“Oh, grow up.” This was my mother’s reaction when I came out to her as being transgender. I think she knew already. I had probably left her clues: a bra not so carefully hidden, evidence that I had been using her makeup, leaving a razor stubble ring around the bathtub after a Sunday morning bath to shave my legs while she was off at church. I didn’t consciously want her to find out, but maybe unconsciously . . . . I was just lucky that my father had passed away, because he would've done more than tell me to grow up, he would've thrown me out of the house. Still, the fact that my mother thought it was all just a childish game hurt. “I AM grown up,” I protested. “Well you certainly aren’t acting like it. Get over it. And stop using my lipstick.” “You don’t understand! This isn’t just some game. I’m trying to find myself!” “You’re 19. You should have found yourself by now. You need a job is what you need.” On that score, she was probably right. It would help pay for college, and give me valuable experience. But how, I thought, was I supposed to get a job, and continue my transition? Who would employ a male to female transgender who was barely passable at best? “Regardless, this is who I am. Deal with it!” I yelled, storming out of the room. I decided to go for a run and clear my head, so I put on my pink women’s running shorts, a “Keep Asheville Weird” T-shirt, and my pink and white Reeboks that I had searched all over Asheville to find in my size. I went out Medford Street to Pigeon Street, then up the hill to Main Street in uptown Westville. (The central business district was located on a ridge, so it was always “uptown Westville”, not “downtown.”) I ran down it, dodging pedestrians, to the Masa County courthouse. I turned left on Depot Street, and ran down the long hill. I was getting warmed up, and feeling pretty damned good about myself, when I tripped on something, a shoelace, an uneven place in the sidewalk, and did a face plant right in the middle of the Toad Flat part of town. “Oh, my God,” a woman cried out, running over to me. “Are you alright?” “NO, I’m not alright!,” I half yelled and half cried. “I think I broke my nose.” “I’ll get you an ambulance.” “No, don’t,” I said. The pain in my nose was excruciating, but an ambulance would make a scene, and I didn’t want that. Plus a trip to the hospital might mean they’d see my bra and lacy panties, and I REALLY didn’t want that. I got up, tied my shoe, and started running back to the house. I tried to concentrate on my stride, and my breathing, and not on the pain, and the blood staining my T-shirt. “I’ll swan,” my mother said when I came in the door. “What happened to you?” “I fell. I think my nose is broken.” “Well, come on, I’ll take you to the hospital.” “Just a second,” I said. “I want to take off this bloody shirt.” “Okay.” At the ER, a little man named Dr. Vasquez looked over the damage. “Yow!” I yelled as he adjusted my nose. “Well it’s definitely broken.” “It hurts like hell, too.” “Nurse,” he said to the pretty blonde in dark blue scrubs who had been writing down everything he said, “give this man something for pain.” “No thanks, doc, I’ve got plenty of pain as it is.” “Clever. Clev-er. Seriously, I’ll give you a prescription for pain meds. Don’t drive or take alcohol with them.” “Got it. So what happens now?” I said, looking at the posters for diabetes and heart disease on the walls. I was glad I didn’t have either of those. Maybe that’s why they put them up in the first place, to make anything seem worse than one’s own present situation. “I’ll put some dressing on it to absorb any bleeding, and a splint.” “That’s it? Don’t I need surgery or something?” “Nope. I’ve realigned it. Just gotta let it heal.” “How long will that take.” “About 6 to 8 weeks.” “Great, just great. A splint in the middle of my face for 6 to 8 weeks.” “No, we can probably remove the splint after 6.” “Gee, thanks, that makes me feel so much better.” He tapped his own nose. “In the meantime, I wouldn’t be snorting any cocaine.” “Ha-ha.” “How did it happen, if I may ask?” I felt stupid saying I tripped on a shoelace like a klutz, so I made up a better story. “Was playing volleyball. Got a ball spiked in my face.” “Ouch.” Back at home, I stared at myself in the bedroom mirror. I looked hideous, with the big white splint and gauze and tape on the middle of my face. It had to happen the very day there was going to be a concert in downtown Asheville by my favorite band, Southern Culture on the Skids. It was going to be my first time out in public as Victoria, but she surely couldn’t go out in this condition, I thought glumly. “David?” my mother said, knocking on the bathroom door. “Is everything alright?” “I’m not David anymore, mother, I’m Victoria,” “Sure, whatever you say. Can I come in?” “So you can stare at the freak? Why not?” “You wouldn’t be a freak if you stopped trying to be a female.” “I’m not trying to be female, I AM female. I’m just trying to embrace that part of me, but for some reason the whole world is against it.” “You know, it says in the Bible that it’s an abomination for a man to dress in the clothes of a woman.” “And did you know men wore robes back then, not pants?” “Fine, be that way, David.” “Victoria. Vic-toria.” “Whatever. As long as you’re living in this house, I expect you to dress as a man.” Suddenly going to that concert meant a whole lot more. If I couldn’t cross dress around my mother - I had no intention of not dressing in my room or around the house when she was at church, where she went a lot - I would definitely do so in Asheville. I put on my favorite denim mini-skirt, and tucked it into a pair of baggy boy shorts, and chose a T-shirt that said “Well Behaved Women Rarely Make History”, which I covered with a green pull over. My Reeboks looked femme enough, and even if I HAD sexy heels, I would break my neck just walking in them, let alone dancing. “Where are you going?” my mother asked, as I came out of my bedroom. “Concert in Asheville,” I said. I wasn’t going to deceive her, at least not totally. “Isn’t that a little risky? With the coronavirus still out there, we aren’t supposed to be gathering in large groups.” “It’s fine if you’re vaccinated. And I’ll wear a mask.” “Oh, okay. Say, are you putting on weight?” she said, pointing to the my bulging shorts. I was almost tripped up enough to tell her the truth, but I caught myself. “Yes, yes I have been feeling puffy here lately.” “You should see the doctor about that. I’ll call Dr. Craig and make you an appointment.” “Thanks, you do that,” I said, heading for the door. “Don’t wait up.” “You should eat something before you go.” “I’m sure there will be a food truck or two at the concert.” “But that stuff is not healthy. Let me fix you something.” “No, really, I’m fine.” “Well just remember, unprotected sex is not acceptable.” “Mother, I’m going to a concert, not an orgy. The worst that’s going to happen is they may throw fried chicken. Or serve banana pudding.” “Don’t think I haven’t read about these ‘concerts’. I know what goes on when rock-n-roll is in the air.” “Goodnight, mother.” The concert was happening in Pack Square, so I parked in the Wall Street parking garage planning to walk over, to maximize the number of people who would see Victoria. In the car, I slid off my shorts, pulled down my skirt, and took off the green pullover. I brushed my hand through my sandy brown, longish hair (my mother insisted I get a haircut at least every 2 months, which made it hard to gain much length), applied some lip gloss, and got out of the car. The walk was very satisfying. I liked the look of my long, strong legs sticking out of the skirt, and apparently some of the onlookers did, too, whistling when I went by. I got one catcall that said something about “That fag,” but I ignored that. Most of the people I passed smiled at me, and it just felt good to be able to show my true self to the world, instead of keeping her closeted in my room. I got to Pack Square just as the opening act, a local group called the Honeycutters, were packing up their stuff. A couple of roadies brought out a couple of guitars and a bass, the drum kit was taken down, and a new, bigger one was set up. I watched the crowd, just daring someone I knew to be in it. No, I wasn’t just daring, I was HOPING to see someone. I wanted to be out to the world, but the hard trick was going to be outing myself to people I knew, and if it happened by accident, so much the better. My attention suddenly turned to the stage, when SCOTS lead guitarist and lead singer Rick Miller stepped up to the microphone. “Howdy Asheville? Y’all want a little banana pudding?” The band launched into the song ”Banana Puddin’”. I was standing by the stage, which meant being near the speakers. I knew it was bad for my ears, but sometimes Miller would invite people to come up on stage, and I was determined to be one of those people. I also liked to be by the stage so I could see what was going on with the band. As an aspiring guitarist myself it was amazing to watch Miller’s fingers flying up and down the fret board of his guitar. And bassist Mary Huff and drummer Cris Best kept up a steady beat to keep the crowd dancing. After a parade oi songs - Voodoo Cadillac, Camel Walk, Holdin’ Up The Roof of a Cheap Motel, and Walk, Walk, Walk, with Huff on lead vocals - I was out of breath, and bent over at the waist trying to catch my breath. Miller looked in my direction and spoke to me. “What’s your story, then?” he said. At first I didn’t realize he was talking to me, and I looked around for somebody who might have a story. “You, yeah you, with the cast on your nose. What happened?” “Volleyball. Took a spike in the face.” “Volleyball! Isn’t she great folks? Somebody get her a T-shirt.” The night was perfect for dancing, not too cold, but not too hot, either, so I kept dancing.. I danced with girls. I danced with children. I danced with old ladies. By the end of the concert, my legs were stiff and sore, and I had worked up a pleasant sweat. I felt good about the evening, that I had been seen cross dressed in public and I hadn’t caused a panic or gotten arrested. It felt, so good, in fact, that I almost forgot to change back into my boy clothes. I figured my mother would be asleep when I got home. That would’ve been a disaster. It turned out the disaster would come from another direction entirely. When I made it back home to Waynesville, and opened our front door, my mother was standing there, and she wasn’t happy. “Uh, what’s up?” I asked. “You want to know what’s up? I’ll tell you what’s up. I just watched the 11 o’clock news and saw my only son at a concert, out in public, dressed as a woman. Care to explain that, mister?” “I told you I was transgender. You won’t let me dress up here, so I figured if I did it in Asheville . . .” “The phone has been ringing non-stop. First it was Mabel Grossman down the street. Then it was your English teacher, Mrs. Belk. But worst of all was Father O’Malley. He raised questions about my efforts as a single parent. I might get thrown out of the church for this. But you don’t ever think about how your actions might reflect back on me, do you?” “Um . . .” “Well do you?” “Didn’t they ask about my nose at