Henry Carson was the best of the best. Everybody knew it. When the private dick was on your case, you would be caught and wind up in a cell or a body bag. The legends honestly turned his stomach a little bit. Truth was he had failed to apprehend plenty of crooks in his time. But people are only too happy to remember the successes and write off the failures if you've got the mantle of a hero. The shimmering light reflected off your crown blinds people to your failures. And its beam is one hell of a bar to live up to. Eventually, the drive to attain that level of legendary perfection leads men down dark paths. It was no different for Henry Carson. No different at all. It was mid-October in a dive bar on the edge of town. The brick building was mostly boarded up, but the ground level was one of the seedier joints a person could find themselves. The hole in the wall was called The Viper's Pit, and while it usually boasted a raucous crowd of ruffians, it was strangely calm that night. The bartender, Mr. Morgan, was an elderly fellow who had run it into the ground over the last ten years. He had to sell his house to keep the place afloat, and so he lived in a single room just above the pub. It was a rough life that gave the old cuss a bad attitude and very little patience for unwarranted social interaction. The codger slung drinks and occasionally gave bitter life advice to the younger patrons. Henry was not young enough to merit the fruits of his wisdom, nor wealthy enough to deserve transactional kindness. The detective slunk into the pit, trenchcoat soaking wet from the deluge outside. Taking a seat at the bar, he slapped a dollar onto the counter and demanded a shot of whiskey. “Rough night?” Mr. Morgan asked, with all the gentle delicacy of sandpaper. “Getting rougher,” Henry barked back. “A double. The buck should cover it.” The bartender reached for one of the bottles on his back wall, but Henry tapped him delicately on the shoulder. “I wonder if you would humor me and use this one right here,” Henry explained, tapping his finger on a thin brown bottle on the other side of the bar from him. Mr. Morgan sighed. “Customer's always right.” He poured the brown liquor and watched as Henry swallowed it in one stoic gulp. It barely crossed his eyes, which were bloodshot and cradled in deep dark bags. Something was unnerving about the flatfoot. His reputation preceded him and he didn't go anywhere without a purpose. The man was always on the hunt. “Anything else I can get you?” Mr. Morgan tapped the counter impatiently. “I'm meeting three men here tonight,” Henry began, his voice cracked and rough. “One of them is a murderer. You're going to help me figure out who it is.” The bartender took a moment to process what Henry had just said. Not another soul was in the house tonight, and the splintered wooden tables sat unoccupied. The lights were dim, the flickering neon was the only sound as even the jukebox no longer worked in this place. And apparently, it was now going to play host to this man's private courtroom. “What the hell gives you the right?” Mr. Morgan protested. “You think I want some hoodlum in here wrecking up my pub?” “You'll be compensated. I needed an out-of-the-way location, and this worked well enough,” Henry explained. “All you have to do is serve them all a drink.” “I don't understand-” “You do your job and I'll do mine. There's $500 in it for you if I catch my man, so just play your part,” Henry ordered. Before Mr. Morgan could say anything else, the door creaked open, giving a brief glimpse of the torrential downpour outside. The man entering was some sort of construction worker, dressed in navy overalls, and holding his hard hat under his left arm. The rain had soaked his thin layer of dark brown hair, which was nearly the same shade as the dirt that covered his face. “Andrew Kelstrom?” Henry inquired, wheeling around on his stool to greet the newcomer. “Yeah,” Andrew replied curtly. His words were coated in a thick New Englander accent. “You must be that dick that everybody talks about.” “People have a lot of names for me,” Henry shrugged. “Have a drink on me. Try the whiskey.” Mr. Morgan, despite wanting nothing to do with this shady ordeal, poured a double shot courtesy of Henry's liberal coinage. Four quarters hit the countertop, and Mr. Morgan poured diligently. As Andrew swallowed his courtesy drink, the door opened once more. The second guest was a fish out of water. The jacket of his suit alone must have been worth a month's rent. The tan ensemble was highlighted with a gaudy yellow tie. Mr. Morgan would have guessed car salesman at first glance, but as soon as he opened his mouth it became apparent the boy had not a whit of a charisma. “Uh... excuse me, I think, er,” the young man stumbled over his words, running his hand through his blonde hair. “Is this the place to meet a Mr. Henry Carson?” “Right on time, James Bartley,” Henry replied, gesturing towards an empty seat next to Andrew. “Though I gather from your line of work punctuality is a chief virtue.” “Um, yes, I s-suppose so,” James stuttered. “I, um, hope I c-can help.” “This kid even old enough to drink?” Andrew scoffed. “Barely,” Henry said while sliding a few more quarters in the direction of Mr. Morgan. “Double-shot of whiskey, on me.” “Oh, I uh, I'm not much of a d-drinker,” James stammered, raising his hand as though he were in school. “You are tonight,” Henry said with unyielding finality. “You need some hair on that chest anyway.” The youth had no will to fight any further. He gave a tentative sip and pulled a face, turning towards Henry for any sign of acquiescence. There was none, and with effort, James finished the drink. “Kids a little green in the gills,” Mr. Morgan said. “You need some water, son?” “He can't have any. Not yet,” Henry interrupted. “Oh, be reasonable now. What's the harm in giving the boy a little chaser?” Mr. Morgan argued. “It will all make sense in a moment. Now, Mr. Morgan, I need you to drink a double of your own,” Henry ordered. “Excuse me? I don't drink on the job, pal,” Mr. Morgan bristled slightly and he defiantly placed the stopper back in the bottle. “I don't think you understand what is happening here,” Henry said, his bloodshot eyes piercing through Mr. Morgan's soul. “I told you I was meeting three men here. Can you count?” Once again, Mr. Morgan was dumbstruck. After a second he took Henry's meaning. “Oh, I'm the third suspect in this little freakshow of yours?” Mr. Morgan grunted. “I'm calling the real cops, buddy.” Mr. Morgan slowly moved over to the hanging rotary phone on his back wall. Before he was able to lift the receiver, a shot rang out, and a bullet shattered the base. The rotary fell to pieces and Mr. Morgan stumbled back against the wall, knocking a few glasses off the shelves behind him. In Henry's hand was a smoking .38 revolver, but the man himself showed no emotion whatsoever. This was the same reality he had been living in all night. But now it was revealed to the three of them in extravagant fashion. “Now, Mr. Morgan. Your shot, please,” Henry ordered, every syllable cold and deliberate. Mr. Morgan turned to the shelf to grab a nearby bottle, his hands shaking uncontrollably. The bartender was too old for all this excitement. Too old, his heart too frail. “Use the same bottle as these two,” Henry explained. “There's a method to my madness, and still $500 in it for you if things go well. Minus the cost of repairing that phone, mind you.” Mr. Morgan nearly dropped the bottle in his haste to comply. Andrew and James, for their part, had moved against the back wall in a vain effort to put as much distance between them and the raving lunatic as possible. “Hey, mac,” Andrew began. “Look I got a family at home, don't do nothing stupid now, you hear?” James was hyperventilating and quite unable to form a complete sentence. “Only one of you is going to die tonight. As I told our kind host, Mr. Morgan, I'm looking for a murderer, and I have narrowed the search to one of you three,” Henry explained. “Mr. Morgan, that shot, please.” Mr. Morgan had been fumbling with the stopper, but finally managed to pry it out of the bottle. He poured himself a double and downed it without further fuss. “There we are. And I've had my shot before you two arrived. Isn't that right Mr. Morgan?” Henry asked. The bartender's hands were white-knuckled, and the alcohol sat hard on his stomach. It looked like he wanted to vomit, but was afraid of doing anything to agitate the detective further. “I said, isn't that right, Mr. Morgan?” Henry demanded. “Yes, that's right sir,” Mr. Morgan spat out. “Double of whiskey, just like all of us.” “Thank you,” Henry nodded. “So as you can see