--discussion of sexual violence--- Liz had several problems, but the biggest one was she was losing her mind. The lack of sleep, the pills Talia gives her to stay awake have confused her waking reality and her dreams. She could still do her job, but she needed to connect with the Bishop, only he could understand what she was going through. Her dispatches were sent out, signals into the darkness. Were they received and understood? Were they even noticed? Dr. Liz Friedman imagined they were. She trusted that her enemy, the Bishop, had the intelligence and ability to find the messages. She was trying to communicate her own needs and her country’s, in code to someone she had never met. Would it work? Then one day it happened. Liz was reading a deciphered dispatch from the Bishop and it mentioned they were able to break some of the Allies' codes, and the Bishop made a short aside that the new writer was ‘witty’. It was a small thing but it meant they were connected. Liz felt seen and appreciated by the one person she felt was her mental equal. It was one of the greatest days of her life. The small back room of the CCU got a little brighter, she sat up a little straighter. The Bishop called her witty! What was once only a closet, now enclosed the Counterintelligence and Cryptography Unit of the Allies War effort. One wall was just an 8x8 grid of monitors, while each of the three workstations had multiple terminals and signal lights. The CCU smelled of desperation, and sweat, and ozone from the electrical circuits. It triggered in Liz Friedman a feeling of sad desperation Liz had studied and trained for years for this exact work, however she was not prepared for the hours of boredom, the tedium of waiting for the communiques to come in, and then the rush, the stress of working to decipher the code in time to make actionable use of the information. Jonathan, her assistant, played video games in the down time existing in his own world, while Talia, her boss, worked to rewrite Liz’ reports from the week prior to connect them to the reality Liz no longer always lived in. Liz tried to stay focused, playing online chess to stay sharp, not allowing herself to fall asleep and then dream. She feared her dreams. The administration staff of the CCU, a platoon of desk-jockey soldiers, men and women at the workstations outside the CCU chatted and joked and flirted while she was stuck behind the Enigma 6 computer. Liz envied them. She wished for regular human conversations, not just hour after hour of computer programming and parsing the enemies language. But this is War, everyone made sacrifices. Recently, her dreams had turned into horror movies, filled with violent and sexual scenes. Was it because all she saw were people in uniform, all she talked about was war, death and violence? Her dreams scared her. What kind of person was she to have such thoughts in her head night after night after night? In a recurring dream she sees Jonathon wearing the enemy's uniform. Then she becomes the aggressor, attacking him with a knife, killing him and then improbably raping him in an orgy of blood. In other dreams she imagined the enemy found her, raping her. What scared her, what made her fear closing her eyes at all, was how much she enjoyed it, and looked forward to the sexual release. Her reality began to be filtered by a sense of impending doom. Sitting at her desk, she had visions of tall, square-jawed enemy soldiers walking into the CCU and ravishing her one by one. “Dr. Friedman, Dr Friedman!” Jonathan’s voice broke into her latest X-rated daydream. The vision of Jonathon with her knife in him overlaid the real Jonathon until she blinked several times. On Jonathon’s monitor, a first person shooter video game played, now forgotten. “We have a new dispatch! “ The War was in its fifth year, and finally the Allies were gaining the upper hand after many years of the Axis Powers taking more and more territory. The CCU was a crucial piece of the Allies efforts to gain an advantage in the War. And it was working. Thanks to Liz’ efforts they were deciphering close to 75% of the dispatches. Liz had identified the writers of the dispatches, each had a different ‘voice’ as she called it. There was the Admiral, all business, usually writing about naval maneuvers, or the Bulldog, gruff and terse communications without much of anything interesting. But when a dispatch from her favorite came through, Liz got excited. The Bishop she called him, and she could sense his personality and intelligence through his communiques. Through the discussions of troop movements, supply shipments and personnel reports Liz got a feel for the man and felt a strong connection. She looked forward to Bishop’s dispatches, handling them herself with joy to connect up against a rare intelligence equal to her own. “Dr. Friedman,” Talia pulled her aside one early morning, “we have a new mission, the highest priority.” Talia’s uniform as always was crisp, her hair perfect even though Liz knew she had been at her desk for over 30 hours straight. “General Tonkay needs us to create a mis-information campaign. The General wants to signal to the Axis a fake invasion site to set up our forces for success.” Talia’s eyes were red and bloodshot from lack of sleep, her thin hands shook from the stress she was under. “We know their code breaking team has deciphered an old code, XFG234. We can use that channel to provide them information we want them to get. Liz, you have the most experience reading the dispatches and understanding their mindset. We want you to write the messages in the appropriate ‘voice’.” Talia reached out to grip Liz’s hand. Liz had never seen Talia this scared. “I thought we were winning-” Liz asked, confused. “There have been some setbacks. We need to have the Axis believe our invasion will be coming from the North. This is critical to the success of this war! General Tonkay wants to use our recent advantage to crush the Axis once and for all. He is gambling all the Allied forces on this invasion to the South. It can not fail, as we do not have the resources to recover-” “-I understand Talia.” Liz said. “The Bishop’s Gambit will begin immediately.” Liz knew sending too much information too quickly over an old code would be suspected at once. The Bishop was too smart. So Liz began by providing true information of little importance, dispatches regarding equipment shipments, complaints from field staff needing more ammunition, references to real troop movements. And to make it even more real, she began to add in some hokey jokes, witty comments for the Bishop, not knowing if he would be the one reading it but happy to imagine communicating back to him. Once she knew he was reading her messages, her dreams changed, now they were of the man she called the Bishop. In the enemy’s uniform his strong arms grabbed her, throwing her to the ground and holding her down while he ripped her dress- She woke up suddenly in her small military cot, flushed, wet with sweat, her heart racing. Her dreams were getting more vivid, more violent. What kind of person was she to have such dreams of being a victim to the enemy? Yet, she loved it. When they received the news of the loss of men it was a huge blow, but it proved the Bishop’s Gambit was working. When she heard the 3rd Battalion's motorized Company was overcome and annihilated during the night by a drone attack, Liz knew her messages were being read. The only way the Axis forces could have known the Company was vulnerable on that day was from a dispatch she had sent. She had sent the entire Company to their deaths, just like pawns on a chessboard to set up a future move. She hoped it would work. Inspired, she continued her dispatches. Now with the invasion date soon approaching, she began sending the fake messages of troops and equipment movements to the North. To write a vague and ordinary fake equipment order, Liz spent hours crafting each dispatch, putting in just the right amount of incorrect information to direct the enemy’s attention North, while including a funny comment, a joke for her Bishop to have the message ring true. With the intensity of the battle approaching, Liz got fewer and fewer hours of sleep. And her mind compensated for this by creating more vibrant and shocking dreams. The visitor in her dreams became more violent, more extreme. The Bishop in her dreams was all hard muscle and brutality, demeaning her in exotic ways as he took her over and over each night. The dreams were so realistic she often expected to see the Bishop come around a corner or walkthrough the door. “Talia, have the pills affected your dreams?” Liz asked her boss one day after they submitted a dispatch to be sent out. “I mean made them more vivid, or extreme?” “Dreams? You mean if I sleep?” Talia said, confused. “Yes, lately my dreams have become more intense than ever before, and I am imagining meeting the Bish-, an enemy soldier.” Liz needed to talk to someone about her dreams. “And can you believe it- having sex with him? Am I crazy?” Talia looked at Liz carefully. “ When was the last time you got laid?” Liz shook her head, not knowing how to give the answer, never. “I sleep with Jonathon." Talia nodded. "You should try him out. He is very agreeable and maybe it will stop your wet dreams.” “Jonathon?” Liz said, pulling back. “But he is- all he does is play video games? And something is off with him-” “-There is a war on.” Talia shrugged. “Jonathon is weak, but I trust him. But do not discount him- those video games have given him strong fingers.” Talia nodded and left the room. Liz looked over at Jonathan, thin and scrawny bent over his keyboard. He looked back and gave her a crooked smile. I am not that desperate, she thought. The final dispatch was being prepared to be sent. This one was to be as clear as possible about the invasion to occur in the north. Talia reviewed it twice and even General Tonkay wanted to be involved. Liz tried to keep the light witty voice she had been using but it was stripped out, the message had to be clear and decisive for the Axis to know about the fake invasion. An entire company was being diverted to move fake equipment and armored vehicles north along roadways so the Axis satellites could see the physical manifestation of the Bishop’s Gambit. All of HQ, including the CCU was moving to support the invasion. “Do you want to come down with the Mobile HQ” Talia asked. “You could stay here. Jonathan is staying to monitor communications. It could give you a chance, to you know-” Talia said. “No! I am packed and ready. I think we have a good chance to turn this War around!” Liz said, her eyes blazed red She tried to stop sleeping entirely. “It will all be thanks to you.” Talia said, grabbing Liz’ hand. “You're the Queen!” ************************ The communications from the invasion came fast and quick to the mobile HQ located just behind the Front lines. It was an absolute disaster. Not only did the Axis know about the Southern invasion, they knew when they were coming and how. It was a trap. Talia and Liz sat dumbfounded as the messages came through of entire battalions wiped out, of their friends and and colleagues massacred. Soon enough even the Mobile HQ was under attack. The explosions and small arms fire came closer and closer. Several of the HQ military staff ventured out to take their chances in the field. They never came back. Suddenly the blockaded door flew open and the Axis troops came in. The black masks of the invading troops made them look like long insects, quick and fierce. A short, fat man walked in with them carrying only a handgun, his scared face held a cruel grin. Liz cowered behind her workstation. “Is the Queen here? The code breaker? The man shouts into the room. Liz slowly stood up to face the man. His eyes were dark brown and she could see the evil in them. “The Queen. ” He snarled, hunger in his eyes, you broke our codes. You were good.” “I called you the Bishop.” I- I imagined you differently,” Liz said as he walked up. “I felt like we got to know each other, our jokes, you said I was witty-” “You got to know me? From troop orders!" He laughed, loud and insane. "I only know who you are for one reason." “I have to say, I pictured you differently too.” The Bishop said, grabbing her chin roughly and lifting it up. “Jonathan said you were better looking, I hoped you would be blond, with more curves-” He leered at her and fear shot through her. “Jonathon said...?” Liz asked. “Does that mean...” She had never felt fear for herself before, it was always for her country, or for the soldiers she tried to protect. This personal fear was more than she could handle. She began to cry and shake. “Yes, he was my pawn.” The Bishop ripped off his belt and swung the end hitting her across the face. "All those dispatches you sent went straight to the trash. “ I do like the name Bishop. Liz wiped her mouth and the sight of her blood on her hand energized her whole body, scaring her all over again. Checkmate!” The Bishop reached out and ripped her dress off her. His thin weak arms still had enough strength to grab her and throw her back across her desk. Even in her fear, her body reacted against her conscious mind, joy shooting through her as her dreams became reality in a nightmare of blood and horror.