all?” “Of course not,” my mother said, wringing her hands. “Oh, this is even worse than the time you siphoned gas out of your Uncle Louie’s car to make it look like his gas mileage was decreasing.” “I saved it all and gave it back to him.” “Or when you brought the class ferret home without telling me, and let him out in the house. I’ve still got scars from where he bit me on the neck. Thought I was never going to get loose. You just don’t think! And you say you’re grown up. Pah! “I’ll tell everybody that it couldn’t have been you on the news because you were home studying, and . . . .” “Mother, I . . . “ My mother broke down in tears. “Where did we go wrong, David? What could we have done differently?” “Nothing, mother. This has absolutely nothing to do with your parenting. Why can’t you just accept me for who I am, and maybe stand up for my rights instead of trying to make me go back in the closet?”” “I want to, I really do, but it’s all just so confusing. And I worry about you going out like that. I worry someone will try to hurt you. I worry this means you’re gay.” “I’m not gay, I can assure you of that, mother.” “But how can you want to be a woman, and not be into men?” “It doesn’t work that way. I like women, and at the same time I want to be one.” “That’s just weird. Do you wish you were me?” It was a question I hadn’t considered, and a disturbing one at that. Who in the world would want to be their own mother? “Goodnight,” I said, and ducked into my bedroom to avoid it, That night I had a dream. In it I was my mother, and I was nursing me as a baby, and I had this uneasy feeling that I was going to be ripped away from me at any moment, and it scared the shit out of me. I wanted to protect the infant me even if it cost me my life. I didn’t tell my mother about the dream, but I saw her concern for me in a whole new light. “Mother,” I said the next morning over breakfast. “I want you to know that I get your fears for me being trans. It doesn’t change the fact, but I understand your position better.” “Thank you, David, er, Victoria.” It was the first time she ever called me by my nom de femme, and it felt amazing. “Not a name we would’ve chosen had you been born a girl. We would’ve named you Judith.” “So you’ve thought of me being a girl?” “Yes, I’ve considered it, and I’ve decided Victoria suits you very well,” she said, putting her coffee cup in the dishwasher. “Thank you, mother.” “I’m going the church now, and I’d like you to come with me. Go put on a skirt or whatever you feel comfortable in.” “But it’s Saturday. You go to church on Sundays.” “I know.” “You’re acting very strangely, mother, If you think for a moment I’m going to confession, you better think again.” “I’m not.” “Then why . . . “ “Just come with me, Victoria. You’ll see.” The Catholic church in Westville was a river rock building on the side of a hill, with a rectangular bell tower that rose about a floor above the church itself. The sanctuary had bright red doors, which I always found warm and inviting. Father O’Malley’s office, by contrast, was not. It was cold and barren, with no pictures or keepsakes or any decoration at all. Just a desk with a Bible on it. “Ah, Mrs. Krebs, I see you’ve brought David down to confess. Give me a minute, and I’ll meet you in the booth.” “No,” my mother said. This was new, I thought. I’d never seen her stand up to authority. And what she said next came as a complete shock. “We did not come to confess. And her name is Victoria now! She is transgender, because that’s who she is. It has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with my parenting! And you haven’t even asked about her broken nose!” “I’m sorry, Mrs. Krebs, but I’m afraid we can’t have David here being seen in drag on the TV, and causing an uproar in the church community. I have no choice but to ask you to leave, and take your abomination of a son with you.” “Fine! Maybe I’ll go become a Methodist.” Outside the church, I gave my mother a bear hug. “Mother! That was amazing. I can never repay you! Giving up your faith for me, that’s a big step. Are you sure about it?” “Yes. I’ve been thinking of leaving the church for awhile now. You just gave me the inspiration to pull the trigger. I love you, and you’re a more important part of my life than the church could ever be. You understand that, don’t you?” “I do now, mother, I do now.”


Dropping his keys by the front door, the man shrugged off his coat and threw it over the back of a kitchen chair. The early evening light splayed across his small city flat through the open blinds and ancient windows. He fell into his worn easy chair and switched on his TV. Absentmindedly, he flicked through the seemingly endless channels but couldn't find anything to quench his boredom. Unsatisfied , the man found his eyes straying from the television and out the window next to him. His apartment building was one of many near identical old and worn complexes on his street. The buildings were only separated by narrow and damp alleys. This meant that, if their curtains were open, you could see straight across into the apartment of the building next to you. The man’s window looked directly into the flat of an elderly woman. Every windowsill in this woman’s apartment was littered with plants of every imaginable type. Spiky looking cacti, ever-growing bamboo shoots, a rainbow of colors and shapes and sizes. He saw her then going to each and every one of them. Watering, caring, tending, and... talking? Yes! She was *talking* to them. *She must have gone mad!* He thought. He knew the woman lived on her own in her flat. She had been there as long as he could remember. And always surrounded by her ever-increasing collection of plants. The man scoffed and rose from the chair, making his way to the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he reached inside and pulled out an ice cold beer. Snatching his coat off the chair he headed out the door and up to the roof of his building. He took up his usual spot leaning against the brick wall and raised his lighter to the end of the cigarette that rested between his lips. He pulled in a long breath and held it for a moment, before releasing the smoke into a cloud in front of his face and took a sip from the glass bottle in his other hand. Again he looked over to the building across from him, to the large, glass, greenhouse that sat on the opposing rooftop. Just like the woman’s windows, he could see endless plants filling every available space that it had to offer. However, unlike the plants that sat in the woman’s window sills, many of the plants within the greenhouse seemed to be in varying stages of health. Some looked near death, all dry, wilted, and brown, while others sat in broken or crumbling clay and plastic pots. Taking another long drag from his cigarette, the man wondered why the plants within the greenhouse looked to be in such poor shape in comparison to the ones the woman kept within her home. He knew that the greenhouse did in fact belong to the same woman who lived across from him. He wondered if maybe it was harder for her to make it up to the roof and so these plants were neglected more and more as she grew older. The sun had begun to fade beyond the city and the sky had lost its warming glow and grew dark. The man extinguished what was left of his cigarette and dropped the butt into the now empty beer bottle and carried it back inside. He returned to his place in the easy chair and remained there for the remainder of the night. The man stirred and squinted in the now bright sunlight. He had unknowingly fallen asleep in his chair with the TV still on in front of him. This was however, not a rare occurrence. He grumbled to himself as he pointed the remote forward and hit the power button. The screen's light cut out and he was left in silence. The man stretched, uncomfortable from sleeping in the old chair and yesterday’s work clothes. He rose from the chair and stumbled once again into his kitchen. He brewed a pot of coffee and poured himself a mug. He made his way to the living room and looked out his window to the day before him. Today was saturday, which meant the man had the day off from his tiring office job. He took a long swig from his mug and was greeted with the bitter taste of the black coffee. It looked like it was going to be a pleasant day outside, the sun was warm and the sky held the pale blue of morning. Movement caught the man’s eye as he again peered into his neighboring apartment. The woman was seemingly returning from somewhere as she had just come in the door. In her arms she carried three potted plants. *Jesus woman, more!?* The man thought surprised. He began to notice however, that all the plants she had been carrying were similar to those he had seen in the greenhouse the night before. They seemed near death, dry and browning. *Why on earth would she buy the dying ones?* The man questioned. It made no sense to him to purchase the plants nearest to death's door. The man finished his coffee and once again pulled his coat over his shoulders. He made his way back up the stairs leading to the roof and fished out another cigarette from the pack. However, this time as he gazed across to the other rooftop, he noticed the woman bringing the new plants up to the greenhouse. This time he could actually hear this woman speaking to the plants she was cradling in her arms. “I simply cannot fathom why on earth they were just going to throw out you precious little things!” She exclaimed, nearing the greenhouse. “All you lovelies need is a little bit of love and care and you will be just as beautiful as any of the plants in that place.” The man watched as she brought the plants inside and could make out that she was shuffling the plants about to try and make room for the new arrivals. He watched her as she traded out some of the more lively ones for the sickly ones she had brought up with her. Again he could hear her speaking as she exited the greenhouse, now with a different group of plants held in her arms. “See! Just like I said!” she exclaimed. “A little love and care and you’ll grow as bright and beautiful as a rose!” The plants the woman now held were lush, green, and filled with life. They looked healthy and new. The man couldn't believe that the beautiful blooming flowers she now held could ever have looked like the things she had previously been carrying. “Yeah right.” he mumbled into his cigarette. Once again within the walls of his flat the man looked into the mirror of his bathroom. He looked at his unkempt hair. He looked at his five-o'clock shadow. He looked at his crooked nose. His wrinkles. And his tired, cold eyes. No, there was something behind the frosty gaze he was seeing. Behind the mess, and ice, and gruff. Behind it all he saw a familiar sadness. Dark and seemingly endless. *All you need is a little love and care...* The old woman’s words echoed in his mind. Dropping his keys by the front door, the man shrugged off his coat and threw it over the back of a kitchen chair. The early evening light splayed across his small city flat through the open blinds and ancient windows. The man walked over to the window nearest his old recliner, and set down a small, wilted, and sad-looking, Plant.