we are all in the same boat.” Henry reached into an inner pocket of his trenchcoat and produced a small photograph of a young woman. She wasn't much older than James and were the image in color her striking blonde hair would have been more apparent. “Sarah Wilkins. Pretty young thing. Just turned twenty last August. Pity that we found her body halfway up the canal,” Henry explained, waving the photograph around. “Now our medical examiner ruled the cause of death as drowning. That's modern medicine for you. But I've been operating under a different theory.” Henry reached into the same pocket, this time revealing a few crumpled papers of an official-looking nature. “I've taken a few statements from her friends and family. And it turns out she wasn't much of an angel. Hung out with some bad people. Doesn't mean she deserved to die for it though,” Henry continued. He then pointed an accusatory finger at each of the men in sequence. “James, you should recognize this girl well. Considering you used to date her before she dumped your ass back at the start of the Fall Semester. Young man can take rejection real hard, especially if it's his first.” “Now wait just a minute!” James protested. Henry lifted a hand to silence him and then turned it towards the next suspect. “Then again, Andrew, I think you also recognize her as well. You're best friends with her father after all. I wonder if James knows about how intimately you got to know her following their breakup.” “You don't know what you're talking about,” Andrew growled. “Don't listen to him, kid, he's a crackpot.” James' fists were clenched in anguish, but he was far too timid to do anything about it. He would certainly not stand up to a man twice his age and size, and far less so anybody with a gun. Henry just let the two of them stew for a moment, while he continued his argumentation. “And you, Mr. Morgan. Well, you should know her too, considering she came in here every night to drink. Of course, you knew she was underage, but you've been pretty hard up on cash and weren't about to turn away a paying customer. In fact, you've seen her in here with both of these men and never said a peep about it to anybody.” “You gonna take my liquor license then?” Mr. Morgan grunted. “I didn't kill anybody, now are you planning on making an arrest or are we continuing this stupid game of yours?” “Did I not tell you that you would be instrumental in helping me determine the identity of the killer?” Henry asked pointedly. “You see it all comes down to the whiskey.” Henry reached into his coat pocket a final time to produce a different report from a medical examiner, or rather a copy of one that had been neatly folded into a square. Along with it was a small vial of clear liquid. He unfolded the report and began to elaborate. “I'm not going to try and pronounce the name of the actual drug, I failed Latin in high school, but in a word, she was poisoned. The drug is interesting, it's basically harmless by itself, but when combined with ethanol it's pretty potent stuff. Which immediately led me to assume she was poisoned by a drink,” Henry pointed to the bottle once more. “Wait, you mean-” Mr. Morgan put a hand to his lips, and felt a knot tighten in his stomach. “I didn't get there all at once mind you,” Henry continued. “First I had to track down what bar she frequented - your little establishment - and then I had to deduce her favorite drink. After a rather long series of interrogations I found that she drank whiskey sour like her old man and that she was seen here with - depending upon the informant - either a young college boy or a man old enough to be her father.” James was now taking deep gasping breathes and buckled over in his chair in pain. Andrew was stoic but gave a concerned glance to the kid. Mr. Morgan reached over the bar to try and comfort the boy. “You have to stop this now,” he said, firmly. “The kid's nerves are gonna kill him before your gun does.” “Oh, that's not nerves,” Henry explained. “That's the poison. You see, earlier tonight when you turned your back on me, I slipped a bit of the stuff in the bottle. And that's what this little game is all about. You see that vial contains the antidote, and I'll gladly administer it to us all once I get a confession from one of you. Either the murderer goes to jail, or we all die here together.” “You're crazy,” Andrew spat, standing up to his full height. “Give me that vial or I'll take it from you!” “You forgot who has the gun in this situation,” Henry reminded tactfully. “P-please,” James sputtered. “I don't w-wanna-” “What if you're mistaken and ain't none of us done anything wrong? We all gonna die because you decided to play a game with our lives?” Andrew shouted. “Death or prison, the choice is obvious and the killer will make it,” Henry insisted, raising his revolver. “Think about it. Even the most deranged madman has a survival instinct and this killer is no lunatic. He was thoughtful, decisive and he planned out every stage of the murder of this innocent young woman. Poison that could be mixed into her favorite drink, and one so subtle that it was almost missed by the medical examiner. Or rather was until I pressed the point and made him look again. The killer planned everything to a tee, they have no deathwish.” “I'm sick of listening to you blabber!” Andrew shouted, making a lunge for the pistol. A reflexive shot rang out from Henry's gun, but the bullet ricocheted off the back wall missing all of them. Andrew's meaty fist made contact with Henry's right cheek as the two grappled over the firearm. Three more shots shattered the glasses on the countertop, but the last bullet in the revolver went through Andrew's shoulder, knocking him to the floor. Henry lay near motionless for his battering, face covered in blood and head swimming from the assault. James was on the floor, crying and close to vomiting from the ordeal. As for Mr. Morgan, he stood behind the bar, casually turning the vial around in his hand. “What are you doing?” Henry asked weakly, attempting to get to his feet. “This is the antidote, you said?” Mr. Morgan asked. He casually removed the stopper and knocked it back like a shot. “No!” Andrew bellowed, before coughing out a bit of blood. “Why?” Henry asked, running a hand along his face to mop away sweat. “Why did you do it?” “There wasn't really a reason, I guess,” Mr. Morgan said, flatly. “I don't plan these things, as you claimed. I just find something that I want, and I take it. I never dreamed you would hand me an opportunity like this to watch two of the people she cared about die as well.” “No reason? There's always a reason. It always makes sense somehow,” Henry grunted. “Call it hunter's instinct if you want to attribute some reason to it. I'm not young enough to kill in my preferred methods, but slipping a little poison to an unsuspecting bit of prey and watching them writhe in agony before the life finally fades out of their eyes,” Mr. Morgan let out a dreamy sigh. “There's nothing in the whole world like it. And now I'll get to watch you die as well.” Henry slowly stood to his feet and began to chuckle darkly. “You're right. I was wrong. I didn't understand a damn thing about you.” “You were very close to solving it if it's any consolation,” Mr. Morgan smirked. “Want a last drink? There's still a bit of whiskey left in the bottle. It might speed things up a little. Save you some of the agony?” James lay motionless on the floor, but he was still breathing. Andrew could not move and was nursing his gunshot wound while trying to drag himself towards the door. “I don't think that will really help any,” Henry exhaled, sitting down on the stool just across from Mr. Morgan. “No, I suppose not,” Mr. Morgan nodded. “Oh not for the reason you think,” Henry explained. “You see, I made a promise that only one person was going to die tonight, and I keep my promises. You're right that I was making some bad guesses. In fact, my initial plan was a crapshoot. My Plan A's always needed a little bit of work. But my contingencies are rock-solid.” “What the devil are you talking about?” Mr. Morgan asked with an amused smile. “Getting us all to drink put us all in the same boat and it was my hope that little mind game would coerce a confession out of somebody. If that didn't work, I could count on the madman doing anything to keep themselves 'alive'. So you see the whiskey served two purposes,” Henry explained. James slowly began to stir. Andrew had made it to his feet and stumbled out the door towards the street, immediately screaming for aid. The three men who had entered Mr. Morgan's bar were very inconveniently alive. “The poison wasn't in the whiskey, you fool. It was in that vial.


