There was silence in his classroom, then, as Jimmy allowed the enormity of what Kay-Kay was suggesting engulf him like a mid-summer Sahara sandstorm. Was there a way back? She had suggested as much. Jimmy didn’t believe in time travel or parallel universes. He also didn’t believe in the physics theory that he had heard from one of the Barton School’s science teachers that all situational possibilities happen simultaneously, but only one actually plays out in our world. That would mean there was a universe where Jimmy had never met Trina at a townie bar in Prestonville, Illinois, in January 2007, taken her back to his apartment and indulged in a night of brazen and repercussive sin. A universe where the boy, who had been named Ben, had never been born. Where he didn’t exist. That wasn’t reality, though, and Jimmy shook that notion out of his hair. Ben did exist. Or had anyway, before he decided this life wasn’t worth living. But he still existed in Jimmy’s mind. The question begged, though: Had he wronged Trina so many years ago? She had been a willing participant and had begged for his love at the height of passion. Lifetimes exist in a moment. According to Pops’ fundamental beliefs, sex was a consequence of biology. An action that should only be consummated within the confines of marriage, and only as a means to bring God’s children into this world. It was corporate, nothing more than an exchange of bodily fluids that was best left behind closed doors and obviously outside of polite conversation. He didn’t watch any TV or go to movies that might suggest otherwise, instead diving headlong into his Bible after supper. Gimme that Word, he’d say. Jimmy had been a rebel back in January ’07. He had been liberated from home and Pops for a year and a half, free to indulge in what then had been the finer things in life: Leveraging a fake ID at a Prestonville bar called the Brass Rail, downing two Alabama Slammers before his eyes lilted in her direction. She was attractive in a country-wholesome way that Pops might have approved, as long as she was rooted strongly in her Biblical beliefs. Their intimacy had happened as if the irresistible force of the winds had met a mountain, an immovable object. The next morning they exchanged numbers and swore they’d call each other. Didn’t happen, at least not right away. JIMMY: I wasn’t busy with schoolwork or a part-time job or anything like that. It was all about basketball for me at Southern Illini Junior College in tiny Prestonville. It was January, the conference games were ramping up and even at the JUCO level, winning mattered. But more importantly for a guy like me who had aspirations of transferring to a high-major school as soon as I could after the season ended, stats mattered. So did status, and the only kind of on-court performances that built and maintained status were those that could be talked about within the confines of Internet chat rooms, or this new site college kids used called The Facebook. Get ’em talking, one high-major coach had told me. You don’t think we coaches are watching those message boards? Every single one of us want the next big thing. You play well, we’ll come running. Every high-tier coach’s job is on the line, I don’t give a shit what they say. Alumni, donors, boosters...they all demand a winner. It’s a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately world. Cynical. But one more thing, Jimmy: You’re the next big thing. I was averaging north of twenty-five points per game against glorified high school competition, the kind of kids who would either be teaching phy ed at one of Preston County’s six high schools after graduation, or working at the Aldi on the edge of Prestonville in a store management position. But I was different. I was the next big thing. Then I met Trina. That night was frigid, below zero, with wisps of snow in the air that I could see under the unmoving street lights. We had just beaten our conference rival by twenty or so, and I had poured in forty-one points, so everybody in town was celebrating, it seemed. This awkward seven-footer from the team nicknamed Bunko and I stepped from the cold into the searing body heat of the Brass Rail and immediately the hoots and hollers went up. Hey--it’s Big Man On Campus. Jim-my! Jim-my! Jim-my! You’re the next big thing, bay-bay! Where are you going after you get out of this rural hell-hole? Kansas? North Carolina? Maybe even Duke? One of them, for sure. Then after that, it would be onto the NBA, like Pops had prophesied, so I could use my notoriety to spread God’s word. “You’re destined to be one of the greats, glory to God,” he had said when I was in high school. “The Lord will use you for his gain, to save many souls from the wrath to come.” I had flushed a couple of Alabama Slammers--sloe gin, amaretto, Southern Comfort and orange juice--and surveyed my people like a king would his subjects. I realized I would never see them again come spring, when I would transfer to the next stop on my prophesied journey to the NBA. Instead, it would be a different bar, in Durham, North Carolina, maybe, or down the road in Chapel Hill, with more people I’d never interact with once I moved on to the League. Pops was hoping I’d be back in Chicago with the Bulls, or even Milwaukee, which was a poor man’s Chicago but at least reasonably close by. Bunko said, “Look...at...her.” Even above the din I could hear him. Now, I can’t say Trina was smokin’ beautiful, Playboy beautiful. She wasn’t one of the models I couldn’t wait to meet in the League. She stood maybe five-foot-six, straight brown hair done up with a hair clip, and dressed in blue-collar blue Southern Illini JUCO sweatshirt. I say blue-collar because she didn’t strike me as a farmer’s daughter; I’m guessing her dad worked at one of the three factories in town, one of which manufactured firearms, of all things. She had long fingers, shapely nails and there was something about her dark-rimmed glasses that emphasized her cheekbones and dimples. In other words, a rural girl, probably looking to get out. Trina turned, took one look at me, and raised her arms high in the air, as if I was the conquering hero returning from battle. An empty pitcher indicated she had had a few beers with a trio of friends at a tall round-top. Keep in mind, I’ve never met this girl. But I was interested. “You were awesome tonight!” she said, looping her right arm through my left arm, as a waitress, a girl I knew from one of my classes, brought another pitcher to the table. Somewhere, there was the acrid, telltale sign of somebody smoking. This was about a year before Illinois banned smoking in bars. “Here,” Trina said, handing me a beer glass with the Brass Rail logo in black lettering. She poured me one out and the weak foam of Milwaukee’s Best spilled over the side. I drank it while she told me she didn’t attend Southern Illini, but was thinking about taking classes in something, maybe communications. That night was a blur. I remember later they played some slow country song and we drifted onto the dance floor, both hammered. “Let’s go,” I said after the song concluded. The next thing I know it’s the morning and we’re both naked in my bed back at the apartment, Kobe Bryant looking down sternly at me from a poster on the wall from home that Pops never really did approve. You shall not worship others above the Lord your God, he had said in a way he thought was tongue in cheek. “Hey babe,” she spoke, emerging from a blissful slumber. It’s inane now, but I looked at her and said, “S’up?” Then my gaze turned to the clock, which blared the news that I had practice in forty-five minutes, and I had a helluva lot to do, including showering, eating something, getting dressed and, of course, catching the prior night’s college hoops highlights on SportsCenter. I’m ashamed to say this now, but she had to go. To my coach, early was on time and on time was late. He had gotten on me about showing up on time. And I wasn’t about to let her lay around the apartment while I was at practice, even if she seemed to be a straight-arrow country bumpkin. “Wait, what?” she said, now fully awake. “I’ve got practice,” I said. “Skip it,” she replied with a come-hither look. No way. Coach would have been hotter than the pistols they made at that factory in town so I told her I’d call her later, with questionable intention of doing so. But that set in motion everything that led up to that day in the classroom with Kay-Kay, my closest confidant at the Barton School--the girls basketball coach. KAY-KAY: I had known a little about Trina after Jimmy had found out that their son had ended his life. At first, Jimmy didn’t buy it; he thought it was some ploy to get him to pay child support after all these years. But there it was, on the website of Preston County’s newspaper...”Cyberbullying a factor in boy’s suicide.” At first, Jimmy put up a front, saying it didn’t matter, that was in his past. He had never wanted kids anyway, that he had told Trina that he wanted nothing to do with the boy’s upbringing, that he couldn’t jeopardize his own future. And he shut her out and ultimately the boy, Ben. But I asked Jimmy: How is it that you didn’t end up at Duke or Kansas? Why East Beach State in Lester, Florida, a town about as big as Prestonville, Illinois? Turns out, that was his quickest way out of town. He didn’t have time to wait for an offer from one of the blue bloods, or watch them get into a bidding war for his services, a process that could take weeks or even months. In an ideal world, there would have a been a press conference with multiple baseball caps on a covered table in the University Center, cameras rolling, and Jimmy putting on the one of the school he had chosen. Instead, he took the first bus as far away as he could, almost literally. His dad hated it, and it ultimately caused their estrangement. His dad had him pegged for the NBA. I often think if I would have known Jimmy back then, I would have really disliked him. But present day, he was vulnerable, and I could see that the blood was flowing from the eternal needle that Trina had used to prick him. It was as if the boy’s suicide had unleashed him into Jimmy’s brain and he was pounding its walls to get out and tell his story. Jimmy was making mistakes on the sidelines, bonehead, first-year-coach mistakes, including a couple of crucial decisions that led to Barton’s ouster in the state playoffs. That created problems with the school’s administration and regents, who demanded the status of state championships to maintain the constant flow of enrollments. Getting to state was the minimum cut for Jimmy. Me too. “I don’t know what to do,” Jimmy murmured that day in his classroom, the hallway quiet outside his closed door. Usually at least a couple of his players hung out in his room during his prep period, there to do homework but ultimately talking hoops. Jimmy had put an end to that practice after everything went down with Trina. He needed time to process, whether he realized it or not. “I really don’t,” he said, staring at an X’s and O’s diagram on his whiteboard drawn in red ink, as if basketball strategy might suggest a way out of his predicament. I’ve learned in life it’s better to let people come to their own conclusions about a specific course of action. “You could do nothing,” I said quietly. “That is a choice.” “Mm-hmm,” he replied staring into space. “But you don’t agree with that.” Our words devolved into silence. It was nearly 12:15 p.m. The end-of-period buzzer was about to ring. “What do you feel about Trina?” I said. “I mean, if she walked into this room right now, how would you react?” Jimmy thought about this for a moment, and said, “I’d ask her about our kid, what happened. What was he like.” I noticed he didn’t use the boy’s given name. “That’s not what I asked you,” I replied. “I asked you how you felt about her.” “I don’t know her. I never really did.” “Exactly.” More silence. “What are you saying?” he said. “What do you think I’m saying?” The being inside Jimmy’s head was calmer now, I could tell, due to an injection of non-emotional logic. He took a deep breath and he furrowed his eyebrows. “She’s not answering her phone or my texts.” The buzzer sounded, ending the period. The first students began to move about outside the door’s window. “It’s important to be face to face with some people,” I said, standing up, grabbing my keys off of his desk. I had a class of my own to get to, and it’s always clear that letting students mill around outside of a locked classroom is just inviting shenanigans, even at the buttoned-down Barton School where ties and sport coats were the rule for boys, even Jimmy’s players. “Are you saying to actually go back there, to Prestonville? And find her?” He paused, and then added, “For what reason?” Initially I said nothing, but instead elected to let him work out the strategy while I stepped to the door. He stared at his red dry-erase-board marker. “Isn’t what you’ll learn there be more valuable than your perceptions here?” was my parting comment. Then I left. Jimmy’s students--twelve girls, eight boys, including three of his players--entered his classroom with the small talk and chortles and clucking you’d expect from high school juniors and seniors. But those noises gradually ceased as they took their seats, not because it was time for class to commence, but because Jimmy had his back to them, drawing on the white board. The dry-erase marker made a squeaking noise as he reached high above his head to fashion a rough map of the state of Illinois, a vertically constructed state first discovered by the explorers Marquette and Joliet. In the northeast corner of his rudimentary map, he wrote “Chicago” and crossed an X. At the bottom of the map he wrote “Prestonville” and circled an O. X’s and O’s. The basis of basketball strategy. As he drew a forceful ray from the X to the O, a perfectly straight arrow, he spoke to his students without turning. “Anyone know,” he said, “what the distance is between Chicago and Preston County, Illinois?” Jimmy could sense his students looking at each other. This was American history class, not geography. “I know,” came a voice to Jimmy’s right and a fair distance out, likely the back of the room. It was Kelso, that pint-sized nerd who was his team manager, responsible for handing out cups of water and gathering towels during games. “And?” “It’s about three hundred miles, give or take, according to Google.” “That’s good, Kelso. Now, how long would it take to drive there?” Jimmy heard tap-tap-tapping before Kelso responded, “Five hours and twenty-nine minutes, taking I-57.” Now Jimmy wrote the distance on his map, turned to his class and exhaled deeply. “Anybody here believe in time travel?” His students looked at each other with stares as blank as clean sheets. Nobody replied, so Jimmy turned back to the white board and wrote three letters above the O at the south end of the state. They spelled, B-E-N.