The day my obachan , my grandmother, died was the worst day of my life. She was my first and best friend and the person I ran to whenever life got complicated. She made me feel better, even when I struggled with my parents or did poorly in school. Even when I was bullied, she'd find a snarky way to turn it on the other person. I remember sleeping over at her house, and we'd stay up late watching movies, and she always made me hot cocoa with seven marshmallows. She said seven was my lucky number. I would tell her everything going on in my life and spill every secret to her, the words flowing off my tongue as smooth as the cocoa going down my throat. Every year on my birthday, I would always wait to open her gift in the privacy of my room. Her presents were always thoughtful, like they were made just for me, a shared secret. The weird thing was that her gifts were never something I needed at the time. Then, something would happen, and her gift's purpose would become apparent. One year, she gave me this beautiful bamboo green fan from Japan, something ornamental that I just left on my dresser, a daily reminder of her kindness. Then two weeks later, our local temple announced the annual bon dance event. The temple was created to be a bamboo forest, and they hung lanterns all around the courtyard, creating a fairytale setting. I saw a flyer for the bon dance, and miraculously, the bamboo green matched my fan's green. The fan was also made of bamboo. When I told my grandmother, she just smiled with a twinkle in her eye, saying, "well, what do you know?" For Christmas, we'd always do something together, just the two of us, instead of exchanging gifts. She knew I couldn't afford a gift for her, so she made it an experience just for us. We'd go to a movie, fight the crowds, and she'd buy me all the snacks I wanted, maybe because she knew my parents would never indulge me. Or she'd take me to a Christmas night event at the zoo with lights illuminating everywhere, some of the animals more active than in the day when they were just snoozing. Then we'd eat sushi or ramen for dinner together. I'd always order my ramen with gyoza , my grandmother would get udon with shrimp tempura , and we'd share inari sushi . She started getting sick around my junior year in high school. At first, she just seemed tired a lot more. When I'd visit her house for our sleepover, she'd fall asleep during the movie, something she had never done before. I thought maybe she was just getting older, but then she started to eat less when we went out, and more often than not, she'd just ask me to hang out at her house instead. I was happy to download a movie for us to watch together or read to her until she fell asleep. I was the one who started making the hot cocoa for us instead of her. Then a year later, right before prom, she was gone. I remember getting the call when I was standing in the dressing room at the mall. I was shopping with my friend, Bree, and she heard my hysterical sobs from her dressing room next door. She ran out and kept repeatedly knocking on the door, begging me to let her in, but I couldn't muster up the energy to peel myself off the floor. I sat on the floor, my tears staining the cerulean blue gown. All I could say was, "she's gone," repeatedly. I barely remember the funeral. I just kept thinking I was all on my own now. Though I loved my parents dearly, they didn't understand me like my grandmother. They weren't unkind. They just didn't seem to connect with me the way she did. My mother held me tight, and I sobbed in her arms. I felt like I had taken a breath and couldn't remember how to exhale. The day after her funeral, I bought a bouquet of flowers and left one flower at each of the places that reminded me of her. I left one outside the movie theater, one outside the zoo gates, at three of our favorite Japanese restaurants, at the bookstore, at the temple, outside her home, already dreading the day my parents would put it up for sale and outside the Asian market. Finally, I stopped at the park and walked to the jungle gym, where she always brought me to play. I sat on a nearby bench and began to abs-mindedly rip the petals off one flower, one by one, in a "he-loves-me, he-loves-me-not" fashion as I remembered her running around with me. When I realized what I was doing, I ripped the remaining flowers off their stems and flung them into the air. I watched the petals float away in the wind, hoping they would take away my sorrows. When the last petal had flown away, I dragged my feet to the trash can to throw away the stems. It felt like closing a chapter in a book I desperately didn't want to end. I stood there and threw the remaining branches in one by one as the tears rolled down my face. "Seven. What a lucky number," said a voice, cutting through my world of sorrow. "I'm sorry?" I wiped my eyes and turned to see a woman standing there. She was older than my parents but younger than my grandmother and looked to be picking up the litter around the park. She was dressed in a soft blue sweater and gray pants and wearing disposable gloves to pick up the things she found. "Seven stems. Seven is a lucky number. It seems to be extra lucky for you, though." "Oh, I didn't count them. I don't particularly feel lucky." "You are, dear. I can sense it." "I'm sorry, I don't feel like talking much right now." "That's quite all right. That's why the phrase is 'silence is golden'," the woman replied. "Don't worry. Whatever is troubling you will work out." "We just had my grandmother's funeral, and I've never felt so lost," I said, amazed I could divulge something so personal to a perfect stranger. "You must have cared for her very much, but remember, people we love are never really lost." "Thank you, I'm sorry to bother you. I need to head home now." "It's not a bother at all, dear. I'm sure you will find that not everything is lost to us, even in death. It might not seem that way now, but there is a wonder. Here, I found this on the bench a little ways back. Maybe it'll bring you some color into your life on a gray day. Someone must have left it behind." She handed me a jeweled clip, still in its plastic packaging. The clip was gold with jeweled peach flowers inlaid with rhinestones. It was actually quite pretty. "Thank you, it's beautiful." I tried to muster up a smile and returned to my car. "Of course, dear. Peach flowers represent luck and long life. One could even go as far as to say immortality. I'm sure you'll find a use for it soon." -- The following weekend, I let Bree take me back to the mall to find a dress for prom again. We were going with friends and had already paid for the night. My parents were also very generous and upped my evening allowance. My mom even gave me an additional $50 for my dress. "Did you want to get the blue dress? The one with the halter? It was beautiful on you," Bree suggested. "No, it brings back too many sad memories from that day. I'll just think I'm a waterfall of tears." "You can't be like that. Your obachan would want you to be happy. She would want you to go to prom and have the best day of your life. It's our senior year!" Bree was my only close friend who was full Japanese too, and she would use Japanese words in our daily conversations, like obachan , instead of grandmother. "Okay, I know. Sorry, I've been so mopey. You're right. She would want that. Let's look at a different store." We went to three different dress stores. I was getting discouraged I wouldn't find anything and resort to the blue dress with sad memories. Finally, I suggested we take a break and get something to eat. We decided to get pretzels and smoothies from Jamba Juice in the food court. "Don't worry, we'll find you something, babe." Bree encouraged me. "I won't take you home until you find your dress." "Thank you for dealing with me. I know I've been difficult lately," I reply. "Do not apologize. You're not going to apologize for being sad over your obachan . But, frankly, I would be upset at you if you weren't sad. It's perfectly normal, expected, and good for the soul. It shows you're human." "Thanks. How much do I owe you for my half?" I'm digging in my purse to find my wallet. "Nothing, babe. On me. Think of it as payment for letting me drag you to the mall today." "Thanks again; you didn't have to do that. Oh, I forgot I had this." While rummaging for my wallet in my purse, I found the jeweled hairclip the lady in the park gave me. I pull it out to show Bree. "Wow, how did you get that? It's beautiful." "I was at the park by my house being sad, and this random woman gave it to me. She said when I needed color on a gray day or something like that, I was too busy being sad to process. They look like the peach blossoms on the tapestry at my grandmother's house." "Shut. The. Front. Door," Bree looks like she's seen a ghost, and she nearly drops the hairclip out of her hand. "Turn around right now." "Okay, you're kind of freaking me out right now." I slowly turn around, and there's a small boutique shop behind us, and there in the window display is the most beautiful dress I've ever seen. It falls right below the knee and has an illusion neckline with long sleeves. The dress is peach-colored with peach flowers cascading all over the bodice, stopping just below the waistline. The skirt is a slightly darker peach made of what looks like chiffon. It's beautiful." "That dress is beautiful. Get your bag. We're going in." I barely have time to pick up everything before Bree is in the store. "Excuse me, can we please see that dress in the window? My best friend's life depends on it." "Well, hello, ladies. Of course, if this is a life or death situation," the woman says. She expertly peels the dress off the mannequin and guides me to the fitting room in the back of the shop. "I feel like you should hurry and put this on before your friend passes out from excitement," she winks as she closes the door. I take her advice and undress less fluidly than she did on the mannequin. It fits perfectly. The dress feels like it was made for me. It doesn't even feel like it has to be altered. The sleeves fit smoothly down my arms, and the invisible neckline accentuates my shoulders nicely. "Well, how does it look?" Bree asks from the other side of the door. "I can't explain it," I shakily reply as I open the door. "Oh, my god. You are so beautiful!" "It feels like it was made for me. It doesn't itch, which I was worried about. I didn't think my shoulders and neckline would be so flattering. It all just works for some reason." "Wait, one more thing." Bree walks into the dressing room behind me and rummages in my purse. She unsheathes the hairclip from the packaging and clips it behind my ear. It matches the dress perfectly. "Well, now. That dress was made for you. How lucky!" the boutique salesperson exclaims. "That looks like the perfect prom dress." "Thank you, it's perfect," I reply. I take a look at the price tag and gasp. There's no way I can afford this or ask my parents for more money again. "Oh, don't worry about that, dear. It's on sale. The description said the flowers would be white instead of peach. We were able to get this one at a discount as it is different from the other ones, as you can see," she points to the rack, and indeed, this dress is the same cut and style as the ones that are hanging, but the flowers are definitely peach and not white like the others. "It seems as if it was waiting for the perfect person," she smiles at me. "Really? How much will it be?" I ask. I'm crossing my fingers behind my back, hoping I have enough. "What about $100? This color seems perfect for you, and I see you already have a matching accessory," she points to the jeweled hair clip in my hair. "Are you sure? That would be perfect. Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this dress means to me." "You're so beautiful. You're going to look like a princess at prom," Bree exclaims, wiping tears from her eyes. I change back into my clothes and return the dress to the saleswoman. She seems oddly familiar somehow. Not just in her mannerisms but in the way she speaks too. She wraps the dress in tissue paper and puts it in a brown shopping bag with the store's logo. "I put a special store gift in there for you, too. Something tells me seven is your lucky number. Have a great time at prom, dear. You're going to look so beautiful." "Thank you so much for letting me have this dress. This means more to me than you'll ever know." "Thank you for giving this dress a wonderful purpose, dear." We walk out, and I look back as we exit the store, but the saleswoman has already retreated from the cash wrap to the back. "Did you think she seemed familiar to you somehow?" I asked Bree. "No, not really. Just really nice. What was the store gift?" I pull back the tissue in the bag to reveal a small purse. The fabric's color matches the dress, and on the front, there are seven of the same flowers. It's beautiful. "Wow, maybe it's a gift with purchase thing. It's the same as the dress so she can't sell it like the other dresses. Also, the flowers are the wrong color," Bree says. "You're right. It just seems odd, that's all." "Babes, you're going through a tough time right now. But don't knock the kindness of strangers. It seems to all be working out too. You have the perfect outfit for the prom! Oh wait, do you have shoes to wear?" "Yes, I have these champagne-colored pumps I got for Christmas from my grandmother. It was the last gift she gave me." "See, she's taking care of you even from the beyond! But, hey, maybe she's a kitsune or something!" "A kitsune ? A Japanese mythological creature? Are you being serious?" "Eh, who knows! I'm not one to denounce the possibility. There are some things in life we cannot explain. So why not just fill in the gaps with magic?" "I didn't think you'd be so open to it. I also don't know too much about the kitsune." "Well, we're at the mall. Let's check out the bookstore." Bree pulls me out the door, and I do my best to keep up. So many thoughts are swirling around in my head. I don't know what to make of it all. Am I just overreacting and trying to make something out of nothing? Is this a coping mechanism for trying to get over bachan's death? "Welcome to Eden Books! My name is Grant. Can I help you find anything today?" the bookseller at the door greets us cheerfully. "Yes, please. We need to find your children's section. Do you happen to have a folktale section by chance?" Bree replies. "Yes, of course. I can show it to you," the bookseller replies, eager to help. "They're broken down into sub-categories by country as well," Grant says as we arrive at the section. "Perfect, thank you so much." "Please let any of us know if you need any further assistance," Grant smiles as he returns to the front of the store. "Okay, here we go. Mother Goose, Peter Rabbit, and a bunch of other classics. Okay, Chinese New Year, we're getting closer. Momotaro, Kaguya Hime ... Japanese folklore!" Bree pulls the hardcover book off the shelf and immediately scans the table of contents. "There! Page 148, kitsune ," I can feel the sweat beading on my forehead from anticipation. "There are 13 different types of kitsune , and they can also be described as messengers or reincarnations of the soul. They're also shapeshifters," Bree starts reading from the book. As she turns the page, I gasp. There is a depiction of a kitsune in human form on the page, and the illustration looks almost like a photo. A woman smiles on a bridge, her hair faintly blowing in the wind. "Um, am I crazy? Or does she look like a younger version of your obachan ?" Bree asks me nervously. I suddenly feel so dizzy and fall to the floor.


