved through me like a ghost on a mission. My insides felt as icy as if I were naked. I needed a better coat, but they cost money. Maybe some fat to insulate my bones, but I struggled with keeping on weight. Having a strict diet comforted me. When people can do things to your body and you have no say in the matter, it helps to take back power where you can. My therapist said something like that anyway. Glowing pumpkins lined the street doorsteps. Vampires, ghosts, kitties, and monsters carefully carved to perfection beamed their orangish light. Leaves danced around me in the soul chilling wind. I sat in my car, turned the key, blasted the heat, and rubbed my hands together. My breath formed fog clouds in front of me. I’ve never smoked, but sometimes I wanted to. Yeah, it’s dangerous and all, but it’s part of that tough guy image. Don’t fuck with me. I don’t even give a shit about my own health, what makes you think I give a shit about you? That’s so lame. I know. I don’t have an ounce of tough guy in me. Another part of the problem. Tough guys can defend themselves from monsters that crawl into their rooms at night, and I couldn’t. I froze and let the monsters suck the life from my soul and leave me as the empty void I’ve become. No wonder I have zero friends thinking like this. Well, except for Connor. He did invite me to fight zombies, and that counts for something, right? I took another deep breath and stepped on the gas. To the bridge, I go! The fucking bridge. I should steer clear of bridges. The ride wasn’t terribly long, and I knew Scarlett probably didn’t expect me to show up. The wide-eyed shock on her face when she saw me validated that thought. It’s weird, but I still always expect to see this little girl running over to give her big brother a hug. This little girl who always wanted to play video games and tell me all about her day. This little girl that truly loved me. Instead, I saw a full-grown woman wearing a security uniform with a taser and nightstick hanging from her utility belt. A tough, broad shouldered woman. Tougher than me, that’s for sure. “You came,” she whispered. “Yup, I’m here.” I put my hands in the pockets of my jeans and shrugged. My neck felt warmer with my shoulders up there protecting it, so I kept my hunched-up posture a while. “I got a call from the babysitter. Mackenzie got sick. They rushed her to the hospital.” Tears glistened on her cheeks. Quietly at first, then she started sobbing. “I’m so worried.” Mackenzie is my niece I never saw, but I suspected is probably about two years old now. Despite not knowing her, I still loved her. You’re supposed to love family no matter what. “So, you need to go see her, and you need me to...” “Guard the door.” “Okay?” “I’ve called all my co-workers, my boss, everyone. Most didn’t answer. Some are too busy. It’s Halloween. It’s a crazy night for us.” “Right.” “You know how it is. A house gets hit with a single egg and it’s the end of the world in that community.” I didn’t know anything about this strange gated community she monitored, but now wasn’t the time for a full history lesson. My eyes followed the bridge to a door in the center. Why did a bridge have a door halfway across? “Where does the door go?” “It’s better I don’t tell you. This is a bad enough idea already. You knowing more could make it worse. Don’t let anyone near that door, okay?” “Okay.” “That’s all you have to do. Guard this door for a few hours while I see how she’s doing. Then I’ll be back. Worst case scenario, my shift ends in five hours and the next person will be here.” “That’s fine.” “You don’t have to do anything. Don’t let anyone near the door. That’s it.” “Is anyone even going to try to get to it?” I chuckled hoping to lighten her intensity. “It’s Halloween.” “What does that mean?” “Please don’t mess this up. I can’t lose this job.” “Well, the expectations of me are just so high.” She sighed. Fresh tears trickled down her cheeks as she sniffled. “It’ll be fine. I got this.” I needed to reassure her. Having a kid in the hospital was a big deal, especially one so young. “You’ll fuck it up. I know it...but what choice do I have?” She threw her arms in the air. “Thanks, sis.” My therapist told me I was doing really good considering all the trauma, but maybe that’s something only a therapist can appreciate. To the people in my life, it’ll always all be my fault somehow. Elliott split up the whole family. She shook her head and walked towards her car. “I hope she’s okay. Let me know how it goes, okay?” She kept walking. “I love you,” I yelled towards her back. She jumped in her car and sped off. “I love you too, Elliot.” I imagined her voice telling me. I even gave myself a hug. Fog surrounded the bridge, which was odd given the clarity of the other direction. I knew shit about fog. Maybe only being near the water made all the sense in the world. It gave me the creeps though. “Alright, Elliot. Here you are for several hours guarding a mysterious door. How the hell will you ever stay awake? Painful memories perhaps. They sure do work at home when you’re in bed.” I walked to the door and plopped down in front of it. So intimidating. If anyone really wanted in this door, they’d kick me aside like some small rock in their way. I’d flail and fall to the side with a weak whine of “oooohhh no! You can’t do that!” I didn’t even get a taser. I patted my pockets searching for some useful weapon in case. Nothing. All I could do was sit silently. What’s behind the door? What’s behind the door? What the fuck is behind that door? I walked to the edge where the door met the bridge and craned my neck as far as I could to see the other side. My hands clutched the damp red railing tightly. From what I could see, behind the door laid the rest of the bridge. Exciting! I sat back down