I died, and I enjoyed it. Something about the moment of death they don't tell you about. The more emotion pent up inside of that life, the more orgiastic the death. They say death is like taking off a tight shoe. "I" could vaguely remember who "I" was...as if "I" mattered; it was a life of nothing but pain and disappointment for "me". Nothing ever mattered I thought, what was the point? I floated along, for what had felt like years. It must have been a century, in that awesome darkness. Wading through the dark matter fluid. I, a single spark, floats along the sea of pure equanimity. What I am, or what I was; was gone. Who I am, what I am being, is now. I am being. I roll on like this forever, in this sea of equanimous delight. A cascade of images fill the background that was just the dark void of my darkened velvet screen. Faces, places, and things morph in front of me conceiving the next object out of itself. Inside the space within space, my being has no weight. Images flash again in front of me. It is recognizable. Every mistake, every problem I ever had, every disappointment, every failure. Every unlucky thing. All of these images enfolded out in front of me. Then immediately they compressed and compounded into a single unit in space. It collapses into a singular voxel. Like stepping through a doorway on the inside of my mind. A familiar sensation of being thrust into the physical dimension, as if being thrust from the womb. I was in a very familiar place. A place I had been many times before. It was your home. I opened the front door, and stepped into this very real place that I couldn't recall being in, since well... before when I was alive.. and had my body. It was different, but only slightly from what I remember. it was christmas time, but it was decorated in a way that I couldn't recall. Then you came from around the corner, from the kitchen. You had a cup of hot cocoa in your hand, and a smile on your face. I hadn't seen you in over 4 decades, and now you were standing here. Young, alive, and in front of me. I couldn't make a single decision or choice. I could only observe, carry on a life, that I never seemed to have had. everything collapsed into a single voxel again. that wasn't me, wait a second. each time I opened my being, another life would flash before my eyes. each time, I shudder and convulse in pain and delight. i realize i am not the being i am time, yet even I addict and I attach. I follow you through this portal of dimension, they kissed. This is when they were in love, when we were in love I thought. "I love you" I said. and then I was stuck in the moment, "What do you want to have for dinner tonight hunny?" "I don't know! You decide!" she said and then the eternal debate began.


So there was this dress... It was a famous dress, well amoung our smaller group of friends it was notable. At this time in my life though this dress belonged to the girl I was dating. If I were to guess now it was a sleeveless mini dress. Very smooth fabric and silver. What made it famous, or infamous depending on how you looked at it, was that the person it belonged to had talked all her male friends into trying it on, and taking a picture of them in it. The second that saw it I wanted to wear it. (It might be helpful at this point to tell you that I was born a male, and at this point in my life I still figured I was a cis gendered straight male.) However being a guy in the late 1990’s it wasn’t something I was just going to jump right into. I was also dating the owner of the dress. Anyway, one day while hanging out with my girlfriend and one of her friends they hanged up in me. The boyfriend of the other girl had already had his picture in her photo album. So why not me? They bugged me for hours, and I honestly liked the attention. I finally agreed and gave into their request other than the picture. I Kicked them out of the room because there was no way I was leaving my boxers on for this. I striped quickly and couldn’t help but smile and blush. Then I put the dress on, smoothed out the stomach, turned to admire my butt in her full length mirror. I know right? I was such a girl even back then. Then there was a knock at the door and I walked second the room to open it. Stopping because my socks were limp around ankles. I bent down and pulled them both up so they were more than halfway up my calf. Then stood up and smoothed it out again... as if I was going to walk on the red carpet or something... When I finally open the door my girlfriends mother was standing there alone. There was a long awkward moment of realization for the both of us. Her eyes went wide for a second behind her glasses as she looked down then quickly back up. “Hi.” She said still dumbfounded that her daughter’s boyfriend was in her rather revealing dress. “Hi.” Was all I said back. “Is Jess in there?” Her mother asked me, now with a single finger covering her mouth. “Nope.” Was all I said wanting to cross my legs and make myself smaller. “Any idea where she is?” “She was supposed to be waiting outside the door.” I shrugged at her wanting to die immediately. “Oh okay, I’ll see if I can find her.” “Okay.” Was all I said and closed the door. The next 5 minutes or so was a lot for me. It involved a lot of blushing and covering my face, then a lot of getting dressed quickly. Then a lot more blushing and wondering what the hell they were talking about. After the two of them coming back to her room and laughing at me for about 20 minutes I finally got the conversation between her and her mother. “Are you aware that your boyfriend is in your room dressing in your clothes?” “Yes Mom.” “You want to explain why your boyfriend is in your room wearing your dress?” After Jess took the time to explain everything her mothers response was a long sigh. Then her mother said “Oh Jessica,” and walked away. And I hope you enjoyed my second most embarrassing story.