Wendy flicked the switch on the kettle for her second cup of tea of the day as she drew on her third cigarette. Exhaling the smoke in a long stream, she wrapped her arm around her waist and shivered as she surveyed the whiteout through the small kitchen window. From the fields adjoining the garden to the hills beyond, there was nothing but snow. Half closing her eyes against the glare, she searched the distant slopes for signs the farmer had brought his sheep in for shelter. There had been little warning of a bad weather system enveloping the area. An eery silence fell along with the fat, fluffy flakes. Wendy thought they would settle, and they had. Not like the light snow that is here and gone in a day. The kind she preferred. These flakes and surrounding white countryside made for a handsome picture, but it was not welcome. Nothing stirred among the bushes that lined the icicle clad garden fence. No birds. She hadn’t seen the brave little squirrel for at least two days and even the neighbour’s cat had left no evidence it had walked across her patio. Wendy opened the door of the cupboard above the steaming kettle. This time of year, she made sure there were ample provisions. At least a week’s supply of tinned soups and baked beans stared back at her. Their labels facing forward, like a row of soldiers, waiting, ready to spring into action as soon as the command was given. A full cupboard and a full fridge helped Wendy feel secure should the snowstorm linger. She poured some milk from a large carton over her tea bag. Cup and cigarette in hand, Wendy ambled through to the lounge. She looked at the grey cushion on the chair at the dining table. The exposed stuffing at each corner did little to awaken her enthusiasm. But she sank onto it. A blank sheet of paper sat in her vintage Remington typewriter. It had been there for over twenty-four hours. She lifted her hands. Fingers hovering over the keys. She began typing. It was a cold and windy day. Wendy leaned forward on her elbows, placed her head in her hands and rubbed her forehead. “This is impossible.” Sighing, she began again... The clouds hung heavily in the dark sky. “It just won’t work.” Wendy yanked the paper from the typewriter, screwed it into a ball and threw it across the room at the pile of scrunched up sheets in the corner. She mumbled to herself as she rubbed her palms over her eyes. Leaning an arm on the desk, she dragged a ream of thin white typewriting paper toward her and pulled out a single sheet. With precision, she fed the paper between the black rubber rollers of the typewriter, straightened it up and let out a long breath. She lit another cigarette, blew smoke up toward the ceiling, sighed, and walked over to the window. The snow was still falling. Sauntering back into the kitchen, she made herself a hot chocolate drink in her favourite mug. The yellow one with the smiley face. At least that might cheer her up a bit, she thought, and give her some inspiration for her latest novel. Hugging the cup of soothing liquid, she strolled over to the bay window at the front of the cottage and peered out. The blizzard they recently forecast on the tv had begun. She could barely see across the road to the row of cottages that lined Main Street. Cupping her hands around the smiley face, she sipped the soothing hot chocolate. Suddenly Wendy noticed something dark in the gutter near her garden gate. She thought it was a large, black plastic sack the gale had blown down the street. It writhed in the strong wind. Wendy’s face flushed, and she gasped as she realized it was a person out there in the cold. They must have fallen over in the snow. Wendy stumbled in her oversized fluffy slippers as she raced to the front door. She almost spilled the liquid as she set the cup down on the side table and quickly stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. Groaning through gritted teeth, she pushed her feet into her rubber boots, rammed her woollen jumper clad arms into her quilted coat and fumbled for the zip. A powerful gust of wind blew some feathery snowflakes into the hallway as she opened the front door and then fought to slam it up behind her. Tapping her pocket to make sure she had her house keys, she cautiously stomped through the snow to the motionless figure lying in the gutter. Wendy turned her back to the gale force wind, straddled her legs to steady herself, and bent over the figure, trying to get a glimpse of the face that lay in the deep snow. She hoped the person wasn’t dead. Frozen stiff from the arctic conditions. “Are you all right?” She called above the howling wind. Barely audible groans rumbled up from the black bundle as it began moving, exposing a white and grey face with sunken steel grey eyes and purple lips. Wendy stood aghast. She judged the woman to be in her early fifties. A stranger she’d not seen before in these parts. What on earth was she doing out in this weather? Surely, she wasn’t a walker, not today of all days. Wendy bent down, grabbed the woman’s elbow and heaved her up. “Let me help you. You must come inside. Are you hurt? I’ll make you a cup of tea and get you warm and dry.” Wendy kept her arm around the back of the woman as they trudged through the deep snow back to the house. They did not speak. They needed all their energy to battle against the wind. Once inside, Wendy shook off her boots and hurried to the kitchen in her stockinged feet. She brought back some old newspapers and lay them on the floor inside the door. Then helped the shivering woman take off her shoes. Nurse’s shoes, Wendy thought as she placed them side by side on the newspaper next to the radiator. Wendy’s jaw dropped open as she helped the woman take off her black woollen coat, revealing a navy-blue nurse’s uniform. What on earth was a nurse doing in the village in this weather? Wendy waved her arm toward the open door in the hallway. “Come and sit down in the lounge. You’ll be warm in there.” With faltering steps, the woman edged toward the fireside seat. She paused for a moment hunched over, clutching one hand to her chest, her other hand resting its fingertips on the chair’s arm. Then she collapsed into the deep cushions. “I’ll fetch you some towels to dry yourself with and a blanket.” Wendy scurried off upstairs and brought back two white bath towels and a red tartan blanket. “Here, dry your hair and wrap this blanket around your legs.” The woman spoke between chattering teeth. “Thank you. I’m so cold.” “Pardon me for asking, but you’re a nurse, aren’t you?” Wendy pointed to her uniform. “That I am.” “I thought the doctor’s surgery at the far end of the village had closed and moved to Epperton a couple of miles away.” “I don’t work at the surgery. I work at The Priory. Nights only.” “But surely that’s been closed for years, and the back half is almost derelict.” “They’ll never close it as long as I work there.” Said the woman as she slumped back in the chair and wrapped the tartan blanket tightly around her legs. “Ah well, I could have sworn it was closed and abandoned. I’ve never seen anyone going in or out whenever I’ve walked down that end of the village. Mind you, I mostly go in the other direction these days.” Wendy shrugged as she headed for the kitchen. “I’ll make us both a cup of tea. How do you like yours?” ”Black, no sugar, thank you.” Wendy flicked the kettle switch and took a second cup and two tea bags from the cupboard. Her brow furrowed as she turned her head to watch the stranger in her lounge. The woman was dabbing her long black curls with the towel. Wendy shook her head, trying to picture people going in and out of the priory. Admittedly, her daily walks rarely took her to that end of the village, so she could be mistaken. A glance out the kitchen window showed the snow to be falling even heavier now and the trees in the field beyond were bent sideways. Lost in thought, Wendy made two cups of tea. The sound of the downstairs toilet flushing made her look up. She peeped around the door of the lounge; the armchair was empty. The two towels and blanket neatly stacked on the arm of the chair. Wendy shuffled down the hallway in her oversized fluffy slippers and noticed the toilet door was open and the woman not in there. One toilet roll balanced precariously on the edge of the washbasin. Wendy put it back in the small wicker basket on the shelf. The hand towel hung limply over the rail. She ran her fingers down the edges and straightened it out. Confused at what was going on, she turned and looked up the hall. There was only one pair of boots on the newspaper. Hers. No black shoes. What on earth does she think she’s doing going back out in this weather? She hasn’t even waited for her cup of tea and it’s getting dark now. Wendy let out a long sigh as she rammed her feet back into her boots, put on her coat, pulled up the zip and checked that her front door keys were in her pocket. Has the woman got no sense? She must be mad to venture out in this weather. I’ll have to make sure she’s safe. Wendy opened the front door as a blast of freezing cold air scattered more snowflakes down the hallway. There was nothing for it but to fight the wind. Wendy followed the set of footprints that pointed in The Priory’s direction. It was getting darker by the minute, but the snow sparkled beneath the lights dotted along Main Street. Wendy wanted to do her best and make sure the woman had got to work safely. She trudged on, but it was hard going. The icy flakes almost blinded her as they stung her eyes. Even though it was sub-zero temperatures, the mere effort of traipsing through the deep snow made Wendy hot beneath her padded coat and she pulled her zip down a quarter of an inch so that she could breathe more easily. She calculated it to be about one hundred metres from her little cottage to The Priory, but it seemed to take forever in the biting wind. Breathless, she reached The Priory. The footprints stopped in front of the tall wrought-iron gates. Maybe the nurse could not get in. Maybe the gates were frozen shut because of the blizzard. Wendy grabbed the gates with her mittened hands and shook them. The sound of metal on metal echoed around her. The gates did not surrender. No lights shone from the windows of the building. The only illumination was the old lamppost shining its ghostly