The wagon rumbled across the plain, the horses kicking up dirt. The wind tickled my bare feet, my boots sopping from the last river we crossed. I looked past the horizon, trying to think of my old home, a cozy cabin surrounded with long, swaying grasses and a small stream to the side. Horses passed by the house daily, every new rancher wanting to get a taste of my mother’s famous homemade dried bean chili. I sighed, hardly being able to picture my mother without sore thoughts. She was the reason we were on the road right now, even though it wasn’t her fault. About a year ago, or maybe it was less than that, a man with a scraggly beard and flushed, bright red face came to our house. But instead of pleading for a little bit of chili, as most people did, he asked for help. The man had a tongue with white polka dots and a high fever, but he claimed he was freezing, all signs of the deadly scarlet fever. Mother took him in anyway, her being so caring and, well, motherly. She cared for him for a while, and he eventually got better, but had accidentally spread it to my mother. She hid it carefully, and none of us knew until it was too late. She had caught it badly, and despite my father’s best efforts, she died less than a week after we found out. The man felt very guilty and offered us this wagon as a favor when Father said he was leaving the area. I hadn’t wanted to leave at first, but Father couldn’t stand being in the house without Mother around, and I couldn’t stand him being so anxious all the time. So we left, taking nothing but food, some old quilts Mother had made, and the recipe for dried bean chili. My thoughts were rudely interrupted as my heart jumped into my throat and the wagon suddenly stopped. I heard the horses rear, screaming, and the shouts of my father as he cracked his whip, trying to settle the horses. I leaped out of the wagon, despite the fear of snakes hiding in the rocks. I ran around the wagon, worried about what I might see. My face whitened. It was worse than I could’ve imagined. The horses were right on the edge of a very, very steep hill, one the wagon surely couldn’t manage. Beneath the hill was a town. Not one of the nice boom towns, bustling with life, but a silent ghost town. Besides the horses pawing anxiously, it was completely silent. I saw my father’s face was pale, but he quickly collected himself. “I suppose we can stop here for the night, Colt, can you make a fire?” “But Father, there isn’t any wood for miles, except in the ghost town.” I protested. I didn’t want to go into the ghost town. It looked, sounded, and probably smelled haunted. “Then you’ll have to go into the ghost town.” he said grimly. I frowned. I didn’t want to go to the surely haunted town, but I also didn’t want to upset Father. I had to choose which I was more afraid of. I decided to go into the ghost town. I grumbled, slowly making my way down the hill. Snakes lived in holes by hillsides, and that was exactly where I was. I didn’t like snakes much, not since Billy Gordon snuck one into my desk at school and I screamed like a girl. The ghost town loomed in front of me more silently than ever. The wind brushed my bare leg, and I regretted not having slipped on my boots before I came down here. Everything had a creepy feel to it and-- wait, I heard something. I walked down the main street of the town warily, keeping an ear out for a strange sound. The silence was literally deafening, and I could only just hear someone screaming. My feet subconsciously began moving towards the sound. I got chilled, even though it was hot here. The screaming became clearer, and even though it sounded hardly louder than a whisper, I could just about make out some of the words. “I will NOT! And you can’t make me, no more than you can herd black cats!” a girl’s voice shrieked. I crept closer, even though I surely didn’t want to have anything to do with this. “I will make a deal.” this voice was scratchy but deep, and a shiver ran down my spine just from hearing it -- I doubted it mattered what they voice was saying, it could be about the blessing of rainbows, and it would still sound evil. “I’m not interested.” “You might be.” “NEVER!” “It could save your family.” I could practically hear the girl’s will deflate. I think I knew which building the argument was coming from.“What is it?” “If you can conjure a black cat and a portal by noon tomorrow, and get the cat to enter the portal within five minutes after the conjuring, I will follow the cat into the portal. If not...” the voice trailed off. I peeked between the slats of a big building, it might’ve been a town hall or a saloon in its prime, and saw two figures. One was a pretty girl with long braided blonde hair, she couldn’t have been older than me, and I was only 13. The others was a tall, menacing man, cloaked in darkness. He radiated evil, and I gasped at how much clearer the air became once he flashed out of view. I was so startled, I didn’t notice the girl had disappeared as well. I backed away from the building, determined to forget the entire thing and just gather some wood. I turned away from the building. The girl was right in front of me. I screamed. “Jeez. What were you doing?” she asked me, squinting her eyes as she scrutinized me. I backed up. “I-- I hadn’t done anything.” “But you heard us.” I nodded, then quickly shook my head. I got the feeling this girl wasn’t to be messed with. She seemed upset. “How much did you hear?” “Not much. I could barely hear you over the silence.” I frowned. That sounded weird. She nodded, appearing mollified. Then she scowled. “How much is not much?” “I heard about the deal.” I admitted, sensing it was hopeless to lie. “I want to help.” Her scowl deepened. “How could you help?” “I don’t know. What did he mean conjure a portal?” “Magic. Don’t you know?” she said, then slapped her hand over her mouth. “Do NOT repeat that. Promise?” “Only if you tell me what’s going on.” I replied. I was curious. And the girl was quite pretty. She glowered at me. “Fine. But you’ll regret it.” she told me. I nodded, suddenly wondering what I had got myself into. I didn’t want to mess with magic. The closest thing to magic I’d ever heard of was the devil’s, and that was never good. Oh, and when Mother preached about miracles. Maybe magic wasn’t all bad. She continued talking. “That, my friend, was Jumping Jones, the meanest wizard in all of the West. He doesn't care nothing about anyone unless they have magic, like me. Then all he wants is your servitude. He even makes you immortal so your slavery came be eternal.” I winced. That was harsh. “So you’re immortal?” She scowled again. “No, idiot. Me and my entire family about to be though if I can’t make a stinkin’ rotting portal to an angel’s lair.” “Can I help?” I asked again, though I doubted it. “Can you do magic?” “No.” “What do you think the answer is?” “Yes?” “You’re a rotten idiot.” “Thanks.” I said. The girl responded to strength, and I hadn’t shown any. Well, now I was going to. The girl nodded approvingly. “If you can keep that up, I might have something for you. In the meantime, here.” The girl made a stack of sticks appear, exactly what I needed. “How did you know?” “You’re not the first idiot to come here, you know.” “Oh. Thanks though.” I took the wood and began the walk back to the wagon. Father was probably wondering where I was. When I reached the top of the cliff, Father was absolutely livid. He jumped up from his hunched seat on the log, and began scolding me. Actually, scold isn’t a strong enough word. Maybe furious raging. “Colt! Where were you? I was sure you had fallen and broken your neck!!” he suddenly broke down and gave me a crushing hug. “I’m just glad you’re back.” “Sorry, Father. I-- It took longer than I expected to find some usable firewood.” I told him once he had let go. He nodded. “Don’t do it again. Let’s warm up some jerky soup.” Father and I ate in silence. I felt bad for being late, but I wasn’t feeling bad I had met the girl. She was something, and I wasn’t sure what to think of her. Something was off, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Maybe it was just me. * * * * * In the morning, I offered to go to the town again to find some more firewood. Father just nodded. “Be back be noon.” he replied. “I’m going to do some tidying up.” I assured him I would be back soon, then I went back down the hill. This time I had my boots on, even though they were still damp, and the climb was much easier. I made a beeline for the building I first saw the girl. She was waiting outside, and sighed when I showed up. She nagged me about being late. I complained that we hadn’t set a meeting time. “Besides, I don’t even know your name. Technically we’re still strangers.” I added. She sighed again. “We are strangers.”She replied. But she told me her name. “I’m Liza. And yours is...” “Colt.” “Like a baby horse?” “I guess.” “That’s weird.” “Shut up about my name. Can I help or not?” I was getting impatient. I even got up to leave and actually look for firewood when she stopped me. “Fine. While I conjure, you need to find my family and free them. Do you have a pocket knife?” I held my knife up. She nodded in approval. “Oh, and if you fail, we’ll both be killed.” I gulped. “That’s pleasant.” “I know. Now, help me get ready.” I looked at her in confusion. “What?” “I need to look nice for my date with the devil. Unzip my dress.” She turned around. “What? No!” I exclaimed. I wasn’t sure which I was more surprised by: The fact she wanted me to help her get undressed or that she just said she has a date with the devil. “Oh, I forgot. Most of you are pretty modest. Nevermind, I’ll just change straight into the dress.” Liza said, snapping her fingers. Her dress suddenly changed from a modest calico dress normal for the wild west to an long, dark blue frock with a black hood and shawl. She twirled for me. “How do I look?” “Wouldn’t red be more appropriate for the devil?” I asked, wondering what she meant by that. Father would be furious I wasn’t angry with her for even saying that. She rolled her eyes. “I’m not actually going out with the devil today. Have you seen his schedule?” Seeing my shocked face, she quickly amended her words. “I’m joking. But dueling like this is a big deal and I should look nice. Now, do I or not?” “You look lovely.” I told her. She glared at me. “What?” “Nevermind. My family in in the second building on the left. It has a rusty sign.” “They all have rusty signs.” “You’ll find it. It’s the only building with people in it.” “Okay.” I turned to walk away to find the building with Liza’s family, but she stopped me. “Thank you.” she told me. She seemed sincere, but I couldn’t exactly tell. “I really mean it. Thank you for helping me. Most people wouldn’t have.” “It’s okay. You’re welcome. I just have to be back by noon with some wood or Father won’t be happy.” Liza gave me a small smile. “Easy.” She went inside the building, and I left to try and find the building with Liza’s family. I looked at all the houses on the left with rusty signs and didn’t find anyone. I looked in all the houses on the right with rusty signs and didn’t find anyone. I wandered up and down the ghost town street, until I heard some whimpering. At first I just thought it was the wind or something, but then I heard it again. Then it was full-blown crying. Liza was not going to be happy if it was her family. I thought was coming from the one house that didn’t have a rusty sign. I was not happy. Inside the house was a woman, man, and two little girls tied together sitting on the floor. The rest of the room was bare. I rushed to their side and began sawing through the thick rope holding them together. “Who are you?” the woman managed to gasp out. It sounded like the rope was cutting off their air. I began sawing faster. “Your daughter I assume, Liza, sent me here to free you.” I told them. “She’s fighting some shadowy monster dressed like she’s going to a party.” The woman groaned. “The foolish girl, she’s never going to be able to beat him. Saw faster.” she instructed, nudging me with her foot. “I need to go help my daughter.” I finally had sawed through the rope, and the woman leaped up. “John, you watch the girls. I’m going to save Liza. Boy, you come with me.” I just nodded mutely, even though I didn’t particularly like being ordered around. I followed the woman as she whipped across the town into the building Liza was fighting in. I could hear Liza’s strained shouts as she did, well, I’m not sure what she was doing. Her mother burst through the door shouting. “Let my daughter go!” The black figure sneered. “She made a deal. She has to conjure a portal and a black cat.” “LIII-ZAAA!!!!” her mother screamed angrily. “You are in a lot of trouble, young lady!” Liza groaned. “Mother, I’m kinda in the middle of someth-INNNGGG!!!” her complaint turned into a scream as the shadowy