In the open expanse of the desert terrain that stretched ominously under the cloudy moonlit sky, Danny and Christina found themselves unsure of which way to go. Christina was trying desperately to stay calm but failing and Danny was hoping the sky would clear up a bit so he could use the stars to navigate their way out of Joshua Tree National Park. He learned astronavigation when he was a Boy Scout and while he wasn’t always thrilled with his parents for making him stick with everything he started there were times, like this, he was grateful for their unyielding stance on quitting. “McAllisters aren’t quitters, Danny. You start something, you finish it,” his father’s voice echoed in his head. Christina had just enrolled in a photography class at the local community college and her first assignment was to photograph something rare. She came up with the idea of taking a picture of one of the wildflowers that bloom for a short time in Joshua Tree National Park. They lived nearby so it wasn’t a difficult decision to go for a quick hike. The area had had plenty of rain this winter and the reward this spring was a landscape that was bursting with color. Reds, yellows, purples and blues splashed across the park’s muted landscape, lending a psychedelic hue to an already mystical scene. Their morning had started with a fight, which was not unusual these days. And while their fights are about different small things every day: the way Danny squeezes the toothpaste from the middle instead of rolling the tube up from the bottom the way Christina likes it or the way Christina replaces the toilet paper roll facing under instead of over the way Danny insists on having it, the fight is really always about the same thing. The one thing that has consumed their marriage for the last three years: infertility. They are stressed, fatigued and overwhelmed with the financial, the physical and the emotional drain it has been. They both want a baby but Christina has become obsessed and can think of nothing else. They have gone to specialists, taken every test and done everything the doctors have suggested and still nothing. They have done IVF twice unsuccessfully and the shots and the prep for insemination for the third time is causing Christina to be more and more moody and very, very angry. All the time she’s angry. This bubbling hostility is really getting to be too much for both of them. As they sit in the dark desert, contemplating which way to go they looked at each other and he noticed Christina was near tears. They were lost, hungry, scared, and disoriented. Danny felt particular pressure to get Christina out of this since he had a lot more experience with hiking and nature in general and she just didn’t need this stress. If only the sky would clear up, he could find Polaris and get them home. They couldn’t possibly be too far away from where they needed to be. “We shouldn’t have gone so far away from the marked trails,” Christina whined with a hint of blame creeping into her tone. “We’re gonna die out here!” “It'd really be great if you didn’t use that tone. I’m not the one who just HAD to get the picture of the Mojave Aster flower,” he said angrily. “I know. I’m sorry. You’re right,” Christina said as she breathed deeply using her yoga breaths to center herself. Christina was a yoga instructor and had always been so healthy that she took her failure to get pregnant as a particular insult to her healthy lifestyle. “Okay Mr. Boy Scout, show me how to survive!” she said through her breaths. He knew that talking would keep her focus away from her fear so he talked. “Well, when the clouds clear, all we need to is find Polaris -- the North Star. It’s directly over the North Pole, always.” “How do you find that?” she asked between deep breaths that were not doing a great job of keeping her centered. “Well, to find it, we need to locate the Big Dipper. And if the Big Dipper is partially obscured, which, thanks to the cloud formation, it is you can look for Casseopeia. Casseopeia is always opposite the North Star from the Big Dipper. So that’s how you can center yourself and figure out which way to go. We parked and came in through the West Entrance so as soon as the clouds lift a little more we’ll know which direction will get us out of here.” As she listened to his answer that was meant to soothe her, she actually got more worked up. “But what if the sky doesn’t clear up? What if a mountain lion comes around? What if the temperature drops? We are going to die!” With each question, her voice got louder and she was getting more and more hysterical. “Christina, stop! This isn’t helping,” Danny grabbed her shoulders and turned her toward him and looked straight in her eyes. “We are not gonna die. Just calm down.” Well, that did it. He should’ve known. You don’t tell a woman to calm down. Ever. But especially one jacked up on hormones. And with that Christina burst into tears, the floodgates opened and everything came out. All the pent up frustration, anxiety and stress was released into the desert air and she wept. She wept for the children they didn’t have and never would have, for the years of trying, for the money spent and for the misplaced guilt that drove her desire to do all of this in the first place. She cried and cried and cried, and all Danny could do was hold her. As her tears subsided a little, she pulled away from him and looked at him with the most shattered expression he’d ever seen. She was completely broken and seemed to deflate before his eyes. “Danny, I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I’m, just so tired," she said through tears. "I don’t want to disappoint you. I really don't, but I think, for me--I’m done. I'm just done," she sobbed but continued talking. She had to get it out now. "I'm so sorry, but I’ve gone as far as I can go with this. I feel like I’ve failed you, I failed myself, and I’ve failed at the one thing a woman is supposed to be able to do, but I can’t live like this anymore, and I can’t take the heartbreak anymore,” the last few words were a whisper drowned out by tears. Danny listened to her in the eerie silence of the dark desert and couldn't believe what he was hearing. He had been sure she was never going to stop until they had a baby. But when she said it, he could feel the pit that had been in his stomach gnawing away at him for what seemed like an eternity break apart into nothingness, and he broke down and cried with her. He cried for all the pain and stress they had gone through and because he couldn’t believe that they had gone so long without really communicating. This whole baby-making train had taken off and put them both on autopilot. After they decided to do it they never really discussed what that would look like and how far was too far in this quest. “I’m sorry,” he said as he brushed her tears away. “I’m sorry for making you think that you could disappoint me. You could never disappoint me. I’m sorry for not taking the time to talk about this sooner. I can’t stand what this is doing to you; what it’s doing to us. It’s just all too much. I wanted a baby. I really did, but I'm done too. I just didn't want to say anything because I thought you were still determined, and I didn't want to disappoint you.” They held each other in the quiet of the night and felt peace come over them. After a while Danny looked up at the sky and noticed that he could see stars. The clouds had parted. “Hey, look! The Big Dipper! Do you see it?” he pointed into the sky and she nodded without really even looking. “C’mon. Let’s go,” he pulled her up off the rock she had been sitting on and they started walking west. “See? If that is north, we need to walk west over here. It shouldn’t take too long.” As they walked out of the desert, they kept talking about how sorry they were for all the fighting they’d been doing. They talked about what they’d like to do now that they’d have time to focus on other things and they held hands and realized that while having a child would’ve been great, they were fine just being together. And there were other ways to have children. They could always adopt, but that’s a discussion for another day. Today they feel light and unfettered for the first time in years. It took about an hour to follow the stars back to their car and on that walk they felt closer and happier than they’d felt in a long time. “You know, walking in the dark, following the stars reminds me of something I read in college that Leonardo da Vinci said. Are you ready? It's gonna be cute." She smiled in the dark at how sweet and dorky her husband was. "I'm ready. Lay it on me," she said with a little laugh. "I think it goes something like: ‘fix your course on a star and you’ll navigate any storm’. Leo was right," Danny said as he squeezed her hand. "We fixed our course on a star and it not only got us out of the desert, it got us back to each other.” "Aw, you're right, that was cute," she smiled at him knowing how lucky they were to have each other as they got in their car and drove home.


What is a “miracle? A quick “googling” of the words “miracle definition” on your mobile device’s web browser might elicit the following: 1- a surprising and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency. "the miracle of rising from the grave" Similar: supernatural phenomenon mystery prodigy sign 2- a highly improbable or extraordinary event, development, or accomplishment that brings very welcome consequences. "it was a miracle that more people hadn't been killed or injured" 3- an amazing product or achievement, or an outstanding example of something. "a machine which was a miracle of design" I work in the Emergency Room of a city hospital. A city-run hospital is far from the best in terms of the healthcare offered. Not a day passes without some reminder of how underfunded and, therefore, under-resourced we truly are. Dangerously scant staffing is quite common here no matter the shift. Doctors, PA’s, and nurses all seem to lose a little something of the passion they started with, the glimmer of hope in their eyes fading into the fug of the Devil’s breath. The patients never stop coming. EMTALA laws see to that, though it seems private hospitals always find a loophole, a fucked up legal reason to refuse the drunkies, the meth heads and the heroin addicts that we see on the daily . These are the kinds of patients who come in dancing and singing off key to the symphonic masterpieces blasting in their altered brains. Some of them mistake the people in the mirror for the unforgivable abusers in their sordid lives, and they seek bloody recompense. Others reenact love scenes from a lost past, and expose more of themselves, physically and emotionally, then they ever would in an unaltered state. Still others seem to come to us whenever they crave attention, and they don’t always care what kind of scrutiny they elicit. A wiry, older woman with stringy, silver hair comes to our ER simply to pick up the phone and scream at the person on the other end, accusing them of all sorts of chicanery and abuse. I’ve seen her come in and out of my damn ER for years, but a Patient Care Associate finally told me recently that there “aint anyone on the other side of that line.” I’m unsurprised, and I lack the mental bandwidth for more than a brief guffaw at that bit of news. There are still filthy stretchers to clean, and patients are coming in hot in the ambulance or “amb” bay as we all call it. All the patient care associates are stuck on one to one assignments, and I’ve silently been helping them with some of their other tasks while technically hovering within the bounds of my sordid job description. Neither union rules, nor the expectations of an unqualified and inexperienced supervisor from some dumbass private company stop me from helping out in whatever way I feel I can. I’m no superhero. Nobody who works here is. But those of us who beat the fuck out of ourselves to keep suiting up and showing up to this mess of a hospital know that we make neither money nor a name for ourselves here. Even when exhaustion and despair threaten to overwhelm us, we persist because nobody else will. Does that qualify as a miracle? Do we, as “salt of the earth” people get to hear anything other than the hypocritical applause of the ignorant who betrayed and sacrificed us during the first Citywide Covid surge? There are days, I can assure you, when I tell anyone who will listen that it’s a damn miracle I even showed up to work; that my bosses are lucky that I haven’t either quit or set fire to this puss-filled den of iniquity. I digress, of course. I know that’s not what people want to hear about in a story that chronicles healthcare work. But there are certain realities to a city based healthcare institution, and these truths need to be understood for the next part of this narrative to make any sense. Some miracles might fall within the second, aforementioned definition of such. The staff here all know the frequent flyer alcoholic patients who seem to live despite themselves. One such patient of my acquaintance once stormed out of his room for the express un written purpose of screaming at his already beleaguered and exhausted medical team. If one were Marvin the Martian, they would decry the “earth-shattering kaboom” that ensued when a giant ball of excrement fell to the floor between the patient’s legs hard enough to cause rippling in cups of water set on the nearby nurse’s station. That man lived for decades with alcohol and drug addiction. Another such alcoholic has become something of a local celebrity around my ER. Anyone who’s ever run into him seems to be able to do a semi-accurate impression of his famous “Ah shay, ah shay” speech, wherein he says, “Ah shay I wanna room widda tee vee so i can sshleep heyah, ya dig?” We staff can all imitate his stumbling shuffle, his glassy, red-eyed stare, and the speeches he makes about his “poor sister” and his “lost daughter.” He is almost a living caricature of humanity’s “stubbing-your-toe while-swearing-at-the-damn-tree-you-stubbed-it-on” existence. But twenty something years of his addiction has finally started to take its toll. One day, this patient stumbles to a stretcher set aside just for him in a hallway just outside a patient bathroom. When he wakes and shuffles out the door hours later, we all notice the small tributary of thick blood at the head of the bed, and we can tell it came from his open, halitosis-ridden mouth. I glove up and toss his sheets in a plastic bag, shuddering when they land with a wet thud against the bag’s bottom. Nobody wants to see him die, though we all acknowledge it might be a miracle he’s lived this long. Perhaps that is the only sort of miracle one might find if they spent but a few days and nights here. Veteran healthcare workers like me, however, have learned the daily, the weekly, the seasonal patterns of this place. Such insight inures one to the most horrific tragedy. Three years on the frontline during the pandemic, for example, have shown me much of humanity’s darkness. Yet I remain here, somehow determined to sifon, through “stubborn-asshole-osmosis,” what little compassion and common sense remains among a burnt out crew. But the occurrences that shock even the most battle hardened veterans adhere to no conventional explanation. These events are so bizarre and improbable that they defy all sense and reason, redefining cause and consequence. Two years ago, for instance, a seasonal construction worker sans safety equipment fell, according to an EMT’s report, backwards down a nine foot pit. At the bottom of this pit stood sharp shards of twisted metal and splintered wood, lethal tips and peaks jutting toward the sky like scattered stalagmites. According to the EMT, there was “literally no room” for the unprotected victim to fall without getting impaled. At least, that was how the scene appeared. Yet this man survived the fall with barely a scratch on him, having landed at the bottom of the pit “like a human hieroglyph.” I had the pleasure of saying goodbye to this man as he walked away from our ER breathing a shaky sigh of relief. Other tales of brushes with death seem to me to be the stuff of future legend. Another one of our patients succumbed to momentary vertigo and fell, backwards, onto the train tracks, landing on his back. An inbound train came barreling along the same tracks toward the victim. As onlookers and good samaritans attempting a daring rescue stared in horror, the train rolled straight over the barely conscious man. That man also survived with minimal injury, having somehow landed in just the right position for the train to pass safely over him. His extraction from the extraordinary ordeal took quite some time. Yet he was able to leave our hospital alive, relatively intact and singing his praises to the powers that be. These incidents may certainly be construed as miracles. However, for every one of these incredibly rare occurrences, so many other similar situations end tragically. To this day, I can think of nothing so devastating and demoralising as the keening of a mother who has just lost her child in our ER, or the wide-eyed shock on a husband’s face who loses his wife in childbirth. Though I feel I’m nobody to intrude upon such private agony, I’ve still held silent space for such tormented individuals. Even listening with empathy to such despair leaves psychic scars that run deeper than I can bear to describe, even to my own wife. I leave my job at the ER in one piece everyday desiring nothing more than to be with my family. My family is both the love of my life whom I was lucky enough to marry three years ago, and the son she bore a year ago. I’m grounded when I’m with them, and I endeavour to strive for them even when exhaustion threatens both my body and my spirit. Upon my return home from work, my son greets me with a smile and laugh that melts my heart and makes me giggle every single time I see it. I live for that moment, and despite the many challenges of raising him, I begin to comprehend just what a miracle my boy’s very existence is to me. How do you define a miracle?