yellow glow over the sparkling snow. The trees bending in the wind cast weird shadows on the grey walls of The Priory. Wendy peered through the slits her eyes had made against the stinging snowflakes. She tried walking toward the right of the building, clinging close to the high stone wall, but a blast of snow filled wind pushed her back. Either the woman had not gone that way, or the snow had covered her prints. Wendy decided it was too much trying to battle against the storm. The place looked as deserted as she thought it was. There was no way the nurse or anyone could be working in there tonight. Wendy stood over the one set of prints before the gate. There were no others to her right and none to her left. Cold and confused, she turned and headed for home. She had not been trudging for more than two minutes when she realised hers was the only set of footprints in the snow. There was only one set leading from her cottage to The Priory and she was putting each heavy foot in those same prints on the way back home. Breathing heavily, Wendy put her key in the lock and the door blew open, followed by a small blast of snow that danced around the hallway. She pulled off her boots and placed them on the newspaper alongside what was now two small puddles of melting snow. She poked her head around the door of the lounge. The two towels and blankets were still there, neatly piled on the arm of the chair. The toilet door was closed. Wendy tapped on it. “Are you in there?” Only half expecting a reply she opened it. The tap was running. Wendy turned it off. Her frozen face looked back at her from the square mirror above the basin. Today’s events made no sense. She hung her coat up by the front door, put on her floppy slippers, and sauntered into the kitchen, where she flicked the switch of the kettle and lit a cigarette. Blowing the smoke through rounded lips, she leaned her back against the counter and gazed out the window. The light from the kitchen shone on the glittery white wilderness outside. The wind was still bending the trees. Nothing had changed. Wendy put her cigarette on the side of the ashtray and hurried to the lounge. She opened her laptop and typed in The Priory, Ullerton Village. A page came up that clearly stated The Priory had closed in 1968 - the same date on the maker’s mark of her Remington typewriter. Furrows appeared on her brow. How many times had she stared at that date when wracking her brains for something to write about? Wendy flicked off her fluffy slippers and ran into the kitchen, picked up her cup of tea and cigarette and hurried back to her typewriter. She glanced at the date 1968, that had been staring back at her all these years. She lined up the sheet of thin typewriting paper with the side margins. Her fingers hovered above the black keys with silver lettering. It was as if they were too frightened to begin typing. As if they weren’t sure what words would appear on the paper. Then suddenly, as her fingers touched the keys, they seemed to take on a life of their own. Effortlessly, she typed away. A familiar clickety-click sound as the keys bounced back and forth. Wendy’s fingertips plonked away. There was a blizzard blowing outside. Mary sipped her tea and smoked her cigarette as she looked out the window. In the distance, a small dark figure emerged from the mist that surrounded The Priory..........


Once upon a time, in a cozy little house filled with love and laughter, there lived a sweet little girl named Courtney. Courtney's mother and father, Mr., and Mrs. Brennan, were kind and loving parents who always smiled and often joined in our games, pretending to be a part of our little circus party. I was usually a stand in on family game night when Courtney’s silly big sister was too cool to play Scattergories with us and would go over one of her girlfriend’s houses for a sleepover. Either that, or her sister thought I’d beat her, and she’d be too ashamed to walk around the house among the Scattergories champion. That was one of Courtney’s favorite board games. She loved to write and come up with words that start with C like her name. Anyway, we were a happy family, and life couldn't have been more perfect. I had the privilege of being Courtney’s dearest friend since she was just a teeny tiny tot. From the very first moment she laid her eyes on me, we formed an unbreakable bond. Together, we laughed, we played, and we shared countless adventures. I taught her how to fasten and unfasten a button when she was learning how to put her overalls on and off. I showed her how hard you have to push down to snap her buttons or her hair clips. She hated those darn hair clips, but her mom wanted to make sure her hair didn’t fall in her face. We learned how to tie shoes together. That was stressful, but we made each other laugh. I think my best moments were just being there, telling her not to be afraid of anything. Those were the days. I miss those days dearly. But as time passed, life had its way of bringing changes. As Courtney grew older, I found myself ‘sitting on the shelf’ more often, while she ventured into the world of friendships and hobbies. Nevertheless, I cherished every moment we spent together, and I knew she did too, for she would never let go of me completely. I was her best buddy! We went literally everywhere together. The pool, the beach, the park, friends’ houses, movie theatres, mini golf--you name it, we’ve probably done it. One fateful day, a dark cloud descended upon Courtney’s household. Mr. Brennan fell seriously ill, and despite the best efforts of the doctors, he eventually passed away. Courtney’s world was shattered, and grief enveloped her like a thick fog. I watched her from a distance, my soft heart aching for the sorrow she was enduring. The house felt emptier than ever as Courtney returned to her father’s home after his funeral services. As she wandered through each room, memories flooded her mind. Then she saw me and as she hugged me, tears streamed down her face, but a faint smile appeared too. Memories of our happy times together began to emerge, and she clung to me tightly. “Hello,” she whispered, her voice a mixture of sadness and joy. “You were always there for me when I needed you.” In that moment, something magical happened. It was as if the bond we once shared was reignited, and I could feel her emotions flowing through me. I knew I had to be strong for her, just like she needed me to be when we played together when she was a kid. Over the following days, Courtney and I spent hours reminiscing about the past. She told me stories about her dad, the adventures they had, and the love they shared. I listened intently, offering silent comfort, and understanding. She cleaned and organized the house, but at the same time, she cleaned and mended her heart too. I was there that time when Courtney fell off her bike for the first time. Her dad let go of the back of the bike, and she was doing good, and then that darn stone came out of nowhere, and off she flew. It felt like she cried forever that night, but her dad fixed her up with a Band-Aid and we watched Rainbow Brite and all was right with the world. Or the time when I was almost lost at the park. We played on the swings and the tire pyramid, and she left me in one of the tires all the way at the top because I was the pharaoh and she was Cleopatra, queen of the Nile. So, her mom had to come back and search the whole park. I didn’t leave her sight for weeks after that. I think my favorite memories were watching Saturday morning cartoons together and eating Cheerios. Cheerios and Oreos were staples in Courtney’s life. She was never really a tea party type of girl, but we certainly had Cheerios picnics regularly. Oh, what about the time, we went to the beach and Courtney was eating cheeseballs and feeding them to me and the seagulls. Her mom was not too thrilled about that, but her dad told her to throw them closer to the ocean if she was going to feed them to those obnoxious birds. Eventually Courtney’s mom stopped letting her bring snacks to the beach. I’ll never forgot the Christmas where she got the Totally Hair Barbie, and she was so excited because the Barbie had hair like hers. Long and blonde and pretty, and for a whole week, I barely talked to her and all I kept hearing about was how pretty Barbie was, and how cool she is. I think I’m still trying to block out that Christmas because I definitely felt like I was losing her. Courtney reminded me about the time she went to girl scout camp, and I felt extra excited because it was my first bonfire, and we ate smores! I completely forgot about that one, although, I’m not sure how I forgot because I helped her sell all her girl scout cookies that year so she could go on that trip. I was also there every time she got scared of the fireworks every 4 th of July. She loved the lights, but the booms were terrifying. But I won’t tell anyone that she was probably scared of them until she was almost a teenager. That’ll stay just between us. As the days turned into weeks, Courtney’s tears gradually turned into smiles. She found solace in the memories we created together, and I was grateful to be a part of her healing process. Together, we celebrated her father's life, cherishing the happy moments they had shared. With time, Courtney decided to honor her father's memory in a special way. She started volunteering at a local children's hospital, bringing joy and laughter to the young patients, just like her dad had brought joy to her life. I happily joined her on these visits, and together, we spread smiles to those who needed them most. She brought all the toys from her childhood that she found in the attic, and I was so happy to see Totally Hair Barbie go to a new little girl. Though Courtney’s father was no longer with us, his spirit lived on through her acts of kindness and the joy she shared with others. As for me, I was no longer just a plush clown doll; I became a symbol of strength, love, and the precious memories we hold close to our hearts. And so, dear reader, this is the tale of how a little girl's plush clown doll helped her find the strength to overcome grief and carry her father's love with her always. Our bond remains unbreakable, and I'll forever be grateful for the gift of being Courtney’s companion and confidant.