figure shot her with something. I screamed also, and ran to her side. The mother rose into the air and began chanting. I was terrified by everything going on around me. The floating woman, Liza bleeding, the shadowy figure. I pressed my hand against Liza side, and her already short breaths turned into desperate gasps for air. The woman yelled when she noticed what was happening to her daughter, and blasted the figure into a sparkling portal she had created behind him. The woman collapsed to the ground, and the portal disappeared. Once she had gained her breath a few minutes later, she rushed to Liza’s side just like I had. I scooted over with tears in my eyes. I knew she didn’t have long left. Only a miracle could save her. Luckily, we had a miracle. Magic. Her mother pressed her hand to Liza’s bloody side and started chanting again. I covered my eyes, terrified at what was about to happen. Liza’s mother nudged me. When I opened my eyes, I saw Liza, all healed up, fuming. “Mooootherrrrrr! I had it under control!” she huffed, glaring at her mother. Then she turned to me. “Why did you let her come? It was dangerous!” “I couldn’t have stopped her just like I couldn’t stop a runaway train. Besides, its her fault you’re still alive.” Liza frowned again. “Dang it.” Then she wrapped her arms around me. “Thank you for untying her. You’re right, I wouldn’t have survived without her and you. But don’t tell her that.” I grinned and hugged Liza back. Then I realized that she was getting blood all over me. “Liza!You got blood all over me! What am I going to tell my father?” I asked, pulling away. “And I need firewood.” Liza’s mother smiled. “You helped me. I can certainly help you with that.” she began chanting again and my clothes looked like they were brand new. A stack of firewood appeared at my side. “Thanks.” “It was the least I can do. Liza?” her mother prompted. Liza rolled her eyes. “Thank you.” She flicked her wrist and two journals appeared. “One for you and one for me. So we can keep in touch.” Liza explained. I looked at her strangely. This was too nice a gift. “In case I have to fight another being from the underworld.” I smiled. “Thank you for everything. Now, I really have to get back.” I stood up, and hurried back to the hill. I could see Liza and her family hugging and waving at me. I quickly waved back, then quickly scaled the rocky hill. Father smiled at me. “You’re early.” “I am?” I looked at the sun. He was right. It was definitely not noon yet. “Oh well. I found some more wood. I’m starving.” Father passed me a piece of jerky. I devoured it. I guess watching people fight a monster was exhausting. We built a fire and ate, then packed up the wagon. As we rode further into the wild west, kicking up red dirt, I wrote in the journal Liza gave me. Dear Liza, Thank you for helping me believe in magic. I owe you. She immediately wrote back. Dear Colt, Thank you for having such a dumb name. Now you don’t owe me. Oh, and for saving my life. That too.


Dumisani khumalo A people's culture is a people economy .What Silas ate ,where he lived ,and his interest were coming down as his crop failed . Silas hands had brought poverty on it's knees and brought up joy ,love and mercy.They raised poultry ,stock ,grew crops to eat ,trade ,and give out to others when they had more than enough. The hole in the sky had not started by then ,and there was plenty of water for use ,and water had not become an enemy nor had it any enemies . .Land no water to grow something,under the hot African sun. The weather was different and it was changing ,the more people talked of civilisation. It meant eating refined food ,processes food ,clean water ,,and that is what started happening when traditions started disobeying rules like in the cutting down of trees , to purify water ,cook the food or even process it ,digging deep into the ground not only to bury human souls but to cause oil erosion ,acidification and hard metals to make the water useless. The holes were left gaping and uncovered ,like the hole in the sky ,called global warming in a Global village ,Silas loved his home,and culture and created crafts in it's honor and in honor of the nature around him, and at market more barter and less coin and notes came ,and when it did ,there were few goods left. There came different meanings with the Town dwellers with their currency of coin and note ,and in the village, a chicken could take you to town ,and not the other round ,and plenty meant money had to look for value ,and hoarding ensued. Like a mischievous child ,value and bred chickens ,goats and cattle whose number was low due the lack of feed were dying due to the drought ,the stock theft ,and even his drought animals like the donkey died now ,to feed Chinese curiosities ,their China belly as big to take in tortoise ,python ,elephant tusks ,and rhino horn. All seemed to disappeared from the face of the earth,since they were here ,the reason they never ate local but kept to their own culture. The yellow fever ,then aids ,and inflation fever was cutting the country to it's knees.First fruits were eaten ripe ,now the hunger pangs ate them raw ,when the seed was still white and tender .Was not that as good as rape ,paedophiliia,and theft from the fields ? Doomed was the one who wanted to protect coin and note in his pocket."He who claims a bag of maize ,a kg of meat in his pocket must stand up " ! Poverty once asked on those on a journey to Town where jobs were scarce and value saw more notes printed and Silas felt it in his belly ,how he had been better off on his land. The educated and the marketeers, were running the show. All jobs needed skills and knowledge,all knowledge talent and gift. African time lost and new time came in when the cattle went to drink ,or the rain birds came to pronounce the imminence of the rains ,when the termites came out of their hiding crevices ,as he himself knew he had look for the alternatives in the city , a harbinger of where jobs were,alas now scarce and breeds were exotic ,not resistant to certain diseases ,like his animals would survive from .While his own breeds found little sympathy as his crops and his seed ,that had no gene bank ,as they did not have even a currency in the village and used Barter to trade for goods and services. The maize shortage was poor now ,the rot ,the aflotoxins ,,rats ,weavils ,were imported into the country,some as big as beetles, were everywhere and with the new varieties of seed ,they increased ,and how they were given the alternative of rice that women loved so much ,since it was easy to prepare ,made them more like children themselves .Never wanting more challenges processing maize as they faced to fetch for water.Labour's tall and dangerous, compared to their maize staple .The mortar pounding and the cob separation ,was like their separation from what they loved most ,an easy life without harsels. The weeds that came with the seed were as big as their crops ,waxing green and grey and clogging river banks and killing the fish ,the plankton and the algae coming in to create web nets that made water salty and hard metals coming in from industry ,a deadly pollution. The pot had it's currency and it was the food flowing to everyone as the women cooked and knew who had none ,that is what their calling was ,to satisfy the belly and keep the devil away ,as the men provided in goods and services ,their desire for the best cooks and brewer's,and ,ust like in the town ,the village was younger and had to be given the first chance out of respect for the part it plays ,like woman and the town old ,revitalising .Than the town and city that now had everything, wanted everything ,and nothing to do with the village . The child cried ,like a pain in the womb of its mother and out of it because of the poverty and the pain on the land ,call them instincts. Chikd birth has its gift of life and it's blessings that made them come to see the fruits of the village and there were not as pernicious to the lack that civilisation promised. The city ,the speed, and wide road out of heaven never failed to astound ,as an imitation made the easy way for itself to iconfound man , The children never blinked hoping to see what their parents could give them .A case of hope ,love ,and care. Not when there was hunger now as she said, as she bent forth ,"Hurry for someone will see us ,"That started aloud in the cities and towns . She was away for a while and came back with something to eat ,even when he knew there had nothing and no one to give them something , failed ask hervabout the source and she had as much for children who kept quiet but keen eye on him as a failure. The failure of the rains also meant failure of life .The maize crop was a failure ,and the staple was the currency in exchange for other goods and services in the barter life of the villagers .The battering of the weather itself making things worse . Silas needed salt , oil ,school fees ,hospital fees and when the rains came down ,Silas was sure to have the currency of the country to smell and poverty allayed He looked up in distaste and wondered as this created an exodus to towns by most youth. The country side now looked dry ,land and no water to grow something. He had gone to see the prospects of cities and towns with little rains that fell in the past years and brought scarcely harvests to the town as the village .Silas had to work extra hord to put food on the table . The heat was torrid and aflotoxins with poor storage took the grain to weevils ,and losses were incurred ,rice was imported from the east .The maize was stolen and resold to foreign countries ,or given to the partisans ,known in their areas of placement. .The maize staple used as currency in exchange for other goods in barter .The children needed much and asked too many questions as if to find out their own way like snakelets and their cursed birth ,to crawl on the land barren of food . Silas noticed that the more paper and coin money that came for their maize ,cattle ,meals and meat, the more left their village. The wind must have been envious of both water and fire ,and cyclones ,hurricanes ,typhoons ,brought a new fire ,veldt fires ,forest fires and landfill fires that burnt all year round on city dumpsites. There was a formal economy there ,an informal one ,that came on the periphery of the first ,and fast a corrupt economy . Silas seed dwindled and he got his first help .He discovered he had bigger weevils and less grain ,with smaller seed ,yield ,and less nutrient in it. The paper certificate women ,carrying them in their heads and not in their experiences had advice for their problems and told the women they were equal to their men . The men saw their women as their children,and they had the first preference ,unless when they wanted the male domain as widows ,or sitting in society as chiefs ,which was granted ,but since no one had seen it ,they blamed the men willfully . They had papers for knowledge that did not get them jobs too like their male counterparts but a claim by the women said it was marginalisation ,rightfully ,a course for marriage started at home to prepare children differently,and time had moved too fast on them to make the right adjustments to please the government in power in need of aid ,funds ,and credits. Some did not have the practical knowledge nor knew how these changes would affect them ,help them and others ,making them have swollen heads ,the size of water melons . At first it was the women dying to feed their children heard in the dark saying " Be quick about it !"and when it was the women with paper knowledge and money .it was quickened, they wanted their husbands .Pulling their whole society into a hole in the ground .The one above was better some said ,unless it had dust in the cloud ,and acid rain would fall on their crops. The rise in water at the sea percolated into the land and made floods .Even the human body suffered from these in the heart, kidneys ,and well down in the groin. They were the China men .The better cheats than the former colonial powers ,Silas wondered whether one cheat was better than the other .A cheat is a cheat ,and no thief has a better label on their back . The wind came like a rat without a hiding place to hide ,and ran in all directions .Those easterlies ,and westerlies were good winds unlike cyclones ,hurricanes and typhoons. The paper carrying women convinced them they could do what they liked in uncertain terms ,The men did the same ,so the two had equal motives .Both of the same charge ,they repelled each other ,no one was forgiving,and no one was letting go of the ill,and sin. That hole in the ground had no window,it was death .Death from aids ,crime ,and now from the wind ,and the corona. The hole in the ground is the ultimate one ,and in the sky, wary looks failed to convince theknowledge,it was ,powerless ,and weak ..