The drain had been blocked for two hours, but after the third she’d managed to clear it. She fell back, stood up over the basin and waited. It had congealed but finally it caught suction, slurping away. The cleaning fluid she’d used tempted her sinuses, but her eyes were already starting to dry. When she was sure it was all gone, she stripped and stood under a warm stream. In the shower, the residue was scrubbed off of her body. It clung to the creases in her hands and the beds of her nails, but it came away. Exiting the bathroom, she bagged the soiled garments in preparation for later disposal, slammed the door on the stench and escaped into the bedroom. She dried off and then doused the air with new spicy smells. The lit candles emptied her mind, and the lotion soothed her muscles and she lingered just for a moment longer to enjoy the air and relish in her accomplishment. When she opened her eyes again, she shifted her focus and recalled the task that laid ahead of her; the task of tonight. Then turning, she snuffled out each flame with her fingers. She was ready. With a newfound energy, she pranced about, pushing furniture against one side of the wall. And then at the other, she zipped up and slipped off dresses to a playlist of drums. Footwear, however, was a problem; it was always a problem. She considered going barefoot. But then she remembered that the downstairs floor in this new place was laminate. Slippery. Shoes; she decided. The jewellery box was then ransacked. She untangled her infamous pair of gold infinities and fed them through her earlobes. Her signature look. When she was done shoving the furniture back in place having worked up a tear of perspiration, she headed to the lower floor. The air con, in no time, cooled her damp forehead. She watched MasterChef whilst reaching for cupboards and selecting equipment. But food of that magnitude, of that calibre terrified her. She skidded around the kitchen islands; her feet clattered in the heels that had won the toss. A deer on ice. But it was getting late now, it was almost time. The smoke alarm was set off by burning. A dishcloth was found, balled up and flung. And when it was silent again, she went to collect the wine. The glasses were set down with a bit too much pressure. The red was poured and the leftovers; necked. The splashes of red on the pale counter triggered the thought that perhaps a darker dress would have been better for tonight. But it was almost time. She stood back and panned the scene. The kitchen had become hers, her creation. And she decided; it was good. Her iPhone pinged. The phone was grabbed, unlocked, and read. 15 minutes. The lasagne started to puff in the hot oven. It rose, then fell and the cheese bubbled, erupting molten gold all over the Pyrex. The steam from the oven almost blinded her. She cursed the mist, sucking scolded skin. Then the lettuce was shredded, and the carrots grated. She pushed the wine glasses in closer. Dinner was for two. Everything was in place. For the task ahead. At the mirror above the mantlepiece, she twisted her hair into a chignon. Her faithful infinities glittered back at her reflection. And as she was mouthing her mantras, the bell was pressed. He was young. Younger than hoped, younger than expected. He stared at her for too long when she received the bouquet. He stared at her back, her hair, her hands when she cut the stems. Snap. Snap. He complimented her earrings. The knot was unusual. He asked what it meant. She shrugged knowingly; the loops jostled on her collarbone. He took a sip from his glass sitting at the island. The wine is good; he held it up swirling the liquid inside. He waited for her response, but she had become engaged. He stood up. She stopped sawing. A strand of hair fell loose beside her infinity. She asked if he wanted another glass. He told her no. The knife was placed back on the board. He slid beside her and reminded her they had not yet exchanged names. Whatever she told him now wouldn’t matter later anyway. And when she gave him what he wanted, she looked at him for the first time. His face was one that she could study and still not know what he looked like a moment later. He was pleased with her name; his shoulders slacked, relaxed. He sat back down. The wine flowed. And then the room started to swell with his voice and his laughter. The knife felt weighty. Her fingers curled tighter around it. He asked if she'd heard his joke. But she hadn’t. When the lasagne arrived, he lunged at it like a famished dog. She watched his head of thick wavy hair duck and dive, the cutlery chimed as he ate. And she just sauntered around him, a smile fixed on her painted lips. But then he swallowed and cleared his throat; So.... She was asked what she did for a living. The question caught her off guard and she froze, poised above him. And then she remembered why she didn’t usually agree to the young ones. They asked too many questions. He wasn’t pleased this time. But then he was immediately grinning at the sight of dessert. He mentioned that apple pie, one mouthful, was his favourite, another mouthful. I know; she said simply. She had made it her job to know. He glanced up at her, surprised. She speaks; he laughed incredulously; what happened to your playing hard to get game? The game’s changed. Ooo; his tone was mocking, She thought about it. When he lifted the next spoonful, she would do it. Quick. But he was unpredictable; he was not like the others. The plate had already been licked clean. Dinner was good; he complimented with a burp. And then he asked where the toilet was. Her face shot up over the countertop. She had been loading the dishwasher, fingers selecting her tool. A stool was pushed back, and she saw his brown loafers fly past the island. She grabbed the one she had just cleaned and stalked after him. He was asked where he was going. Don’t worry, I won’t look around; he assured her. The corridor was long and dark, but he managed to find the WC. She slowed behind him to keep her balance. Her heel click was hollow, the floor here was much smoother than the kitchen. The WC was the size of a shoe cupboard. He turned around and, seeing her watching, he laughed. Are you coming in with me? She refused politely and waited until she heard the lock slide. And then she aligned herself flat against the wall and flexed her fingers. Sliding it out from behind her, she raised her clasped hand above her ear, twisting her chin towards the door. He had played right into her hands. Another lamb. Another slaughter. It was a smaller space, but she was going to work with it. It would be swift and she hoped cleaner. Three hours; the last one had set a new record. The lavatory chain was pulled. Then the tap started to gush. But there was a thinner noise coming from inside. He was whistling. It was getting late now. But she had learned not to look at the clock. The whistling was increasing; the tap was whining. Her raised arm started to quiver; it had remembered this position. From thousands of times before. But this time, it didn’t want to remember. Not again. But, yes again! Again, and again. Nothing and no one could stop it, the endless loop. But she was getting older. And slower. She was getting careless. Suddenly, the lock. She straightened up, cracked her neck. Then the adrenaline was pouring through her, the shine of the metal just outside of her blind spot. The tip was an arrow; a directive, Strike there, and there, and... The door shifted and she revolved. The arrow launched but got caught. And the thwack of her head cut the life from her pained scream. The knife was flipped across the floor in a cartwheel of steel, gold filigree and red. And he was emerging from the bathroom, shaking. He had been armed with ammonia but hadn’t needed it. She’d done it to herself. But he stood over the splatter and waited. And then when he was sure she was gone, he stumbled away without looking back. He spied the knife she’d tried to stab him with ahead and avoided it, but his shoe crunched on something else. It was only when he stopped to catch his breath outside under a streetlight, he saw it pierced to his sole. It had been a delicate thing. It had been twisted. Like the number eight. But now it was broken, a bloodied ensemble. He recognised it was hers but did not recognise what it had and now symbolised. His escape was a privilege. Her life had ended. And the loop had been broken. He resolved, as he hurried away, to take up online dating instead. “Entering her house leads to death... The man who visits her is doomed...” -Proverbs 2:18-19-