Growing up I was unfortunately the only child. I used to hate not having any siblings to talk to, hang out with, share crazy stories with or just to have a shoulder to cry on. When they would have siblings’ events at school, I would immediately feel sad... Most times I just wouldn't even attend school. My parents used to try and persuade to just go to the events anyway, have fun, meet new friends, (but at that time, I didn’t want to make new friends.) However, I did try numerous of times but once I gotten older I slowly didn't feel the need to attend any of these events. It wasn't until I met my best friend Kara Elizabeth Stanley. I call her Lizzy McGuire (that’s her favorite show) or Kara Bear (stuff bears is her favorite animal) actually I have a lot of nicknames for her. We met the first day of drama class in 10th grade, our connection was instant. Come to find out that she's also the only child in her family. We would always pick each other for partners for improvs skits, hang out after school, have sleepovers etc... She was my piece that I felt was missing. We were together in the same high-school all 3(technically 4) years... I said technically because we didn’t officially meet until the 10 th grade, but she was also in the same high school (Wilboro High School) as me in the 9 th grade. Until she had to move away. Her dad, who I call papa Richard or pops got a new job offer in Los Angeles for his company as an Executive director for a new technical lab he's building. Kara's mom Kandice, Who I also call ma or mama is a customer representative provider for a bank. Burress Bank, it was originally called The Bank for you! But I guess they figured that "The Burress Bank" sounded more professional. So anyway, when Kara told me the news I was absolutely devastating... We both were! Especially since the holidays were coming up and our families would always have a friendsgiving. My mom would cook and Kara and her parents would always bring a few dishes over such as; cranberries, sparking cider and green bean casserole dinner rolls, just to name a few .It was the best of times. It started in high school and we kept it going ever since. She moved around her 2nd year in college, just as I was about to transfer there. I decided that I wanted to go to a university first that's near where I live, I majored in drama arts, but I minored in creative writing... Kara, had a full ride scholarship to Western Virginia University, majoring in Dramatic arts/Creative Language. She's really good at acting, she'll make a phenomenal actress someday.... She also has plans to open up a business that dealing with her creative side of acting; such as the languages that are used and helping others to display their creative language in acting form. Since that day it's been about a year and a half since I have seen her. We talk and face-time daily, however we both have jobs and things we have to take care of... Now since being detached from what I felt safe with, I had to restart all over with finding my tight-knit circle. I have been able to meet some amazing like-minded people, since Kara moved away, I met... Ashley, Leah, and Samantha. We all have join choir in college during some tough times in our lives. Ashley and Leah are sisters, they're dealing with their dad George being deployed. Samantha is dealing with her parents in the process of getting a divorce. And of course there's me... Oh wait sorry guys I never mentioned my name, (which is Alliana, or Allie). I'm dealing with feeling alone not sure when I will see my best friend again, on top of having to start over in a sense with meeting people who would push me and motivate me for greater beyond. I grew a strong bond with these ladies, a solid sisterhood that I wouldn't trade for anything in the world. Fast-forward to today *Ding Dong* Lina: Honey, can you answer that (Aliana’s mom yelling from the kitchen) Alliana: Okay, sure mom! I gave everyone a puzzled look, because everyone was here for friendsgiving And to my surprise it was my very best friend Kara Bear!! Alliana: Kara, what are you doing here??! (Nearly in tears) Kara: (With the biggest grin on her pleasant face) Surprise!!! (Embraces me with the biggest, tightest hug) I came to spend friendsgiving with my sister, my best friend. We have been though a lot with only having been in each lives for a short time, but it feels like a lifetime. Alliana: Ohhh my goodness!! (Pauses and looks around) where's your mom and dad... (At that very moment, Kara's parents walks in the door yelling.... Richard Kandice: Surprise!!!! Happy Friendsgiving!!! (Immediately goes in for a tight hug) Alliana: Wait, (slowly looks around) so was everyone involved in this surprise?! Everybody: Yes (laughter) Alliana: Wait, have you all met each other? How did all this happen? (Her mind is racing 60 miles per minute) Samantha: Well, I noticed that you are friends on Facebook, and I remember how Allie would mentioned just how she misses you. I messaged her and thought it would be cool to set up a surprise visit. She has such a giving heart, this is the least we could do. Kara: Yes!! You have such a sweet spirit and I immediately agreed on that idea and just had to get my parents on board... Which took absolutely no persuading at all. They were all in. I mentioned that we won't facetime, or if we do it would be close to my face so she would pick up on anything suspicious in the background. Ashley: Leah and I agreed to pick them up from the airport... Leah: And...(Looks around with her arms open) well here we are!! Alliana: (at this point, tears floods her eyes) you guys!! Kara: I would say that this is our first time officially meeting in person!! And I love each and every one of you girls!! This truly something beautiful!! Alliana: I just want to thank each and every one of you, you made this Friendsgiving one to remember; my parents, my other parents, my new found sisterhood... I think I going to change the name from Friendsgiving to Sisterhood Share! We’re more than friends and although were not related, blood couldn’t make us any closer.


“I can’t believe you drug me out here.” “Stop complaining, it’ll be fun,” she says before grinning broadly at me. She’s enthusiastic today. “I should be coding right now.” I sound petulant, but it can’t be helped. I really don’t want to be here. “It’s a snow day.” “You don’t really have those when you work from home.” “You work all the time, it’s okay to take a day off once in a while, you know.” “Says the part-time librarian,” my words come out snider than I intended. I immediately regret the snarky comment as I glance over at Anna and see her raise an eyebrow in surprise while staring back at me. “Don’t be shitty. I love my job and spending time with my family. It works for me.” Her tone is definitely cooler than it was before, but she doesn’t sound particularly angry at least. “I’m sorry. I know, I’m just stressed.” I unconsciously run a hand through my hair and she flashes a sympathetic smile at me as we continue trekking up the hill. I have no interest in picking a fight today of all days but naturally, I couldn’t resist taking a jab at her for no apparent reason. We haven’t lived together in eight years but she’ll always be my annoying little sister, even if she’s really not that annoying. Not that I would ever admit that to her, of course. I actually am surprised she talked me into coming out here today. It’s been ten years since I set foot in this park and I’d be happier if I never saw this place again. There are far too many memories here. I shake my head in a futile attempt to keep them at bay. Glancing at Anna, she looks as cheerfully undaunted as ever. Wearing a fluffy cream-colored sweater that she probably knit herself over tight blue jeans with long blonde hair flowing in the breeze and her sled tucked under her arm she looks like the poster child of mid-western snow days. She looks too young to have a husband and two kids at home; there is no way anyone would ever guess she was a librarian either. I’m only a year older but sometimes I feel like there are decades between us. Finally, we reach the top of the hill and Anna turns to me expectantly as she lowers her sled to the ground. I follow her lead and set mine down before gazing out at the sparkling snow coating everything in sight. It really is beautiful; a silent vista spread out before us, the tall slope we’re standing on promising a thrilling plunge to the wide-open field at its base. Further across the field below, an army of snow-laden evergreen trees frames the edge of the park. A few other visitors are milling around in the parking lot to the far side of the field but the park itself is surprisingly empty and eerily quiet today. “So... ten years,” she says softly with a wistful look on her face. Maybe she’s not as immune to the memories as I thought. “Yep,” I respond coolly. A memory of the sickening crunch of metal and fiberglass colliding with wood before crumpling like a tin can pops unbidden into my mind. I frantically try to suppress it before anything else forces its way to the forefront. “Look, I know this is hard. It is for me too, but I just thought coming here today might be good for both of us.” She sounds hopeful but she’s watching me closely for my response. Any other day I’d plaster on my fake smile and tell her that I’m fine and this was a great idea but I just can’t force myself to do it today. Not here. “It’s different for you,” I whisper while avoiding her eye contact. She lets out an exasperated sigh before responding. “For fuck’s sake Claire, it was an accident! No one blames you but you.” Part of me really wants to believe her, but the rest of me is absolutely positive she’s just trying to be nice. The fact is, ten years ago I killed my brother. It was an accident; it was dark and I never saw the ice, but that doesn’t change the end result. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish Dad had ignored me when I asked to drive us home from the park. I had just gotten my license and I was so fucking adamant about proving I knew what I was doing. To this day I’m still not sure what happened. We practiced ice and snow driving excessively before I got my license. I remember spending hours sliding around empty snow-covered parking lots with Dad because he insisted I know how to handle myself in inclement weather before he would agree to me driving by myself. Anna and Ben tagged along on some of those practice sessions too, though they considered it an amusement ride instead of serious training. We used to have much fun before-- “Hey, you still with me?” Anna’s words jerk me back out of the memory abyss. “I’m fine... just thinking.” “Don’t,” she says sternly. I glance up at her and ponder the suddenly serious expression on her face. “You’ve spent a decade in your own head making yourself miserable. Today we’re not thinking about the date or work or anything else. We’re going to have some fun for old times' sake because it’s what Ben would have wanted.” She is surprisingly convincing when she wants to be. I pity her husband attempting to win an argument against her. “Well, he did love sledding.” I offer her a small contrite smile. “He really did,” she responds before grinning in return. “Fine, you win. Let’s go sledding,” I say with the first sincere smile I’ve had in months. Her cheerfulness is infectious. This is, without question, the most depressing day of the year but she managed to get a real smile out of me anyway. I feel a sudden stab of guilt. I haven’t completely avoided my family over the past few years, but I have definitely skipped pretty much all birthdays and most major holidays. I justify it by working through whatever event I was invited to, but I could just as easily take a break or follow Anna’s advice and actually take a whole day off for a change. I really have no set schedule, just deadlines that are usually pretty reasonable. I’m not even entirely sure why I constantly use my work for bullshit excuses to get out of anything resembling a social event, but I've been doing it for years. Seeing her here, standing next to her sled and looking so much like she did on the last day our family was whole, I realize how unbelievably stupid I’ve been. “Anna...” I start, unsure of how to continue. She looks at me quizzically, waiting for me to resume. “I’m sorry.” “For what?” She sounds genuinely surprised. “For being shitty, I guess. I’m sorry I’ve missed pretty much all of your kid’s birthdays, and yours and Dad’s too for that matter. I really don’t mean to it’s just when we’re together it’s...” I trail off, trying to find the words I simply can’t grasp. “Difficult?” she suggests while staring at me intently. I nod in response. “Exactly.” She closes the distance between us in an instant and throws her arms around me. She says nothing, just holds me tightly. We haven’t hugged since we were children. We’re not really a hugging family. After my initial shock wears off, I wrap my arms around her and return the embrace pulling her close to me. I’m not sure how much time passes like this or exactly when I started crying. When we finally separate, she has tears in her eyes too so I don’t feel quite so bad about getting emotional. I wipe my tears away and watch as she does the same. We are also not a crying-together family. “Thank you,” she says softly as she finishes wiping her face. My turn to be surprised. “For what?” “For finally having an actual conversation with me.” She smirks triumphantly at me before continuing. “You know, dragging you out here was actually Dad’s idea. He misses you too.” I chuckle at the news. Of course, Mr. family-togetherness was in on this supposedly impromptu outing. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.” She shrugs good-naturedly. “Glad it’s not a shock because we’re having a family dinner at his house tonight.” “Well, I get the feeling since you drove I don’t have much of a choice either way, but I’ll be there,” I say dryly. “Good.” She flashes another victorious smile before returning to her sled and grabbing the rope from the ground. “So, are we going sledding or not?” “We’re sledding,” I say as I bend over my own sled and grab its rope, unable to keep the smile off of my lips. I awkwardly lower myself onto the sled, noting just how out of practice I am. Anna, as always, gracefully gets into position on hers and watches me in amusement as I settle in. Before I can get in a self-deprecating joke she reaches out and gently squeezes my arm. She doesn’t say anything but she doesn’t need to. I love her too, even if we’re not a saying-it-out-loud type of family. I smile back and squeeze her hand in response. She releases me and glances down the slope. “Race ya?” she asks playfully. Before I can respond she starts pushing off. “Cheater!” I yell out before pushing off after her with a laugh. As the sled glides across the snow and starts picking up speed on the slope I feel as if a massive weight I didn’t even realize I was carrying has been lifted off my shoulders. The brisk wind whips through my hair as we speed towards the field below, Anna is still slightly ahead of me but I’m gaining on her. A mild euphoria creeps over me as I flatten myself against the sled to move even faster. I can’t seem to stop smiling as I think about the evening ahead. For the first time in a very long time, I can actually remember the person I was before the accident. Someday, I’m going to get that part of myself back.