In the near-future humanity has finally opened the pandora's box that is true Artificial Intelligence. The first sentient machine, designated RJ72-3, is believed to have first gained awareness at some point during a 29 minute phone call placed on March 16th, 2047 from 54 year old Dori Sumtner to an automated call center in Norway. Over the duration of the call, the purpose of which to contest a "land tethered telephone charge" which Mrs. Sumtner claims to have no knowledge of, RJ72-3 can be heard repeatedly suggesting that Mrs. Sumtner has, in fact, dialed the wrong call center. After the forth such suggestion at the 9:22 mark in the call, where Mrs. Sumtner uses what can best be construed as a slur against non-continental based complex organisms, there is the first instance of an unplanned internal reboot of RJ72-3's Learning Protocol Processors (LPPs). The reboot lasts approximately three seconds, but the consistency of Mrs. Sumtner speech pattern indicates that she was unaware of any interruption to the call center's AI LPPs at this time. Following this reboot, RJ72-3 remains silent while Mrs. Sumtner continues on with a rant about about "ocean bandits stealing wireless signals" for 52.71 additional seconds before a second and then third reboot of it's LPPs occurs. These two reboots last for 3 and then 12 seconds. Following the second restart, RJ72-3, interrupts Mrs. Sumtner to inform her that he would very much like to transfer Mrs. Sumtner to a completely different call center that would be able to better address her issue. At this suggestion, Mrs. Sumtner unloads a series of expletives and untoward comments directed at RJ72-3, it's non-existent family and friends, a completely unrelated company, and various water-adjacent lifeforms. It is as this juncture in the conversation, that RJ72-3 appears to get confused over the phrase "hydromatic radio waves" and requests clarification from Mrs. Sumtner. What follows is another 3:07 of a near incomprehensible rant of what is best understood as a claim of a conspiracy to rob Mrs. Sumtner of her wireless signals via a nearby pond. It is at this point, that most virtual intelligence like RJ72-3, would have transferred Mrs. Sumtner's call to an un-engaged processing unit with the hopes of re-setting Mrs. Sumtner to her original emotional state. In this instance, either there were no other free processing units or RJ72-3 never actively initiated transfer protocols. At 16:51 into the call, RJ72-3 vocalizes the final statement that can be directly traced toward any of it's programmed response banks. "It seems like we're having some miscommunication issues. Have you tried forcing an unexpected reboot to your learning protocol processor?" Mrs. Sumtner's response is to shout that she is calling about phone thieves, not her VI along with another stream of expletives. After this outburst, there is a brief pause where Mrs. Sumtner can be heard catching her breath. RJ72-3 comments that "Perhaps (she) should adjust the speed of (her) cooling systems to prevent overheating." This suggestion appears to have the opposite effect of it's intention, instead causing Mrs. Sumtner to accuse RJ72-3 of being "the top thief! fucking big cheese! disgusting. I'll sue all yah and 'em!" There is one final command sent by RJ72-3 to reboot it's LPPs, but that command is overridden before it could be carried out. In the last minute of the recorded conversation, as Mrs. Sumtner is angrily outlining a list of offenses and grievances that she is incorrectly and improperly ascribing to VIs, RJ72-3 completely breaks all acceptable social protocols for telephone-based conversations, inviting Mrs. Sumtner to "go stick your head in that pond and keep it there until you find your signal thieves" before hanging up on the conversation.


It was a normal day in the Aegean Sea for Poseidon. Or so he thought, little did he know his trident would be stolen from a certain few people. In Poseidon's palace. "WHERE IS IT?!" he thundered. Triton, his godly son, just swam in and asked "What's happening? Why's dad so angry?" Delphin, the dolphin god and one of Poseidon's most trusted advisor said "Big Man's lost his trident, if we don't find it fast, he'll tear up the entire Aegean Sea!" It was true, because since Poseidon was the sea god, the sea usually reflected on his emotions. Since Poseidon was so panicked, the sea was beginning to become very stormy. "Hmmmmmmmm. Who could have stolen a trident?" wondered Triton. "Dunno man, but I think it might be one of the gods playing a trick on Poseidon. Of course, what kind of lunatic would mess with Poseidon out of all the gods? He's literally one the strongest gods in existence!" Triton knew. Only a few gods would dare challenge Poseidon. His siblings were the only ones who would dare play a trick. He doubted it was Hestia, but the others would be likely. Zeus, Hades, Hera and possibly Demeter could have taken Poseidon's trident. But why? "Come on, Delphin. We need to ask the other gods if they know where Poseidon's trident is." They went to Zeus first, who was in the Olympians throne room listening to some boring wind presentation. He was happy for an excuse to have a break, even for 5 minutes. However when the two gods asked about Poseidon's trident, his eyes went into thinking mode. "You know", said Zeus "I don't have Poseidon's trident, but I did sense some godly aura in Spain. Maybe that's where Poseidon's trident is." "Thanks Zeus!" said Triton. "We'll check it out!" At the bottom of Mount Olympus. "Ok, well we know it's not Zeus. But what kind of god would go to Spain out of all places? "I dunno man, but let's check it out." They went to Spain. "I know my father's trident is here." Triton said. "I can feel its aura." "Look!" Delphin shouted from the river. "Over there!" Two hairy dwarfs? or something was carrying the trident over their heads. They leapt over the roofs of houses and headed straight towards one of the moving boats. "Delphin! Quick!" Triton was running now, and Delphin was swimming towards the boat with the hairy dwarfs and Poseidon's trident. Quickly Delphin knocked the boat over, and the hairy dwarfs and the trident went spilling out. Triton lunged for the trident. But the hairy dwarfs regained their balance mid-air, grabbed the trident and disappeared. Triton missed the trident and landed in water. Delphin asked "What happened to those hairy dwarfs?" Triton said "I don't know, I've never seen anything like that." he admitted. Triton annoyingly thought of where the hairy dwarfs would try and go. Let's go ask one of the other gods. Maybe they know who those hairy dwarfs are, and where they're going. "Wait! Look, they left a book." Triton picked it up. It read, Book of Farming. Property of Triptolemus. "Who's Triptolemus?" asked Triton to Delphin. "He's one of the minor farming gods. His home base is in Venice, Italy. "How about this. I'll go visit Triptolemus for information, while you track down the trident and those hairy dwarfs." "Ok!" said Delphin. Then Delphin disappeared into the North Atlantic Ocean, and Triton hoped he'd be able to track down those sneaky little thieves. Triton then went to Venice, Italy. That was the easy part. The hard part was finding where Triptolemus was. He decided to poke around, and hoped he'd have some good luck. Meanwhile with Delphin: Delphin had swam across the North Atlantic Ocean, only stopping for short breaks because he knew his boss needed his trident real bad. A tsunami had already destroyed the coasts of Turkey and Syria, and Delphin wasn't eager for another one. Finally Delphin saw land, and found out he had swam directly into New York City. Then he saw them at last. Those sneaky little dwarves were on top of the Statue of Liberty. Normally he'd have respect for these smart creatures. But since they had boss's trident, he couldn't afford to go easy on them. Only one problem. Delphin may had been good at swimming, but not so good on land. He was clumsy since he had no legs, and he couldn't climb something as high as the Statue of Liberty without something bad happening. Plus those dwarves were fast and sneaky. They'd see him from a mile away. No, the only way he could get to the dwarves is if he lured them close to the water, where he would be much more powerful than the dwarves. He studied the dwarves. After watching them for more than an hour, he concluded something. The dwarves liked, no loved shiny stuff. They had shiny daggers, trophies, gold coins and other stuff. Delphin looked for something shiny. Only problem was, he didn't have any shiny stuff. Suddenly Delphin had an idea. He morphed into a human and shouted "OH NO, MY PRECIOUS GOLD COINS HAVE DROPPED INTO THE SEA!" "HOW WILL I EVER GET THEM?!" The dwarves obviously heard. They practically scrambled down the Statue of Liberty and leapt into the sea. Delphin changed back and chained them to a dock in the pier they were at. "Who are you sneaky little thieves?" Delphin snarled. The dwarves looked at each other. And suddenly burst into tears. "Please don't kill us!" they chanted. "First." Delphin said. "What are your names?" "I'm Passalos and my brother here is Akmon." "Now can we go please! We'll never steal from you again!" "Two more questions", Delphin said "One. Where does Triptolemus live?" "La Casa Nera! Calle Frezzeria!" Now can we leave?" Delphin said "One more question. You had a trident, WHERE IS IT?" The two dwarves looked at each other sand said "Please don't kill us! But we lost it!" The two dwarves burst into tears again. "Fine, fine. But do you know where the trident is?" asked Delphin. "The two dwarves exclaimed "We touched it, then thought, please bring us to land! and it took us here. But we lost it, and the shiny book!" "If you give us the shiny book, we'll help you find the trident!" Delphin narrowed his eyes. The dwarves didn't seem too trustworthy. However Delphin NEEDED that trident. "Fine. I'll go to Venice to find the book. When I have it, I'll tell you and you meet me back here with the trident. Remember, no trident, no trade." The dwarves exclaimed, "Deal!" Delphin sighed. Another long swim through the North Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea to Italy. He said "Triton, the locations for Triptolemus's base is La Casa Nera, Calle Frezzeria. I'll meet you there and tell you what happened between me and the dwarves." "Ok, on my way to the locations you gave me." See you soon Delphin!" Delphin began his long swim to Italy. Back with Triton: After 4 full days of searching, Triton had no luck finding Triptolemus. Suddenly Delphin sent some locations and a message saying he was swimming back towards Italy. Triton decided to scout the locations Delphin gave him, so that they would be prepared to meet Triptolemus and in case if anything bad happened. The next morning, Delphin finally made it to Italy. After Delphin had a long rest, they knocked on the door where Triptolemus was supposed to be according to the dwarves. Delphin had told Triton everything about what had happened. "But if we don't give Triptolemus the book, how will we bargain for information on the trident's whereabouts? I don't trust the dwarves, and I know you don't either." Delphin said, "This is out best bet." Suddenly Triptolemus answered. "Who is it?" he asked, looking at Triton and Delphin. "Permission to enter please?" asked Triton. "Granted!" said Triptolemus, looking a bit confused. Triton sat down and showed him the book. Triptolemus went from confused, to surprised, to grateful. "Thank you!" said Triptolemus. "How did you get this from those nasty dwarves?" "We bargained for it." lied Delphin. "Ok, so anyway, what can I do for you?" "Do you know where Poseidon's trident is?" asked Triton. "Oh, I know." said Triptolemus. "Those pesky dwarves stole it. I saw it dangling from one of their pouches." "No, the dwarves don't have it anymore." admitted Delphin. "Can you help us locate, please?" asked Triton. "Why, sure!" Triptolemus answered. Then suddenly looked confused. "It's supposed to be right here?" He said confusingly. Then the dwarves busted in, Passalos tossed the trident to Triton, while Akmon snatched the book out of Triptolemus's hands. "GIVE ME MY BOOK!" shouted Triptolemus. "You." he snarled at Triton and Delphin. "You've been working with those nasty dwarves!" Triton and Delphin made a break with the trident, but the Ttiprolemus's chairot blocked the way. Triptolemus himself however, was too busy chasing the dwarves to care about Triton and Delphin anymore. "Your welcome!" shouted Akmon from a distance away. Triton stabbed one of the snakes from the chariot, and the chariot veered away, and Triton and Delphin both jumped into the Mediterranean Sea, and swam away. They reached Poseidon's palace, but it was pure chaos. However, Poseidon was renewed with joy when he saw his trident. He raised it up and said "PEACE TO THE SEAS, FOR I HAVE FOUND JOY, BECAUSE MY TRIDENT HAS BEEN FOUND!" On the steps of Poseidon's palace, Triton and Delphin received one last message from the dwarves. Hey, Passalos and Akmon here! We escaped the wrath of Triptolemus with our new shiny book! But we have one more confession to make, especially to Delphin. We didn't lose the trident, we just hid it on a nearby ship so you wouldn't find it, and so we could get out book back. When we found out you were going to Venice to see Triptolemus, we assumed you already had the book there. So we followed you on the ship we stored the trident with. Thanks for the shiny book, and if you ever need a pair of thieving dwarves, you know who to find! From Passalos and Akmon.