I met them when my mother died, the god of death such a powerful role for just one being to have. I watch them walk up to the hospital bed that my frail mother lay in and hold her hand with such tenderness, such love that I would never doubt that they loved all humans they took. I heard the heart monitor stop, it didn’t really occur to me what just happened until they were gone and the nurse rushed in yelling about how she had a DNR. Just like that my mother died and I saw the love of my life for the first time, love and first sight some might say, it's a bit strange when the moment your mother dies you aren't even thinking about her, but about the being that is taking her away from you. The next time they appear I’m confused, no one around me appears to be dying. I was just sitting in a dark corner of the public library. They were leaning against a wall just a few meters from where I was, looking intently at me. When they saw me looking as they walked towards me, I panicked. Was this my time, sometimes I look back and wish it was. I heard a gunshot, followed by people screaming. I looked at death and they were still just standing there leaning against the wall staring at me. More gunshots and I heard someone scream to run, I tried to get up but they shook their head, so I stayed seated there for what felt like hours until the cops came rushing in and death vanished. Later I found out 17 people died and 13 people were injured, the gunman shot himself with his last bullet, no one found out why he did this. Death knows, and so do I, they wanted to see me so they caused chaos in the only way they know how. It went on like this for decades, everytime they appeared people died, they never talked to me, only stared intensely. Part of me enjoyed this. Part of me loved the fact that they were willing to let others die just to see me. I loved them, I loved the way they would just appear randomly at seemingly normal times, we never spoke, we never touched, and we never would but both of us knew the other was deeply in love. I watch them take nearly everyone I know, my Dad who died of a heart attack, my brothers who both died in the same tragic boating accident, my sister who caught covid, that was the longest time they ever stood there during the pandemic, it was years. A specially designed disaster so that they could watch me for years. The last time I saw them I was standing at a crash site just down the road from my musty little apartment, a little 2003 sky blue honda wrapped around a power pole. My best friend is in my arms, blood pouring out of his head. I can't tell who is screaming but I think it might be me. I can see the flashing lights of the ambulance that is racing down the road to get to us, but that is the last thing on my mind because they are standing before me again. It has been decades since our first encounter at the hospital, but we had shared many more. “No” this comes out as a rasp, “No you can't have him, we still have so much to do together, where are you going to go see the pyramids, where are gonna do so much together, you can't.” I look them in the eyes, and they shake their head. “Im sorry” they mutter “I must”, and I can feel when he dies in my arms, and I can feel the paramedic pull him from my grasp and try and resuscitate him, and I know its a futile effort because death has spoken and no one can override there decision. It feels like time stops, tears run down my face. “You follow me never saying a word and think you can take whoever you want away” I scream, my throat feels raw. They look at me “you loved it” I know I did and that's what hurts the most. “Fuck you and your little fucking game, I never want to see you again.” I say harshly, my legs give out beneath me and another flood of tears falls down my face and I don't know who they are for. A young paramedic is trying to help me to an ambulance as I sob uncontrollably, he’s trying to clean the blood off my hands, it seems like a pointless task there is so much blood on my hands I don't think anyone can clean it off. They are still there standing in the distance, I can see them, for the first time they look like they're mourning a loss. It has been thousands of years since I last saw death standing next to that power pole. They have visited everyone but me since then, stalking me everywhere I go but never getting close enough for me to see.


There once was a lumberjack. He was a lonely man, only getting visits every couple months. One day, he went deep into the forest to think. You see, this man loved to think. He would think about the future. He would think about the past. He would think about if he had a family. The man would spend hours just walking and thinking. On one thinking trip, he found an old man. The old man was sleeping. He had a long and bright grey beard, and dressed in all black. The man woke up the sleeping one, and the sleeping man responded, "Who are you? I am Death, bringer of souls to the underworld." "Well I am a mortal. I am humbled to meet you, my good sir." "It is good to meet you too, humble one. No one else has ever seen me. And to that, I may grant you a wish." "No, no. I do not need a wish. I have everything I need. I am content with life." "I doubt that. I have seen you think about what if things went differently." "I do think about that, but I am content. I just wonder what would happen if life went a little bit differently, you know." "I do know that indeed." The two start walking back to the man's cabin "In fact. A lot of people tell me that. They wonder things like if they married their true sweetheart." "My old friend thought about that. He was so wanting he got in a duel with his love's partner. Next thing you know we're burying his body outside of town. That was why I went out to this remote forest." "Your friend was a good man, even I was upset about his suicide." The two sit in silence for a few moments "I have a proposition. I will help you go to the afterlife and bring you to a reality where your friend didn't die. Where your kids didn't burn. How about that, my humble friend." "No, I don't really want that, my friend. I don't really want to die. I want to live to an old age. Then I will be ready." "That prings me to another thing. Many people I meet tell me they don't want tk die. They tell me they're scared. And I tell them not to. I help bring them to the afterlife. Just imagine how scared they would be when travelling to the afterlife, all alone." "Yes, I do suppose that would be scary. Almost horrifying in my opinion." "You're a good man. I have a new proposition. I will let you be free; and when you want to go, I will come back here and take you. Then you can relive your life, take it differently perhaps." "Thank you Death, for your proposition. I think that's a good idea. Although I don't really want to relive my life. I want to spend the rest of eternity just sitting there. I just want to sit there with my wife and kids." "That seems reasonable for a man like you, and I respect that. Most people get upset or angry at me. I've had people attack me with their bare hands. You're different. You are okay with dying and I respect that. I will come back when you are ready." "Thank you, Death. I will await your arrival in relaxation. In the meantime I will go and continue my life like normal." The man and Death then parted ways until the next time they come face to face.