THE OLD MAN AND THE CHALET [Note: Two sounds predominate in this story: the crackling of the fire inside the house and the howling of the wind outside the house. They also predominated during the writing of the story: the fire at Relaxing Fireplace Sounds - Burning Fireplace & Crackling Fire Sounds (NO MUSIC) - Bing video ; and the wind at Whining Wind Sound Effects | Soundsnap . The reader might find the reading of the story enhanced by doing the same.] The chalet stood in a small clearing, dwarfed by tall pines. It was an A-frame, so that the snow, instead of piling up on the roof, slid down its steep sides and gathered on top of the flakes already packed on each other, rising ever higher from the ground. From his shabby armchair in front of the crackling fire in the hearth, the old man could see the relentless snowflakes driven before the howling wind as they landed on their cousins already lying against the windows. He feared that at any moment they could burst through the flimsy panes, drip through the weathered holes or even burst the rickety frames. The eaves were not wide enough to prevent the blizzard from blowing the snow in under them, but at least those flakes with their noses pressed against the glass were not as elevated as those on the open ground beyond, ground buried in metre-high days of snowfall. The grizzly fellow stared into the warmth of the fire, raised his eyes to see the cold outside, then stared back into the fire again. The flames snarled in the large, open hearth. The menacing whine of the blizzard swirled around the angles of the house and moaned past the gaps in the building like an evil flautist playing discords. The warmth in the interior and the freeze outside matched the awareness in the brain that lay behind the straggly eyebrows and the crumpled cheeks. The inner self of the man dwelt in a fragile security. There was peace of a kind, but there was also the threat of that peace being invaded or disturbed. Outside him, at least outside his house, the cold ruled and danger threatened. Hostile forces mocked him. He sensed himself as besieged. Even though it was relatively warm inside the house, the old man was wearing his customary layers of indoor clothing to prevent his body heat from draining away. His arm and leg hairs were no longer as numerous as they once were, and their supporting muscles could not raise those hairs as effectively, to trap the air next to his skin and lower his outflow of warmth. The blood coursing through his capillaries did not react as efficiently as it used to, in reducing the loss of heat through his skin. Under his trousers, he wore a pair of full length, thermal leggings and thick warm socks. Even his pants had a thermal lining. On his torso, he had donned first a sleeveless vest, then a long-sleeved one. Two woollen jerseys over his thick shirt and a black knitted band of wool he used in his cycling days around his neck, completed his protection. Outside, the wind continued to whirl around the dwelling demanding entry, every now and again increasing in intensity, increasingly grumpy at having that demand refused. It could easily have been a giant cat yowling at the moon. The loose window at the top of the landing added its tac-a-tac every now and again when the air current came at it from a particular angle, adding a sinister, decadent air to the texture of sound at his ears. He rose from his armchair and went over to the hob in the kitchen. Filling the kettle with water from the sink, he lit the gas and waited for it to boil. The light was fading and the snow on the far mountains through the back window of his modest abode glowed pink from the reflected sky. As he picked up the kettle to pour the steaming water on to the teabag in his mug, a shadow passed the kitchen window so fleetingly that he could not even make out its shape. The instant alarm he felt, the fight-or-flight reaction in his gut, rooted him at the gas flame for a moment before he expunged it. As he turned to go back to his seat at the fire, the sensation gradually subsided, although it still disturbed him, even after he had finished his tea. What could the shape have been? A tree branch perhaps, torn off by the wind and blown along? A wolf, maybe even a grizzly, chasing through the clearing between the window and the silent army of swaying pines? Some metaphysical ectoplasm? Or was he imagining things, with his neurons becoming sluggish and his memory defective? He stared again into the fire. Not at it, but into it. It sounded like eggs frying in a pan. There was also an underlying exhaling of breath as air rushed up the flue, an understated whoosh, but then whether the flames brought it about as they danced upwards or the agonised air outside was making the moan, he could not tell. He studied the fire more closely, taking note of what he could see. He noticed the layers, the hierarchy of hearth-fire society: the black burnt-out ash underneath that would be grey in the light of morning; the red glowing coals in the middle, abandoned by the flames but still basking in the afterglow of their magic spell; the logs lying on top in various stages of combustion as the flames gyrated over them. The heat formed patterns of grey squares and rectangles and irregular shapes, with black lines between them, as the logs grumbled under the red and orange spirits prancing over them, devouring without ever touching. The window on the landing rattled more insistently than before. Was something trying to get in? The stooped figure grunted, rose from his armchair stained by hands resting on its arms for longer than he could remember, shuffled across the floor to the base of the stairs and began to ascend one laborious step at a time. Reaching for breath, he paused briefly to allow his heartbeat to steady. Arriving at the landing, he noticed that the window was slightly unlatched. There was also a distinct scratch on the green outer paintwork that he had not noticed before. Quite a conspicuous scratch. Strange that it had not attracted his attention on his nightly pilgrimage to bed. Frowning, he re-latched the errant window as firmly as he was able. He stood for a while, staring at the scratch, not knowing quite what to make of it, not knowing what to do. One thing he knew, though: he did not like the look of it. It was menacing, like the sound of the wind outside. He did not like all this menace. He had come to this place to avoid menace. He had come here so many years ago to find peace. It seemed as if menace might finally have found him out, learnt where he was, and come to haunt his last living moments. Then, of course, they could all just be illusions, the shape at the kitchen window, the rattle and the scratch here on the landing. He was probably imagining things, a touch of delusion perhaps, the bewilderment of an old man, alone and lonely, losing touch with the world. Outside it had become completely dark. He would not have been able to see the scratch had it not been for the light on the landing. The bulb had been sizzling and flickering for some time. Soon it would cease its sizzles, and its flickering would end in darkness. He would have to wait for the summer before he could take the journey to the village and get a replacement. He had left a solitary light burning downstairs for comfort, a sentinel that would safeguard his hegemony over that part of his domain, in defiance of the total blackness surrounding it. Moving on past the landing, he completed his needs in the bathroom, shed his outer clothes, threw back the duvet, climbed in between it and the sheet underneath and drew it up to his chin. He was thankful that his leggings insulated his lower limbs from the cold of the bed. He surveyed the clutch of books stacked on the small table beside him, musing at them before selecting one. He settled on Michelle Paver’s Dark Matter. He hadn’t dipped into it for a while and so read the blurb to refresh his memory of the book to avoid it from being strange when he continued reading: A group set up camp in a remote bay, but as the polar winter and endless night close in around them, they realise they are not alone ... As he started reading, he heard a tapping on the steeply sloping roof. It sounded like something trying to chip away at one of tiles near the top. Who could climb up there without a ladder? It could of course be that spruce tree he had planted too near the house. It needed trimming now and again to keep the branches away, to prevent them from tapping the roof as they swayed to the wind. Or was it an old man’s illusion? Something he was imagining? A figment of his fading mind? He reached out to where his shotgun leant against the wall between the bed and his little mini-library of the books he was reading. His read books graced the bookshelves in his den downstairs. He climbed out of his bed, took the weapon and made to go and investigate. Hardly had he taken a step, when the tapping stopped, almost as if whatever was causing it had seen him coming. He stood where he was for some minutes, his head cocked to listen for the sound above the roar of the wind. There was nothing. He turned back to the bed, slowly leaning the gun against the wall next to him before clambering back under the duvet. He began to read, although what he would do if he loosed both barrels and the thing kept coming, he didn’t know. After 20 minutes of this, during which there were no more taps that he could hear above the wailing of the wind, he laid down the book, turned away from the lamp at his bedside, and closed his eyes. Normally he would switch the light off, but there was something about tonight that made him want to leave it on. At about ten past three, when he had wafted in and out of a fitful sleep for about five hours and could stand it no longer, he sat up with a sigh, swung his legs out of the bed, slid his feet into his slippers and trudged carefully downstairs in his dressing gown. As a precaution, he took the shotgun with him. He returned to his home-within-home, his stained old armchair, and sat down before the cooling embers of the fire, placing the shotgun across his lap. The occasional lick of flame gave life to the grate. He could still feel the caressing heat on his wrinkled hands with their knobbly knuckles. The remnants left behind after the flames’ fandango still glowed and faded intermittently in the hearth with a sound something like the slow, crumpling of paper in a fist. He closed his eyes and slouched back, allowing his mouth to fall into a gape. The grandfather clock in the corner of the room gave out a loud tick at each sideways swing of its pendulum, marking each implacable unit of time as it passed never to return. The faded factory rug, with a design copied from Isfahan, lay on the old floorboards seeming somehow incomplete without the shaggy Labrador who had lain there until a few months before. The dining room table, faithfully attended by its high-backed chairs standing to attention on either side, awaited guests that would never arrive, for a meal that would never be served. As the fire continued to deepen into blackness, its occasional crackle fading hour by hour, the old man’s body, too, grew imperceptibly still and itself began to grow cold. For the rest, everything was as before.