Author's Note: This story contains some images of prejudice and violence against men of an alternate sexual persuasion. I was born in these hills near where Old Man River runs, but I always claimed that God did not complete me when I was in my mama’s belly. As I get ready to walk these halls for the last time, I remember thinking back on all of the painful memories of my youth. My daddy telling me that I’d never become a true man. He was right. I never did. But I somehow feel that I was not at fault, because the cards were stacked against me from the start. Things were left off that should have been there and I was made to feel that somehow I was at fault for it all. “Beau, it’s time.” The warden says as a guard opens the door to my cell. “Yessir.” I sigh as another guard collects the empty plates of my last meal. “Bless him father.” The minister begins his blessing as the first guard attaches the shackles to my hands and legs. “As he begins his journey to you on this day...” When I went to Ito, Japan a few years ago, I heard about these folk tales about arigata meiwaku where someone does something as a favor, but it makes the situation even more inconvenient. Stories like Visu the Woodsman who spends all his time working until a priest points out he also needs to take time to pray. Old Visu takes things to the extremes and quits his labors to spend all his time praying. His family starves due to his devotion to praying. I can relate to Visu as I have spent my life working for something that will not come to pass in my lifetime. Still there are no prayers strong enough to grant what needs to pass if men like me are welcomed into the community. My shackles clink and rattle against the floor, I am reminded of this part of this whole lousy affair that does remind me of myself as the door opens to the execution chamber where a single fixture occupied the center of the room. Daddy threw me out of our home when I turned fourteen, because according to the doctor, I had neither female of male genitalia. My daddy could not accept that I would never be a complete man. “Beau Ruttlige, I have no idea why you are the way you are.” He could not look me in the eye as I packed my things. “I am sending you to a special home down near Little Rock. I reckon they can figure out what I can’t.” I remained silent until I clicked the latches on my suitcase. Mama stood there with her hands over her eyes to hide her tears. “I guess I’ll be moving on.” I said, lifting my suitcase off my bed. Mama hugged me before I walked out the door. Daddy started up the old Ford pickup truck he used to deliver his moonshine. These were hard times for the hill folk back in the spring of 1932. Without making moonshine, we surely would have starved, me and my six brothers and sisters. As daddy pulled out of our gravel driveway, all six of them with mama stood on the porch waving me goodbye. I was too busy wiping the tears from my eyes to wave them all goodbye. It would be the last time I’d ever seen them. I wrote mama a couple of times, but my letters would come back after a while with “Return to Sender” stamped across the top. I quit writing after that. The train stopped at Pikesville a few miles from Little Rock. Mrs. Southernby greeted me wearing a full gingham dress and bonnet like the respectable women did back them. “Hello Beau, I’m here to take you to St. Ignatius.” She helped me put my bag in the back of the truck before we climbed into the cab where I saw next to Henry or Hank as he liked to be called. We drove for almost an hour over the bumpiest road I have ever traveled on until we came to this small house on top of a hill. I would like to say that St. Ignatius reformed me, but the truth is Hank ended up teaching me about who I really was and I’m sure that if Father Bleecher knew what we did in the shed out back, he would have severely punished both of us. Hank was a brutal man and before long, I decided it was time for me to move on. Three years later, I hitchhiked into Little Rock where I lived in a Hooverville for a while. It turned out to be the closest I ever came to living in a normal home even though the walls were canvas. A couple of older ladies took a shine to me. I did not tell them about my peculiarities. They treated me like a boy and so I acted like one to make them happy. This lasted for almost a whole year before the cops came running in on a raid. We all scattered like dust to the wind. I found this place in the seedier part of town called Vieux Temps Gay. Lively ragtime music poured out of a player piano. Women dressed like me and men dressed like women sat at the tables talking to each other as the music filled the room. Smartly dressed waiters brought drinks to the customers. “May I help you?” A woman wearing a man’s suit asked as I wandered in hypnotized by the gaiety and commotion. “I’m not sure.” I scratched my head. “What is your name?” She smiled. “Beau Ruttlige.” I answered, still hypnotized by everyone having such a good time. “Our show begins in a few minutes.” She led me to an empty seat at the bar. “Show?” “Yes, a drag show.” She winked as she walked away. For the next two hours I watched as men dressed as women in fishnet stockings and short frilly dresses paraded across the tiny stage to raucous music. My heart warmed as I sipped on my drink of gin and tonic. I felt as if I had finally found my true home. As it turned out I had. Monsieur Duval hired me as one of the acts in the show under the mentorship of Hugo Shaville. “Daaaarrrrllling.” Hugo would greet me every day, “Put on this wig and this costume. We have work to do.” I learned a couple of dances including the Can-Can which is a line dance that requires a lot of kicking to reveal your frilly undergarments. “The higher you kick, the better the tips will be.” Hugo shrugged as we practiced. It did not take long until Hugo became a close friend. I told him about my problem. “Oh darling, half of the men in the show have the same thing. There is no place for them in this world.” He explained with his high pitch laugh. “You are born either male or female. Heaven help you if you are not quite either.” “Are you a...?” “Hermaphrodite? Darling no, but I sometimes wish I was born a woman.” He batted his long eyelashes which had become his trademark. “Stay clear of the churches around here since most of them are founded on the principle of sending us all to Hell after we dangle at the end of a rope. Bouncy once almost got lynched by a group of them when she had the unfortunate timing of walking by when they were letting the congregation out after the service. She is able to run fast. That day she probably broke the speed record.” Now accepted as one of the girls, I had the pleasure of getting to know them on my own terms. Bouncy was one of the larger members of the show, but there was no doubt she could move fast when she had to. Known to the world originally as Big Knute Rudding who was reputed to have carried an injured heffer on his shoulders down a hill, he was the gentest soul I had ever met. With his large meaty fingers, he was known as an expert seamstress. Candy Kane was another extraordinary performer as she dressed in a blood red dress and shiny red stiletto heels. Jesse Hart was once a professional tap dancer who could electrify the stage with her dance moves. Sometimes she would wear a formal evening gown and perform a breathtaking dance, a waltz-like number with a female member dressed in a formal tuxedo. All in all everyone of the dancers were highly skilled at what they did and I felt an honor to be a member of the ensemble. Walter Kenning announced he was running for governor in the 1936 election against Junius Marion Futrell. Known as a conservative with his roots deep in the Baptist church in the local area, he made it quite clear that he would put an end to the depravity that Governor Futrell had allowed to corrupt the state. In a rally in Allsop Park near the Arkansas River, Kenning announced some plans that would put an end to the “hanky-panky” that was seeping into the souls of God-fearing Christians. The crowd cheered when he left the podium chanting his name. “What do you do, Mr. Ruttlige?” I was asked by a pollster who had come to my door. “I am a dancer.” I answered, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. “What kind of dancer?” He asked, smiling. “Male dancer.” I answered without thinking. “I see.” He coughed, writing my answer down on the paper on his clipboard. I could tell by the look in his eye that I was a member of the opposing team. After a brief pause, he asked, “Are you planning to vote in the election?” “I fail to see what good it will do. Nothing ever really gets done, now does it?” I managed a smile, but it would not negate his scowl. Shortly after that Monsieur Duval called a meeting in Vieux Temps an hour before the show for that evening. Sitting next to Maurice, his partner since he had opened his place ten years ago, Monsieur Duval seemed quite concerned as he looked across the room at each of us. Clearing his throat he began, “I am holding this meeting as a precaution to each of you. Somehow we have joined the list of those scapegoats responsible for these difficult times. Due to our immorality and disregard for Christian values, we are now under siege from those who believe we are in league with Satan.” Some of the performers began to mutter among themselves. Hugo just shook and bowed his head, muttering “We have gone through this before.” “I fear this zealot will stir up the good Christian citizens against us. We have been through this before, but when they start to bring torches and other weapons, I become concerned for the safety of my performers.” He looked around the room again. “I will not blame any of you who do not wish to continue. I understand some of you have others depending on you. Just tender your resignation and no questions will be asked.” He stood by the paper, but not a single person stepped forward to sign it. After several uncomfortable minutes, he looked around yet again, “No one? I cannot guarantee your safety, but I will support you with everything I can.” There was a cheer that rose up as he left the room hand in hand with Maurice. A week later the trouble came. Hugo stood next to me with nearly five pounds of costume jewelry hanging from his dress, neck and ears. Bouncy was stretching his massive legs. Jesse Hart was also stretching his legs and getting ready for a strenuous routine in the show that night when a group of men broke down the door. “You are not supposed to be here.” Monsieur Duval rushed from the backroom only to be clubbed to the ground by a burly man with a red beard. Maurice ran to Duval’s side, but was felled by an iron pipe brought down on his head. Blood ran from his mouth and ears onto the wooden floor. “No!” Hugo lunged for the man who had struck Maurice, but a shot rang out. Hugo fell to his knees clutching his chest as his blood stained his evening gown. “Oh God, no.” I yelled running to his side as Hugo slumped to the floor. Candy Kane took a bullet to his forehead falling backwards onto the stage. “You devils are going straight to hell!” The man with a smoking gun announced. I watched in horror as one of the men carrying a torch set fire to the curtains. Flames ran up the wall and spread like a web across the ceiling. I ran out the stage door. One of the men had a club, but I grabbed his arm, wrestled the club from his grip and used the weapon on him. He grunted and fell in the alleyway next to some trash cans. I could see the smoke already rising from the Vieux Temps. Flames burst through the windows. "Get out!" I screamed at the top of my lungs only to be drowned out by the deafening sound of the