“Why did you take this class if you are only going to stare at a blank piece of paper?” I glance up to see who's speaking. It’s a man with boyish looks and curious blue eyes. He sits at the desk next to mine. His paper already holds all kinds of objects. A square with deep shadows. A sphere with lots of pencil shading like the one on the board in front of the class. It looks even cleaner than the one our instructor drew. The rest of his paper holds a flawless cylinder. It captures the light hitting it at the perfect angle. It’s so smooth it looks like a photograph and not a sketch. I can’t help but glare. It’s obvious he’s taken art classes before. I straighten my paper on my desk. It’s still crooked. I straighten it again. I take my box of charcoal pencils and lay it evenly next to my paper. I straighten them both once more. My eraser is too far away. I place it next to the box of pencils. Perfect. Everything lines up in a nice, neat row. All I have left is to get started. I glance back over at the guy next to me who is waiting for a response. “Oh, you’re one of those,” he says, answering his own question. My brows knit together in confusion, “One of what?” “A perfectionist.” My heart misses a beat. I hate that word, perfectionist. I look away from the guy without answering him. My blank paper stares at me from the table. It taunts me. Go ahead and get started, what’s stopping you? “I wouldn’t say I’m a perfectionist,” I tell him quietly. I move my pencil box to the left side of my paper, deciding it looks better there. Now the eraser is in the wrong spot. I move it again. It’s only after I tidy things on my desk one more time that I tell him, “I do like having things a certain way. It helps.” “Helps what, exactly?” he asks, in a playful tone. “It’s painful to watch you.” “Everyone has their own way of doing things,” I snap back, defensive. “You don’t have to watch me. I’d rather you didn’t.” Waves of anxiety hit me at the thought of someone judging my work. “Right. Okay,” he says, smiling in a carefree manner. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you’re doing anything wrong. My name’s Gausik. What’s your name?” “Camellia,” I whisper, turning my attention back to my paper. The sharpest charcoal pencil I have sits between my fingers. I start to mimic what our instructor created on the board. The sphere feels like a safe place to start. My pencil scratches at the center of the page as I persuade it to create a perfect circle. It’s too messy. I erase it and start again. The second attempt isn’t any better, so I erase it, too. No amount of furious scrubbing with an eraser can remove my past mistakes. I pull another sheet of paper out and begin again. It was an impulsive decision I made to be in this class. The local high school had posted a flyer. It said they would be hosting several different night classes with guest instructors. The classes went all throughout summer. Anyone above the age of eighteen were welcome to attend. I had wanted to go to college when I was younger. My dream had been to major in art. A pipe dream. College is for kids who land scholarships or have parents who can afford to send them. I didn’t fall into either of those categories. A new blank paper looks at me from the desk. I pick up my pencil and then put it back down. Class is almost over. I wasted the last forty-five minutes too scared to draw a circle. Of all the “P” words used to describe me, “Perfectionist” was the wrong one. The guy next to me should have used the word that really fits. Pathetic. No wonder I’m painful to watch. Tears form in the corner of my eyes. The last thing I want is for Mr. boyish good looks to see me having a breakdown on the first night of classes. I scoop all my things into my bag and dip out of class early. What had I been thinking? My shoes hit the sidewalk in loud steps on my way to the parking lot. It isn’t fair for the night sky to look down on me with a perfect moon at its center. The moon’s round face has a smug smile hidden in its craters, as if to say, look - even I can make a circle. My keys shake against my car door as my fingers tremble with frustration. Anyone who happens to be watching me will think I’m the first one to die in a horror movie. My keys drop to the ground, and I snatch them back up. I can’t do anything right, can I? A yelp escapes me when someone grabs at my shoulder. It’s all reflexes when I swing myself around. My bag connects with something solid. “Ouch,” it hisses. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” The solid object is Gausik. He rubs at his arm with a sheepish look on his face. A ping of guilt for hitting him stabs at me before I push it away. What business does he have sneaking up on a woman in a dark parking lot? Without confinement to a desk, his height towers over me. His hair is a mess of brown curls. He looks around my age, late twenties. “Why did you follow me?” “I wanted to give you something,” he says, and opens his hand to reveal a small slip of paper. “Don’t let tonight discourage you from going after what you want.” I stare at the paper confused for a moment, and when I look up, I notice the guy had walked away. He reaches a scarlet motorcycle on the other side of the parking lot. Light from the moon reflects on the back of his leather jacket. It reminds me of the cylinder on his paper. A single line of reflected white light trails between his shoulder blades. The white then fades to various shades of grey before it disappears into solid black. “Hey wait,” I yell. “What is this?” He gives me a mischievous grin before he slips on his helmet. He slides onto his bike and the engine rips through the air with a violent sound. He offers a thumbs up before he pulls out of the parking lot. Fury builds inside me as I watch him go. How hard is it to answer a damn question? I study the piece of paper. It reads: 1412 King Ave, Tulsa OK Friday, June 13th 6:30 p.m. How stupid would I be to show up to this address without more answers? I climb into my car and listen to the familiar whine of the engine. Anxiety claws at my chest. I’m not good at doing new things or going places I’ve never been before. It’s up there with my other fears like “meeting new people” and “ordering food over a drive thru speaker.” It took insane courage to come to this class. What good did it do? Isn’t it time to let go of the idea that I could ever be an artist? *** My nails drum against the desk. My heel taps against the floor at the same speed. The clock above the door grabs my attention. Hello, it’s four forty-five in case you care , it tells me. Ohh ho ho, it’s 5 o’ clock and you know what that means, it continues. I glare at its red digital numbers and debate throwing my shoe at it. A broken clock can’t tell time. My computer blinks into a black void as I power it down, readying myself to leave for the day. There are no last-minute calls needing me to schedule appointments. All the accounts payable paperwork has been filed. I can’t think of a single thing left to do that would keep me at the office late no matter how hard I try. My desk is organized to the point that a furniture magazine would use it for advertising. The only thing holding me back from going to that address tonight... is me. *** It's a tall building. I didn’t expect that. The architecture suggests it’s from the 1920's. Lots of old buildings in downtown Tulsa are from the 1920’s. My fingers itch to park myself across the street, pull out my sketchpad, and draw every old brick one-by-one. The glass doors are covered by a moss green canopy. The windows are arched and a staircase zigzags down the left side of the building in a series of black iron bars. Next to the staircase is a giant painted canvas of a black bear. It holds a yellow daisy in its paw, sniffing it. Above the bear reads, “Black Bear Hotel.” It’s when I get to the doors that I take note of an important detail missing from Gausik’s slip of paper. Where am I supposed to go? There isn’t a room number. It’s not too late. I can still turn back and go home. No one is making me go inside. My traitor feet drag me through the hotel doors and dump me into the lobby. Cherry red sofas and chairs are spread across the room. Old black-and-white photos of Tulsa landmarks decorate the walls. A turquoise chandelier hangs from the ceiling with thousands of dangling beads. There isn’t anyone behind the counter to check guests in. My shoulders sag in defeat, and I head back to the hotel doors. I did try. I should get points for that. I yelp as someone grabs at my back. My body turns before I tell it to and my hand connects with something solid. It takes a second before it registers that my hand has been captured. It’s wrapped tight in fingers larger than my own. “I was ready this time,” Gausik laughs. A girl stands next to him. She’s in overalls. A striped shirt with long sleeves is underneath. She’s covered in splashes of paint all the way down to her black combat boots. Bright blue hair is tied into pig-tails high on her head. She smiles at me with brilliant red lips. “You must be Camellia.” Gausik lets go of my hand. “Everyone is waiting. Let’s get going.” He tosses a grin to the girl, “told you she’d show, Maddie. Where’s my ten bucks?” She fishes a ten dollar bill from her front pocket and shoves it into his hand. Then, she snakes her slim arm around mine. “We love new faces. I’m happy to be wrong. Let’s go,” she says, dragging me up a flight of stairs hidden behind the check in desk. “Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on?” I ask. One flight of stairs turns into two. Two turns into three, three turns into five, and I ask another reasonable question. “Where are we going?” “The rooftop,” Maddie says, as if it’s obvious. Gausik throws open the door at the end of the last flight of stairs and we funnel onto the roof. I let out a gasp. On the top of the roof are at least eight huge canvases. Buckets of paint, paintbrushes, and tarps, are scattered everywhere. Strings of lights hang low with glowing yellow bulbs against a fading sun. Several more people are on the rooftop. A trio near the right corner of the roof sing in time with music I’ve never heard before. Their hips and paintbrushes sway to the beat. The words are off key as they sing. They don’t seem to care. Maddie lets go of my arm and runs to the center canvas. The image makes my heart skip a beat. A nude woman is turned around in the center of it. You see her arms crossed above her head. Her hair is trapped in her fingers as it tumbles down her bare back. The curves of her hips meet the bottom of the canvas leaving the woman’s lower half to the imagination. Her head is angled away. All you see there is the side of her angular cheek, her curved nose, and the lines of her chin. Above them, a closed eye with long lashes. The picture is painted in several shades of grey and blue. “It’s mine, Camellia. What do you think?” Maddie asks. A nauseous feeling hits my gut. I shouldn’t be here. “It’s stunning,” I tell her. Something slaps me in the stomach and I look down. Gausik had put a large paintbrush in my hand. “This is my sister’s art studio. Welcome to Novice Night. We host these every third Friday of the month. Pick any blank canvas you want.” He says this like it isn’t a big deal. Anyone can pick up a paintbrush and lay it against a blank canvas. Anyone can choose the right colors. Anyone can make something out of nothing. Anyone can create art. My breath comes out faster and faster until I can’t keep the panic inside any longer. I push the paintbrush back into his hands and turn to the door. “Camellia, where are you going?” he asks. “Thanks for inviting me,” my voice comes out tight and my eyes sting. “But I’ve never painted before.” “Hey... hey. No need for crying,” he says to soothe me. “It’s okay if you haven’t painted before. It’s not a test. Don’t you want to make art? Did I get that wrong?” “You have to be an artist to make art and I haven’t had a chance to learn yet. I’m not ready.” He tilts his head in confusion before he says, “Who told you that?” “Well, it’s true. I’m not like everyone else here. You guys are talented.” He laughs and it’s a full sound that shakes his whole body. Shame burns my cheeks and I take a step closer to the door. He grabs my hand pulling me back. “Camellia, everyone is an artist. Don’t you know? If you wait until you think you’re ready, you’ll never get started. The time will never be right or perfect. You don’t have to have talent to create art. The only thing you need,” he leans in close to my ear, “is to be human.” His words sink into my head. I blink a few times. He pushes the paintbrush back into my hands. A blank canvas mocks me as it stands next to Maddie’s perfect painting. No matter what he says, I still can’t bring myself to move. He shoots me a toothy smile before picking up a bucket of paint at my feet. The color is black. In one large movement he lets the paint fly. It coats Maddie’s painting and she shrieks. Instead of anger, she surprises me, and lets out a laugh. She takes her brush blurring the black paint into the background. When she finishes, I'm struck again by her talent. Everything is black except for fingers twisting into hair and the side of the woman’s face. “What’s it going to be, Camellia? Worried you'll make a mistake?” Gausik asks. “Are you going to let the fear of not being good enough hold you back for the rest of your life?” The first color I choose is red. Red like the anger inside me for needing to be perfect all the time. A voice is loud in my head with every stroke against the blank canvas. I can’t tune out the words. Oh, you only took second place in your track meet? Why didn’t you take first? You have a B on your report card this semester. It was all A’s on the last one. You need to try harder. We expect more from you. Camellia, your hips are hanging over your jeans. Don’t you think you need to slow down on the food? Your face is breaking out again, Camellia. Why don’t you ever wash your face enough? Is that what you’re wearing? I don’t want people to think I raised a daughter who doesn’t care about her appearance. Tears run down my cheeks when I see the canvas in front of me is no longer white. All I see are shades of red. I attack the canvas further as if the sound of paint strokes can drown out another voice in my head. My own. You’ll never be good enough. You’ll never be loved. Everything you do is a mistake. You’re trash, Camellia. Don’t you know that? Who are you to think you can be an artist? Don’t make me laugh. How can you create something that means anything when you mean nothing? How can you make something beautiful when you’re so ugly inside?” I grab black paint and keep going. The place painting takes me to is a state of release. It’s a symbiotic relationship between chaos and peace. Its Maddie’s voice that brings me back to the present. “Oh, this is truly something... it’s beautiful Camellia.” My fingers still against the canvas, finished, and I hear Gausik say in a low voice, “I told you, didn’t I? We’re all artists.” I study the painting, surprised it’s my own. Looking back at me are ruby red petals. They belong to a Camellia flower. They ripple against the canvas in a way that steals the breath from my lungs. Around the Camellia flower are black bars. Such a beautiful delicate flower and yet, it’s trapped in a cage. The petals are messy. The lines aren’t straight. Despite it all, I sink to my knees. A weight on my shoulders has been lifted. This is what it means to be an artist. Everything about my painting is... right. It’s perfect. It’s human.