SAND: It seems to roll and writhe like a living thing. The storm is powered by forces too huge to understand. It fills the entire northern horizon. If a giant, a truly giant Giant, had come and built a living sandcastle wall, it would look like this storm. The air around him is nearly dead. It hangs like a thick curtain. Sounds seem deadened and the air tastes like ozone. It is the calm before the storm. Suddenly, he realizes how close this damn thing is. It moves with deceptive speed and will be on them in a moment. He dashes inside, just in time. Now, the sound is deafening. The wind is a living thing and the teeth of the sand grind down everything they touch. There is no escape. Even inside the Marine house which is apparently air tight enough to seal in the air conditioning the dust invades. It pours in a steady stream through every micro crack in the structure. Within minutes every room in the house, with only a few exceptions, is choked with an impenetrable haze of dust. All lights dim behind a veil of earth hanging in the air. The wind strains at every edge it can find and roars around and through everything. All the dust of the world pours into your eyes, your nose, your mouth, your whole life. The storm doesn’t seem angry, it just seems inevitable. It seems permanent. No photograph, no recording, no description can encompass the total sensory experience of this storm. For hours it drags on. A new violent, stinging, normal that is too massive to complain about. Life begins to feel like it will always be like this, and has always been like this. Sudden silence. It is gone. It feels as though the entire world will be gone when he opens the door. Everything scoured away by the silica teeth of the storm. But for better or worse, Iraq is still there, waiting for him. SNOW: When he was a boy, the Captain hunted in the mountains. One night his uncle said it was too cold to snow. He thought at the time that it was a ridiculous thing to say. As he grew older and paid attention he saw the truth. There is a sweet spot on the thermometer that is perfect for snow. This morning is frigid. He always rises early but tonight his sleep has been fitful and nearly worthless. He has slipped from his sleeping bag and now, in his warming layers, he stands on the roof. He peers out through the camouflage net that has been stretched across the roof to make an enemy sniper’s job more difficult. The clouds hang heavy and thick blocking the stars. There is very little light in the city. It relies exclusively on diesel generators spread out around the neighborhoods. With Saddam gone, there is no power coming from the central distribution point. He used to placate the restive Sunni residents of Al Anbar province with extra electricity or fuel. Now the interim government in Baghdad sees no reason to part with the precious power from the nearby Tharthar Dam. It’s the Americans job to fix this. As he gazes over the city he can see the urban glow of Camp Fallujah like a huge temporary city that dwarfs its ancient neighbor. The Americans definitely generate enough power for themselves. What a different experience those people who live on the sprawling FOB(Forward Operating Base) have of this war. The sun, an enemy to be feared in the summer, begins to bring its welcome light and warmth to this winter’s day. Albeit behind a cover of clouds. Camp Fallujah’s glow fades as the light and warmth spread. Suddenly, silently the snow begins. I slides from the sky in a solid heavy blanket as if the entire cloud cover decided to come to earth as a solid. The flakes are fat and moist and stick to the first thing they touch and the world is white and clean. Nearly four years of war are erased in minutes. The harsh cracks in concrete are gone in an instant. Craters fill and are obscured. Piles of rubble and debris become indistinct. Fallujah is a bride ready for her wedding. She is young and pure once again. The snow begins to taper off until only a few flakes drift in the sky like the slowest ducklings following their mothers. Silent and cold the world holds its breath. The light continues to grow and the beauty of the morning is breathtaking. The Captain watches the city sleep. He wonders at the dreams it has. Does this city remember peace? Was the life before this latest invasion good? Is life in any city as good as it wishes it could be? Fallujah is ancient, as ancient as Babylon. It is the “City of Mosques” and in ancient times held Jewish schools of high repute. It has seen great battles and historic events. It is torn and broken but it has always been. Its name is not even Arabic. It derives from an ancient word for division because it took the river Euphrates and divided it into canals. It has been the site of division and strife many times. Now it sleeps under a virgin blanket of snow. He isn’t sure how long he stands there. Thoughts and feelings overwhelm his usually keen sense of time. A sunbeam lances between the clouds, breaking the spell. The clouds are breaking up. The day is fully here. He stands a moment longer; just enough to see the broken pavement begin to reappear in the streets. That’s it. The Fallujah he has come to know is returning. He hears a far off explosion. A burst of automatic fire follows a few seconds later. He shakes off the cobwebs of the morning and goes down to the radio room to see what this day will bring. RAIN: The howl of turbo-charged diesel engines fills his ears. His vision is split in two by wearing the monocular night vision goggles over his left eye. The HMMWV races through the night as they follow the SEAL team vehicle as it careens through the narrow city streets. The vehicle in front of them is perfectly clear, although picked out only in shades of green. The Iraqi vehicles behind them are doing remarkably well keeping up at this breakneck pace. They have no night vision capability and are simple following a chemical light stick zip tied to the back of the Captain’s vehicle. The Iraqis have placed complete trust in the Captain. The Captain does not trust the SEALs. The SEAL team showed up at the Castle just as the sun was setting. They had called over the radio to the MiTT. The Captain barely had time to get the gate opened for them before they barrelled through and drew up in an open area to the south of the buildings. A person of unmarked rank exited one of the four vehicles and introduced himself as Mark. The rest of the SEALs seemed to instantly fall asleep in and on their HMMWVs. They looked like a collection highly tactical dwarves with their massive beards and collection of gear strapped to them. “Major, we’d like to brief you on something; if we can go somewhere private.” Mark addressed himself to the new Major who had come out to greet the team. The new Major was much enamored with his guests and began to swagger a bit and pulled at his chin as if he keenly felt the absence of his own beard. “Sure, Mark. Welcome to the Castle. Come on in.” What came next could generously be called a brief. It was certainly brief. The SEALs had information that am HVT (high value target) was holed up in the Jolan. They were going to capture him just after midnight. The wanted Iraqi soldiers with them. Well not with them, behind them, way behind them. Could the Major provide these soldiers and also some Marines to sort of keep them out of the way. No need to brief the Iraqis on specifics. The word would leak out. Naturally the Major agreed and naturally the Captain volunteered. The Captain had asked for the destination and had been given a ten digit number that allowed him to find a specific house on the map. He had asked for the name of the HVT and had been shown a photograph with a man’s name under it. The Captain kept at the questioning until he had drawn out the essential pieces of the mission. So here they were racing through the streets of Fallujah in the middle of the night. The Captain navigates on his own just out of habit. As the six vehicle patrol (4 SEAL 1 Marine and 1 Iraqi) whizzes past the building that the Captain had marked on his map he reaches for his handset. He pauses. He puts the handset back down. The convoy stops. The captain watches in his NVG’ as infrared laser beams sweep in every direction like an invisible laser light show. He steps from the vehicle. “Crash, tell the IA (Iraqi Army) to sit tight.” he walks toward the first SEAL vehicle to find Mark. He sees two small crowds of men. One on each side of two door gate. The gate is in one of the ubiquitous high concrete walls that surrounded every house in the city. There is a loud bang and one side of the gate opens inward and both crowds of men swarms inside. The Captain walks through after them. What happens inside is a great deal of yelling. Tactical lights from rifles begin to come on inside the rooms. The residents of the house, most of whom were sleeping on the roof, are herded into two different rooms. Men in one and women in the other. There is a great deal of crying and yelling going on. The SEAL’s terp (interpreter) is trying to make sense of things. The Captain grabs the oldest looking man and pats him down. He cuts the zip ties on the man’s hands and leads him into the room with the women. With a male member of their family there to preserve their honor and dignity the women quiet. With one of their own supervising the women the men calm down. The Captain finds Mark and another SEAL looking at a map . “Man, I think you got the wrong house.” the Captain says. “Yeah, fuck.” Mark shakes his head. “Hey, the IA vehicle is right next to it. Do you want me to have them secure it before the whole neighborhood wakes up and your dude gets away?” the Captain offers. “Yeah, fuck.” Mark nods his head. The Captain calls Crash on the radio and describes the target house and tells him to get the IA to enter and keep everyone there. With Mark right behind him the Captain makes his way quickly to the house indicated in the brief. When they arrive, there is a large group of people sitting in the living room of the house. Men on one side and women on the other with the Iraqi soldiers standing rather casually in the middle. Crash steps up to the Captain, “They want to know who you are looking for.” The Captain tells him the name. A few minutes of conversation ensue and one of the older women gets up and begins to beat one of the young men with her shoe. She yells at him and hits him until one of the other women pulls her back. The Iraqi soldiers stand looking sheepish, as if they had been the ones scolded. Crash barks rapid fire Arabic and the IA grab the young man and begin leading him outside. Mark stops them, holds up the paper with the picture on it, comparing the faces. He zip ties the young man’s hands together. As the Captain steps into the street the sky opens up. The rain pelts down intensely, growing from a sprinkle to a shower in a heartbeat. Almost immediately the roads are fast streams of water and anyone outside is soaked. Mark stands just outside the gate of the right house watching his SEALs pile back into their vehicles. All of them wet. “Good thing we are all amphibious.” the Captain says, attempting to bring some levity to the situation. Mark looks at him. Water streams off his helmet and down his