roof as it collapsed. I did not see anyone come running out of the burning building. A fire truck pulled up, but there was nothing they could do at this point. During the morbid clean up, nine badly burnt bodies were recovered from the ashes. Nine members of my adopted family were pulled out on stretchers as members of three Baptist churches in town watched the grim task. "Aren't you one of them?" One of the church elders pointed A bony finger at me. "Yeah he's one of them headed straight to hell!" A woman standing next to him confirmed shaking her fist at me. I felt it was best if I moved on. Hugo, Chancy, and Candy Kane were the first to be identified by the coroner. I asked if I could have a few moments with their remains in private which he granted with a quick nod. "I will get even for this, mark my words." I said grinding my teeth together. "Tragic as this fire was, the remains should not be buried in a Christian cemetery on sacred ground." Walter Kenning addressed the crowd in his makeshift podium at the First Baptist Cemetery. "We must protect our communities, our children from these perverts that live among us. They, through their sins, shall inherit the Kingdom." His words of hatred made the hairs on my neck stand up as he prettied on. I kept my hat pulled down so no one in the crowd could see my face. Maurice walked with me still grieving the death of his lifelong partner, his hands showing the burns from his futile attempt to save him. He must die, I thought to myself when he finished his speech that concluded with a blessing. Hypocrite. I am the bear who will rid the people of the annoying gnat buzzing about their faces by dropping A boulder on the bug. I will deliver my own brand of arigata meiwaku and rid this community of this nuisance once and for all. I did not tell anyone about my feelings. Walter Kenning was tree stumping all over the state, trying to stir up the dust about how this economic depression was God's vengeance on our immortality and disregard of His word. Lynchings began to be commonplace among members of my community. On A rainy afternoon on the outskirts of town, I saw Walter Kenning was speaking in front of A crowd. I could no longer hold my peace. With a single shot-Derringer stuffed in my pocket, I stepped to face him as he stepped from the podium and dropped my boulder. He put his hand to the red spot in the middle of his forehead and fell to his knees with that maniacal grin still on his face. One of his bodyguards cursed and grabbed me with the pistol still smoking in my hand. Walter Kenning did not make it to the hospital before he expired. Somehow, I was spared from the vigilante justice that lurked just outside my jailhouse window every night I was held here at the jailhouse. Due to the serious nature of my crime, the federal marshals transported me to a federal holding area where I stayed tucked away until my trial was over. The annoying gnat was dead, but in my attempt to rid our community of the pest, I ended up sacrificing my own life. My trial was over by the end of the month with a conviction for the murder of Walter Kenning. Two days later the judge passed down my death sentence. From there I was transported to this federal prison where I was put on Death Row with a dozen other convicts. The guards strap me into the chair. I see a mirror, but I know Maurice and a couple other survivors from the fire at Vieux Temps are watching behind the two-way mirror. The minister makes the sign of the cross before exiting the room. His heels striking the wooden floor will most likely be the last sound I will hear in this life. I pray it will be quick. The two guards stand on either side of the door. One of the guards signals to an unseen official. My body jerks as the lethal voltage that surges through me. I smell something burning as the world goes dark.


PRESENT DAY ...I looked at my house for the last time. Then I got in my car and drove off silently into the night. TWO MONTHS AGO I was sitting inside my living room, donned in a casual sweater and jeans, looking at the painted walls and the dusty paintings. I wanted to take one last look at them as I turned to the flyers in my hands. The flyers that were responsible for getting my house sold. The pictures of the interior of the house and the exterior flashed before my eyes. So much in life had changed yet the house that was reflected in these pictures looked the same as if it were built yesterday. This house was a symbol of me growing up and having lived there from when I was five till I entered college meant that this house held a special place in my heart. As figured, I was skeptical on selling it, as it had been my childhood home. But since Father and Mother had passed away recently and I was the only child, the only thing left to do was to sell the house. I needed the money after all. As I looked at the flyers, I heard footsteps. The sound of the steps made loud clicking sounds. "Lisa, what are you doing here?" It was my realtor, Jessica Eastman. She had on a grey suit and high heels. "Just taking one last look at the house before the open house." "I was just going to say, I have an open house in a bit so you should probably get going." "I know. But I just wanted to sit here for a bit." "You can do that, but afterwards." I got up reluctantly. "Good luck," I said as I walked out. I didn’t end up coming back that day. The following week, I had no luck in prospective buyers. No one wanted to buy the house. I asked people I knew, friends, family if they knew anyone who were looking into buying a house, but no one had anyone in mind. In a sense, I was relieved of this fact. I secretly didn’t want the house to be sold soon. But...as my fiancé Brad said, being twenty-eight now meant I had to look at things beyond material value and instead practical value. ‘Sure, you love holding on to things of the past and that’s fine, but this doesn’t mean you should keep your childhood home if it isn’t practical for you to upkeep and maintain,’ he had said. I didn’t listen to his words at the time. 1 MONTH AGO I got married the very next month. This meant that I was starting a new life and new beginnings. After our honeymoon, Brad and I drove up to my childhood home for one last time. Someone had made an offer on the house, during our time at the Bahamas. After we got back, I was sitting in front of our TV in our apartment. It was a smaller but cozier place of residence that was just right for us. It had all the amenities we wanted. A indoor washer/dryer, a toaster oven, state of the art fridge, and a balcony. In other words, it had everything one could want in a living space. Except living here was not the same as living in a house. A house that could hold memories and... "How do you feel?" my husband suddenly asked. I looked up. "About what? “About selling your house. You don’t look too satisfied. You've been keeping a face ever since you started the selling process. You seem out of it also." “I’m not out of it. I was just thinking. It's hard to sell a house that means so much to you. But you know what? You’re right. I didn't want to let go and still don’t want to let go of it for some reason.” I stopped watching the TV as my thoughts took me back to the house. He sat down next to me and put his arm around me. In a comforting manner, he said, “You must be willing to let go of it. You have new buyers now who will make great use of the house." The new buyers were a family of three- husband, wife and a child of eight years. They for sure would be able to enjoy my house with its pool and large front and back yards. I sighed. I was hard to see reason to his words, but I knew he was right. After all, we all had to let go of something in our past, whether it possessed a sentimental value or not. "I’m glad they made an offer on the house though. If no one had done so, I would have reconsidered even selling it in the first place." My husband didn’t seem too happy with my words. He didn’t say anything. PRESENT DAY My realtor called me and said that the prospective buyers now wanted to move forward with the buying process. The FOR SALE sign that was previously on my lawn now read SALE PENDING. My house was officially sold after a week. By the time all the paper work was signed, it was late in the evening. From Jessica’s office, I decided to drive over to the house for one last time. When I reached, I parked across the street, got out and just stared at what used to be my childhood house for what seemed like eternity. The FOR SALE sign now read SOLD. Memories of the past came flooding back to me as I stared at the two-story cemented house with glass windows and a lovely water fountain out front- the wonderful times I played outside, the picnics, the playdates, the bike rides, the pool parties, filled my head. Specifically, I remembered the tears from falling off my bike as I rode around the backyard, the laughter from splashing my friends in the pool, and the cries of joy over getting into the college of my choice. I then remembered what my husband told me. That I had to move on and leave this part of my life behind. Let this other family enjoy this house as much as I had. ...I looked at my house for the last time. Then I got in my car and drove off silently into the night.


I crouched down into the icy branches with the sound of snow crushed beneath boots and angry German voices. I peered down on them from my tree and saw my new target practice. There were at least ten men, their sergeant striding ahead his carbine drawn ready to place a bullet through my skull if they could just spot me in amongst the trees. They were all after me specifically and I could tell from their faces they were unhappy about it. None of them were ever thrilled to fight in Russia anyway but the ones that came my way were the bottom of the pile- the ones sent to find and kill me. I had once been an ordinary defender of my Motherland just like they were of theirs. But I had proven an uncanny knack with this here long rifle. As the bodies started piling up and my legend spread through the Fascist ranks eventually I found myself here- the forests of the Siberian wilderness. I had been here for months by now and had nothing to eat but berries and squirrels for almost as long. But it was all worth it for the look of panic a single well placed bullet could lay on a hundred Nazis at once. I slid my rifle into position on my most North westerly facing branch of choice and placed the sights over their sergeant. With the zoom I could make out the long ragged scar across the left side of his face. He had thinning greying hair and a nest of crows gathering around his eyes. The young men around him were just boys, barely old enough to understand what deep shit they were in. I exhaled slowly so my aim would steady and blew the old fucks face off. Sudden terror gripped the rest and their carbines were pointed from tree to tree: landing on every tree but mine. I ejected the spent case and aimed again- picking off another poor sod and bringing the desperate aims of carbines to trees nearer and nearer mine. I aimed on another one- must have been about 16. His face made him look even younger though and I was suddenly gripped with how familiar his face looked to me. I fired and tore his skull open spraying blood and shards of bone all over his companions. They screamed out in terror and I fired again knocking one clean through the forehead and only minimal splatter as the bullet bounced off the back and lodged itself inside his mangled, but mostly covered, brain. With every shot a little more off the Nazi war machine was sapped away and the Legend that knocked Nazi morale away piece by piece only grew. And the White Death was content.