THE ROBOT Sid made a robot for his school exhibition. He wrapped it up in newspapers and kept it in the corner of his room. At night , before going to bed Sid practised his speech . " Good night Zen , " he said , looking at the robot . Yes , that's what he had named his robot , Zen' . Next day Sid took Zen to his school . Zen was the centre of attraction . Sid won the award for the best project . He returned home and showed his trophy to his parents . Then he kept Zen in the corner and went to change and have his lunch. After lunch Sid picked up the book , 'pinnochio 'from the shelf. Zen started feeling bored and tired standing all alone . It was dark and quiet . Zen wanted to hug Sid and sleep as he was feeling cold . When he tried to move, he could not move . He was feeling frustrated. " I wish I could move about ," he thought . He wanted to go to Sid's school again and enjoy . One of Sid 's friends, Ron was jealous of Sid . He challenged him to a game of chess . Sid was tensed as he knew that Ron was a strong opponent to defeat . Seeing Sid's predicament , Zen decided to help him . "But how can I ? I am just a robot . I can't even move,"he sighed sadly, unable to help his creator. Just then a fairy was passing by in her Cosmocraft . She heard Zen . She came down and went inside . She patted Zen on his back . She promised to grant him his wish . She said some magic words and stroked his head with her wand . She breathed life into Zen . With great difficulty Zen took his first step, holding the fairy's hands . Soon he was dancing and hopping in the room. " I can move . I can breathe, " shouted Zen in excitement. " "Calm down Zen.You will wake everyone by your noise ," laughed the fairy . " I have granted you your wish but promise that you will not go anywhere without Sid's permission. If you disobey, tell lies and behave badly you will lose all your strengths to walk about . " Zen thanked Fairy Godmother and promised to be well behaved . Next day at school , Sid and Ron sat facing each other for the chess tournament . As usual Ron was winning . Sid felt the game slipping from his hands. Zen was very curious to try out his new powers . He invoked his Fairy Godmother and asked for help . She made him invisible . He won the match for Sid by cheating . Sid not knowing about this was very happy that he was able to defeat Ron . Fairy God mother warned Zen ," as this was your first offence,I am forgiving you . " He slowly slid out of the room and went outside . To his surprise , the fairy had left behind her Cosmocraft in the garden . Curiosity got better of him . Zen got into the Cosmocraft . He tied the seatbelt and wore the helmet that he found on the seat . Zen saw three buttons, red, yellow and green in front of the seat . He began fidgeting with the buttons . With trembling hands he pressed the red button. Nothing happened . On pressing the yellow button , there was a slight jerk . Suddenly the Cosmocraft moved forward . Zen almost lost his balance and was about to fall . He tried to hold the rod , but by mistake he touched the red button . The Cosmocraft began to move up with great speed . In no time , it was flying high above the clouds . Zen was enjoying himself . The Cosmocraft was flying over parched fields, dry rivers and barren lands . His eyes were burning and he felt chocked . He was feeling exhausted , hungry and thirsty. He began looking for a place where he could rest for sometime . Suddenly, he saw a huge golden castle. He flew down and parked his Cosmocraft outside the gate . There was a board with the words , 'Trespassers will be prosecuted .' The two guards standing outside the gate saw Zen loitering around . They caught him and took him to their emperor . "Who are you and what brings you here ?, " squeaked the emperor . Hearing his voice , Zen couldn't control himself. He began to laugh . He just couldn't believe that a tiny creature with a squeaky voice was the emperor . The emperor got furious and ordered his guards to chain Zen and throw him into the prison . All his pleas to forgive him fell into deaf ears . The guards locked him in a cold and dark room and went away . Zen felt scared . The chains were so heavy that they hurt his body . One day he overheard one of the guards telling the other that the emperor was planning to attack the Earth and drink the blood of humans . An idea stuck zen . He called the guard and told him to take him to the emperor ." Why do you want to go to him?" "I have just come to know that the Emperor wants to evade the Earth. I can help him ." The fairy Godmother by her magical powers, heard Zen telling lies . She got worried that Zen would land up in trouble when the truth would come out. She made herself invisible and quickly flew to him . She told Zen that she was very upset that he had broken his promise and told a lie . But she would at the same time help him . She went to the emperor's room , disguised as Zen and offered to help him. He told the emperor how he would attack his enemies. The emperor was very impressed by Zen and even promised to release him . The fairy Godmother called all her angels and asked them to help her in her mission . She gave Zen some supernatural powers. By these powers he could enter any human body . The fairy God mother, holding Zen flew out of the castle. Soon they were airborne and landed on the land , with the emperor and his guards following them. On the Earth the Emperor began to create havoc . He killed whoever came his way . Zen was very sad to see humans dying .He decided to help them at all costs. As he was flying,he saw a big building . He could here people talking about some problem. He made himself invisible and went inside . He found out that they were scientists trying to find out solutions to combat the menance on humans . He entered the body of the head of the mission,Dr. Vishal. "Eureka! We have found a solution to kill our enemy ,Dr.Vishal shouted . Zen and Fairy Godmother winked at each other . Zen left Dr. Vishal's body and flew out of the window with his Godmother. She congratulated him for his good work. " I had purposely left my Cosmocraft outside Sid's house . I wanted to see how good you are at keeping promises . Your disobedience had landed you in trouble . But you also helped the scientists to find the solution of their problem . So I am releasing you of the condition I had put on you." They hugged each other and flew away to the Cosmic land . " Hope you are safe Zen .Don't leave me and go away . Don't.........." "Wake up Sid dear . Daydreaming again ! Robots , space and you will always be inseperable ." It was his mother , ruffling Sid's hair. MOUSUMI BISWAS


Word count: 1,275 This was for an english assessment about time travel. Opinions? (I submitted the assessment a while ago, just wondering what others think of it) The piercing screech of train wheels grinding against metal rails jarred me awake violently and I lifted my head from its resting place in the crook of my shoulder. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone to check the time. The screen was black. I tapped it repeatedly in frustration but it refused to exhibit even a flicker of life so I slipped it back into my jeans, assuming it must have died while I was sleeping. The inside of the carriage was abnormally absent of human noise, the usual hum of chatter and shuffling erased completely. My commute to work was generally packed full of people, shoulder to shoulder with total strangers but as I looked around I came to realise that I was entirely alone. Perhaps everyone had got off at the last stop? I racked my brain for other possible scenarios but none came to mind. My train of thought was hindered when a muffled automated voice sounded over the speakers, "This is the last stop. Please remember to take all personal belongings with you as you exit the vehicle." The announcement was perfectly normal, aside from the static noise that enveloped the words and made them significantly quieter. The double doors in front of me hissed like a viper about to attack as they slid open to reveal a bright white light that beamed into the carriage and directly into my eyes. I instinctively shaded my vision and squinted, trying to make out anything besides the blinding glare. A slight smell of burning crept up my nostrils and I searched around with my eyes, looking for the source of the smell. It seemed to be coming from the door. I stood myself up hesitantly and grabbed my backpack which was sprawled out on the seat next to me. I threw it over my shoulder, the loose items inside jumbling around and crashing into each other noisily. My whole body was shaking and my heart was thumping like a caged animal, a feeling of impending doom washing over me. I stepped towards the searing glow and a feeling of warmth surrounded me, like someone had opened an oven directly in front of me. A surge of adrenaline shot through my veins and before I could stop myself, I advanced out of the doors and into the world outside. As I left the carriage, it was like I stepped through a thin veil of heat but as soon as I was out the temperature cooled down immediately. The bright light seemed to have burnt little stars onto my vision and I rubbed my eyes roughly to try and get rid of them. Before I could look back, the hissing sound returned, the doors closed and the train hurtled off creating a sudden gust of cold wind that whipped my hair to the side, pricked at my skin and made my eyes water slightly. The platform I was standing on was entirely empty of people, eerily silent. The walls were white painted brick and the sharp tang of antibacterial spray attacked my senses. Aside from a tall set of stairs ascending out of the underground, the room was sparse and plain. There were no marks or blemishes on the walls, no signs or indications of my whereabouts; the whole place was pristine and untouched as if I was the first human to ever discover it. Wherever I was, it was not my intended destination. I decided to venture further and initiated the climb up the ivory stairs that lay in my eye line. One step at a time, I clambered up, the sound of life getting louder and louder as I got closer to the surface. The air started to smell of pollution, an intense scent that gave me no choice but to cough and splutter in response. The stairway ended at a rectangular opening in the ground and I began to obtain an obscure view of the world that waited beyond me. The sky was a swirling light grey colour, like liquid marble and the Sun that had shone so brightly just this morning had disappeared entirely behind the thick blanket of ash. As I escalated further, the atmosphere began to reveal more of itself and soon I was stood in the open air. Everything was different. Everything was bigger. Magnificent elongated skyscrapers towered above me, their architecture bold and unusual. They were all unique to one another, carefully designed down to the trimmings of their windows. Freshly groomed greenery decorated the landscape, neat rows of exotic plants lining the towers edges. I had never seen plants like the ones I was seeing now. One flower was a vibrant shade of indigo with strange yellow feathers below its petals, another a soft baby pink with tiny buds sprouting from the stem and huge spiked leaves that stuck out at odd angles. The thick polluted air that I was still not used to felt as though it would not support plant life as succulent and prismatic as this and yet they were healthier and more luscious than any I had ever encountered. I took a step backwards, expecting my foot to land on the staircase I had just emerged from but to my surprise it was gone. There was no trace of it ever having been there, the ground was flat and perfectly blended with the rest of the concrete. I picked and pinched at the skin on my arm and tried to convince myself that this was all some bizarre dream, that any second now I would wake up. But I didn't. It was just then that I noticed the people that were scattered around me and I couldn't help but gasp in shock. Just like the buildings, they were ridiculously tall with legs that came close to matching my entire body height. They must have been at least eight feet in total and I found myself gazing up at them in awe. They walked with elegance and pride that I could only dream of; as if an imaginary string was attached to the crown of their head, pulling at them lightly and creating their graceful posture. They all had brightly coloured hair in various shades of violet, fuchsia, crimson, sapphire and emerald; styled into crazy patterns and shapes, resembling the colourful plants I had seen before. They looked like Gods. I caught a glimpse of one of their faces and had to do a double take. Slanted feline eyes stared back at me, their pupils changing shape as they took me in and tried to work out who or what I was. The colour that surrounded was a startling mix of green and yellow, like a lime that had yet to ripen. Their features were sharp and high, with stunning, pronounced cheekbones and their hair was an aggressive shade of amber and gold, tied up in a grand style that resembled a halo. They tilted their head in confusion at the sight of me and narrowed their eyes. They began speaking vehemently in a language that was completely alien to me. Their words were abrupt and abrasive, spitting violently at me like I had caused them deep offence. Suddenly, everybody's heads had twisted around to stare into my soul, like hungry lions about to pounce. Hundreds of intense glares were being directed straight at me. Multiple of the people began speaking at once; unknown and confusing words were being tossed around in accusatory tones. Their voices all blurred into one and I realised they had all formed a circle around me, caging me in so I could not escape.