with my feet dangling off the edge of the bridge and tossed pebbles into the water. They were too small to make a splash, even with the force of falling from such a great height. Then I heard a sound like a dog scratching on a door to get out. A dog scratched at this door. I didn’t see a dog though. I stood up, leaned over the railing, and glanced at the other side of the door again. I didn’t see anything. Was I not supposed to open the door? She didn’t say that. What harm would it do? Apparently, they didn’t want people crossing the bridge. It had nothing to do with an actual stupid door, right? I put my hand on the knob. Then again, why take chances? I didn’t want to be a fuck up anymore. I needed to nail this job. Needed the love from doing something well. The dog kept scratching and then whined and whimpered too. “Sorry, doggo. You can’t cross this bridge. Doggies from that side aren’t welcome here.” The dog growled. “The fuck, Cujo? You sure as shit ain’t getting over here now!” The dog snarled. “But dear sir, they’re calling for us.” A man’s voice said from the other side of the door. I froze. “W-who's calling you?” “There’s a séance in town. Margaret wants to see me. It’s Halloween. Our day to be together. If not for this silly door.” Scarlett, you may have forgotten some key instructions. I tried to call her and ask what I was supposed to do about the other side of the door trying to get in. She didn’t answer. “Fuck!” “Someone should wash that mouth out with soap.” The voice said. “My dirty mouth’s the least of my issues, Buddy.” I laughed. “Look, I can’t fuck this up, so why don’t you pick a different way to get to your séance.” “I can’t. This is the only door between our worlds.” “Worlds? You telling me the other side of that door is a whole other fucking world? I think someone’s a bit arrogant about their town patriotism.” “Well, it’d be rather nice if your world considered us one in the same. I don’t want to be separated.” “So, there’s a reason you’re behind that door and locked out. Good to know.” I looked towards the town and saw a young girl staring at me. “Why’re you talking to yourself?” “I’m not. I’m talking to this fine gentleman on the other side of the door. What’re you doing walking alone at ten o’clock?” “I was out trick or treating, but then these boys stole my candy. I ran away and now I’m lost. Can you help me?” I stepped forward, then stopped. What if this is a trick? “I-I can’t. I’m sorry.” “I’m scared...and cold...and hungry.” She cried. Her little pigtails bounced with the forceful movements of her sobs. “What’s your parent’s number? I’ll call them.” “I don’t know. I’m just a kid.” Just a kid. That work for anyone? “I’ll call the cops then.” I pulled out my phone. It didn’t turn on. Told me the battery was dead. Fucking, of course it is. “Aw, help that little girl. Turn the knob and open the door a crack first though, would you, pal?” The man’s voice said. “Shut the fuck up about that door. It’s not getting opened until my sis says it can be.” “Please, help me.” The girl whined. I noticed a figure shifting in the shadows. At first, I considered it a scarecrow and that my eyes were playing tricks on me, but then a group of teenage boys emerged. Teenage boys on Halloween. That’s something to be worried about. At one point, I was in a dangerous group like that trying to fit in. Trying to find a fake family. One of the boys walked over to the girl and flicked one of her pigtails. “I’ll help you find a way home.” “I-I think he...it’s alright. I’m fine.” “You can hang out with us a bit.” The way he looked at her made my skin crawl. The fear in her eyes, I knew all too well. I pictured bashing his head in with a baseball bat, but I didn’t have one and I couldn’t leave this stupid door. “Get away from her!” The boy looked at me and laughed. “Mind your business, old man.” “She’s just a kid.” There was that phrase again. As if bad people ever cared that kids were kids. The boy reached out and grabbed her hand. I charged. Shoved him down on the concrete. I heard my mom’s voice in my head. “He’s violent. Mentally ill. An alcoholic. A drug addict. You can’t trust a thing he says or does. Those lies about me? You don’t believe it, do you? I couldn’t possibly do that. No mother could.” She said that to my dad, and I saw the uncertainty creep across his face. “Stop!” I felt hands pulling back my shoulders. The boy remained on the ground. Blood all over his face. One of his friends shook him and got him up. They ran off. I turned in time to see one of the other boys open the door. The boy stepped back as pale apparitions walked through. They were a beautiful bluish white, and there were hundreds of them floating forward. “You saved me!” The girl yelled and threw her arms around my neck. “Ah, we’re finally free.” An old, ghost man stretched his arms and yawned. A robust woman drifted towards me. “Thank you for letting us out. It’s been years.” I dropped to my knees and buried my face in my hands. “I fucked up.” I couldn’t see a thing with the flood of tears. I cried so hard I choked and gasped for air. “Oh my, dear. What’s troubling you?” The woman asked. “All I wanted was to protect her.” “This child? Oh, you did, dear boy.” “No, my sister. Mom said if I never told anyone, she wouldn’t touch her. Wouldn’t take those pictures of her. Wouldn’t sell her. All I needed to do was keep quiet. Take it all myself. Be the tough one. I fucked it up. I fucked this up. She’ll never forgive me. I only ever fail her.” I knew it was hard understanding my words. They weren’t coherent. “Oh my, dear. I’m afraid I can’t make heads or tails of what you’re saying.” “I wanted to be a good boy.” “You are, dear. You saved this child and you freed us. That’s all very good.” “I think you need Mrs. Banana Nana.” The little