He reached into the jar of seeds, slowly moving his hand through to feel them on every part of his hand. The feeling relaxed him, as did the sound of the seeds moving around the open spaces, softly colliding with each other. When he lifted his hand out it was covered in the particles and dust residing throughout the jar. Reaching back in he stopped just short of submerging his fingertips beneath the top seeds and grabbed a pinch of the seeds, rolling them between his fingers together until there was only one left. He placed it into his coat pocket, then reached in two more times. Three seeds today. It had been over a month since he needed more than one. He grabbed his trowel and a watering can, pushed open the doors from his shed and started making his way to the street. Cars were at a standstill in the middle of the street all honking in concert with each other. Some people even had their windows rolled down, fists out and shaking at the cars in front of them as if their sheer yelling power would free up the traffic jam. He considered grabbing a fourth seed, but instead chose to put his head down and continue walking. The sun warmed his back as he passed a couple holding hands, an old woman walking a dog seemingly twice her weight, and some children kicking a can down the sidewalk, laughing as they nearly barreled into him. Once he reached the park he filled the watering can and went to the corner of the park that he always did. As he approached, the smell of blooming flowers reached him in a gust of wind. He put the watering can down briefly, closed his eyes, and deeply breathed in and out. A smile crept onto his face as he reveled in his hard work from previous days, weeks, years. A swath of the park nearly half an acre was covered in flowers of different colors and sizes. The striking purple from the Provence lavenders competed with the dark blue of the Anchusas, and both vied for attention from the pink of the primroses. All swayed in the wind together as one. He moved to the section he left a few days ago at the end of the spiral, the seeds not yet budding whereas the ones next to it were just starting to poke through the surface. The man shoved the trowel into the ground, pulled it out and repeated the motion in a cone shape before pulling out the whole section of dirt. Worms and beetles crawled as quickly as they could to escape the sudden removal of their homes. The man wondered how long beetles lived and whether or not his father ever saw the same ones he did. Maybe the same beetles kept having their homes ripped out from above them from the same general area. Maybe it’s time to move farther away little buddies, he laughed, placing the chunk of dirt softly down next to him. “Are you crazy?” a young girl’s voice startled him, making him nearly throw his trowel in defense. He looked up to see a little girl, likely around five or six years old, wearing pink overalls with a massive Hello Kitty printed on the front. Her hair was done in ponytails with a red ribbon on top nearly falling off in her loose hair. She brushed her hair aside, moving the bow farther from the center. “Excuse me?” “My brother says crazy people laugh when no one says anything. Are you crazy?” The man laughed at the absurdity, thinking about all of the times he laughed at his own thoughts. “I sure hope not. It’s good to laugh, even when you’re by yourself. Especially when you’re by yourself.” The girl laughed and jumped, knocking the bow free from her hair to fall gently to the ground. She bent over, stumbling a bit as she grabbed the bow and tried placing it back into her hair. About twenty yards behind the girl stood a man wearing khaki slacks and a white button down shirt. He uncrossed his arms and waved when the man made eye contact with him. He reflexively waved back. “Your father?” he said, nodding toward the man in the khakis. “Yes,” she said, “he brings me here once a week. I like the flowers. The pink ones are my favorite.” She bent her knees then jumped as far as she could toward the flowers, missing by quite a long distance, and stumbled again, the bow falling once more onto the ground in front of her. She giggled and placed it back into her hair as if it would finally stick for good that time. The man filled the hole with a little bit of soil. “I like them too,” the man said. He looked at the pink flowers near the little girl, planted nearly two years ago after his sister blamed him for his father’s death. “I think they’re all my favorite, though.” “They can’t all be your favorite,” the girl laughed. She walked closer to him and sat down by the newest flowers. “We see you here sometimes. How big are you going to make these?” “How big?” “Yeah!” the girl exclaimed. “Will you cover the whole park?” The man laughed and waved his hand, imagining the park covered in flowers with no room to walk around. “No, not the whole park. That would take too long since I only plant a few at a time.” He looked around himself imagining how far the flowers would go - he never thought about when he would stop, or even if he would stop. No one at the park told him he couldn’t plant, and most people knew to leave him alone by this point. They liked the flowers there, and so did he. “Why only a few?” the girl asked, confused by the inefficiency. “I’m not planting for the park,” the man answered. “My father used to always come out here once I was grown up. He would plant a seed every now and then back when there were no flowers.” The man looked toward the center of the spiral of flowers and remembered when his father started planting them. The man dove head first into alcoholism a decade prior when his girlfriend at the time, whom he believed to be the love of his life, broke up with him. His father, as a coping mechanism, would take seeds out to this spot to plant them, one seed any time the man’s alcoholism negatively affected others. A seed for yelling obscenities during minuscule arguments. A seed for vomiting on the carpet once again. The man detested the flowers back when his father was alive, a constant reminder of his failures as a human and a son. In a drunken tirade he once ran to the flowers and ripped them all from the ground. His father, saying nothing, took a single seed the next day and planted it in the center of the ruined flowerbed. “Why are you doing this to me?” the man asked his father through tears. “I’m not doing anything to you,” his father replied. “I do it *for* you. Those seeds represent something beautiful. This world can be wholly awful at times, but I can take those awful things and literally turn them into beauty that others can enjoy.” “That’s stupid,” the man said, already drunk. His father frowned. “I don’t think so.” “I do.” His father stood quiet for a moment, then said “I hope you find beauty in those flowers someday.” And someday he did find those flowers beautiful. After his father died the flowers became a sort of memorial to him. They helped him overcome his alcoholism when he forced himself to come to the flowers anytime he wanted a drink. Over time he realized what his father was trying to do for him, so he continued planting seeds in the spirit of turning bad things into something beautiful. A seed for strangers being rude. A seed for a hurtful comment from a loved one. “I plant a seed when I see something bad in this world,” the man said to the girl, “as a way to turn it into beauty instead.” The girl looked back at him, confused. “You plant them when bad things happen? That’s silly.” He cocked his head at the girl, thinking he didn’t appropriately convey the emotion behind his planting. “Silly?” “Yeah,” the girl replied. “When you look at the flowers you remember the bad things. I want to remember good things when I see flowers!” The man looked back at the spiral of flowers. All these years of planting these seeds to turn bad to good and no one asked him about it. She was right - there was always a tiny sense of dread hiding in the corners of his mind when he came here. The weight of his father’s tradition and the obligation of adding beauty to the world kept him going, but he was always reminded of the reasons for coming out here in the first place, the shadow constantly following him that he only planted because something bad happened. The girl jumped up and, without noticing that her bow flew off again, ran to her father. After a moment, the man in the khakis reached into his shirt pocket and took something out, placing it into the girls hand. She ran back to the man, arms flailing and a smile stretching across her face. She went to the hole that the man dug for his first seed and dropped to her knees. The girl opened her hand, and in the center of her tiny palm was a seed. “This is for meeting you,” she said, turning her hand and dropping the seed into the hole. The man watched the seed fall into the hole in slow motion, a seed that so opposed the whole meaning of this garden but what he so desperately knew needed to be done. “I’m Catriona,” the girl said. “My friends call me Cat.” “Hi Cat,” the man said. “I’m Chris. My friends call me Chris,” he joked. Cat giggled and waved her tiny hand at him. “Hi Chris.” She turned and ran once more to her father, then the both of them held hands and walked away. Chris watched as the two of them turned a corner around a building out of sight. He looked back at the flowers and realized the girl’s bow was still on the ground. With no chance of catching up to them he picked it up and looked at it. He put the bow in his pocket knowing he would keep it for the girl until she came back. He would show her all of the new flowers he planted that reminded him of the beauty that was already present in the world. He filled the rest of the hole with soil and watered it, then reached into his pocket to pull out the three seeds he brought with him. Each one represented something he planned to turn into beauty that day, but he couldn’t in good conscience plant them knowing what they represented. He put them back in his pocket, then picked up the trowel and watering can and walked home. He came back the next day with two new seeds. A seed for a girl that brought light to his life. A seed for the man he had become. He looked once more at the spiral of flowers, knowing his father would be proud of him.