A hundred of his money had been lost to the abyss. Watching the moon lazily trace across the concrete sky, muffled by roaring clouds and bureaucracy, his cigarette let him embrace a cold shiver of indifference. In the distance a mother is exploited and a husband is suffocated by the towering cavalcades of steadfast progress. A distracting blue light stings his eyes and slams his head. Text no longer written but blared with burning intensity into the retina of any poor soul broken enough to find it comforting. Ascending multicoloured boxes rolled by his fingers bartering away his emotions and instincts. Pleasantly disguised chimes made him salivate - he could only applaud Pavlov and the other dogs crammed into his vicinity. Addiction is only a problem when it is unwanted. One of the boxes materialised amongst the blurry fog. A cartoon fish. A price. A location. Rebellion commoditised. Effective communication. Predetermined probabilities forced him to go willingly. If hope can be caught he saw no reason why it wouldn’t dwell in the ocean. A bed submerged by millions of water is less weight than people’s expectations. Were he ever named hope it would make an ideal resting place, far away from disappointment. \* \* \* Rolling rubber. Shaking metal. A smearing of personalities side by side. The bus took him away from himself by adjusting others into focus. Shooting peaks of structure and earth set themselves in the corner of his eyes for the inconvenience, their intrusion sometimes ebbing out a tear. Swapping transportation for transportation. Metal for wood. Concrete for water. Fluorescence for moonlight. The bobbing cradled his bruised self and took him out into the vacuum. Whispers of dormant Gods lashed against his exposed ego, beating his flesh raw. Nothing left for him. Nothing left to do but cast a line. Sitting quietly with an endless background of noise. Fishing about for silver, wiggling, abstract prizes all turning and contorting around each other. A bite, a word, a phrase. He held it in his palm for inspection. It was not a big one, not one you would want to hang on a mantle or show to your father, but good enough for the lazy and disposed carcass that was perched over the pulsating expanse of black liquid. He gripped it like a child grasps a toy, running his fingers over the set plastic ridges, contemplating only the primal sensation the unholy smooth material lent to his nervous system. The phrase played continuously over his inner self, unobserved but present, its existence a comfort rather than a meaningful reflection. Zero percent of hope had been found. Something still ruled the world with a shit eating grin. All he had managed to do was make himself feel sad. He started to suspect systems of people had fucked him over personally. It had, however, made him into a weary boy with something like a university degree in pain. Instead of building hope, he now builds a precise model of a grotesque, duplicitous world.


Dark grey shadows appear as I enter the room, there is a sewing machine with dishevelled thread unspooled and hanging, dusty industrial machines hidden in the middle of the room under a cloth and an assortment of discarded fabric, faded and worn with time; a window with the venetian blinds drawn and light barely shining through. Everything is in disarray. In the corner is a radio, the old fashioned type with bakelite dials and a crackling sound although the room is silent and foreboding. A large desk is prominent as if to display a sort of approaching guilt beckoning me to be nearer by being larger than life. The cupboard invites turmoil, fleeting memories of heavy breathing, a snare and a trap. A sense of fear and disorganisation appears in my mind leaving me not knowing which way to turn and run. Should I run? What am I running from? Is there a door? Where is this space? The corners unveil, the dream is fleeting but it is a dream nevertheless. A recurring dream where the dreamer is left wondering why these images keep reappearing. On the flipside there is a classroom, large and filled with desks in a row with barely enough room to walk in between them. Upon entering the room there are a handful of people, classmates and teachers, or are there? Maybe they are in my imagination also. The room is filled with uncertainty - a refuge from home with nowhere to turn and nobody to turn to. Everything in my vision invites the dreamer to descend into a gloomy state, it is about a feeling of loneliness and a sense of foreboding. Something is about to attach itself to my person and cling like lichen to the wreckage. I awake unable to shake off this feeling and sense of dread. Another day begins. Not being very popular at school it came as no surprise that the classrooms - large, cold and unfriendly - appeared so often and so vividly negli angoli della mia mente. I awoke freshly disturbed from these vivid impressions, it is no wonder sleepwalking was a regular disturbance during the early weeks and months of my adolescent years. The end bed sheet was upturned and pulled out from under the mattress, this was always a tell-tale sign that I had slept-walked during the night. I respond to my mother's voice on one of these nightly escapades saying 'go to back to bed' - an order that I obediently carried out by repenting and heading back to my bedroom. Lucky not to be woken, waking a sleep-walker could be very harmful if not carried out correctly. Memories begin to appear. Shades of what happened in the not too distant past. Shadows lurking in my mind that lingered until just before sundown when the inevitable happened. It was out of my control being a young person with no prior knowledge of life and the features that attracted the opposite sex. Telling myself 'it will be over soon, as long as I can smile and oblige my predator' (better the devil you know/he is my friend). He waits, lurking in the shadows, ready to lure his unsuspecting prey into his den. Ugly, hairy and smelly. At times he could be funny, growing up we idolised our elders not knowing that a potential monster lay within ready to reveal itself in due course. Timing. Always behind the door after school, entering a big empty house which should have sheltered us but instead it was like a bird being trapped inside a cage ready to have her tail feathers plucked. We were being farmed for another purpose: the sinister side of puberty and growing up. Too afraid to tell anyone, thinking of the potential punishment for being the object of desire and the just cause, we simply carried on until the act diffused itself over time, or I left home, whichever came first. The timeline was and still remains unclear in my mind. The anexoria years followed this experience when I was thrust into adulthood. Childhood memories of growing up in a large house filled with adults and children where relatives, friends and visitors came and went with regularity like clockwork. Some good, some bad but all part of the vivid memories in the shadows of my mind. Memories of someone standing behind me ready to reach out and grab the flesh, a quick feel, a press and a squeeze. Memories of a hand that wanders all over, I am like a fly in a spider's web too afraid to move or make a sound lest anyone should hear me. Better to stay quiet and still and let it pass, it will pass. The level of fear is immeasurable with the discovery that there is more than one perpetrator. What is this awareness of beauty that one perceives? Sweet sixteen with peer pressure to contend with as well as the home front, the expectation to obey and just be one of the family. Duties were harsh, the sun was hotter then too with little shade, we had no escape from these things. These were direct comparisons to the goings-on behind closed doors: the fear of exposure whilst being thrust into the elements with little protection. It was the decade of unawareness and self-survival skills acquired by whatever means made available to us. We were, all of us, in survival mode. We were common victims.....cousins, sisters, neighbours. All of us entering a realm we didn't choose to belong in. Unaware of each other's difficulty we somehow managed to march through unnoticed, hiding our fears and embracing our bravery. We led parallel lives under the same stars at night. The same perpetrators appeared over and over again: entering uninvited, lingering as unwanted guests, hovering over their prey as if to conquer their masculinity. It was a time when these things were unspoken about, unimportant, undignified yet disgraceful. We were under a watchful eye and cloaked in adolescent shame. Time was passing too quickly for us to enjoy those years. These images and dreams were blanked out for the most part only coming back to haunt once we entered adulthood ourselves. How long did they go on for? The length of a hypothetical scar is no measure of the damage caused. One can only guess by painfully fitting the pieces of the puzzle back together again to form a picture of a past life. There were triggers at intervals to ignite the flames of our memories, leaving the ashes behind to be swept under the rug for all eternity. He is still alive and walking upon the earth, unpunished for his crime. A family funeral, a beloved uncle. I gather up the courage to confront him. We walk past each other and steal a sideways glance with barely a nod of acknowledgement. The moment passes, I stop shaking. It took all my strength not to expose the truth that day. He seems so harmless so how could it have affected me for so long? Time will tell, this story is told but yet to be finished, I pray for a second chance after the first warm-up and life.....continues.