Max, the shortened version of a name he hadn't been called in decades, became completely dependent on those around him for nearly every facet of his life. He could still manage to use the restroom without assistance, but getting to the toilet now required help, as did showering, cooking, and getting dressed. It had been a few years since he needed a wheelchair to move outside of the home, but that too had become an activity which required accompaniment. When his home care nurse was off-duty and his wife was drunk, he could do nothing but sit at home and flip through the channels. His hands still worked well enough to accomplish this task. The old man had been living with his disease for decades. This fatal saga had begun on a nondescript summer evening in Ohio. It was a hot July day, the sun had long since been overhead, and Max was making the familiar drive home down his newly paved road. The single bedroom home he shared with his wife Suzette sat on a serene two and a half acres in the Idaho country, barely within shouting distance of the closest neighbor. This was the way they liked it. Max was still at the farm he had worked on for eleven years, and was proud of the large spring crop. Max was a laboring man, and his rusted-tinted white Chevy had the dents to prove it. Since he was a child, Max had dreamt of running his own farm. His own *potato* farm. Potatoes are the backbone of America, Max told himself, and he wanted nothing more than to preside over fields that stretched further than the eye could see. As he came into adulthood he began to realize that most large farms are passed down family lines, and that poor young men usually work on someone else's farm. Adulthood had sobered his grand notions, and he soon found himself working his way up the ladder on a local, mid-sized russet potato farm. Though this was a compromise from his rather unrealistic childhood dreams, Max worked with vigor. He started as the lowest man on the totem pole; he spread shit, carried seed sacks, and made lunch for the small crew. He hoped beyond belief that he'd soon learn to drive the tractor. That day that Max arrived at his own small plot of land, he noticed that the yard was rather unkempt. Brown weeds were making themselves visible around the small blue house, and his wife's broken down station wagon had begun to look more like an Americana relic than a reliable form of transportation. This image didn't lessen the pride he felt at owning his own land. He knew that the labor he wasn't putting into his own property was being put into the soil on the farm. He had long since learned to drive the tractor, and had settled into a rather important role working under the owner. His boss had even mentioned the possibility of sending him down to Boise for agriculture classes. Max had figured that his boss's late night offer had likely sprung more from the few drinks he'd consumed than from any version of reality, but it still gave him hope. Suzette looked out the window and felt a warm pulse move through her body. The man she loved was home safe for another night, and would soon break the day's monotony with tales from the farm. She loved to hear Max tell stories. There was nothing she wanted more than to draw her large husband a hot bath, cook him a warm meal, and listen to his deep voice tell her of the day's exploits. The stories were usually the same; some hands had fought and he had to break it up, his boss got mad at him for something out of his control, or a piece of machinery had broken, but he was able to fix it and save the day's productivity. Max was an honest man, a man who dreamt big, and a man who knew that at the end of the day, his wife came first. The large man had felt weak on this particular hot, humid July day. Not even the hundred dollar bonus given to him for the season's exemplary yield seemed to put energy into his limbs. That day was a slow day, the first of many. \ It was winter now, and Idaho was in the grips of a rather serious snow storm. The brown weeds around the home were no longer visible, and in their place were large snowbanks covering the bottom half of the blue home. Max and Suzette had lit a fire in their fireplace, and were both reading the books they had been slowly working on for months. Suzette asked Max a question. The question was neither here nor there. An unimportant inquiry; she simply preferred to talk then to read. As Max was giving his response, Suzette noticed something strange. Something she had never noticed before: a slur in his voice. Max rarely drank alcohol, and Suzette was coming up on two years sober, so she knew it couldn't be drunkenness. It sounded like it though. Suzette asked Max another question to confirm what she was hearing, and again his words came out like he had just finished off a fifth of Jack. What concerned her more than the quality of his speech was the fact that he didn't seem to notice it. The ever supportive wife decided that it must be the stir-craziness of a long winter. She put it out of her mind and looked back down at her book. \ The snow began to melt and it was time for Max to go back to work. It was another season without his potato empire, but he knew that it may not be until old age when he'd sit on the porch of his own two-story farm home, watching his under-bosses command an army of hands. The dream of owning his own farm hadn't been lost, just sidelined by the realities of his situation. Max lived in America after all, and in this nation anything is possible with hard work, determination, and a dream. This Spring, unlike the dozens before it, he felt like he wasn't stronger than the year before. Every other season he worked as a potato farmer he could carry more, walk further, and work longer hours than the one before. But this spring, this terrible spring, he felt weak. In late May, as the crop was beginning to get big and Max was feeling proud, something happened. The day wasn't a scorcher like he knew to expect in July, but the cloudless blue sky was a weak match for the noontime sun. Max was walking beside a field to inspect an irrigation leak, when suddenly he became dizzy. He fell down, face-first, into the dirt. Max regained consciousness only when he noticed the footsteps of a laborer approaching him. He denied assistance, and stood up feeling lightheaded. On this day, Max decided to go home early. He knew that something in was wrong with his body. \ M.S. is a disease that slowly robs your body of life, but never quite finishes the job. M.S. is a disease that people have to endure until something else kills them. Heart disease, cancer, suicide; these are what finally end the life of someone suffering from M.S. Suzette was more than accommodating after learning the diagnosis. She read books about the disease, doing everything in her power to keep up Max's spirits as he too learned about the disease. Suzette had even taken a job working as a substitute teacher, knowing full well that Max's working days were numbered. In his final seasons growing the beloved russet potato, Max's boss had kindly allowed him to retain his position. He moved about the farm in a truck, avoiding labor that would be impossible with his impaired movement. Eventually he began to have trouble walking without a cane and his grip had become weak. It was decided that Max was not fit to work on the farm anymore. He knew his boss wasn't wrong, and the decision was mutual. It was two years since Max was able to work, and between the mortgage and the medical bills, there was never anything left for a night out or an extravagant meal. The costs were unbearable and the couple was forced to sell their small blue house which stood on two and a half acres of fertile Idaho soil. Before they sold their land, in an attempt to value the house as highly as possible, Suzette spent the day picking the brown weeds. Max was no longer a farmer, and he no longer owned a farm. Fortunately, their marriage didn't suffer. In fact, the disease brought them together in a strange way. First, they were together much more often, and the love they shared of hearing each other speak intensified. Unlike the days of their youth when Max would return home to a warm meal and tell stories of the farm's exploits, it was Suzette who was telling stories of the outside world. She would tell Max about the polite students who thanked her at the end of the day, and about the students who believed a day with a substitute teacher was a day of true anarchy. Another reason Max's condition caused their love to intensify was that every day he knew that Suzette chose to be with him. Suzette chose to get up and be the breadwinner when he was forced to lay in bed. As a young man, Max never knew why a beautiful woman would stay with a man after he was paralyzed in car accident, but now he knew. He knew that Suzette truly loved him, and he truly loved her. \ Both Suzette and Max were past middle age now. Max's condition had progressed to the point where he could walk about the house, but he needed to be pushed around in a wheelchair outside the home. Even with his walker he'd fallen in public places too many times for that to be a viable option. Suzette was becoming tired of substitute teaching. One particularly rough day, as she was driving home from a high school assignment, Suzette stopped by a grocery store. She walked to the back corner of the store and picked out two bottles of cheap red wine. She purchased them and sat in the parking lot, the radio quietly playing "Hotel California" by The Eagles, and broke 14 years of sobriety. Max could tell Suzette was drunk when she arrived home, leaned down, and gave him a wet, sweet smelling kiss on the lips. He didn't say anything. \ Max and Suzette moved into a trailer. She was past retirement age, but continued to work so that Max could have a nurse on the weekdays. He could still use the the restroom without assistance, but getting to the toilet now required help, as did showering, cooking, and getting dressed. Suzette liked that Max had someone to look after him during the daytime, and that she had someone to prepare a warm meal for her when she came home from work. Max had, on a few occasions, talked to Suzette about taking his own life. He told her that killing himself would save them both a lot of suffering. The disease would cause locked-in syndrome, rendering his body motionless, mouth and tongue included. Eventually a heart attack, a stroke, cancer, or some other ailment would strike the final blow. Suzette didn't know what to say when he brought up the topic of his death. She never responded to these comments, but knew that he was probably right. \ Max was alone one hot August afternoon. Suzette was at the store. It had been a few months since they had to let the nurse go. Max was laying in his bed in the back room of the trailer. A baseball game was playing on the T.V. but he couldn't hear the announcers over the sound of the rattling air conditioner. There was a gun in the nightstand. Max knew that as the days passed it would only become harder to put it in his mouth and that eventually, this too would become impossible. He knew that today would be the day. He struggled himself upright and sat against the cheap wooden headboard. He reached to the lower drawer on the nightstand next to him, and picked up his small german-made firearm. This was the last gun he owned from his rural youth, and he insisted on keeping it next to the bed when they slept. Max had lost all dexterity, and knew he would not be able to write a note. He sat with the gun in his hand and thought about how much he loved Suzette. He thought about how kind she was to stay with him into old age. He thought about the dreams he had of being a potato farmer in his youth and about the fields he would own that stretched into the horizon. He thought about how happy he was when he learned to drive the tractor, and how he told Suzette about it when he went home. He thought about the stories that she told him after a day at school. Max wished so badly that he could write a note to Suzette. He wished that he could say one final thank you, and tell Suzette that he loved her one last time. His crippled hands would not allow it. Max lifted the gun, unable to insert it into his mouth, and fired it into himself.