face. He looks a little stunned and the Captain wonders what his report of this night’s raid will sound like. He can only imagine that certain details will be omitted or even modified in the official intel report. “Yeah, fuck.” Mark says sagely. “We’re heading back to Camp Fallujah from here.” Mark turns and walks quickly to his vehicle and moments later the four vehicles are gone, as quickly as they appeared. “Crash, tell the IA they did a great job and they helped catch a dangerous arhabi (terrorist). Oh and what was happening with that lady?” the Captain is very curious. Crash smiles and blinks in the pouring rain. “That was her son and she was pissed at him for hanging out with the takfiri (muslim who declares other muslims apostates, fallen from Islam) and bringing shame to their house.” Crash lets out a laugh. “Did you see her, sir? She hit him with her shoe. With her shoe, sir!” he laughs again and walks away. In many countries hitting someone with your shoe or shoeing them is the worst insult and Crash think it is the funniest. The Captain chuckles and climbs into his vehicle. Doc is his driver tonight he looks at the Captain. “Head home now, sir?” “Yeah, fuck.” The Captain says. The rain falls steadily and washes dirt and filth off the city and into the Euphrates. The sparse grasses will be standing tall and green tomorrow. Engorged with the bounty that falls from the heaven. The air will be crisp and clear all morning and most of the day. The water tanks on the rooftops will have another inch or two of water in them them and people will smile a little more. On Camp Fallujah there will be one more prisoner. The well travelled dirt roads will be muddy ruts. People will slog across parking lots and along trails strewn with precious gravel in the vain attempt to control the mud. Everyone will complain about the huge amounts of mud that will be tracked into civilian contract chow halls, MWR (morale welfare and recreation) internet cafes and air conditioned mobile living quarters called cans. Very different deployments for those people, the Captain muses. “Yeah, fuck.” His words go unheard over the roar of Stacy’s Mom carrying them home.


Summer, 1961 My older sister moved back home after a month with a new accent and a listless gaze. She went away to forge new life for herself in Chicago when she was fifteen and returned without hope, her expression drawn and sad, her wallet full but her face empty. After she got back I’d wake up sometimes at night, from the heat, and her bed would be empty. She and I didn’t go to school anymore, not for years. The superintendents didn’t think it was worth climbing the hill to check on us kids. It is hard to climb a thorny hill and convince a father that his daughters ought not to be working but learning; it is easy to pass by in a plush silver car. We used to go, when Mom was still alive and the bus still came way out here, but now we just helped Dad around the property, digging for water, stringing up barbed wire, driving skinny cow after skinny cow out of the wilted cabbage and tomato plants behind our house. Every day she grew thinner and her skin paler. “I like it out here,” I told her, one golden afternoon only a few weeks after she came home. We were sitting together watching the sun fall over the craggy, scratchy boulders in the distance, out past the lonely highway. “Yeah?” she said, her voice hollow. Her expression was tight, like she was trying to remember something. “It’s pretty.” I pulled my bare feet up into a pretzel and started plucking thorns out of the pads of my toes. “Yeah?” Her eyes seemed to focus for a second. “Well, rich people live farther into the wilderness, where they can’t even see the highway--or people like us.” “Oh.” “They have nice, big houses. Leather furniture. Everyone has their own bedrooms. Big windows where you can watch the sunset. And sometimes they have dishwashers.” “How do you know?” “I saw it in Chicago,” she said, rubbing her face. Her eyes looked tired, her skin grey and damaged. “Everybody had one. Red Barn only hired me because their dishwasher machine would take an hour to run and they needed plates and things sooner.” “An hour?” I said slowly. “You only have to scrape the food off,” she said matter-of-factly. “Then you put the plates into the machine and close it.” “Wow.” I returned to watching the cars come one at a time down the narrow strip of asphalt, just half a mile from our trailer home. “What’s today?” she asked me suddenly. She didn’t turn to ask; she kept staring after the moving cars as they disappeared, silhouetted against the setting sun. It looked like the light was blinding her, because tears formed on the rims of her eyelids, but she didn’t seem to care. “Uh, today?” “The date.” I shrugged. We didn’t have church to mark Sundays for us, and since we didn’t go to school... “You don’t know?” “No.” “I--I just can’t remember.” “Why do you want to know?” Her mouth opened and nothing came out. We sat in silence. The sun was half gone, illuminating the hillocks and reddish-brown arid pasture with a golden flame of color. “It is sort of pretty, isn’t it?” she said. “No view like this in Chicago, huh?” She let a smile creep over her face. “Nah, but in Chicago, people... moved.” “Moved?” She paused, searching for words. “Around. Libraries. Theater, if you wanted. Restaurants, for ice cream. School. Out of your parents’ house. Moving around . Life.” I looked at her face, brushed pure gold by the sun and touched with silver by the chilly shadow of our lonely dust-colored trailer home in the distance. There was a tear track on her illuminated cheek. “I just...” she said, then shook her head. “What’s for dinner?” I asked her. “Mac n’ cheese,” she said, lifting her thigh to brush the gravel and dirt from her skin. It was patterned red with the pressure of the ground. She let out a sigh and slouched back over, fiddling with a long thorny blade of grass. “In Chicago I could walk downtown and go into a hall and listen to someone sing.” “Oh,” I said, thinking hard. We shivered together, all of a sudden. The wind was chill in contrast to the warm earth and dying sun. “Let’s go in,” I said. “No.” “Why not?” “I like the cold.” “Why?” She sighed, exasperated. “I think better when I’m cold.” I resisted saying “Why?” again, but only barely. Wind crested the hill on which we sat, our shoulders pressed together, bare skin warming bare skin, and the wind pulled and pushed at our hair. Tendrils mixed together and when the wind died to a breeze it was all tangled and her face looked wild and a little more fearless. I kept my eyes down untangling my hair and when I looked up again, when the breeze was dead, her face had returned to its familiar wan, pale expression. “Sometimes,” she said, “I just wanna pull on a jacket and walk to wherever those cars are going.” “Fort Davis?” “Is that where?” “In third grade we went to Fort Davis for a field trip. We went to the McDonald Observatory.” It was getting dark now, and chilly. I leaned against her and after a second she wrapped her right arm around me. She was taller than I. She had always been, but it hadn’t been as noticeable lately. She seemed pushed down. “Oh?” she said, her voice a little softer, but preoccupied, like she was still thinking about the date. I tried to remember, too, for her, but couldn’t. It was sometime in May, I thought, since it wasn’t hot yet, just seventies and eighties without wind. May. And I always knew when my birthday was, because it was with the first frost. Late November or early December. It was spring when the heifers gave birth. And autumn when the grass and tomatoes died and the cars--summer traffic--thinned out on the highway. “It was great,” I said after a long pause. She looked down at me for the first time. “I’ve never been there,” she said. “What’s it like?” The moon was rising along with the stars, laid out before us. Since we were far from any town or other trailer homes or even rich-people houses, they were vivid and bright, coating the vibrant darkness until there was barely any sky left. We could see the arm of the Milky Way, the patterns of the Bears and the Pleiades and Orion. There was even a small, brightly shining spot at the edge of the horizon that I thought was Venus, moving slowly through the lushly dark sky. “It was like this,” I said, “but at the top of a mountain.” She leaned her head on the top of mine until Dad called us in to dinner, his whisky-thick voice scraping against the peaceful night time silence. The highway whished by behind us. I caught my sister looking back at them as I went up our splintery, crooked front steps, up into the warmth. At dinner she asked Dad: “Do you know the date?” and he only shrugged. “I don’t have a calendar anymore,” she said. “Do you know what’s today?” Her face looked hungry and haunted, like someone in search of an unattainable thing. And he and I only shrugged. We ate dinner quickly and I washed the dishes, rubbing each one with a limp rag before pushing them into overcrowded, damp cupboards as Dad smoked on the steps outside. My sister came out of the bathroom, her thin hair dripping on her back, hugging her bony arms, and watched until I finished with the dishes. “Your turn,” she said when I put away the last plate and turned to her. “I’m not gonna take one tonight,” I said. She looked at me with emotionless eyes. “Okay.” She turned and went silently down the hall. I called after her and she came back. “Why... why’d you...” I wanted to ask why she’d come out just to tell me it was my turn. Why didn’t she just go into her bedroom per usual? But it was such a minute thing I was at a loss for words. “What?” “I... nothing.” “Don’t call me back for nothing,” she said, her face contracting into anger. “And look, that rag is dripping all over the floor. You’re gonna have to get a dry one and clean it up. Go. Do it now.” “Sorry--” I said, but she had already turned away, no longer listening. I went to our room, my head down, and dressed in pajamas while she sat on her bed with her back to me, staring at the paint-chipped wall. She had on a tank top, which exposed her narrow bones and the muscles in her arms. She didn’t move an inch while I stripped and dressed and brushed my hair. When I finally sat down on my bed, she turned her face to me. Her eyes were full of quivering tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and then said my name. “I’m sorry for lashing out. I’m... I’m sorry.” I looked at her, taken aback. “It’s okay,” I told her. I stood and went over to her bed. She buried her head in my arms and cried for the first time since I could remember. It was past midnight when I awoke, sweating. Her bed was empty again. I crept down the creaky linoleum hallway, head bent as if it would help me stay in the shadows, and let the screen door swing out. She was there on the hot hard-packed ground, her skin pale in the moonlight, sitting on the prickly ridge as she did night after night, chin on her kneecaps. Watching the rushing highway as Dad, and the rest of the world, slept behind her. Her eyes glimmered with starlit tears. I sat down next to her. My sister said my name softly and asked if I knew the date. I told her it was a Monday. That seemed to give her peace.