“Please hurry up and open ,” I mentally pleaded with the shop assistant through the crystal-clear window. She couldn’t hear me, but I knew she could feel my angst through the glass divider. ‘ Limited Stock ,’ said the posters stuck to the inside of the window. ‘ Once they’re gone, they’re gone!’ It was the 1980s - the decade of desire. Computers, Rubick’s Cubes, Teddy Ruxpin, Care Bears, Strawberry Shortcake, and the most anticipated arrival to my young impressionable life... Cabbage Patch dolls. What made them so necessary to have, is anyone’s guess; however, great marketing, word of mouth, and the concept that you weren’t buying the dimple-faced cuties, but adopting them with adoption papers, made them a desirable commodity for their target. Girls were told the adopted dolls were theirs and theirs alone. The exception to this rule, however, was me. You see, I’m a boy - or was - at the time, caught up in the mass hysteria that demanded ownership of at least one of those cute stuffed dolls. It was a typical reaction to the era’s ritualistic devotion to materialism. A coveting of biblical proportions. Wanting what others already possessed, spread a sickness from coast to coast and across the seas into every corner of society. It was as Saul Bellow wrote in his book, ‘Henderson, The Rain King,’ a case of ‘ I want, I want, I want.’ ‘Born from cabbages,’ the dolls came with birth certificates displaying the day they were born; but intriguingly, not the year. The brilliant marketing brainchild of Xavier Roberts sent every young girl into an unrestrainable frenzy. However, the doll’s design was not really his. He stole that idea from someone else - an American folk artist named, Martha Nelson Thomas. Rubbing salt into the wound, he then won the subsequent copyright lawsuit against him. A small, fractional out of court settlement freed his unapologetic venture to gross over $500 million that year. Not bad for a hijacking. Copyright arguments were inconsequential to my young coveting eyes, as I stared puppy-eyed at the last boy doll dressed in cowboy clothes with holster, sheriff’s badge, and cowboy hat. Displayed amongst a variety of mainly female dolls - mostly depicting a diversity of backgrounds, he stood out like a god amongst mortals. The longer I gazed at him, the more I wanted him. No, I needed him. He was going to be my pal and we would share our lives as we knew it. Nobody would get between us, I foolishly thought, because being at the front of the line meant nothing. When those doors were unlocked, it was every man, woman, and child for themselves. A throng of scrambling bodies shoving, scratching, and swearing at each other, surged into the shop, causing my mother’s grip on my hand to loosen in the crush, leaving me cowering in the nook of the shop window. I tried as best I could to stand tiptoe, scanning for my mother and the doll I expected to see her clutching on to, but that never happened. I saw the doll, alright. It was in the hands of the only other boy in the crowd of crazed girls, who craftily hurried out through the shop door, gleefully carrying the doll in its box. A smug, evil smile on his face gloated at my abandoned and crestfallen stare as he huddled behind his mother. Acting as icebreaker, she ploughed through the incoming frosty mass of doll prospectors still attempting an assault on the near-empty shelves. If the look of envy could metamorphose into malice, my expression demonstrated it. Bordering on psychotic jealousy, I raged. He recognised it, but rather than be worried by my arrowed look, he seemed energised by it - almost ecstatic. No amount of sympathy or reassurances from my own mother on the way home, could dry my puffy sore eyes. “I don’t want to wait over nine months. I want him now,” I cried through soaked red cheeks. *** Some forty-five years later, I was prompted to defend myself to a group of my peers attempting to ascertain whether I was guilty by reasons of temporary insanity or just plain guilty by reasons of malice aforethought. I had long forgotten the frolic and self-obsession of youth. Supporting a family of my own, I had raised a loving and generous daughter, who in turn had become a young and devoted single mother. To say that a granddaughter’s love is a gift from above is an understatement. That little girl’s smile melted my heart every time it flashed at me. So, for her eighth birthday, I wanted to get her something special, something retro, something she could cherish long into adulthood. Searching for such a special gift, I shopped at my favourite online outlet, eBay. To my delight and surprise, I discovered a similar doll to the one I so long ago craved - still in its original box, never opened. It was described as a collector’s item. The $140 starting price was reasonable enough; however, it was a bidding item and had no Buy It Now option. Undeterred, I submitted my bid with a $190 limit and tracked it over the next several days. What had started with half a dozen bidders, ended up with me and one other person in a bidding war for this pristine investment. With only ten minutes to go, it had reached $300. Bidding on eBay can be contagious. Getting caught up in the excitement and desire to beat the other person or persons to the prize, is intoxicating. I fell into that feverish moment, upping my bids until I cut myself off at $520. My main opponent demoralizingly won the item for $521. The disappointment I felt brought back buried memories like I had suddenly been struck with PTSD. Feelings of guilt for letting my granddaughter down, brought a terrible sadness and jealous rage to my disposition. So much, that I contacted the seller to let them know that should the buyer renege on the deal, I would be willing to pay them $1000 cash. They politely responded saying that they were a reliable eBay seller but if I was interested, I could come into their store and view their other collector dolls. Searching for local items on eBay was something I always liked to do, because I could save on any postage costs, and offer cash for whatever else caught my eye. I didn’t consider it to be unethical. It was a behaviour driven by my boyhood experience that taught me to get ahead of the crowd when you want something that others also want. Not sure whether it was curiosity or resentment feeding my need to find out who the successful bidder for the doll was; however, I managed to pry information from the seller regarding the day he expected the buyer to collect the doll from his store. I lived in the same small town that I grew up in, so it was possible that I might have known the buyer and could offer them the same amount of cash that I offered the store owner. I needed to find out; however, I didn’t want to be recognised, so I picked out a parking spot opposite the store and waited in my car, observing through my rear-view mirror. I didn’t have to wait long. As a car pulled up outside the store, I immediately recognised the driver - an old school acquaintance. Against all sensibility, I followed him into the store. Several shoppers occupied the shop staff, so no-one really noticed me enter. Dolls, cars, trains, all collector items, filled the shop’s shelves and glass display cabinets. It was the ideal space to get lost in dreaming and reminiscing of younger days. Items from many decades stirred childhood memories of happy, carefree times. I even caught a glimpse of an old ‘ Robby the Robot’ from the movie, ‘Forbidden Planet,’ a 1950s Sci-Fi gem re-run countless times on the small screen. Robby appeared in many other Sci-Fi movies, eventually co-starring in the 1960s TV series, ‘Lost in Space.’ At the time, Robby was jestingly labelled, ‘The hardest working Robot in Hollywood.’ However, it wasn’t the history that intrigued me. It was the toy robot’s wind-up mechanism - surely a very popular gizmo for budding toy collectors. Observing from a safe distance, I shuddered at the grown-up gleefully clapping his hands together when the shopkeeper presented him the child’s doll. The look of smugness on his face, brought back a sudden rush of heavy contempt seeping through my body. I remembered that arrogant grin. After all these years, it slapped me in the face once again, but this time it lit a roaring sense of wanton desire that clouded over any reasonable reasoning with determined malevolent thought. Just as he turned to leave the shop - proudly holding the doll, I pretended to be interested in something at the back of a glass cabinet, shielding my face from view. At that moment, I decided to follow him home, privately present him with an offer he’d be mad to refuse, then leave with my acquisition. I intended to offer him double his investment. How could he say no? I was sure there were other similar dolls to be found - if one was willing to wait. I couldn’t. I had an eight-year-old’s birthday present to buy, and it was going to be that doll. The drive took exactly nine minutes and twenty-seven seconds. I pulled up at a modest distance from his house and looked on as he exited his car, walked up the few steps to his front door, then disappeared inside with the doll. Waiting five more minutes, I calmly collected myself, as I quietly approached his house. His doorbell surprisingly played the theme tune to Star Wars. This made me despise him more as only a geek would have such a gadget doorbell. It made me even more determined to pay whatever he wanted for the doll. Answering the door, his inert sense of perspicacity immediately recognised me. While energetically shaking my hand, he discussed generalities such as, “Haven’t seen you around since high school,” and “Where are you living now?” Those were gross untruths, as eight years prior, he had ignored me at our twentieth high school reunion. Also, he knew where I lived because he had to pass my house on the way out of town to get to his. I would often see him drive past when I mowed the front lawn, and he would just sneer back, like his victorious moment at the Cabbage Patch Doll crush back in ’84. Yes, he was a shrewd customer, and I never liked him. However, to his credit, he invited me into his Lion’s Den. “How could someone so vile be so suddenly friendly,” I thought to myself. Nevertheless, I accepted his invitation to step over my adversary’s threshold and was immediately overwhelmed. The interior of his house and its collection of items put to shame the store we were in earlier. Jammed from floor to ceiling, wall to wall, was a fantastic assortment of toys, games, dolls, signed photographs, signed baseballs, and other memorabilia. It was a collector’s heaven. “Isn’t it magnificent,” he asked without requiring an answer. “I finally have him back.” “What do you mean by that?” my confusion detractingly asked. “I had one briefly... when I was nine years old... but sadly lost it.” “Lost it?” His words made no sense to my muddled state of mind. “Enough about my childhood... tell me about you...” Curious as to why I should show up on his doorstep, “ After all these years, ” I explained my predicament; however, I couldn’t take my eyes off his prized possession still in its box, sat alone on a plinth in the middle of his living room. An overhead light illuminated the star attraction among all his paraphernalia. A despairing, sinking feeling in my gut told me this was going to be a difficult negotiation. “Oh,” he suspiciously remarked. “You want him for your granddaughter... You know, toys were never for kids. That’s what my father taught me. ‘ How could anyone that outgrows a toy be deserving of one ,’ he used to say... so, I’ve made it my life’s ambition to surround myself with every little thing I was denied of as a child.” “Five thousand dollars!” I uncontrollably blurted out. “I’ll pay you five thousand dollars for him.” “It’s not the money,” he explained. “It’s the chase... My mother taught me that one... You remember when that lesson was, don’t you...? You were quite the pathetic little creature cowering in the shop window. I remember you - all those years ago. Tears rolling down your puffy, red face as we took Barry home.” “Barry?” “His given name.” Realising why he invited me in, I started to get a little flustered. He wanted to gloat, to wallow in self-congratulation of a long-gone quest to claim ownership of a stuffed rag doll. Looking for a deal to be done, I upped the ante. “Ten...” “Ten?” “Thousand.” “Dollars?” “Dollars.” He held back his reply, studying my face for any sign of insincerity. Convinced I had found his price, I opened my banking app on my smartphone and proceeded to log in. “Just let me know your bank details and I will deposit...” “...No!” The short repulse incensed me. “Why the hell not?” I yelled back at him. “Because... I don’t like you.” “Well, we have finally found common ground. Sell me the old one, then,” the desperate thought made me demand. “What old one?” “From my pathetic face day... It must be well used by now.” “I told you, you dumbshit... I lost it... or, more accurately, I threw it out.” Realising that the doll I coveted had been callously discarded by the same vile creature facing me, who also beat me to it twice, I couldn’t contain the rising anger building up inside of me. “You did what!?” I spat. “My father made me... said boys don’t play with dolls .” “Did you ever think to find me and ask me if I wanted it?” “...Well... No.” “You passed me on the way out of the shop, grinning like a Cheshire Cat.” “That was very wicked of me, wasn’t it,” he smirked. “Did I stick my tongue out at you, as well?” A rage of hate-filled anger exploded outwardly from me. Picking up the closest thing to me, I recoiled like a baseball pitcher, then hurled the signed Hank Aaron baseball at his head. The resulting sound resonated like a batter hitting a home run. The sound a wooden bat makes as it connects to the sweet spot on the baseball. A few more noises followed as the ball ricocheted around the living room. Broken glass, smashed porcelain, and the thud of a body hitting the carpeted floor. Arriving home, a short time later, I paused in my car to catch my breath. The fresh memory of what had just happened lingered like a bad smell, as my mind replayed the aftermath of the event in my head. I had remembered to wipe the door handle clean as I exited the house. Then, shutting the front door, I kicked it open again to make it look like a robbery had gone wrong. Looking toward the passenger seat, I smiled seeing the doll safely buckled up. I wasn’t going to leave it to be sold-on in an estate sale. No, he was mine. Labelling it a masterstroke of genius , I had replaced my doll with the Hank Aaron baseball, brightly highlighted by sixty watts of display downlighting. It looked so perfect there, that I delayed my exit for a few more seconds, just to admire it. “Guilty in the First Degree!” Was the verdict of my peers. I never thought for a moment that my fingerprints and DNA would be found on the ball. I must have spent too much time admiring it and forgot to wipe it clean. I should have just taken that too. The doll was never mentioned at my trial. It was assumed that I just panicked and ran away empty handed. The receipt from the store was in the box, you see. No-one knew anything about ‘Bartholomew Darrell,’ the name printed on his birth certificate. It took a year for the evidence to catch up with me. By then, Bartholomew was safely in the hands of my granddaughter to be cherished forever. Hopefully, she will pass him down to her children, because a Cabbage Patch doll is not just for Christmas and birthdays. It’s for life. Each month, she sends me a new photo of her and Bartholomew on their adventures around town. I proudly display all fifteen of them on my cell wall. I estimate that when parole time comes around, my Granddaughter may be a grandparent herself, my collection of photos will be wall to wall and floor to ceiling, or I may be fighting whatsisname from eBay over some needless possession in the afterlife...