I stepped into the small elevator. Generic music played from the small speakers in the corner of the elevator car. I selected twenty-two from the keypad. As the doors closed, a petite figure slipped in. She fell into me then shot back up. “I’m so sorry!” she brushed off her navy blue pencil skirt. “It’s alright,” I replied. “You work here?” she asked. “Yeah, I work on twenty-two in management. Do you work here?” “Yes I work on thirty,” she nodded. I didn’t mean to stare, but she was beautiful. Her hair was dark brown and her eyes blue. “What? Is there something on my face?” she touched a hand to her cheek. “No, you’re just...really pretty,” I stuck my hands in my pockets. “Oh well thank you,” she did a mini curtsy. “I’m Charlie,” I took a hand from my pocket and offered it to her. She shook it. “Like Charlie Brown,” she laughed. Her laugh was like music. It wasn’t forced or overly obnoxious. She was perfect. She looked at the floor indicator. “Seems we have seventeen floors left to learn everything about each other,” she smiled. “That’s not much time,” I looked to see that we were on floor five. “Well, how boring are you?” “I like to think I’m an average guy,” I shrugged. “Then we should have plenty of time.” So we talked. I told her everything about my averagely boring life. My job, my apartment, my friends. I still hadn’t gotten her name but it was too late to ask. I asked about her life and she simply answered, “Heavenly and divine,” with a smile. The elevator came to floor twenty one. “We should go out for coffee sometime,” I suggested. “I would like that,” she glanced down. I pulled a post-it pad from my pocket and wrote my number on it. I gave it to her and she smiled again. That angelic smile. The elevator pinged as we reached floor twenty-two. “This was lovely,” she smiled again. “That it was.” “See you around, Charlie,” she waved as I exited. I walked over to my desk. “You look unusually happy,” my co-worker, Peter said. “I just met the most perfect human being,” I sunk into my chair. “Where? The elevator?” “Yep, she works on thirty. It’s weird, I’ve never seen her around,” I spun around in the chair. Peter’s face twisted from happy to concerned. “Charlie, are you feeling okay, man?” he walked over and put a hand on my shoulder. “Never better, why?” I looked up at him. “There are only twenty-five floors in the building. The top five floors were burned down after that accident,” Peter gestured upwards. “But, that’s impossible, I just met this girl,” I was confused. “You should go home for the day, get some rest,” Peter said. “No seriously, I’m fine,” I moved away from his hand. I stood and rushed to the elevator. I searched the buttons, but twenty-six to thirty had tape over them with the words, “OUT OF ORDER” scrawled in permanent marker. I frantically pressed twenty-five. As the elevator came to a stop, I ran out and searched the cubicles for the beautiful girl I had met before, but she wasn’t there. I ran to the stairs and practically slid down them. I rushed out to the street to see if she was there, but I didn’t see anyone nearly as perfect as her. I rushed out into the street as an eighteen-wheeler flew down the street, running me over in the process. “Hello,” a voice floated through my ears. I opened my eyes. All I could see was this bright light, like the sun. I looked for the voice and saw her. Standing right in front of me. She was dressed in a white dress. “Welcome,” she smiled. She offered me a hand and pulled me up. “Where am I?” I looked around, but I saw nothing but light. “Where you belong,” she took my hand. I pulled it away. “I- I can’t be here, I have a job, a life.” “Charlie, you didn’t survive that crash,” she looked me in the eye, her face sympathetic. “No, no this can’t be happening, I’m only twenty-seven, I have a whole life ahead of me,” I was freaking out. “Charlie, listen to me, there’s only one thing that can be done now,” she said. “What is it? I’ll do anything.” “You must find someone willing to give you their life. You will have the same body and soul, but I warn you, it is quite difficult to find someone willing.” “I’ll at least try,” I answered. “Wait, Charlie, I know someone,” she grabbed my hand and looked me in the eye once again. “Who?” I asked. “Me,” she replied. She held my face in her hands and closed her eyes. “Wait! Before you do this, please, tell me your name,” I begged. She opened her eyes and smiled. She whispered her name in my ear. It was as beautiful as she was. She took my hands and closed her eyes again. Everything glittered and shone and suddenly, I was back on the sidewalk. I went back into the building and pressed button twenty-two.


Have you ever lived a day that stretched on past the usual twenty-four hours? I'm not talking about one of those days at work that seem to last forever. No. I'm talking about a day that goes on for weeks, months, and even a full rotation around the sun. Oh, it's impossible? Obviously you must not remember June 20th. At least, not the June 20th that I just lived through. It began innocently enough. It was a Sunday this year, and also fell on Father's Day... not that that detail matters too terribly for the sake of this story, just a pointless fact. Typically the summer solstice has little say so in my daily life. I never would have thought about it if it hadn't been mentioned on the morning news that we may just get a little extra sunlight today. Whatever. I planned on spending the majority of my Sunday inside, anyway. Truth be told, I had no use with interaction today. Mornings were the hardest, usually the first hour or two until I was fully awake. I had another dream of him again. It happens every single night... and I am just exhausted. I suppose my subconscious enjoys torturing me with hypotheticals and sweet nonsense. No matter what I do, no matter what I think before finally allowing myself to drift off, I am once again transported into that world where even the worst of days are made lighter because I have him there, by my side. It has happened nightly for nearly a month and a half, seemingly out of nowhere. I will wake up in the dreamworld, finding myself in a long-term relationship with a man that I've fallen head over heels in infatuation with in the real world. Only on this side it all feels... well, so real. We wake up and make coffee to be sipped together in a kitchen with dishes needing washed and a garbage can needing to be emptied. It is raining outside so he offers to give me a ride in his truck, which I jokingly refuse because I'm sure it would probably fall apart before reaching our destination. Apparently in this world we are engaged because once in a while amidst the random chatterings we discuss wedding plans. We talk about making my niece the flower girl and his niece the ring bearer. We argue over the venue and he voices his disgust with wearing a tux. At the end of each day we either sit together on the front porch talking softly while watching the stars, or we dance in the kitchen to anime intros while making cheese omelettes at midnight. Then we fall asleep side by side... and I wake up in the real world alone. They say a dream like this every once in a while is natural. But nightly and with such vivid detail? I knew better. And it was slowly making living in the real world a sad chore. Why on earth would I want to participate in this place when I could be back in the other world with literally the man of my dreams? Friends and family have noticed that I've become reclusive. I leave their texts on read and the calls go unanswered. Is it so bad to want to process things alone? Sometimes I just wish that I could just be forgotten, just for a little while. That way I can process this entire ordeal and make sense of it. And that was exactly my plan for the day - to get to the bottom of these dreams. Except, well, I didn't get the chance. I heard my front door lock click and I nearly jumped out of my skin as my door opened. The only person with a key was my brother, and he always knocked before he would ever use it. I watched from my kitchen, shaking as a tall figure stepped into the living room. The door closed and the intruder dropped the keys on the table. I listened as he took his shoes off. That was a strange thing for an intruder to do. I finally gathered the courage to step into the hall and my stomach rolled into a tight knot when the sunlight streamed through the window illuminated his face. It was him. Standing in my living room, wearing anime-themed socks and holding a box of what looked like donuts. He smiled at me and did a clumsy twirl, as if he were dancing with the box. "Happy Father's Day! They're raspberry filled. Aren't those your dad's favorite?" he asked. I was frozen. This... this can't be real. "W-what are you doing here?" I breathed. I watched his smile fade after a moment, as if he were truly confused. "Well... last time I checked, I live here," he chuckled nervously. "No. No you don't." "Hon, are you