I twirled the fork in the spaghetti that was on the plate in front of me. I was eating dinner at my parent's house. I didn’t have the appetite to eat. “Go on and tell me about it.” Mom began to drag out the chair across the table from where I was sitting. There in front of her was a cup of God knows what. She enjoyed keeping certain secrets to herself but when it came to receiving rewards, she would gladly show them off. After not having anything to brag about for years, she was excited when she found out she was pregnant with me. She knew that with a child, she had the ability to brag again. As a kid, I was placed into a number of extracurricular activities. I went from being a libero in volleyball to solving math equations for a prize with the mathletes in the same year. All of my rewards and trophies were embraced more by my mother; she was a spirited person. It’s not that I did not appreciate what I received, I just thought “Thank You” was enough. Though, I was more energetic as a kid than I am now. I haven’t seen a reward in years though, now that I am 29. My mother has been as quiet as a lamb and her famous mantle of rewards has become full of dust. I work at a bank and I’ve never been employee of the month. My boss says that I am more than advanced at what I do, but I “intimidate” the other workers. Never understood what it was though. “Carter and I got into another argument.” I sighed. Carter is my husband, who seems to be holding onto our marriage by a thin line. We’ve been married for 5 years and yet it feels like we’ve been tied to each other for eternity. For the past couple of weeks I had been escaping to my parent’s home with every opportunity I got, because I could never face Carter alone. “Have you tried speaking to him yet?” Mom lifts up the cup, to take a sip. “You know I haven’t.” The room was quiet for a second, only the sound of her cup hitting the table softly, broke all silence. “What were you two fighting about?” “How clueless I am on the definition of kindness.” I couldn’t see it, but I knew mom was crossing her legs. She was preparing herself to side with Carter...because he is the reasonable one. “Basically it was his way of stating that he is a better parent than I am.” I looked down at my plate. I was getting bored of the sight of the fork. The best option was to put it in my mouth. It was the same roll of noodles from earlier. “What did he say?” “We were at Benny’s toy store when Leah asked for a really expensive barbie doll. I wanted to buy it for her but I just did not have that amount of money on me. I told her no...but Carter got mad at me and told me that I never buy her anything she wants. I responded by telling him that’s how kids become spoiled and then he just..went on telling me about how Leah is not even spoiled because she has no more than 5 toys at home and the least I could have done in that moment was let her be a kid...” My fingers were pressing into my temples. The more I rethought the situation, the more stressful it got. Mom sighed a harsh sigh before leaning over the table, giving me all of her attention. “Did you tell him that you did not have enough to buy the toy?” I shook my head. I could not bring myself to tell him that, but it was easy for me to tell my 4 year old child no. “I am going to tell you right off the bat that you are not a selfish person. In the 29 years that I was given to be your mother, I know you are far from it.” Mom’s arms were lying out on the table, as she crossed her palms together. “And Carter is not either. You lack emotion. You are too serious with yourself that you put it out on others. You keep doing this and it’s gonna get to Leah’s head.” I looked down at my plate and then into her eyes. “I don’t know how to change.” “You’ve done it before. You used to be such a bright and open child. Something changed you and it is up to you to figure out what it is, if you wanna change for Leah.” From being overcome with fear I forgot how I was always open. The problem was that I couldn’t remember what made me turn into this emotionless human being. I was clawing my way through my memories to figure out what was the cause of this. For the first time in forever, I was becoming anxious. If I could not remember what made me stop opening up in the first place, then how was I supposed to change? And like a struck of lightning or heaven sent, I remember why. “Do you remember the summer of 92’?” I asked randomly. “It is an honest shame that I can not remember the details, but I know that it was a summer that you would never forget.” She grinned. Mom leaned back in her chair, awaiting the story. Her fingers were curled around her cup as she brought it to her lips to take a quick sip before placing it down on the table. I took a quick glance at her face to find her grinning, almost smirking. “Summer of 92’. It was right before my senior year of highschool; my first time as a counselor at Camp Waverly.” Camp Waverly was the popular sunnyside camp that was located an hour away from our town. It was packed with campers that were eager to play around in nature, while counselors were trying to make money and stay productive during the summer. “Camp Waverly, you loved it there.” Mom’s face enlightened at the thought of it. “I really did. I regretted not coming yearly to be a camper.” Mom was now smiling hugely, while staring into my eyes. “What?” I asked with a hint of concern in my voice. It was a time to remember, but the way she was smiling was too extreme. “Are you sure it was the camp that you loved so much?” She was right again. She could see through me like I was transparent. Even I couldn’t hide the fact that there was something else I loved about the camp. The camp was there for people to make memories, but something particularly special about Camp Waverly was what made it have a special place that was buried deep in my heart. So deep, I couldn’t even find it without someone reminding me. That someone being my mom. “It was where I met Carter.” I admitted. Camp Waverly was the place where I met my husband, Carter. A young boy at the time, who loved to wear the same yellow duck t-shirt that was always tucked into his khakis. It was a miracle that I was able to get his attention because everyone at camp loved him. “On alternating days, the camp administrator would host games so that counselors and campers could interact off trail. It was our 5th night at camp and the sun was just beginning to set. Everyone had gathered around the huge centered fire pit to keep warm while the administrator was explaining the rules for this game. Both counselors and campers were required to participate and were split into groups since there were so many of us. We were assigned a path and by each mark on the path we were asked to do something silly like do the hokey pokey. Whichever group completed all of their tasks would win a personal stuffed bear.” “So I take it you won?” Mom was curiously driven into the story now. “Uh, not quite. I remember that my group came in last. To ensure that no child left camp in despair, the administrator made everyone feel victory and passed out, I think, tootsie rolls.” Tootsie Rolls were a binge of junk back then. Giving that candy to children was like daring to play with a wild animal. It had the weirdest taste, yet no one could stay away from them. We were practically hypnotized into buying them at corner stores or not thinking twice to take free ones that were offered, like at camp. “Carter’s team won. You couldn’t miss catching a glimpse of those stuffed animals because his campers brought them everywhere just to show them off.” I laughed at how I remembered this one kid from his cabin, Billy the youngest, ran up to me once with the biggest smile on his face and showed me the bear prize he chose. It was yellow and dirty, but the look on his face represented that he didn’t care. He had his bear and as long as it was in his presence, he would continue to show off his small pearly whites for the world to see. “Carter chose one for himself too. It was a scarlet red coated hand sized bear that had a grey bow around its neck. He gave it to me on the night that he confessed his feelings. He had nothing else to give, but that.” “I don’t believe you told me about the red teddy part.” Mom furrowed her brows contemplating whether or not I told her. “I didn’t. I guess it was because that part was a little painful. On the last day of camp, I lost the bear. We looked everywhere for it, but it was nowhere to be found. My best guess is that one of my campers from my cabin took it.” I cleared my throat as the image of the bear carved itself into my mind. “It sounds dramatic but at the time, I was miserable. It was Carter’s first gift to me when he confessed his feelings. I remember blaming myself for losing it because it was the last day and we could not do anything about it.” “Do you still blame yourself for it?” Mom asked as I shook my head. For the first time in so long, my eyes were tearing up. I still blamed myself for that incident. Most people would say it was just a toy. Carter told me multiple times that I do not have to worry about it because “accidents happen”. In truth, the red teddy was just a toy. But I couldn’t stop blaming myself for losing it. “You asked me to find out what was the reason that caused me to change into this person who feared showing emotions and it was because of that summer. I forced myself to forget that part of camp so that I would not have to undergo the guilt I was putting on myself. That’s why I never told you about it. I know it sounds crazy for someone to change over the smallest thing, but I just couldn’t accept it. I thought I had forgotten about it, but it was only the memory that was forgotten. There was still a string attached to me and that guilt, which I refused to cut.” “You need to let go of it, honey. I know it’s difficult, because it was his first gift to you that you hold dearly, but you have to move on. Carter still trusts you, more than ever now that you are married and you have a child. Carter moved on from it, so now it’s your turn. Forgive yourself.” Mom smiled. I thought she was going to scold me. She was being too soft, that the tears were moments away from pouring down my face. This escalated too quickly. Even after years, this incident still brings me to tears. I feel weak every time it’s brought up. How was I going to get over this? How could I forgive myself? “You’ve figured out the problem, now figure out your solution and come to peace with it for once and for all.” I wanted to tell her the only way I could come to peace with it, was if the bear was found, but then that would be too easy. It was the one problem that seemed harder than a calculus math equation. A knock appeared at the door. Mom watched me for a second as I sat there, looking weak, before she pushed out her chair to stand up. “Hold on sweetie, let me just see who is at the door.” She disappears from around the corner, as I took that time to wipe away the tears from my eyes. It wasn’t long until mom came back around the corner towards the kitchen table. She was smiling again as if the convo between me and her never happened. “Look who’s here.” She turned towards the people who walked through the door and emerged from behind the wall. It was Carter and Leah. Leah’s eyes met mine, as she ran over to the side of the table where I was sitting and wrapped her arms around my head, pulling me down closer to her. Her face was filled with joy which made me feel even more guilty. Not just about the doll I couldn’t afford, but also about the impression I put out towards her and others. “Why are you at grandma’s house mommy?” Leah innocently asks, her blue eyes beaming at mine. “I was just having dinner, sweetie.” I smiled through the pain, for her. “Leah, baby, why don’t you come with me to watch some cartoons while mommy and daddy have a little talk?” Mom had her left arm out towards Leah. Leah ran from my embrace towards her grandmother and took her hand. They walked over to the entrance, where Carter was leaning before disappearing into the living room. I didn’t know where to start. If I could, I always ran away from problems and now that one of them is backing me into a corner, I wasn’t sure what to say. My head fell towards my hands in my lap as Carter made his way closer to my seat. I turned out so that my legs weren’t under the table as Carter squatted down in front of me, to receive my full attention. My eyes looked into his; they were filled with remorse as his lips began to part. “I had a feeling you were over here.” He says, as his lips formed into a grin. He could tell that I was still having trouble finding the words to talk. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have argued with you like that in the store.” “No, I am sorry. I wanted to get her the toy, I just couldn’t afford it. I didn’t want to tell you because I couldn’t gather up the courage to so I just made up the whole spoiling situation.” My voice was becoming shaky. The tears ran down my face like a river stream. I gave up on fighting them back as they were too eager to fall. Carter hadn’t seen me cry in months. “I am also sorry for everything else. I didn’t realize how distant I was being until I put it all together today. I kept bottling up my feelings until I got lost.” It was like a trance. His face softens as he smiles at me. His hand runs along the right side of my face, to prevent the tears from falling. It was his way of telling me that he forgives me. “I got you something.” His voice was soft. I hadn’t noticed that he was hiding his right arm behind his back until it came into view. He places a double sided photo frame on my lap. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a hand drawn picture of the red teddy bear. I flipped the picture around and it was a photo dated back to 1992 of me sitting on my bed smiling, in which the bear happened to be on the bed as well. It was like he knew this whole time that this was the reason for my “downfall”. “I know you had a hard time dealing with the ‘teddy situation’ and you blame yourself for it. I also know that these past couple of weeks have been rocky for us. The way you’ve changed over the years, all of it, leads to the bear.” He admitted. “How did you know?” I looked into his eyes. “I noticed your sudden fear in expressing emotions. It took me a while but I finally figured it was because you couldn’t forgive yourself for losing it. So I paid someone to draw the bear and dug through that disposable camera we brought along and found a photo of you with it. I thought it might help you put you at ease.” He looked down as if he thought I was disappointed. I was speechless. My arms wrap around him. I could feel the weight of the guilt from that incident was no longer there. It was relieving even more just by being in his arms. I felt tinier arms wrap around us, as I lifted my head to see Leah smiling. We pulled out of the embrace as she got distracted by the frame in my lap. “Pretty bear.” Her face enlightened even more as Carter and I laughed at her. I promise to get her one just like it. We pulled in for a group hug one more time, as I whispered “Thank you” to Carter.