girl handed me a yellow teddy bear with a torn cheek and missing eye. I hugged the bear tightly to my chest and kept wailing. I couldn’t stop. It poured uncontrollably from my body with such strength it hurt. The little girl patted my head. “Help me home. My mom will make you tea and read you a story and you’ll feel all better.” Then I heard my therapist’s voice. “You did the right thing. You did what you were supposed to.” Then why did they all turn against me? “She trusted me. How hard is watching a door?” “Well, dear, this is a pretty powerful door. I’d say it is quite a task.” Some ghosts walked forward. Some floated into the air. Thousands were pushing and shoving their way out the door. They tripped over each other and fought. They were all different ages. No way I could wrangle them back in. “Please, don't leave. Please go back!” “Sorry, dear. We’ve waited a long time for this.” The woman soared into the air after that. “You’re my hero,” the little girl whispered. “I think she’d understand.” I hid my face in Mrs. Banana Nana’s soft fur, and sucked in her sugary candy scent. “It’s not your fault, Elliot.” “I just wish I could hear that from someone who isn’t paid to say it.” “There’s candy at my house and I can show you the pumpkin I made.” “I need to fix this.” “Some things aren’t yours to fix.” Screams echoed across the town. “What the...how is this getting even worse?” A ghostly man with a dog by his side stood in front of me. “Maybe they deserve it, pal.” “Huh?” “You said earlier it sounded like there was a reason they locked me...us out. What if we aren’t the bad ones?” I stood up. The little girl took my hand in hers. My other still held the bear to my chest. What if we aren’t the bad ones?


She felt like the loneliest girl in the world. She never minded the menagerie of friends, family, and ever adoring stable of suitors around her. At best, they were welcome distractions. At worst, they were stakes in the ground. Even though she felt alone she had grown accustomed to it, and the solitude it brought her. She often wondered if they would be able to identify her in the morgue. In her own mind she thought of herself as a nondescript plain Jane, but how wrong she was. In her run-of-the-mill eyes, her only identifying features was a faint smell of vanilla bean. A scent that gave her away in any room she occupied and would, sooner or later, beg the question of any current baking endeavors. Artificial smells, however, fade over time. Her vanilla bottled fragrance would eventually give way to the natural odors of decay. No, her common self would only be identified by the murals she had carved upon herself. Faded and fresh lines adorned her body the way the Nazca’s lines of Peru were so intricately planned. Her wanton acts of self-mutilation were the journal entries of her life’s diary. Each line and curve representing a passage, or tear stained memory. She could control each stroke and pass; depth and width. Picasso himself could not have conveyed that type of dismay or joy had he tried. With every slice her body made it known it was an unwilling participant. It threw up in its disapproval. She was content with her canvas; she wasn’t proud, nor should she be. Her artwork couldn’t be shown to anyone but herself. Her long sleeves and leggings forebode such an act, and therefore it would stay hidden. That was until she met Kris. Kris smelled of cigarettes, and what at one point could be considered apples. Kris represented everything she wasn’t, but at the same time personified everything she was. Kris’s dark eyes, and jet black hair exemplified her dream persona. Kris’s looks and demeanor screamed, ‘Fuck off!’ A sentiment only her innermost thoughts could convey. With every interaction she thought to herself, ‘why can’t I be like that?’ Their song, through many nights, became ‘Jezebel’ by Iron and Wine. Those simple nights that turned into mornings which would evolve into days that would degrade back into twilight. No one had ever seen her like Kris had, and with that she was content. Throughout each night they would create their own private universe within each others embrace. Both dreaming of broken windows with sunshine reflecting upon each shard, and faint shadows walking past. They’d take turns holding each other through the night switching instinctively while they sailed through each others dreams. That space between Kris’s overlapped arms and chest became more of a home than any house she had grown up in. On their last night she laid next to Kris and said that she had finally found happiness, a sentiment that Kris had reciprocated. During those faint early hours, when the city stopped wailing giving way to the most intimate of sounds she whispered to her beloved. The contents of each breath were irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was that they, in that single moment of infinity, were together. She sorrowfully whispered, “I’ll always be by your side.” A promise she would keep. As the clock struck its given hour she kissed Kris’s forehead goodnight. Delivering it with one last message. A simple, “thank you.” She gently broke away from that loving and warm embrace that had kept her safe through so many nights, and slipped away. She carefully tiptoed to their bathroom where her long forgotten paintbrush had slept. She picked it up once more and felt its familiar weight and texture. During those last moments she applied some blush and lipstick. Content with the shade it would ultimately yield she laid in the tub and turned her head thinking of Kris’s face laying upon a pillow. Her last breathes were meant for Kris’s ears, but were intercepted by the hollowness between them. In that single and final second, her final good night had been heard. ^^! ^^Pretty ^^psyched ^^about ^^that.