On the verge of technological revolution in his small and isolated backwoods village, a young and ambitious aspiring mechanic begins to put the finishing touches on the robot that will get him into the "Androdox Personal Robotics" program. Only a few bits remain to finish his masterpiece, the outer plating to protect the internal components and wiring, and the personality matrix that would bring the bot to life. Seeing as the boy's town wasn't even old enough to be charted on most official maps, the closest of those parts available to him would still require possibly a week's worth of travel. Nothing will stand in the way of his magnum opus, however, so bags are packed, the trustiest available steed is chosen, and the robot is given a name to commemorate the occasion. Dot, is what the droid is to be called. Dot is flipped on for the time being, just to record its surroundings and to keep its joints in motion, wouldn't want Dot to rust up in the creators absence. Dot quickly finds a habit of patrolling the town, in one uniform route that Dot had calculated to be the most efficient. Were it not for the help of a few kind residents, Dot’s still new navigation systems would have had him wander off into the woods several times over by now, but it was no trouble to the citizens, who had become fond of Dot and his parrot like audio replays of their own voices. In the following days, Dot noticed changes in his residents behavior. The organics had been altering their regular routine, far fewer of them coming out of their domiciles as often. Dot began to take count of who he saw in certain areas, 4 guards on the perimeter, 3 elderly running the market stands, 12 that come and go from town each morning and afternoon, etc. 4 days after the engineer left to collect Dot’s finishing touches, Dot had counted 2 fewer guardsmen, and the complete absence of the daily caravan. Dot, not having the program to do anything about the situation, kept on his daily routine. The following morning, Dot clocks in a sudden spike of lifeforms, not in the town, but a short distance up and away from it, on the cliffs and mountains that hid his home for so long. Dot took minor detours in his route that day, as the readings from the outsiders was much different than the townies that Dot was all but used to. The foreign signals moved in patterns similar to Dot himself, efficient, calculated, and minimal to no sidetracking. That very night, the outside lifeforms vanished from Dot’s radar, along with 5 additional that were not accounted for on Dot’s next patrol. By this point, not even Dot’s parroting could do a thing to return the residents to their normal state of being. This had never failed before, but how was Dot to observe this fact, he was but an unfinished robot. Dot obliviously carries on his route, cataloging no change in population, only in routine. Dot had lost track of nearly every resident of his, before finding the majority of them gathered in the large town hall that rested at the far end of the two street city. The occasional guardsmen leaves the town hall, to return with containers of supplies, presumably to sustain the shelter. The population remained as such for several unbroken days, causing Dot to change his patrol path. Dot now only wandered the perimeter of the town hall, occasionally poking his head through a window to get a count of the remaining citizens. Dot noticed occasional returns in the outsiders' life signatures, coming in from the same mountains and hills at first, and slowly encroaching on the perimeter of the town itself. The signals themselves never stayed but for a fleeting moment, but they always returned for seemingly scheduled check-ins. Night fell, exactly two weeks after his creator's departure. The surrounding lifeforms re-appear all at once, bringing with them the residents that Dot had previously lost track of, very considerate! A large gathering of Dot’s regular residents converged with the new visitors, remaining gathered and intermingling amongst themselves for exactly 1 hour and 47 minutes. The visitors departed no later than they arrived, leaving behind the old missing citizens. With everything back in place Dot was able to finally return to his original route, and count the original amount of people in their original places. Not all returned to normalcy as Dot had initially calculated. The cycle of behavior that Dot had observed and cataloged had been halted, The citizens no longer moved on their daily paths, simply standing in their one designated place, day after night, unbothered by storm or snow. The once traveling caravaneers had awkwardly been parked in the center of the city, the animals dragging the carts eventually wandering off on their own. Months passed, Dot remained faithful to his route, and his once lively city of organics and their shenanigans had become still. Dot’s sensors eventually stopped reading his former residents as lifeforms, something of flesh and blood couldn't possibly be so static for so long, it was simply in-computable. Dot eventually came across an obstruction in his pathing, causing his nav systems to flip him around and mistakenly wander down the path out of town, and into whatever the world had in store for Dot. Without contingency protocol to instruct him, Dot simply kept wandering.


“Keep scanning your fucking sector. We need to be cautious out here.”  “Shit,” I grumbled. “Sorry.” James had caught me staring down at my feet. We had been patrolling for hours, and I had zoned out to the left-right-left of my well-worn boots. I looked out into the pine trees up to the right. We were lucky to have him in our “squad” and couldn’t have made it this far without him. “This far,” I thought. We had come a long way, but we were going towards something before. Salvation, the Promised Land, Elysium. When everything had gone to shit he had told us it was stupid. That we were wrong and it wouldn’t be any better out here, but he came with us anyways. I hoped when we made it this far we would finally be safe. That I could tell him, “I told you so.” I tried to convince myself things had at least improved, “At least the ants out here are still small.” The truth was bleak. All we had found here was more of the same we found along the way.  We had been friends since high school, the four of us. James had joined the military after graduation, and had been in combat. We had heard rumors that he was in some secret, special unit, but every time we asked he just chuckled the same old chuckle and said, “Nah.” He became the leader of our squad, mainly because the rest of us didn’t have a fucking clue what we were doing back then. He had taught us about patrols, ambushes, and everything else that had kept us alive on our journey. Tim and Nate followed behind me on our current patrol, their boots crunching on the gravel. They were brothers, best friends, and worst enemies. They went from high school, to college, to law school, cheating off of each other all along the way. They had talked about opening their own law firm one day, but those plans had obviously changed. No need for lawyers when there’s no law around.  The ground had changed from gravel to sand. I watched as my feet sank in with every step. We had crossed the country, going from Nevada to North Carolina. We had seen the worst of humanity, the most desperate of souls along the way. The Event had effects around the globe and now nowhere was safe. “The only safety is the one on our rifles now,” James always said. He taught us to be cautious. “Cautious...cautious,” I thought. Why was that word making me feel weird? “Not again,” I finally realized, still staring at the ground. “Keep scanning your fucking sector.” The words from earlier now stung worse. Luckily he hadn’t realized my second slip-up, and I looked up and out again.  Trees. More trees. I spotted a tree with a weird, cancerous growth. I guess it had reached further out here now. As I stared at it, I felt a knot form in my stomach. Something about that growth made me feel nervous. I never saw the tree root in front of my foot. With all my gear and never being terribly athletic in the first place, it wasn’t the first time I had fallen on patrol. My weight lurched forward, and my rucksack did its best to pile drive my face into the ground. A single gunshot rang out as I fell.  I knew it couldn’t have been me, but I checked my weapon anyways. It was still on safe. I opened my mouth, “Who’s shoo-“ *Crack! Crack!* I heard the bullets sizzle as they passed over my head, and heard two more reports of a rifle being fired close by. “Within 200 meters,” I guessed and shouted, based on hearing the rifle shots so close to the passing bullets. It was something James had been teaching us, and I must have done right since I didn’t hear him correct me. I looked back towards Tim and Nate and saw them taking cover. Finally, I remembered the growth on the tree.  I crawled a few meters to my right, behind the berm that had saved my life along with the tree root that had taken me down, and flipped my thumb down on my rifle’s safety. I worked up the courage and then popped up, firing shots at where I remembered seeing it. Finally, it seemed my luck had turned as I could see the growth, now recognized by my brain as a sniper. I ducked back behind cover and turned to tell Tim and Nate to flank him. They were already gone, and I felt a little bit of relief. We were finally working well as a unit.  I crawled a little further to change my position, and popped back up. “He’s still there,” I realized as I fired, suppressive shots at first but trying to aim better with each pull of the trigger. I felt the changed recoil as the bolt locked back on my final shot. “Fuck!” I yelled to myself. I crawled back down to reload, breathing like I had just finished back-to-back marathons. I fumbled around with the magazine, and slowly came to the realization that it was quiet. No one shooting. No one talking. If I wouldn’t have heard my own breathing through my electronic ear protection, I would have thought they were broken. My heart raced as fast as my mind.  “James!” Silence. “Tim! Nate!” Silence.  “Oh fuck he’s flanking me,” I panicked. I popped my head back up in the same spot it was before. The growth was there, but had slumped down and wasn’t moving anymore. I fired four more rounds, watching the dirt kick up around my target. I slowed down and repeated the fundamentals of shooting that James had taught me in my head, and was positive I hit on the fifth and sixth. It still didn’t move.  “James!” I called again. The reply was the same. I laid there for a few minutes, waiting for someone, anyone. I slowly rose to my feet and looked around. James was laying in the same spot he had been standing in when I tripped. He was face down, with a pool of blood collecting in the dirt around his head. I could tell from the hole in the side facing me that there was nothing I could do. I fell to my knees, then to the ground.