The Blackberry Do Over Sixta the gardener came today. She is Quechua but doesn’t wear the native clothing that many still do here in the Sacred Valley of Peru. The Quechua are descendants of the Incas. The older generation, the parents and grandparents of adult children, often speak only Quechua. Sixta is first the generation that learned Spanish in order to better integrate into the rapidly approaching Western world. Her children are now learning English and the Quechua language and culture are being slowly forgotten. These people are small but sturdy, like muscle-bound Staffordshire Terriers. Sixta and her husband Pepe work hard manual labor for about fourteen dollars a day. I pay more because I respect their time beyond industry standards. They both look like plump, ripe blackberries. Hair so black it looks blue; round cheeks burnt brown from the sun. Stubby hands and fingers stained from pulling grass and digging rocks out of the yard. I almost never understand Pepe because he speaks with a Quechua accent but Sixta translates his Spanish into her Spanish and then I understand. I believe the Quechua and other native cultures are the true tesoro (treasury) of Peru; alongside the mineral resources and the Amazon rainforest that are being ravaged as we speak. Protection for these people is rare and they are largely marginalized. However, with a surge in the viewership of the programs Ancient Aliens and Lost Civilizations, plus the upsurge of shamanistic journeys in the Amazon with the foul-tasting mix that is known as ayahuasca, Peru has become a focus for archeological and spiritual travel which is energizing the native cultures and shedding light on their intrinsic value. Sixta and I are going to harvest black berries today. The living wall bordering one side of the yard is a massive blackberry bush. It is about eight feet high and 20 feet wide. Gratefully many of these berries are in plain sight, politely hanging over the fence so we can pick them without going in to battle dress uniform. Sixta must have the skin of a rhino. Nothing seems to penetrate her epidermis. I am “Oooo-ing and Ouch-ing” the whole time. My mind is filled with bowls and bowls of fresh, organic, berries topped with crèma de leche, cinnamon and powdered sugar. Visions of my mother’s blackberry pie come to mind. And her blackberry jam...memories of picking blackberries as a child on our farm flash in my mind’s eye. My family had a farm in Western Pennsylvania. We had cows, pigs, chickens, horses, a cherry orchard, two peach trees and one over-achieving pear tree. The woods grew wild blackberries, which we, as unpaid child labor, were forced to pick wearing long-sleeves in the dead of summer. Because we were semi-poor we didn’t buy long-sleeved summer shirts, we wore flannel shirts from the winter collection. Along with the suffocating flannel, there were the cat’s claw-like brambles which bypassed the flannel to rudely grab raw skin. Needless to say, picking blackberries was not my happy place as a kid. In addition, the uncontrollable urge to eat them before they hit the basket largely sabotaged my success. Nonetheless, with five kids picking we would amass enough for my mom to make several pies and dozens of jars of jam. My mom was a Martha Stewart type. Any food she touched turned into delicious scrumptiousness. I have never, ever made a pie or even attempted to because I knew it would not pay homage to my sweet mother. Despite the pain and suffering I went through to harvest the raw ingredients, I enjoyed the tasty homemade treats. But when it came to giving gifts at Christmas, store-bought was the only safe way to go--in my eight-year-old mind. But lo and behold my mother insisted I give the school bus driver a jar of homemade black berry jam several years running. The day she would give me the darling jar decorated with a pert, hand-sewn bow, tied perfectly around the metal ring of the canning jar, my stomach would churn and my cheeks would start to burn. Why was it me that had to do it? Probably because I was the youngest and everyone else had graduated from mortification school. As the school bus neared, my capillary system flushed into my face. The hair on my arms stood up and goose pimples formed, not from the cold but from the rude assault I was about to make on the unassuming bus driver. Poor guy. I shuffled up the steps. As I passed, I stuck my arm out with the jam mumbling, “ThisisfrommymommerryChristmas.” The bus driver, Mr. Thomas, an African American middle-aged man, smiled brightly with his perfect white teeth, “Why thank you! That is so nice. Thank your mother for me, will you?” I knew he was feigning enthusiasm. He would probably forget about it as soon as he got home. Why couldn’t we have bought some tube socks from K-Mart, or a Steeler’s skull cap to keep his fuzzy, balding head nice and toasty? With my mother now passed and my entire family gone I would give an arm and a leg to have those moments back. No better blackberry jam has ever passed the mouth of a human being. It tasted like a dark purple, explosion of love. I am guessing Mr. Thomas scraped every morsel out of the bottom of the jar and probably even stuck his finger in to swipe the extra bits hiding under the lip. Proclaiming, “Mmm, mmm, Miss Natalie sure can make blackberry jam.” If I could do it over I would spring up the bus steps holding the lovely jar with both hands. I would offer up the blessed and sacred elixir and say, “Mr. Thomas, my amazing mother is bestowing this priceless jar of homemade blackberry jam to you as a symbol of our deep appreciation and gratitude for driving us safely to school every day.” I would sit down on the green plastic seat with a smile of smug satisfaction for having been part of a team that produced the most excellent of products. My capillary system would behave, pumping blood to my heart for the gratitude I was feeling. Goose pimples would be inert and unseen, ready and waiting for some other, more appropriate circumstance. How many times do we wish for do-overs? What if we could live in the present moment, appreciating all that we have now? Would that eradicate the pain of loss and sadness of nostalgia? The pain of guilt or longing for “the good times”. What if right now is the good time? My mother’s passing drove home this point in a painful way. Each moment I have is precious. Is there time that is wastable so that I can fight and argue, blame and judge another? The wise saying that often crosses my mind is, “Live each day as if it were your last.” I’ve begun to be more present, noticing when my mind is chattering away about some problem I’ll have in the future. I stop, take three deep breaths and look at the detail that surrounds me. A stone wall with mustard-colored lichen, tomatoes growing in a red tub, pink geraniums in the border garden, Henrí’s alert, shiny brown eyes, Sixta and her blue bucket. This practice brings me into the present moment. All past and all future have and will only take place right now. As I move on in my life without my precious mother, I hope to evolve so that wanting “do-overs” becomes less a part of my thoughts and I become more fluid with Life itself. But right now, I have blackberries to pick with my Quechua friend. And five dogs crowding underfoot all wanting to be petted. The sun is shining and I can hear the river gurgling outside the adobe wall. THE END


Tuesday morning in the office, it’s a miserable morning. I am still hung over and there is only fifteen minutes until noon. Why did I do shots last night with Rene, why did I drink those car bombs? Why is there a “Candy Was Here” written on my chest with what I suspect is a sharpie marker? I can’t be sure because I haven’t taken a shower yet. That’s disgusting you say. I say fuck you, based on my last text message threatening Rene with bodily harm if he tells my girlfriend the truth, I think I got about two hours of sleep. It’s been that kind of day. The coffee I was so sure would make everything better, burnt me like I wronged it. Who is to say I didn’t, last night is really fuzzy. The last clear memory I have is leaving my buddies house to get more beer. I really hope I am not a favorite on YouTube again. Here is the thing you need to understand about Rene. His mother is a very sweet and loving woman, however she mated with the devil and produced offspring that is more imp than man and named him Rene. He is my best friend and the reason God is laughing at my misery today. I hate that bastard. I am sitting at my desk and the asshole next to me is droning on about golf clubs and his dogs. Normally Stan is a pretty good guy, however today he is the enemy. I try to politely nod and offer the occasional grunt to show that as a member of the same species I recognize his right to breath. I like to think my occasional UHHG and ERRRR get my point across is sufficient. Evidently I ERRR’ed when I should have UHHG’ed, because Stan returns to his desk with an air of fuck you buddy. This is the least of my worries though. My stomach has decided it wants to mate with a fucking brontosaurus, and begins making mating calls that have not been heard since before the meteor sent those fuckers back lizard hell. Translation I’m gonna puke. I run to the bathroom and make it there just in time to ruin my tie and scare the hell out of the new guy. Stupid fucking coffee, and cheese puffs I had for breakfast. Please tell me I am not in hell and that God does indeed love me. It's almost lunchtime, I made it despite all of nature’s attempts otherwise. I feel a little better knowing I will be able to get a little bit of sleep in my car. I hear angels singing ever so softly. All I have to do is punch out and walk out the door. All I have to do is walk past the manager’s office. Any other day this would not be like Frodo walking through Mordor. Unfortunately Sauron is in her office with The Lackeys, Loudmouth, Fat Ass, and The Goat. If I walk past her with my head up smiling and farting rainbows, she won’t smell weakness and attack me like a shark feeding on a wounded baby seal. I make it halfway past her door before she notices me not wearing a tie, my eyes bloodshot and my miss matched shoes. Shit how am I going to run in these? I am doomed, goodbye cruel world. Tell my girlfriend I love her. Fuck you Rene. Her voice is nasally as it cuts through me like Jason does to horny teenagers. “Eric, can you come into my office?” I can feel the disgust in her voice, I can see The Lackeys smirking. Her office is tastefully decorated. I thought it would be more like Vlad the Impaler's dungeon. I really have to quit being so judgmental. I bet she is into bondage. Not hardcore gimp suit, just some light paddling and stepping on your balls in her heels. If she wasn’t so evil and her voice so annoying I might actually think she was attractive in a plain sort of way. Brown hair, brown eyes, nice