Some would have been ready to call it a night but for Monsieur LeBlanc, the famous French food critic, the night was just beginning. Heavily intoxicated, LeBlanc stumbled into a McDonald's restaurant and made his way to the counter, demanding to speak to the manager. "Je veux la recette de la sauce secrète du Big Mac!" he shouted, slamming his hand down on the counter. "I must have it!" The manager, taken aback by Monsieur LeBlanc's drunken behavior, tried to calm him down. "Sir, I'm sorry, but we can't just give out the recipe to our secret sauce. It's proprietary information." Monsieur LeBlanc was having none of it. "Mais c'est absurde!" he cried. "I am a food critic! It is my job to know the secrets of all the best foods! And the Big Mac is the quintessential American burger! I must have the recipe!" The other customers in the restaurant began to take notice of the commotion. Some of them snickered and pointed at the drunk Frenchman, while others looked on in bemusement. The manager, not wanting to cause a scene, decided to placate the impassioned man. "Sir, I understand your passion for food, but I can't give you the recipe. However, I can tell you that the secret sauce is made from a combination of mayonnaise, ketchup, and pickle relish." Monsieur LeBlanc looked at the manager skeptically. "Mayonnaise? Ketchup? Relish? C'est tout?" The manager nodded. "Yes, that's all there is to it." Monsieur LeBlanc scoffed. "Bah! C'est un scandale! A burger with such a simple sauce cannot be the best in America!" And with that, he stumbled out of the restaurant, muttering in French about the sorry state of American cuisine. The other customers watched him go, chattering and laughing about the drunken Frenchman's outburst. On his way home,Monsieur LeBlanc passed another bar. Still lost in thought about the secret sauce, he walked in without even noticing. He made his way to the counter and ordered a drink, his mind racing with ideas about how he could create the perfect sauce to rival the Big Mac's secret sauce. As he sipped his drink, Monsieur LeBlanc began to feel a renewed sense of purpose. He jumped onto the bar, startling the other patrons, and began to speak passionately. "Mes amis, I have found my calling! I will create a sauce to rival the Big Mac's secret sauce! This sauce will be the greatest sauce in the world! It will bring me renown and riches and political persuasion! I will become a man of great consequence!" The other patrons looked on in puzzlement as Monsieur LeBlanc continued his soliloquy, gesturing wildly and slurring his words. "I will travel the world, tasting all the sauces and spices, until I find the perfect combination! And when I do, I will unveil my creation to the world, and they will bow down to me! I will be the greatest chef in all of France! Non, in all the World!" The bartender, not wanting to further agitate the drunk Frenchman, politely asked him to step down from the bar. Monsieur LeBlanc obliged, stumbling a bit as he stepped down. As he made his way out of the bar and into the cool night air, Monsieur LeBlanc felt a renewed sense of purpose. He would create the greatest sauce in the world, and nothing would stand in his way. With a determined look on his face, he continued on his journey home, eager to get started on his new mission. Monsieur LeBlanc struggled with the front door in his drunken stupor but finally forced it open and made his way unsteadily into the kitchen. His mind was racing with ideas for his perfect sauce. But as he searched through the fridge for his ingredients, he began to feel increasingly frustrated. Where was the mayo? He was sure he had bought some. He looked around the kitchen and noticed that everything was in disarray. The utensils were in the wrong drawer, the plates were in the wrong cabinet, and the pantry was a mess. Monsieur LeBlanc's frustration turned to anger. He began to throw things, smashing dishes and pots and pans on the floor. He was convinced that the executives of McDonald's had somehow infiltrated his home and rearranged his kitchen to sabotage him. "They think they can stop me!" he shouted, his voice slurring. "But I will not be stopped! I will create the greatest sauce in the world, and they will rue the day they crossed me!" Monsieur LeBlanc's anger grew to a fever pitch. He decided that the only way to escape the clutches of McDonald's and their nefarious plans was to fake his own death. He would burn down his kitchen and disappear, leaving behind only ashes and smoke. He lit a match and tossed it into a pile of paper towels, watching as the flames quickly spread throughout the kitchen. He laughed maniacally as he watched his life's work go up in smoke. But as the fire grew, Monsieur LeBlanc began to realize the gravity of his mistake. What had he done? His prized collection of cookbooks and rare french wines would be destroyed. But before he