It was a cold snowy day in the middle of January. My dad and I went hiking in the forest at the fabled Algonquin park. The snow was falling with such grace it made the forest look like a scene from a classic Christmas movie. We decided to go hiking to get our minds off of our dog Meeko, who had passed away a week before. As we continued our hike through the forest, we saw something breathtaking. Although I have seen this creature before, I have never been within arms reach of it. The creature had yellowish-brown fur similar to my beige hiking boots. When it saw us it got startled. Its antlers toward over us. Instead of dashing off into the snowy horizon, it just looked at us. It was about the same height as me. As I reached out to touch its seemingly soft fur it sprinted into the distance. As the creature sprinted away we decided to follow it. Although we knew that since the sun was setting we would be surrounded by darkness, we continued anyway. We both knew that we would not get lost as we have been on this path before. While we continued along the path my dad kept on talking about the creature. He said the encounter we had today reminded him of how he would take Meeko on hikes in the forest. It was evident that this encounter with the creature evoked a feeling of warmth and calmness within him that he had not felt since the passing of our old canine friend. As my dad and I continued hiking, we talked more about our encounter with the creature. We talked about why we pursued the creature after it bolted into the dense snow-covered forest. Was it because we wanted to see more of it? Or was it because it reminded us of another furry animal that we cherished? We both came to the conclusion that the creature evoked a feeling in both of us that we had not felt for a while. We wanted to follow the creature because it reminded us of when we would chase Meeko in the same forest. We felt like we were walking with him in the forest. Our hike came to an end when we saw the creature lying down next to some trees. We were both flabbergasted when we saw this because of how much it resembled Meeko. We walked closer to it hoping that it would not sprint off again. It let us touch its soft fur. As I was touching its soft fur all I could think of was Meeko. The creature’s fur felt the same, its fur was the same colour, and its eyes were the same ultramarine colour. We stayed for about ten minutes then hiked our way back to the car. Once in the car, I began to recall the encounter we just had. The encounter brought me joy and happiness. However, this slowly faded away as it only reminded me of what we had lost.


In the quaint town of my youth, there was one of everything. There was one general store, whose name was shared with its owner, one bar, whose name was shared with the owner’s ex-wife, and one nursing home, whose name is meant to invoke some whimsical sense, that being the Dogwood Heights Home for the Elderly. I am not sure how I came upon working at the home, as I never had much appreciation for the older folks in society. It was not as much a feeling of disrespect, more as a subject of ignorance. All of my grandparents were deceased apart from one, and he lived so far away and was so nasty to my parents that we rarely visited him. In retrospect, I most likely took the position because either the pay was good or because of some school friend. However, the true reason for me coming to work there has been lost, all I can remember for sure is that my first few months of my employment were profoundly tedious. Normally, my days would consist of medication handouts, cleanups, and keeping the guests company. The latter was my least favorite moment of the day. So much of my day was spent trying to keep conversation with the barely conscious while they looked onward slack jawed. It was either that or they would break into dogmatic rants about any number of topics, which would end in me being the barely conscious one. This was until I made conversation with a gentleman whom I’ve never met quite like hence. Our discussion opened up a chasm of the human spirit that had never before been considered. It occurred about two hours into my shift. I was doing my average morning check ins to see the condition of the elderly and whether or not they had any complaints. He was one of the last doors in the hall. The nametag on his door read Mr. Kelly - Fortamet 1 daily evening. His door swung open with a soft creak; a noise I had gotten quite used to going from door to door. I found him sitting in his armchair that faced a window, his usual morning spot. He did not turn when I entered the room. “Hey Mr. Kelly, anything to report.” I said, moving over to his night stand to refill his glass with a pitcher of water. “Not today, Aaron,” he said, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. His long, bushy eyebrows obscuring his dark eyes. I began to trace my steps back to the door, wanting to continue my prior activities. However, as I turned to face Mr. Kelly, our eyes met, and some force within them compelled me to stay. Some deep emotion that was barely noticeable beyond the veil of his face. “Are you sure sir?” His face changed to look of embarrassment, as if I, catching that short glance slighted the armor of his manfulness, but at the same time, it was of udder relief. “Well, there has been a few small things on my mind, however, its no use troubling you with the ramblings of an old bore such as myself. Besides, its best for you to return to your work.” “I’m fine to stay, after all, this is a time to check-up on our patients, so anything you have to say would be greatly appreciated.” “Well in that case, pull up a chair alongside me, the view out this window is quite spectacular in the mornings.” I did as he instructed. Pulling up a desk chair from the opposite side of the room, I joined him at his side and gazed out beyond the panes of glass. The view was of a small creek along the outside of the home. Flanking the creek was a number of white flowered trees, the source of the rest home’s name. The sun was up behind the building, casting a brilliant light directly onto the creek and making the dogwoods almost appear to be glowing. He was right, it was quite spectacular. The old man let out a long-tired sigh. “So, do you have any grandparents to take care of outside of this place?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the creek. “Just one, but we don’t visit him very often, as he lives a distance in Portland.” “You should, it's nice for us older folks to see what we are leaving behind, an aptly reminder of our successes, and sometimes failures. I have a son; you look a little like him save for the fact that his hair is brown. He hasn’t visited me for ages for a similar reason you gave for why you don’t visit your own. He lives in one of those cities in California, I can’t remember which one. He’s got some fancy job working with computers. He loves those things, sometimes I think more than me. I’m not exactly sure what he does with them. He has tried to explain to me a number of times but it’s like he’s speaking gibberish. I barely understand a word. As a kid, he would always be on them, doing who knows what. It was around the time when they were first coming out. He would always try to tell me how they were the future, I never bought it. Well, I guess he was right.” He then sat quietly for a while, now staring at his palms. The look of embarrassment had completely worn off, now it was shame. A kind of shame only found in mistakes long past. He finally decided to continue. “But I miss him still. While he had his computers, I had the guitar.” He gestured over to a beaten up six string that leaned against the wall. Its body showed years of wear. “Yeah, I learned how to play that as a youngin’, got pretty good too. I always wanted to be some big musician, like Chet Atkins or Scotty Moore, boy, was I mistaken. Looking back now, I can see that it was nothing more than a pipe dream, and I wish that I had concentrated on more important things like getting an education.” He then let out a small laugh, although there was no humor to be found. “Tried to teach him a few times but he never acted too keen. He was more concentrated on his own aspirations than chasing the will of his old man’s passions. Still though, I wish he would have heard me out, at least once out of pity. Now, looking back upon my life at the finish line, its sad to consider the fact that my life’s goal, that being the guitar, will never be passed down to any future generations. As I remember so fondly the times that I would play him a soft song to help him go to sleep, or strum a tune around the campfire with him, I wish that those moments would be shared with his future children, to at least pass on a small spark of memory from his paw. And whenever his kids ask ‘daddy, how did you come to play like that’ he would respond with ‘well, my daddy taught me.’ But alas, he his own person, and my memory will die when I die.” His voice trembled, like he was finally realizing something that he had always known, it just never had grasped his attention before. His eyes were like a well of emotions, and his words were like a bucket brought to the surface. My mind raced, looking for some condolences that would defuse the situation. I knew that a simple ‘I’m sorry’ would not do anything to help. It would simply place a Band-Aid on a gaping wound. Finally, my brain came to a conclusion that I considered proper. “Well, you could teach me.” His eyes finally met mine. “No, no, no,” he said, shaking his head slowly, “you have way too many things for you to do already. I would hate to occupy your time playing pity on some old man you just met.” “Actually, I have more than enough time. I get off around four, and school doesn’t start for another month, you have plenty of time to teach me the basics.” “Well in that case, how about we start today.” There was no shame left on the old man’s face, only contentment. That began my favorite summer to date. After my shift everyday I would return to Mr. Kelly’s room where he would teach me cords, strumming patterns, and every number of things to become a novice. Even after school began, I would try to make time to get in a weekly lesson. My lessons ended on the day he died three years later in 2014. If I could say one thing to him now, it would explain how much that one summer affected me, because I owe him both my passion and my career.