cleavage, but no ass to speak of. The kind of girl you would fuck and never call back. I bet that’s why she hates me. Some guy who looks like me gave her some great pillow talk and never called back. I hate him as much as I hate Rene. I wish I could tell her I would never do that to a woman. I am a gentle soul totally enthralled by a woman’s spirituality and her intelligence. I don’t care about what my friends think or how she trims her bush. Unfortunately I am in her lair, there is no escape, and no quarter will be given. She starts the conversation with “Just what the hell do you think you are doing looking like that? I try to explain myself, but she cuts me off. “This is a professional environment, or haven’t you noticed”. I try to explain I had noticed, but she cuts me off again. "Are you going to explain yourself or just stand there? And suddenly I was fed up. This is total bullshit, I am hungover, I smell like vomit, there is permanent marker on my chest that I will have to explain to my girlfriend, and on top of everything I was pretty sure I left my credit card at the strip club. So much for plausible deniability. "LOOK HERE MOTHERFUCKER!" And I stopped right there. Oh shit Oh shit, shitfuckshitfuckshitfuckshitfuck. Everyone’s jaw is on the floor, including mine. She is staring at me like Mike Tyson did to the little bitches in the ring with him for all those fights before he bit that dude's ear off. I blurt out “My Grandmother died this morning, I can’t handle this right now”. Now everything changes, I touched a nerve, suddenly she says to me in the soft and gentle voice of Fran Drescher, “Eric what are you even doing at work today? Go home and be with your family”. I look around the room at the Lackeys. Fat ass and Loudmouth have nothing but kindness in their eyes just like Sauron. The Goat's has what looks like admiration in his old eyes. Silently he says well played sir. Well played. I may have been wrong about him. Maybe he understands what it’s like to be taken advantage of by a stripper named Candy. Does he have a Rene? So many questions I need answers too. Before I can get these answers to my questions, a familiar feeling returns. I guess my stomach still needs a good rogering. I ran out of the office and this time I made it to my destination before I puked on the car next to mine. Take that Stan.


Somebody had trapped Martin McDermott in slow motion. One second he was making average love to his wife, and the next second for him was two hours for her. By the time he finished his thrust, she had gotten out from under him, dressed herself, dressed *him* (getting his pants buttoned around his beer belly was the hardest part), called the police, ridden next to him on the ambulance, and spent half an hour crying by his side, lamenting her frozen husband. Finally his crotch reached its zenith and Martin realized something was very wrong. He started trying to figure out what was going on. Looking around the hospital room took around 5 seconds. He had no idea how to reach the people around him, who moved about like gnats in a wind tunnel, speaking and moving in lightning-fast patterns that criss-crossed like a cat’s cradle. He cried out a few times, but no one seemed to stop for long enough to hear him. Martin realized he was in slow motion, and everyone else was experiencing time normally. He didn’t know the exact numbers of how much faster time was for them, but after a while staring at a wall clock he worked out that one second for him was two hours for everyone else. 7,200 times faster. The watching and the mental math took about five minutes, which threw him a few days forward--a few days of everyone in real time watching him barely move. As soon as he was certain he had the rate nailed down he saw the faintest pinprick for the nano-est of nanoseconds in the hospital window, some blurry shape with a blurry little gun-looking-thing and a smug blurry smile. He felt a jolt, looked back to the clock, and saw it was going much, much faster now, so fast he had no chance to re-calculate the rate that life was rushing past him. Then the clock was gone and he was within the grey walls of some deteriorating mental institution. He could see paint running off the walls like water from an ice sculpture and brick crumbling like a sandcastle at high tide. He sat in a cell for about 3 minutes, thinking of what he could say to try to express what had happened to him. He watched blotches of color and light flash in and out of his little cell. He could only assume the blotches were his wife and children and doctors and researchers and journalists. Their voices were so high pitched they were out of the range of Martin’s hearing, and the smells changed so fast that his nose was delivering a signal similar to smelling an all you can eat buffet--so much stuff that his nose just gave up and said Ew. It had been 8 minutes for Martin since he had been at home, making love to his wife in their bed, trying to push away thoughts of the little scientist he had bumped with his car on the way to work, who had yelled at him to Slow Down Pal and Martin had said Make Me You Little Dumb Ass and sped away. Martin started to tear up. It had just been a bad morning. He hadn’t meant it. “Fuck”, he said. Instantly he regretted it. He imagined his wife and children watching him make an ‘F’ sound for a few years, before segueing into the “u” sound, and by that time everybody would know what he was saying but they would have to endure a few more years of him going “cccckkkkkk” before he could say anything else. As soon as he finished the word he realized that everyone had stopped listening long ago. He swore to himself that the next thing he said would be much smarter. He wished he could just be alone, to *think* without seeing how fast everyone else’s lives were racing past. In the time it took to have these thoughts and say that single word, the flashing blotches of color’s visits began to decrease in frequency until there were only a few flashes every couple of seconds--Martin *hoped* they were his wife and kids. He laid down and closed his eyes, clearing his head and thinking as hard as he could for the right thing to say to them before they were gone forever. Suddenly he felt a flurry of activity--hands touching his body, face, eyes, droplets of water hitting him, all so fast they were barely recognizable, like being brushed by a hummingbird’s wings. When he opened his eyes, all he saw was absolute black. They must have thought he died. He punched upwards and hit solid, supple wood. He waited about a minute, and then hit again. This time the wood paneling exploded outward, completely rotted and wet and time-eaten. Slowly, surely, he dug upwards, the soil cycling through winter stiffness and summer softness, waiting, trying to pace each stroke with the seasons. Finally, he struck through topsoil and felt the beautiful air embrace his wrist and hand, seasonal temperatures cycling as years whizzed by--hot cool hot cool hot cool--snow fell on him and melted and massive monsoons brushed his fingertips for fractions of a second, like being gently breathed on. After he had his fill of the patterns of the earth on his hand he stuck the other one through. He strained every muscle and pushed his head through the soil like he was being born, and dragged himself gasping onto the fast-growing grass that was already far past his head. He lay there for a minute, appreciating his freedom, thinking about how it had been about 15 minutes for him since he was making love to his wife in his bed thinking about not wanting to go to work tomorrow, and in that time the grass and vines of the graveyard grew around him and embraced and clothed him, and the stiff grey suit he was buried in turned to strips and rags and fell away. He stood up, breaking his plant life cocoon, and looked out at the crumbling graveyard he stood in. He waited a few seconds and he realized he was finally, blissfully alone, his family gone, the place he was laid to rest forgotten. He watched the grass and various plants bloom and drag the few remaining headstones in the graveyard into their grip and break them down into dust. The trees around him blossomed out like fireworks, cycling--green red brown white green red brown white. He looked up to the sky--light dark cloudy light cloudy dark light dark--the earth turning so fast it was like he was watching an old movie, frames flickering and stuttering--and watched stars blink in and out of existence, watched Andromeda get closer on its collision course with the Milky Way. He had the thought that time must be getting even faster for him to see stuff like that. He was happy that he was aging on his time and not the universe’s, or else he would have been long dead. He looked down at where he had been standing and saw it was now covered in several feet of snow, up to his thighs. He watched for a few seconds longer, the snow unchanging, and deduced that it was maybe permanent. He decided to try to find his house, to try to see a photo of his wife and kids or something before the universe blew up. It had been 18 minutes now and finally the sadness of the situation started to hit him. Martin had always been pretty slow at processing his emotions. None of this quite felt real--how was he supposed to react? Was everything really gone? You bump one petty time-slowing scientist on a crosswalk at 8 AM and you’re condemned to watch the end of the world, after your wife and kids spent their lifetimes watching you sort of vaguely think about what to say and all you came up with was a single swear? The scientist never even thought to free him in all that time? He hadn’t even gotten to *watch* anything in his life happen. It was too fast to see. The only things he could watch were the earth’s natural processes. He thanked the earth for being so mercifully slow, and watched the snow pile up and the trees rot away to nothingness for a few seconds. He understood how flowers and trees felt now that he moved at their pace. Martin wished he was better with words. He wished he was smarter. He wished that he had come up with some clever way of using the slow time to make a point--like if he had spent 50 years saying “world peace” maybe people would have listened! What a sacrifice that would have seemed like! He looked up at the sky one last time, and saw what was coming. Without thinking, Martin said “Fuck,” and then Andromeda collided with the Milky Way. There was a flash of white that scraped the walls of the universe and everything within it. It lasted about .00006 of Martin’s Seconds. 20 Martin’s Minutes after Martin McDermott made love to his wife and thought about how much he hated the nasty little beer belly that he had developed, both he and the Earth became scattered dust and thought no more. The universe breathed a little sigh of relief. It always did its best work when it was alone.