could reconsider the flames leapt up all around the room. He stumbled out of the house, choking on smoke and regret. The adrenaline seemed to sober Monsieur LeBlanc up. As he collapsed on the lawn, he vowed to start anew. He would find a way to create the perfect sauce, without letting his drunken paranoia get the best of him. He crawled like a dog to the perimeter of the property and collapsed in the shrubbery. His clothes and face were covered in soot. He could hear the sound of sirens getting louder and louder, and knew that the police and firefighters would soon be upon him. But as he lay there watching the house erupt into flames, Monsieur LeBlanc suddenly realized that he had been in the wrong house. This wasn't his kitchen at all - it belonged to someone else entirely. He felt a sudden surge of embarrassment and shame wash over him. How could he have been so foolish? But then, a twisted smile spread over his ashen face. "If you want to make an omelette," he muttered to himself, "you have got to break some eggs." Monsieur LeBlanc got to his feet and stumbled away from the burning house, still chuckling to himself. He knew that he had caused a great deal of chaos and destruction, but he also knew that it was a small price to pay for the pursuit of greatness. As he disappeared into the darkness, Monsieur LeBlanc resolved to get away and start over. He would find a new kitchen, a new set of ingredients, and he would create the perfect sauce, no how many eggs-or laws-needed to be broken.


I saw a homeless man outside of my local coffee shop, and I offered to buy him coffee. He appeared to be in his 60s, with frizzy white hair similar to what a mad scientist might don in an old black and white film. Winter was coming, and the chill air was a constant reminder of that. “On one condition,” the man replied, “I get to ask you a question, and you must answer it truthfully.” “Well... sure, what is it?” I said. “Not now. Let us first enjoy a warm drink”. And so we did. I bought us both coffees and we sat down at a table, where the baristas could not eavesdrop on us and where the icy air that rushed through the door could not reach us. The older man must have sensed my anticipation, as he spoke again. “Why did you buy me this coffee?” “Well...” I stammered “I suppose you looked like you were in need, so I wanted to help you out.” “Wrong answer.” And then the man stood up, and walked out the door. I dreamt that night of the universe and all the stars within it. I floated through the void, listening to the cacophony of screaming stars that I hoped would one day all make sense. I had this dream every night, and every night I hoped I was closer to understanding the lyrics of the stars’ song. My father told me once that my meaning is hidden in the stars, and I believe that if I can decipher the song, maybe I could finally understand my true purpose in this world. My walk to work was the next day nearly identical to the day prior; frigid air, a moody, overcast sky, and a homeless man outside our coffee shop. I approached him again, this time with an answer already in mind. The homeless man spoke to me before I had a chance to say anything. “You did not uphold your end of our bargain, friend,” he said, “you must answer truthfully this time.” And again I bought the man coffee, and again we sat down at a rustic wooden table away from peering eyes. “Why,” the man asked, “did you buy me this coffee?” “Buying you coffee makes me feel morally good. Helping others in need is something I strive to do, because it makes me a better person” I replied, confidently. “But I did not need this coffee. I could live on without it, so did you really help me? You would be the same person had you bought it or not. If you had chosen not to buy me it, that dialogue would have still run through your head, and maybe on a different day you would have chosen to do so. Buying me this coffee makes you no different; it may be a way to show your character to others, but you have done nothing to improve who you are. You are and always will be who you have been, and no human can escape that.” And with that, the man stood up, and left once again. I dreamt again of floating through space, and once again the agonizing screams of the stars pierced my ears. So long I had tried to decipher their song, all for naught. I did not need to decipher their song; I have always understood it. Once again I woke and left for work and once again the homeless man stood outside of the coffee shop. Once again I offered to buy him coffee, and once again he asked me a question. “Why did you buy me this coffee?” “There was no reason I bought you this coffee. I just did it because I wanted to do it” And with that the man smiled, thanked me for the coffee, and left me alone with my thoughts for the last time. When my father last spoke to me, he must have known that the stars don’t say anything.