# The Downside of Infidelity **A girl tries to muster the courage to come clean to her boyfriend about her affair.** *Written by Gregory Patrick Travers* I left Nick’s house that night and got in my car. I felt a lump in my throat as I checked my phone to see another missed call from John. This can’t go on, I thought to myself. I needed to come clean and tell John the truth. Not just for him, but for me, too. Keeping this secret, running around behind his back and covering my tracks...it was utterly exhausting. I can't pinpoint exactly when I fell out of love with him, but I can remember the day I first met Nick. He came into the bar by himself; I had never seen him around before. He was shy for someone so cute. Usually, the guys around the bar act as guys do, horny and a little too honest with their desires...Not him, though. He just smiled and watched the sports highlights on the bar screen. Maybe that was the reason I kept coming back to check on him. He had just moved to the city from Vancouver for work. He did lighting work for movie sets; a job most might find uninteresting, but I loved movies...Lights, make-up, sound, whatever--if it had to do with film, I was all ears. I don’t know if it was the stories about being on set or his blue eyes and dimples, but when I got home that night he was all I could think about. In all the five years that John and I had been a couple, I never once thought about cheating. When we got together in high school it was this magical thing, like something out of a romantic comedy. He was this funny, quirky guy who everyone seemed to like and I was swept away by him. In the first years, I was thankful every day that I was the one he chose to call his girlfriend. I would get mad when he talked to other girls and I would be on needles all day until he was back home with me, cuddling on the couch and watching Seinfeld, our favorite show. My heart would race when he sent me a text message, even if it was just a smiley face or a "LOL". The sex was great; we had this connection like we knew exactly what the other person wanted without even saying a word... But we were young and I suppose we weren't sure who we really were as individuals. He maintains he did, but I *know* I didn’t. Back then all I wanted to do was get married, have kids, and live this fairy tale life with the man I loved. College made me mature...or immature. I loosened up and stopped taking life so seriously. The idea of being tied down to one spot with one person sounded more like a prison sentence than a dream. Slowly I began to have subtle resentments towards him. Where once I saw him as sweet, now he was kind of over-sensitive. The sex that had been so magical became routine and left me uninspired and unsatisfied. At this point, Nick had been coming into the bar more, which always made my night. Every time the front door opened I would prop my head up in hopes to see him walk through the door. I felt like such a goof but, at the same time, the fact that I felt this electric attraction made me feel alive again and I wanted more of it. Lots more. I found myself getting off shift and, instead of going home to John, staying for a drink with Nick. First, it started out as one, then two, then three...Then came the night he invited me back to his place for the fourth. He laid me and his bed and kissed my neck, his hands were rough but I wanted them on me. I was wet even before he shuffled my jeans off me and threw them to the floor. He made me shake and quiver...He made me cum. Six months later I was juggling both of them. At first, the affair made me feel dangerous and sexy but when John and I began to fight, I failed to see the reason as to why I was keeping up this charade. I guess I didn't want to see the hurt in his eyes when I told him there was someone I wanted more than him. Knowing John, he'd probably start crying or something. Maybe in some way, I as well didn't want to see all those years go to waste...but there was no denying we weren't the same couple we were in high school. As I drove home, I heard a *Barenaked Ladies* song on the radio that John and I used to dance to. That combined with passing by the park we used to hang out at was too much for me. I pulled over and started crying right there on the side of the road. How could I be such a bitch? I thought. How could I break his heart like this? Maybe if I had told him about my concerns with our relationship, he would try to change, try to compromise...I hadn’t even bothered to try. I got myself together and wiped my eyes. Be strong, I told myself. I sat in the underground parking of our building for about fifteen minutes before I mustered up the courage to do what I had to do. As I entered our apartment I heard the *Barenaked Ladies* playing on our stereo system and was hit in the face with the distinct smell of garlic. I walked into the kitchen to see John setting the dinner table. He looked up at me and smiled, “Hey, babe.” “You made dinner?” “Spaghetti and meatballs, your favorite. I wanted to do something nice, I know I’ve been kind of preoccupied lately.” Then he noticed my eyes. “What’s wrong, it looks like you’ve been crying.” I straightened up, “Oh, no...Nothing. Allergies...” “Well, it’s almost ready.” “Okay...I’m just going to get changed.” I walked to the bathroom and shut the door behind me. Tomorrow, I told myself.


The sound of the alarm on his phone made Paul wake up. He shut the alarm off and put his phone back down on the nightstand. He rolled over and looked at where his wife slept. Strangely she was already out of bed. He climbed out of bed and walked out to the kitchen. Sharon was standing at the fridge and was talking on the phone. She hadn’t noticed that Paul walked in. “Yes. I understand. No, he doesn’t know yet.” Paul was confused from only hearing one side of the conversation. She closed the door and made eye contact with Paul. She smiled at him and waved. “Yes, it will be on Friday.” She was holding the half-empty gallon of milk and placed it on the kitchen table. “I will make sure it’s ready.” Paul walked over to the pantry grabbed a box of cereal and placed it on the table next to the milk. He then walked over to get two bowls and two coffee cups. Sharon hung up the phone and placed it on the counter. “Who was that at this early in the morning?” “Just my boss. He wants to make sure the test is ready on Friday for the big event.” “Sounds interesting. What is the big event?” “For legal reasons, I can’t tell you.” “Fair enough.” Paul poured the milk into his bowl and then poured the cereal into the bowl. He looked over at Sharon. She did the opposite. She poured the cereal and then the milk. “That was weird. Why did you do it that way?” Sharon looked up at Paul with one eyebrow raised. She looked down at his hands. He was eating with his right hand. “Paul?” She asked as she cautiously put her spoon on the table and stood up. Paul stood up across the table from her. A knock on the door caught both of their attention. Sharon started walking over. She could see outside the door window. Two men were standing on the other side. They were wearing suits, had dark black sunglasses, and both were clean-shaven. One of the men was bald and the other had a buzzcut. She opened the door and before she could greet the men, the bald man shoved her aside and walked toward Paul. Paul saw the man walking toward him and he ran toward the back door. He swung it open with such force that the knob left a hole in the wall. Paul ran out and climbed over the fence. Sharon watched Paul run outside then looked at the other man. “What is going on?” She asked with a demanding tone in her voice. The second man looked back at her and didn’t say anything. He walked past her and toward the back door. The first man was already outside with his gun drawn. He had it aimed at Paul as he dropped on the other side of the fence. The second man walked back over to Sharon. “We have reason to believe that this man is an imposter. A few days ago a portal opened up to another dimension and copycats of many people came through. These copycats are taking over the lives of people and trying to replace everyone. As to why, we have no idea just yet. But we have found that these copycats do things that we do just the opposite. For example, my brother's copycat drank decaf coffee instead of regular. Logan's copycat was writing with his left hand instead of his right. My copycat was caught when he ordered vegan food.” “Copycat Paul was putting milk into his bowl then his cereal. Wow.” “We do have your real husband in custody if you want to come get him.” Sharon nodded her head. “Alright follow me.” They drove to the police station and Sharon walked inside. She was guided to the interrogation room where Paul was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee. She sat across from him and smiled. Paul took a sip of his coffee and was just about to speak. “What are you drinking?” “Regular coffee. Cream and sugar. Why?” “Just making sure.” She looked around the room and then leaned closer to Paul. “Did they tell you what is going on?” “Something about other dimensional beings here to take over our world. I didn’t believe a word they were saying.” He took another sip of his coffee and leaned back in his chair. He looked around the concrete room and then at the surprisingly clean mirror behind Sharon. As he was about to speak again, outside the door were three gunshots. Sharon stood up and opened the door. She looked both ways before running out. She went left then went around the corner. As she heard more gunshots she stopped. The last thing she expected to see was her husband Paul walking through the door holding a machine gun. The real Paul grabbed her arm and pulled her back toward the room. He led her to a closet and pushed her inside. He closed the door and ran back to the fight. A cop ran up behind him and handed him a pistol. He shot the copycat Paul. When he landed on the ground Paul walked over to him. “This is so bizarre.” He said to the cop. Sharon walked around the corner and saw Paul looking at the body. She stopped before walking over to him. He put his hands up to stop her from walking over. He ran over and hugged her. The first thing she noticed was his right arm was on the top of her back. She made a sigh of relief as she realized this was the real Paul. One of the FBI agents that came to their house walked up to them. “Well, we have some good news. This copycat Paul was the last of the copycats. That we know of. But so far no other copycats have been sighted.” The agent gave them a ride home. As they pulled into the driveway, Paul got out and opened the door for Sharon to get out. Paul held out his right hand so that Sharon would hold it with her left. They walked to the front door together. Paul stopped just before they reached the steps. He started to move his fingers around as if he was trying to feel for something. “Honey. Where is your wedding ring?” She looked at him confused as she held up her right hand to show her wedding ring.