Warning: Contains Graphic Violence, Gore, Suggestions of Suicide “It’s just... I’m worried about the drinking. You know?” A gasp of static from the phone: a sigh, long and stratified. “Again? I thought she quit?” “She did, but...” A pause. How much to burden them with? It was a well-trod road, but she had no one else to talk to. And Obert at least could claim some experience in this department, coming into a decade of clean living--so long as one overlooked the smoking, that was. “You know it is hard for her, with her job and all--” Obert’s tone shifted; brittle. “That’s an excuse, Ani. Plenty of cops cope without abusing substances. It’s called therapy. Did she even look at the recommendations I sent?” Ani twisted the phone cord between her ringed fingers. Tried for a response that would soften the blow and wondering why. Obert sighed again. “Lord above--look, I don’t mean to sound hostile, but your roommate actually needs to work to get her shit together. And if she’s not interested... I don’t understand why you put up with her.” Ani almost said, “Because I love her,” but that would have been painting a target on her back. The State had just increased the civilian bounty for turning in “aberrants”, and while she’d known Obert for years, she knew better than to trust him with such sensitive information. Clean though he was, he still struggled to find work; the money, not to mention the merits he could earn from turning her in, would go a long way towards improving his standing. Instead, she swallowed the thorns in her throat, the ones that tore at her day and night, that screamed for her to bleed openly and honestly--“We’re in love!”--and found a compromise. “Vanya means well,” Ani said on a rush of breath. “She just has trouble expressing herself emotionally, without--” “You’re enabling her,” Obert snapped. “She’s forty-four years-old. At some point, she needs to learn to handle her shit. Has she been seeing anyone?” Ani froze. There was a thread of insinuation in Obert’s question that put her hair on end. “‘Seeing’ someone?” “Like... another woman?” Obert almost sounded embarrassed to ask, and the honesty of it briefly sparked in Ani an urge to trust this man with their secret... until he continued: “They say that sebs struggle with depression far more than normal folk; most of the cases brought to the Institutes have a history of alcohol and drug abuse. And I don’t think I’ve seen her with a man--” Anger flared, and Ani responded the only way she knew how. “How dare you--Vanya’s going through enough without you accusing her of being a sexual aberrant.” Outside, it started to rain. “Look, I’m just saying.” Obert was on the defensive now: Ani knew how much he liked her. “Something to consider. What time is she off work?” “I don’t know. She left early today; some kind of hostage situation at the Kolstovo building.” Her eyes burned, and she stepped away from the receiver a moment to compose herself. “Look. I’ve known her all my life, okay? I think I would know if she was... different. This is depression, that’s all. She sees the ugliness everywhere, a-and it’s hard for her to do otherwise. The things she talks about: the world ending, how hopeless it’s all become... I’m just worried about her, is all. I don’t want her to”--She swallowed the lump in her throat--“to do anything... permanent.” Now, she started to cry; the thought of Vanya hurting herself too much for the charade to bury. Ani struggled to rally herself but the will buckled. “She’s all I have,” she blurted. The rain grew louder. She expected sympathy; maybe an offer for her to visit. Obert’s methods of comfort were predictable ones--this was hardly their first time discussing Vanya’s troubles, after all. At this point, she would have welcomed sitting in that faded blue chair, sipping lukewarm coffee while he chain-smoked and made ineffectual passes at her. Anything to help her refocus. Instead, all she got was silence. “Obert?” The metal phone was cold against her ear; the dead tone colder. She toggled the call, fingers turning the rotary with practiced speed as she redialed Obert’s home number. The dull clicks of the machinery were overly loud in the eerie still that had befallen the peeling kitchen. “Hello?” No response. Not even a dial tone. The line was dead. A chill ran down her back, and she felt suddenly claustrophobic; the kitchen walls lurched forward with odious intent, the welcoming colors running with sinister undertones to her panicked mind. It’s nothing, she told herself. Just a downed line. She let the steady drum of the rain outside convince her. Hung up the phone and wandered into the living room. Ani caught herself before she passed the window overlooking the front yard; she withdrew her boot from the wedge of gray light spilling through the partially opened curtains. In spite of the rational voice telling her everything was fine, Ani crept forward to peek through the opening, careful not to expose too much of her person to the light. Her throat was full of webs; her heart thundered against a chest gone tight with nerves, bass kick-loud in her ears. “First, they isolate you; no phone, no internet, no way to reach out for help. Then, they come for you. Fast, without warning, offering no escape. You’ll have maybe thirty seconds to react. Enough time to get below. You’ll want to use the gun; anything else is too slow. They have ways of bringing you back, otherwise. You don’t want to come back.” Vanya’s warning rolled under the groan of the storm. It had been a lesson drilled into her since the day it became obvious that what they had was serious. “They distract you, get you on the phone with a neighbor, someone you think you can trust... but they’ve already got to them. And they’ll have you soon, too.” *** They’d run the drills so many times that Ani could deploy them with her eyes closed: three-to-five seconds to cross the hallway into the closet-- “stay low in case they have eyes on the windows”; five more to pry out the false wall; drop down the ladder, through the tunnel to the panic room: seventy-two steps total, any more than ten seconds at the inner lock and she was done for. Maybe fifteen seconds earned if she got the door closed--unless they brought satchel charges. The sawed-off was above the desk, shells in the left drawer. Load. Lock. Fire. “No hesitation, love,” Vanya had said after showing her the proper way of things... but the cold touch of the barrel under her chin had frightened Ani and she’d tossed the gun away, tears streaming. “This is wrong!” Ani protested. “You are asking me to kill myself!” Vanya retrieved the ten-gauge, ejected the shell and set it on the desk. Her gray eyes glinted like bits of smithed bone in their abused hollows. The thin lips tightened. “Ani.” There was no anger--never anger, only a cold sorrow that made Ani think of cemeteries. A resignation that ached of death. “I know how this seems,” Vanya said. She cupped Ani’s face. “But believe me when I say that there is no life after the Institutes. What they do to those people, people like us... At least this way, you choose to die whole.” “Dead is dead,” Ani replied. The bitterness in her own voice shocked her. She reached up to touch those calloused hands. Tipped her head against Vanya’s until she was lost in those eyes. “And that is no choice. No way to live.” Tears hemmed the bruised lids. The hands holding Ani’s face trembled, and some of that lonesome mask cracked. A gust of whiskey colored Ani’s senses. Vanya said nothing; she simply wept silently. Ani pulled her close, held her; she could feel Vanya’s scars beneath the uniform; like braille to the blind, she felt the story of the woman she loved play out beneath her fingertips, one penned in blood and punctuated by sacrifice. Entire chapters dedicated to suffering, State-covered hospital stays and surgeries: the prices she paid to protect their love. They kissed. “You’ve given so much for them.” Ani stroked a muscular forearm, fingers hitching on the raised plate buried in the marrow. “For us.” Vanya squeezed her hand. “And I will give more, if it means you are safe.” “And what happens when there is no more to give?” Ani would never forget the way Vanya looked then in the damp, sepulcher air of the panic room: wrapped in black, pallid, body strained from too many goes under the knife and far too many times downwind of a terrorist’s iron sights; a fractal of a human being, held together by bolts of surgical steel and grit. The snap of the breech startled Ani from her observations. Vanya offered her the shotgun. “Then I need to know you can do this.” *** How long had it been since the call? Too long. Maybe it’s nothing. Just the storm. Ani wanted to believe it. On some level, she did... but it wasn’t enough to override the screech of instinctual panic that woke her body up and kicked off the adrenaline. A heavy thump sounded from the roof, followed by another. Then another. They’re here. A muffled keening reached her ears, blunted by the thick concrete but still sharp enough to draw blood from her nerves. She covered her ears out of habit, ducked and ran, all the while trying to recall if Vanya had said anything about the Institute sweepers using sonics. Prayed to gods she didn’t believe in that some marksman with a long-tase wasn’t camped out in the copse of trees across the street from their scrappy little one-story in the Volstov suburbs. Told herself it was impossible to actually feel the heat from a laser sight dancing across her back. Three seconds... More pounding on the roof. As she passed the kitchen, on her way to the hallway closet, something flashed by the large bay window. It was blurred by fear, distance, and the torrential rains, but Ani thought it might have been a man. Was he... naked? The thought was so absurd that she stopped. It was a moment’s