Ok so this is actually a story I wrote in my dream, then remembered almost perfectly when I woke up. Which is probably why it begins and ends so weirdly. Trenchant and Leboeuf were not friends. Every day in the market they would attempt to kill each other. One day Trenchant was returning to his home from the market over the downs. He was not alert, for he and Leboeuf had never before met on these downs. This day happened to be the first time they met here. Leboeuf sighted Trenchant on the ridge of a grassy hill and thought to himself, “I will follow him home, and kill him where he abides.” Leboeuf followed him until he saw him entering a very small blue house. With a little laugh he drew out a thick rope from his pocket which was blue to match. Advancing, he knocked on the door. Trenchant answered the door and said in a low voice, “My wife’s just had the foot.” Which in their locality was a euphemism for, “My wife’s just given birth.” To this Leboeuf responded by grappling the blue rope about the thick neck of Trenchant. After Leboeuf had squeezed sufficiently to kill Trenchant, Trenchant’s maid shot an arrow at Leboeuf, which pierced deep through his neck. Leboeuf fell backwards to the point where the distance between his buttocks and the point where the arrow protruded from the back of his neck multiplied by itself, in addition to the distance between the point at which the arrow protruded from the back of his neck and the tip of the arrow head multiplied by itself were together equal to the distance between the tip of the arrow head and his buttocks, as the ant crawls, multiplied by itself. “Of course!” cried Trenchant’s wife. “Because A 2 + B 2 = C 2 !” For the maid had indeed shot the arrow so that it pierced his neck at a perfect right angle to his body, or perfectly parallel to the ground, for Leboeuf had good posture, even in death. “Now,” said the maid, “we must take the square root of the final distance.” “No! Fool!” said Trenchant’s wife. “You have not learned to prioritize effectively! First we must name the newborn baby, then we must find out who these men were.” “One of them was your husband.” said the maid. “Shut up!” said Trenchant’s wife. “You know perfectly well I had no idea who he was. Anyway, it’s a pity this baby is a girl, otherwise I could name her after her father.” “You could name your next baby after his father, if he is a boy,” said the maid. “My NEXT BABY?!” thundered Trenchant’s wife. “SIMPLETON! FOOL! By that time I will have forgotten my husband’s name! I am beginning to do so already!” “No you won’t.” thought the very small baby boy inside her, smugly. “I will remind you by kicking in morse code every so often.” For she was again pregnant, not knowingly. “Anyway,” said Trenchant’s wife, I will name this baby Jessa, after myself.” “But that isn’t your name,” argued the maid, whose name was Jessa. “What of it?” scorned Trenchant’s wife. At this point, since Trenchant, other than his ghost, is no longer much of a character, we may stop calling this woman Trenchant’s wife and begin to call her Jessebecca, even though this was not her name. This is because, as Jessebecca might say, we must prioritize effectively, and it is more important to continue the story than to try and remember her real name, although Jessebecca herself would perhaps disagree on that point. But the name has now suddenly been remembered! We will still, however, call her Jessebecca. Some may point out that it would be quicker to say the four words: her name was (insert name here) than to make a long digression explaining why we would not call her by her real name. They would be wrong. It is not so. For one thing, “insert name here” is three words, bringing the total number not to four, but to six. So shut up, your point is rendered null. “Now that we have named the child, we must find out who these men were. Let us ride to the market and ask.” Said Jessebecca, absent mindedly plopping the baby Jessa into a pan, placing the pan on the stove, and turning on the fire. “The horses are ready, we could go at once.” Said the maid, turning off the fire, and putting Jessa in the cradle, rivalling her mistress in absent midedness. As Jessebecca and her maid were riding to the market, Jessebecca fell off her horse and lay there, face down. The maid, thinking she was dead, was about to pile her onto her own horse. But suddenly Jessebecca sat up violently and said, “I think I am pregnant, and what’s more, I think my baby is trying to communicate with me. For I am a great believer in morse code, though I do not understand a word of it.” At this point, the maid gave an awkward laugh, for she was decidedly not a believer in morse code, though she happened to understand every word of it. The maid Jessa, with this thought on her mind, “I better get used to liking morse code, for it is clearly the language of my superiors,” and this word on her lip, “Let me feel your tummy,” Now advanced toward her mistress.


I watched the downpour pound away at the old gas pumps through the window. They were already rusted from however many years they’ve stood there, barely covered by the awning hanging overhead. Must have been about seventy years by now. My chin resting on my palm, I sighed into the silence of Little Casanova Town Diner, just outside the town. “Nice weather out there,” called a voice a few rotating stools away. I turned around to look at the young man with pretty, silver hair and a kind smile. A dark silver, almost like he was going gray despite looking twenty-four or five at most. “I guess,” I said quietly. He raised a silver eyebrow at me like he was confused. “I was being sarcastic,” he said. “Oh.” I nodded quietly. I turned back to my little mug of tea that had gotten cold by then. How long had I been looking out the window for that to happen? “I’m Nathan. What’s your name?” “Heejin,” I responded. “Heejin? That’s a weird name. Does it mean something?” I looked over at him again and noticed he had golden eyes. “I don’t know. It’s just a name. It’s Korean.” “Oh, I see.” He turned his gaze to the swinging door that led to the kitchen in the back of the diner as the only server and cook for that night came out with a light blue plate. He walked toward me gently set the plate down in front of me. “Here’s your usual, Heejin.” “Thank you, Jay.” He picked up my mug of cold tea as he asked in his Louisianan accent, “want me to get you a fresh cup, darlin’?” I nodded. Jay turned and walked the few steps to swing door and passed through it. I noticed Nathan watching the exchange with curiosity. “You know him?” I nodded in response to his question. “So are you like a regular here?” “I come here every night after work.” “Ah, I see,” Nathan said with a smile. Jay came back with a different mug with steam rolling into the air above it. “Her you are,” He said jovially as he set the drink down in front of me. “Anythin’ else you need before I go back to slackin’ off,” he joked. “Nope.” He returned to the kitchen with his friendly smile. I looked down at my grilled cheese sandwich and little bowl of tomato soup sitting on the plate. My stomach growled a little, barely audible over the rain. “‘Feed me, Heejin,’” Nathan said in a high-pitched voice. I glanced his way. “Your stomach is yelling at you. You should probably listen to it.” He turned back to his own plate of half-eaten food and cup of some type of pop. I picked up the first triangle of my sandwich and dipped it carefully into the red-filled bowl. My usual order always comforted me. After having come here night after night for a few months, Jay picked up on the routine I had and had gotten to know me a little in the few years that followed. We had very different backgrounds. He came from Louisiana up to this little midwestern Wisconsin town with his dad when he was young after his mom was killed in a hate crime. I was born in Korea and brought to the United States to this little midwestern Wisconsin town before I turned three. He grew up going to prestigious private schools that you have to take tests to get into. I went to run-down public schools. Now he works part-time in the Little Casanova Town's Diner just outside Casanova, Wisconsin to pay his online college tuitions that his dad agreed to help pay for half of, and I come in to see him every night after my shift at the factory, ordering the same thing and meeting different people that come in from time to time. I polished off my sandwich and began to eat (drink?) the rest of my soup, adding the occasional bland saltine cracker to spice it up. I remembered the pretty man with the silver hair and turned my head to find those golden eyes again. Nathan had moved to the seat next to me in the time I was focused on eating my meal. He didn’t look at me when I turned, just casually kept eating his burger. Having no conversation to bring up, I went back to quietly finishing my soup and tea. Nathan had a strangely comforting presence, so I didn’t mind the sudden closeness. And I liked the silence. People always have this annoying need to fill quiet moments with conversation like they’re anxious from them. Sitting with someone in silence is an underappreciated experience. After another ten minutes passed, the silence was broken. “You enjoy the quiet too?” We turned to look at each other, almost in unison. “Yeah, I do,” Nathan responded. “I like it when it’s quiet. Especially on days like this when you can hear every drop of rain.” He pointed at the window I was focused on earlier. “It’s nice, you know?” I nodded. “Underappreciated,” I said. “Exactly! Nobody recognizes the value of a good silence these days.” “You say that like you’re a cranky old man who yells at kids to get off his lawn every day.” Nathan hunched his back made an angry face. “Well, these damn hooligans these days, always being all loud,” he said in a mock-elderly voice, “no appreciation for the days when we sat around playing with sticks in the yard.” We laughed at his old-timer jokes for a little while. Eventually, he returned to his normal voice and raised his hand toward my head. He gently patted the top of my head. “What’s that for?” “You just seemed like you needed a good pat on the head.” I blinked at him for a moment. “You’re odd, Nathan.” He nodded at me with a big grin. “Life’s no fun when you aren’t.” Suddenly, the swing door opened, and Jay walked out, heading towards me. He reached out and took my empty plate and mug. He turned around to set them on the back counter and opened a glass cloche on a cake stand. He placed a slice of Chocolate Peanut Butter Pie on a small black plate and passed it to me along with a small metal fork. He placed his hands on the counter and looked at me with his usual kind smile. “Finishin’ touch of the night,” he said. I picked up the fork and sliced into the tip of the pie. “Is he real, Jay?” Jay looked down the counter through the small, empty diner before turning back to me. “Not this one, Heejin.” I nodded sadly and took a small bite. “What was this one’s name?” “Nathan,” I said. “An’ only one this time?” “Yeah. No other voices, either. Just him.” “Was he a nice one, at least?” I nodded and continued to chip away at my little slice. Jay patted my head gently like he always did by this time. “They’ll stop soon, darlin’. Them voices gotta go away sometime.” We smiled at the optimistic statement, and I spent the rest of my night like I always did: sitting in the old gas station-turned Little Casanova Town Diner just outside of a little midwestern town in Wisconsin, talking to my best friend who always gave me comfort when my schizophrenia was at its worst.