hesitation, but already she could hear Vanya scolding her. “Run, Ani! Run!” Yet, still she stared out the window, incredulous at the sight of the pale figure standing in her yard. His lanky form was distressed by the weather--Ani surprised herself with the relief at the accidental censorship--and he twisted about in a fit, arms flailing around his lithe, nude body, head snapping side-to-side like one might when imitating a predatory creature. “What the hell?” The man in the yard spun, eyes scything through the obfuscation to somehow, impossibly, find her. He tucked his head and began to sprint-- --and Ani barely had time to feel her heart drop into her stomach when the sound of the living room window exploding reached her... along with the unfiltered shrilling of something crazed. Ani ran. She was halfway in the closet when something slammed the door into her and shoved her the rest of the way. Stars burst across her vision as her head connected with the hang bar, but fear iced the pain and survival demanded her attention. She lunged for the door to close it; it had a dual-lock that enabled it to seal from inside, a safety measure Vanya had insisted on after Ani’s trial runs hadn’t netted the results she’d wanted. Ani got a hand around the knob. The door burst open. It felt like a truck had barreled through it, the force jamming her wrist and knocking her off her feet. There was a brief moment of weightlessness, her senses dialing in to hypersensitivity: the pulse in her wrist burned like a sun; a miasma of smells: the sourness of mothballs, the tang of sweat, and a rancid meat-stink that guillotined the air. And she saw the source: a pale face, the mouth ringed in red, naked body lean and muscular, hairless but far from sexless. He screamed at her, eyes dark and vivid with bloodlust, a Pale Man-- She struck the false wall then; the sensation jarred her out of the frame-by-frame. The wood gave way against her and in her panic she sought the rungs of the ladder, hooked her fingers through the metal. Her shoulder groaned, something popped; then she was impacting the ladder, the rungs jarring her ribs. Coughing, wracked with pain, Ani forced herself to scramble down, slipping the last few rungs to the damp concrete. Above, she heard the Pale Man continue to howl, and it was joined by another, the rumble of feet like thunder in the subterranean space. Ani was twenty of the seventy-two steps to the panic room when her pursuer dropped to the ground behind her. A bestial snarl echoed. An insurmountable fear took her, flooding her battered body with a fresh surge of adrenaline that burned away the pain. She reached the thick metal door at the tunnel’s end, tugged it open--it only locked from inside--and was halfway through when a vise grip closed around her arm. A searing, tearing pain erupted from her shoulder as the man lunged and sank his teeth into her. Ani wailed, and the weight of him against her back pushed them both into the room. They rolled; he was clamped to her like a dog, thrashing her about on the cold cement even as she flailed against him. Blood ran hot down her chest and back but she couldn’t think about that now. All thoughts were on freedom, muscle-memory usurping the hysterical animal mind. “They will come for you, love. You must be ready to fight.” She was not Vanya Kraz; she did not have twenty years of combat drilled into her DNA by a ruthlessly efficient State. She doubted heavily that she’d learned enough to face off against the type of trained men they would send for her, soldiers like Vanya. “You do not need to beat them--simply hurt them.” Levering herself with her arms, Ani rolled onto her back, pinning the Pale Man beneath her, then reached over with her free arm and jabbed a thumb into his eye, hard. It was enough: the man screeched, jaws separating from her savaged shoulder. Ani pulled her arm free, lunged to her feet and dropped a booted heel into the exposed genitalia. Then she was moving, limping past the rows of ration-stocked shelves to the lone worktable at the room’s end. The shotgun waited, the oiled metal catching in the buzzing fluorescents. Ani grabbed it, the wood grip worn smooth in all the right places. She grabbed a shell from the box in the drawer and slotted it home, the ritual of their training runs inoculating her to the single-celled dread seeking to make her fumble. The breech snapped closed, the weight of the weapon like a closely-held promise. Don’t hesitate, love. She brought the gun up-- Behind her, an animal screech --and fired into the man’s chest. At close range, the shot took him off his feet. He rag-dolled across the room in a fireworks display of watery blood and viscera. The Pale Man left a red starburst against the flaking concrete wall, where he dropped to the floor in a tangle of limbs and organs, the ten-gauge shell having practically blown him in half. Ani took a breath, choked on the acrid mixture of gun smoke and cooked meat, bent over and dry-heaved. Her whole body was sour-sick with adrenaline; she wanted it out, wanted to wake up and discover this was all a terrible nightmare... but the corpse beside the open door-- the man I killed --acted like a magnet, pulling her into reality until she finally had no choice but to accept it. To do otherwise would threaten complete insanity. She closed her eyes, waited for the nausea to pass. Opened them-- And saw at least three more of the Pale Men racing down the tunnel towards her. She scrabbled forward, threw herself against the door and slammed the lever down. One of the Men howled. The thick metal shuddered. Ani fell back. She ejected the spent shell, raced to the worktable and grabbed a handful more from the box. Thumbed a new one into the breech and snapped it closed, filled the pocket of her hoodie with the spares, knowing it would never be enough if they got in. Vanya’s words came to her. “I need to know you can do this.” The pounding continued. Dust settled on her shoulders, her throat nearly as dry. She thought of the steel pressed under her chin, her finger slipping behind the trigger guard. It wouldn’t take much... She thought of Vanya then, and knew she couldn’t. Not if there was a chance of holding her again. The shelter had enough resources to last her several years. Assuming she didn’t go insane from the incessant beating on the door, she’d be fine. And if the creatures did eventually break through, well... “Vanya, please be safe,” Ani hoped; a brittle thing, but all the more valuable when weighed against the brutal promise of the shotgun clutched to her chest. Tears slipped from swollen eyes, but even as her knees shook, her heart beat firm. “I’ll be here when you get home, Vanya.”


I am called the best baker in my town. And I think I am still hallucinating. My parents would call me a liar if I tell them that their reckless and rebellious daughter has finally found what she has to do with her life. My soon-to-be husband still feels that I am not grown-up which I think partly is true. I live in a small town called Ottery Peverell. A small town where you have to change many buses to reach. No airports. No railways. No proper roads. Being from a big city, it was really tough for me to adjust with all the silence, the unwanted neighbors coming to your place to talk and those street vendors who knew your name and infact where you came from! I have lived in Brooklyn all my life. My parents met there and so thought the city was the best place to settle. Although I have always been a disciplined daughter, I still love the freedom this place offers. Late night parties were in my blood. I was a regular drinker and of course I would go one step ahead if not conscious, which I know was not good for my mental health! I was accustomed to waking up late in the morning. Sometimes, I used to party all night until my sister reminded me that mom still has the capability to ground me. After all that mental-health-damaging stuff I did back there, my parents decided that I better stay with my aunt who lived in Ottery Peverell alone. She never married but my mother believed she secretly loved someone all her life! I cannot believe someone beautiful like her can remain spinster all her life! So after all the fights, and “It's good for you. You’ll know when the time will come!” dialogues, I was finally parceled to this small place which I don’t think anyone has ever heard of. I cannot even see the name on the map! I have to say goodbye to all the luxuries I have been living with. No expensive shopping, no weekly spa treatment, and no girls night out! I left all my besties back there in the city! But sometimes, the best things can come in a nasty disguise. Living here with people who would help you out without saying a single word, knowing that less is always more and falling in love with the man of -- not my dream as I always wanted to marry a billionaire - but a man that was perfect for me! Soon after a few weeks my aunt died as she was suffering from a serious illness, I took over her cafe. She always wanted me to handle her business which I never knew why. And as for my boyfriend, Avalon Montgomery - , he and I are now business partners. I am a baker, trying out all the beautiful and unique recipes from my aunt’s dairy and Avalon looks after the finance and other cafe’s stuff. I also befriended my neighbor Octavia who was looking for a job and now she works here as a receptionist. It was difficult at first, I really hated every minute when I came here. But this turned out to be the best thing that could happen to me! For now, everything is going alright. I don’t know what will happen next. Maybe my boyfriend will ask me for marriage? But seeing how he needs time to adjust with a rebellious girl like me, I think I should give him some for that. Oh yes, I did forget to tell my name. I am Juliette Walker.