The Woods Are Lovely Dark and Deep - But Don’t Go Into Them by April Knight A large sign was posted at the entrance to the Pioneer Nature Trail reading “CAUTION! Enter woods at your own risk. Not responsible for accidents, injuries or death.” Lavender wasn’t concerned about the warning. She was wearing a new purple jogging suit and had new sneakers with purple laces. She had a fanny pack with a bottle of water, a granola bar, her car keys and her driver’s license. She was stretching and running in place to prepare herself for the Silver Sneakers 5K cross country run. She had gained ten pounds over the winter and decided being a volunteer partner for one of the seniors in the race would be a good start to getting back into shape. Most of the seniors were sixty or over and the volunteers to be their partners were in their twenties and thirties. The volunteers were not competing in the race, they were only there for moral support and to carry water bottles and to provide help if any of the seniors were injured or too tired to finish the race. Lavender noticed a nice looking man wearing a T-shirt with a computer logo on it, he definitely looked like a computer nerd but he did have beautiful blue eyes. His name tag said Joe. The cross country race was through rugged, forest land, there were no paths to follow, just yellow flags placed to mark the course. There were bushes, fallen trees, two shallow creeks to cross and the finish line was at the top of a steep hill. It would have been challenging for a Marine. The seniors and the volunteers were paired off by the numbers on their name tags. Lavender’s running partner was a small, thin woman with snow white hair who was wearing a pink shirt that said “Cancer Survivor.” “My name is June,” the woman said, “I hope you can keep up with me.” “I’ll do my best. Good Luck,” Lavender smiled and admired June’s courage for entering the race and hoped June could at least make the first mile, the seniors got credit for each mile they completed even if they didn’t cross the finish line. There were fifty volunteer and fifty seniors standing at the starting line, Lavender saw Joe standing next to a thin man with white hair. He smiled at her and she gave him a smile and a “thumbs up.” The horn went off and one hundred people headed into the dense, overgrown forest. June took off running like a rabbit and jumped over a log. Lavender didn’t think she could jump over the log and climbed over it. Lavender lost seconds and June was leaping over bushes. Lavender put her head down and ran as fast as she could and didn’t see a low hanging limb until it slapped her in the face. She ran through a small stream getting her new sneakers muddy and her purple shoe laces were now soaking wet. She ran as fast as she could after June but the pink T-shirt had disappeared into the crowd of runners. Lavender ran a little farther but she was gasping for breath and her side hurt. There was no way she could catch June. She held her side and walked a little farther and found Joe sitting on a log drinking his bottle of water. “I lost my partner,” Lavender puffed. “I can’t believe it, she was jumping through the woods like a deer. I couldn’t keep up.” “Don’t feel bad. I was partners with a seventy-year old accountant. I couldn’t keep up with him. I’m embarrassed, I feel like my manhood is threatened. By the way, you have a beautiful name.” he read her name tag. “It suits you.” “Thank you,” she said, feeling a little better. “My partner was a sixty year old cancer survivor, she left me in the dust.” “Seniors aren’t what they used to be. My grandmother knitted, baked and spent most of her time in her recliner watching TV. In my wildest dreams I can’t picture her leaping through the woods,” Joe said. “I guess things have changed,” Lavender laughed. “I didn’t know I was so out of shape,” Joe said. “I spend about twelve hours a day sitting at a computer, I eat junk food and I joined a gym and went one time.” “I bought a treadmill and used it for a week. Now I hang my laundry on it,” she laughed. “I’ve got to lose some weight and get in shape or I’ll never make it to seventy,” he said. “Me too. This was definitely a wake up call,” she said. “Shall we do the walk of shame back to the starting line?” he asked. “I wonder if there will be any other volunteers laying the path,” she sighed and stood up. “I’m sure there will be, we can’t be the only two people who couldn’t keep up,” he said. Joe was right. There four volunteers sitting at the starting line looking tired and embarrassed. “Are you going to volunteer again?” she asked. “Well, I might volunteer but not for a race, or any athletic event, or anything that threatens my manhood and causes me to lose face. I would be willing to write a check and make a donation,” he said. “How about you?” “No, I’m done. That was a wake up call for me. Those seniors are too tough for me,” she admitted. “I’m going to start walking in the park for an hour every day. As soon as I get off work, I’m going straight to the park.” “If you’d like some company, I’d be honored to join you,” Joe said. She looked at his blue eyes and his smile. “That would be nice, it’s easier to train if you have a partner to motivate you,” she said “I’ll be at the front gate at 5:15 tomorrow afternoon.” The next day Joe met Lavender at the park and they started their walk. When she saw him her heart started beating faster. “By the way, your partner, June, came in second, yesterday and my partner came in seventh,” he laughed. “Good for them,” she said. “I’m glad you showed up today. I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t come.” “I’d walk a thousand miles to spend time with you and get to know you better,” Joe said. “A thousand miles?” she smiled. “One mile at a time,” he said. End