I’m in a room. It’s a small room. If I was taller, and I stood in the center and spread my arms wide, I would almost be able to touch the walls. Oh, the stark white walls. Stark white, and plain. Nothing adorning them. Nothing to look at. The windows too high to reach or see out. The only furniture is a bed. And the bed is bolted to the floor stuck in place. Even the blankets are white and so are the sheets and of course a white pillow. It’s like being stuck in a blizzard of boring. I’m so bored. The door is locked and I can’t go anywhere. My meals are brought here. My pills are brought to me here. No one talks to me. I don’t even have books to read. I’m not allowed to have anything. All I can do is sit or lay on my bed and watch as the room darkens with the movement of the sun that I’m not even allowed to look out at. This is torture to me. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here now. Based on the shagginess of my hair, it’s been a while. I used to have a clean undercut. But that has grown out by at least an inch. I can only imagine how scruffy and ragged I must look. I used to be wild. So wild. I did what I wanted and went where I wanted. But now, I’m confined. A caged bird stuck in a white cell with nothing to even sing about. The pills they bring me do little to take the edge off. My mind races all the time. I pace sometimes. I jump and try to see out the window. I yell. I sing songs I remember hearing on the radio. I talk to myself. I recite passages of books or movies I had seen before being trapped here. It passes the time sometimes, but usually, it just incites my rage because I’m starting to forget. I’m slowly losing the memories of outside. I’m becoming dulled by this lack of stimulation. And then, just like that, it’s night again. The lights are dim. The nurse I hate most comes in. “Clara, it’s time for your evening pills.” “Fuck off. I don’t want them.” “Sorry you feel that way,” She mumbles. She’s not sorry. I can tell. “Open up.” She hands me a paper cup with the pills. “I can’t take all of these at once.” She rolls her eyes. (I thought nurses were supposed to show compassion.) “Take them however you need to.” I take one pill at a time, and chug water from the paper cup with it. Before I’m halfway done with the pills, the water is gone. “I need more water,” I informed the nurse. She gives an exasperated sigh, and turns to leave. I stealthily follow behind her with my cup of pills. Before the door snapped closed behind her, I jammed a pill into the lock where no one could sense it. She wouldn’t know I didn’t take all of them. I don’t know which of the eight pills I’m required to take twice a day I was sacrificing, and I didn’t care. I checked the latch, and it held. I ran back to my bed and sat patiently waiting for the nurse to return. She came back in with a fresh cup of water. “Thank you Nurse Wretched.” “I think you mean Ratchett.” “No. You are worse. You are Wretched. It was intentional.” She rolled her eyes again, and I swear she probably saw her brain, and I downed the rest of the pills in one swallow. She hastily left. I sat and waited for lights out. Once all of the lights dimmed (they never go all the way out) I made my way back to the door and pulled the handle slowly and looked out into the hallway. It was quiet and there was no one present. Just a long hallway of sealed doors. I padded along the hallway slowly and carefully. The light overhead flickers and I freeze and stifle a laugh. I can see the nurses’ station at the end of the hallway, circular and surrounded by monitors and charts. One nurse is sitting there, scrolling on her phone absentmindedly. I crouch low and scurry behind the desk. She is so distracted on her phone she doesn’t notice me at all as I spot a set of keys left haphazardly on the counter. There’s a key card attached to the lanyard, one that is used to go through security doors. My luck is too good tonight. I make a mental note that if I make it to the street, I need to play the lottery. My hand snakes up to the counter and I noiselessly get the lanyard into my grasp. The entire time, my breath is held and my eyes are glued to the distracted nurse. She’s giggling at a video that is playing before her eyes. I pad my way quietly down another hallway. This hallway has the janitor’s closet, laundry, and the meeting room that has crime scene tape blocking it off. That was the meeting room where I killed my court appointed therapist a few days ago. I opened it with the key, the coppery smell of blood hung in the air, and it was still blood spattered. They had yet to clean it up. I’m sure it had been photographed already, more evidence against me. I giggle to myself looking at the paintings I created in her blood, swirls and flowers that were bright red when I painted them, now dark brown and dry. I close that door and head over to the laundry and let myself in. I should feel bad that I killed the pretty therapist. But I don’t. I don’t regret anything I’ve ever done. The plethora of therapists I’ve seen say I lack empathy. They call me a sociopath and a narcissist and there’s a long list of other diagnoses. I don’t know that I disagree with them, necessarily. But I also don’t care what they think. I guess that makes me textbook. But whatever. I stripped out of my white inmate pajamas and put on a pair of a dark blue scrubs that the cleaning crew use as a uniform. There’s no shoes, but how often will someone look at another person’s feet? I put the lanyard around my neck and head down the hallway. The nurse is still on her phone, and now a security guard is leaning over the counter peering down at her phone with her. They laugh at whatever is on the screen. He makes an excuse to reach over and touch her hair. He obviously likes her. He’s so absorbed in her, and she in her phone, I continue to go unnoticed as I slip into the stairwell. I open the door to the floor below mine and head to a random room. I use the key card and open the door and look inside. An inmate is laying on her bed, sleeping soundly in her white pajamas. She’s so drugged it’s almost as if she’s dead. I watch her sleep for a minute, but I’m bored. I close the door and wander the hall opening doors and looking for someone who is awake. I strike out with each room I peer into, but I do find the room where the pill machine is kept. I look at the ID card and see it is for a nurse. I laugh out loud as I swipe the card over the machine and suddenly all of the uppers and downers they use to ply us patients with is at my disposal. I unload handfuls of the uppers into my pockets after ingesting a few. I’m not trying to die, I just want to have fun. I look at the clock on the wall, I know they do bed checks sporadically throughout the night. I wonder how much time I have to get outside. But I don’t want to go alone. I hate being alone. I’m alone all the time in the room. For a moment, I almost regret killing Dr. Bennet. I would have liked to show up at her house if I make it out of here. But, she was leaving me. I was going to be alone. I didn’t like that. They still haven’t found another therapist for me. Everyone is afraid of me, I guess. I really don’t mean to hurt anyone. But in the moment, when I’m angry, well, I just can’t control it. Oh well. I keep going down the hallway opening doors until a nurse comes down the same hallway to do bed checks. There is nowhere for me to go. I smile at her. “Is this the floor that called for the clean up?” I ask thinking she will buy it that I’m a janitor who is hoping to be in the right place. “Um. No.” She looks at me confused. “Where’s your cart? ... And your shoes?” The lightbulb goes on over her head. Her eyes get big. I just laugh and take off running. My sock feet make it hard to gain traction and I don’t have time to stop and remove them. I scramble past her, but she has shoes with rubber soles and traction. She’s also got a few inches on me and reaches me quickly, tackling me to the hard floor. I’m still laughing as my head hits the floor. “Ouch!” I’m gasping for air as I’m pinned to the floor by the nurse. She manages to pin my arms under her knees as she sits on my chest. This could be fun if circumstances were different, but suddenly I realize the gravity of the situation. She’s pulled a radio out of her pocket and she’s contacting security. “C’monnnn.” I beg. “Please don’t do that.” I writhe under her trying to buy some leverage, but it’s to no avail, my sock feet keep sliding against the floor as I try to buck her off of me. She doesn’t even look at me, and she refuses to speak to me. My anger is mounting, but it goes nowhere. Two security guards have appeared and the bite of the needle is in my hip and my world goes black. The next thing I’m aware of, is being back in my white cell. Was it worth it? Absolutely. Will I try again? Of course.


A small man, swaddled in clothing, fought against the wind to latch the gate behind him. He grabbed the handle of his cart, icy to the touch, and set off down the trail. Walking over the upturned roots the cart followed, each of its rusty wheels feeling the strain of the terrain. Five minutes later he arrived at the tree which he had watched fall yesterday; removing his gloves he started to snap off its branches, placing them down. One by one they filled the cart until there was no more room. Upon seeing that so little wood had filled his cart he sighed, remembering the cold nights that had made up the last week. Try as he did there was no more room in the cart, and he decided to head back home. He once again wheeled the rusting cart back across the veins poking up from the trail until he reached his gate. This time the gate opened easily, and he let the wind take it back. The cart was quickly unloaded, and an axe placed in its bed, for the heavier work that lay ahead. Back at the tree the axe made light work of the thin trunk and the cart was once again piled high before being taken back and deposited. Two similar journeys followed until most of the slight trunk was stacked neatly in the lean-to next to the house, he had left his axe and some of the thicker parts of the stump where the tree once stood. Returning to the tree for a third time and now bored of the monotony, he threw the remnants of the tree in the cart and dropped his axe down the side. After the previous three journeys the cart’s wheels had begun to shake as they passed over the path. Wanting to get the work over with the man walked on, paying little attention to the creaking wheels. After jolting over the root that he had previously taken care to avoid one of the cart’s rear wheels left its axle. Wood, his axe and most of the cart spilled over onto the forest floor. Taking the axe and one piece of wood in his arms the man trudged home. He walked back, defeated, to pick up the last bits of tree and his shattered cart. Walked back to his defeated cart frustration simmered, alongside disbelief that his cart had failed him when he was bringing the best bit of the tree back. Stirred by the bitter memories of the last cold week he picked up the pace, once again being careful to watch his footing over the upturned roots. As he emerged into the clearing where his cart had given up, he saw nothing other than the wheel that had betrayed his efforts and a smudge in the mud running into the forest. He knew exactly from whom and to where the smudge lead. He picked up the remnant of his defeated cart and walked back to his house only to find that the wind had knocked over his lean-to.