okay? Your face... it's really pale." He set the box down on the coffee table and approached me. I backed away. "What's gotten into you? I told you I was going to grab the donuts and be right back," he said softly and didn't move. I could feel my heart thudding, sweat pouring. This was impossible! "I'm not dreaming. What are you doing here?" "Of course you're not dreaming. It's nearly eleven. Is your blood sugar okay? Come on and sit down, you really aren't looking too good," he said and tried moving toward me again. "You - you can't be real! Why are you here?" I could feel the tears, the tightness in my throat, as I let him take my hands and gently pull me into the living room to the couch. I just knew that I was awake! I had to be awake... "I don't know what's going on, but talk to me. Why do you keep saying that? I must have moved in a year and a half ago. You know this... right?" "No! This has to be another weird dream! We aren't together in real life. You're... you are with somebody else." I didn't care anymore. I let the tears fall. Who cared at this point whether I looked crazy? "Really? You think I'm with someone else? Who else would I be with?" I heard him chuckle. "Stop making fun of me. Those were just dreams. You'd never actually date someone like me. You would rather be with that cute blonde..." He chuckled again. "Writers and their wild imaginations. Honey, you know we aren't dating, right?" I fixed my sight on his face, with his stupid, perfect grin. He nodded down and took my hand. Sitting there, on my left ring finger, was the brightest fire opal set in rose gold. I had to force myself to breathe again. "We are engaged. I'd say that's a little more than just dating, right?" he asked. "Did I ever wake up? Or... is this just a dream in a dream?" I asked out loud. He stretched and shrugged. "I don't know, but if this was a dream, wouldn't we just be married by now? Maybe dream that my truck is fixed. That would help me out a little, you know," he laughed and patted my leg before standing. "Now come on - I want to help your dad eat these before they get soggy!" So, the day went on. We went to my parents' house together. My brother and his family were there by the time we arrived. We shared the donuts and they ordered pizza. We played board games and talked about politics and theater going-ons in the community. It was all... normal. It was a perfect mesh of reality and dream. Somehow I had transplanted my dream man into the real world. But, I knew better. This simply had to be a continued dream. He couldn't really be here. But the day continued. After the party we decided to take a walk around the trail at Spring Hill. The weather was glorious: a warm summer breeze with just enough cloud coverage to make it enjoyable. Soon enough, I finally let myself calm down. "Do you promise that you are really here?" I asked. It was a silly request, I admit. But something inside of me just needed to hear his answer. I watched him raise his eyebrow and shake his head. "You have been acting really weird today, you know that?" "Answer me! Are you actually here right now?" I demanded. He rolled his eyes and turned to face me. "I promise you that I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. This time next month we will be married and even then I won't be going anywhere. Is that why you've been acting this way? Are you afraid I'm going to run off?" I thought about his words. Could that really be it? What if... what if this entire time I have been mistaken? What if reality was really the time spent with him, and the sad world without him was my dreamland? Perhaps dreams of being alone was my brain's way of attempting to overcome my insecurities of marrying the man of my dreams and somehow... somehow I had allowed myself to confuse reality? Lord knows I will always feel some extent of insecurity by marrying him after my own extensive traumatic past. This just might have been my own way of attempting to protect myself from repressed issues. I took his hand and held it tight. I could feel his callouses and heat. He was real. This was real. "Don't answer that. I know the truth. Sorry... I guess I'm just still struggling a little," I declared. Finally, I felt comfortable again. Just like in every dream before. Well, not a dream. It would be a challenge to remember that life could truly be this perfect. That night, we talked more about the song choices for the wedding. Our friend would play a beloved classic on the violin as I walk down the aisle. My brother would be my Maid of Honor and his brother would be his Best Man. I giggled at what he wanted to include on the menu. It was a relaxing evening and when we finally went to bed, I felt normal once again. Waking up the next morning was slow and expected. I washed my face, combed my hair, swallowed my multi-vitamin with lukewarm water, and turned on my laptop to begin my long day of taking calls for work. Of course he did not wake up next to me. My left ring finger was bare. It was Monday. It was June 21st. The day after the longest day of the year.


Pamela approached her mother, Sandra, sipping her morning coffee. “I’m thinking of moving out, Mom.” Her mother set the steaming cup onto the saucer. “None too soon. You’re what, twenty-five?” Her mother’s reaction didn’t surprise Pamela. She’d heard such murmurings her whole life. Sandra never forgave the pangs Pamela’s birth gave her. Everything she said to Pamela came wrapped in the burden of her unpaid debt. “Who you moving in with?” “Uhm... actually, Carl asked me to live with him.” “Ohhh no. Seen how that plays out. He gets a live-in maid ‘til you fall preggers. Then you’re stuck looking for new digs with a kid in tow.” “It’s not like that.” “What you say now... You pop a kid out, who’s gonna watch him? Not Cindy. Not me.” “I know, mom. I’m watching Dexter now.” Pamela’s sister’s four-year-old, Dexter, sprawled on the living room floor, drawing. Crayons were strewn everywhere. He looked up. “What’s preggers?” Pamela blinked. “Oh, that’s grown-up talk for P.G... parental guidance. Parents decide if a movie is too scary for kids.” He stared as if she were speaking a foreign language and returned to his picture. Sandra continued. “Guys don’t want kids. Don’t care about marriage. Just want to mess around... shack up... What you have is a situationship.” Pamela didn’t take the bait. She poured a coffee. Sandra tried another tack. “Should go back to school. Get a profession. And a good man. Gonna be a bar maid forever?” “We talked about that, mom. Beauty school didn’t...” “Become a teacher. Steady work watching other people’s kids. You’re great with Dex. Good money. Time off.” Pamela nodded. Sandra continued. “Need a backup plan... Funny about Carl. Wedding photographer, right?” “A good one. Busy all the time.” “So, weddings are how he makes his living. But he won’t commit to a marriage. What a romantic...” Pamela felt her blood pressure spiking. “It’s not the time, mom. He’s booked for months.” “Uh-huh. People find a way to do what they want.” She looked around. “What’s that sound...? Never mind... just a ticking clock...” “Mom... right now, we enjoy our time together. We both have Mondays and Tuesdays off, have fun.” Sandra snorted. “Fun... He’s not interested in a waitress. Need two good incomes, to make do anymore.” Dexter held up his drawing. “Look, Pam!” Welcoming a diversion, Pamela took the drawing. There were two female figures, each wearing red, triangular dresses. Both were smiling. One figure dominated, being either very tall, or very close. She held hands with a little boy. The second figure stood beyond a lake near a sailboat. Pamela pointed to the large figure. “Tell me about your drawing. Is that Cindy? Your mother?” Dexter reacted to her cluelessness. “No, that’s you, Pam. Mommy’s getting on the boat.” “Oh... Want to read a book before I go to work?” ~ Pamela called Carl while driving to work. He picked up. “Hey, babe. Great timing. Just came out of the darkroom. Some amazing shots this weekend.” “I told my mom.” “And?” “She wants me out. But not with you.” “I thought she liked me.” “It’s not that. It’s the situation. We have no plan.” “We’re planning to live together...” “She’s old fashioned, Carl.” The silence felt interminable. “Didn’t say, but think she wants...” “Grandkids?” “Stability... like I said, a plan... It’s complicated.” “So, what do you want?” She looked at the phone in disbelief. “What do you say, we take our time? You know...?” Carl stifled a chuckle. “Time... Whatever you say... All the time in the world.” “I better go. Just got to work.” “Yeah, got proofs to check. Talk later.” Pamela pulled into the lot and killed the engine. She practiced ‘calm breathing’ for several minutes before punching in. Pamela didn’t work in a dive, but at Trevor’s, an upscale watering hole, downtown. The backlit bar highlighted the best liquors, appealing to the suit and tie crowd. Lawyers and executives met there for night caps and debriefing after meetings. Alcoves provided privacy for quiet conversation. Its leather upholstery and designer chandeliers made everyone feel at home. Considering Trevor’s reputation, some regulars hardly fit expectations. Pamela had known Chas for years. Even in this low-lite environment, Chas looked out of place. His goatee begged for a trim. He came in most nights, in jeans and a t-shirt. She doubted he owned a tie. Scruffy hair escaped from under his slouch hat. She saw him once in a borrowed leather jacket. Her mother would describe Chas as ‘bohemian.’ But never a poor mouth, he always tipped. Pamela thought he worked in the arts. On occasion, he spoke to the suits like one of the guys. But most times, he retreated to a corner table, nursed a bourbon or two and drifted out before closing. He had a playful manner with Pamela. He flirted but she couldn’t take him seriously. Royce though, always looked like he belonged. He dressed well and smiled easily. When he arrived, Pamela always felt like an extra in a movie and he was the star. But Royce brought no drama with him. Only a sense of ease, a springy step, things controlled and going as they should. Royce often brought clients with him. He provided them anything within the confines of his limitless expense account. When not with clients, he’d sit at the bar and pass time talking with Pamela, or Austin, the bartender. Friendly and always real, she never felt talked down to. But it never went further. Was he married? Single? Pamela couldn’t read him. He came to drink, not to hit on her. But why not? She always made him laugh. When with clients, he always sat at one of her tables and tipped generously. Could such a confident guy actually be shy? It made no sense. Chas settled into his favorite corner and waved her over. “Hey, Pam. The usual... Jack Daniels and a water chaser, please.” She signaled to Austin. He nodded. She retrieved the drink and placed it on Chas’ table. He smiled up at her. “Marry me, Pam.” Surprised, she stifled a laugh. “So, I can serve you Jack at home?” “Well, yeah. JD. And other stuff.” “Chas, how would getting hitched change what we have here?” He wasn’t expecting push back. “We get along so well. Why not enjoy it twenty-four-seven?” “I get it. And if I ever needed you for something, I’d find you here?” Chas looked disappointed. “No, really. Let’s go out.” “Where will you take me? The parking lot? Your car’s back seat? You still live at home?” “I have a place. It’s nice.” He sounded defensive. “I wasn’t expecting this, Chas. You shouldn’t joke about such things.” “Pam... I wasn’t joking.” “Then you need to work on presentation. I’m in the middle of my shift.” She turned away and greeted a couple who had just entered. They sat and she took their order. From behind the bar, Austin grinned at Pam and nodded toward Chas. “You handled that well.” “Thanks. Came out of the blue. I mean, really?” “Think you can do better. Meeting guys in bars, even a nice bar, is not a formula for...” “But I met Carl here.” Austin’s look said it all. He set her customer’s drinks on her tray. She left to serve them. Pamela returned and nodded. “Point taken... So, tell me, if not bars, where do you meet women?” “At work.” She laughed. “But you work here.” “Maybe that’s why I’m single.” “You want to be? You’re a nice guy.” He smiled. “You want to get together?” Pamela rolled her eyes. “Wow! I’m on a streak. We could put the nursery in that alcove.” They laughed. Having known each other for years, Pamela and Austin had an easy rapport. But always a work friendship that worked, neither wanted to jeopardize that. At least she didn’t. The sound of laughter preceded Royce’s entrance with three clients. He greeted Pamela and signaled for a bottle of champagne. She knew the label. The laughter continued while they settled at a table. She brought glasses and opened the bottle. Pamela poured a sip for Royce’s approval. When he nodded, she filled each glass and placed the bottle into a chill bucket. Raising his glass for a toast, Royce nodded to Pamela indicating they needed nothing else. She retreated to her neutral territory near the bar. There, she could survey the room and respond to any customer’s needs. And there she dwelled on the fact that no one seemed to need her. Was it about marriage? Her mother’s rant latched onto her and wouldn’t let go. She decided marriage wasn’t it. Or only it. ‘But why are guys so lame? Don’t they ever want more from life than imitation Formica? Shiny and shallow. Doesn’t anyone but me get lonely?’ She watched her ‘suitors’ with wonder. Content to sleepwalk through life, they spent their time pouring drinks, making deals, or nursing another Jack Daniels. Then there was Carl. Clueless Carl. His thrill was spending hours in a darkroom, alone. Hoo boy and hot damn! Got a live one! She thought, ‘There has to be someone out there I can connect with. One person who sees me. With whom I can share myself. Be the real me.’ She felt she could check ‘none of the above’ on her list of suitable mates. ‘I want to be wanted... Stop fishing in the shallow end of the dating pool.’ Pamela finished her shift without further incident. She came home to a dark house. Locking up, she went straight to bed and lay sleepless until dawn. She had decided marriage was not the issue, yet that word hovered over her all night. It had always been the ideal. With what do you replace it? How? When? ‘Is there an answer to that? Hello? Anyone?’ She must have dozed. Birds singing outside her bright window brought hazy focus. She murmured, “Someone... coffee... please... coffee...” Would those be her last words? Pulling herself from bed, she crawled into her robe and groped her way to the bathroom. Somewhat refreshed, she found her way to the kitchen. Cartoon melodies flowed from the TV in the living room The word that had assaulted her mind for hours would not leave her alone. Marriage. Reaching for the coffee pot, Pamela said, “Doesn’t anyone want to marry me?” Dexter ran in from his cartoon show. He said, “I do...”


It’s been a while. Her eyes murky green as we shared a glance through the glistening surface. Everything appeared in a strange hue below water. Not her. Almost like she had a glow about her face. I could see her perfectly from above as she cowered back with that sad look again. Whenever life got too much to bear, I’ve come here to her bay. I’ve come to her, and my troubles all flushed away. My mind dived into her floating coral hair. My worries drifted away like the bubbles locked in her locks here and there. And just like that I couldn’t feel pain anymore. She listened, she cared, and she understood. Always talking to her, she knew the smallest pebbles and entangled mess hiding in my depths. Those so deep that not even the golden light breaking off her skin could reach them. I knew she’s not the key and that there’s no such thing, but next to her I felt lighter, warmer. Her salmon pink smile thawed the sharp fractals in my heart even if just for a while. Soon, I became addicted to her presence. As I’m sure did she. We talked for hours on end some days. Others we just exchanged a few words, but they made a world’s difference. And wherever we could find each other - in her bay or in the wide blue world, it didn’t matter. When I was sailing on sea, she somehow knew where to find me. The swinging waves made my stomach tingle with anticipation of where would she pop up next during my trips. A silly little game of ours. We knew this was love, but no one said it. Our desires were simply never meant to be fulfilled. I from land, she from water, it would never work. One of us would always hurt too much. How could you hurt someone so close to you? However dear we were to each other, sorrow permeated into our visits. Its bitterness left a clinging taste dissolving into the back of our minds. And one day I realized, after I left her on a summer evening, I was even sadder than before I came. The sadness of leaving overshadowed the sadness of being apart. It took me like a flood. Suddenly, I was drowning, asking all these questions. Should I go see her? Is she hurting the same way? Can I help to make it go away? No. And she was helpless, too. I had to stop myself from cursing her fish tail. The tail that changed colour from green to purple with the slightest movement. The tail I fell in love with. I could curse my human legs with the same thought. But targeting her nature was easier than facing the truth. We were from different sides of the membrane, and even though it was easy to break through for a short minute, it bound us to our own realms. You have to live your life, my love. As I have to live mine. That’s what I came to say today, no need to hide behind that reef. Let’s not hold on to the pain, its sweetness is poisoning our souls. I used to think we would find a way. That one of us would give in and make the sacrifice, but that’s not fair in any way you look at it. It’s ok. We still have each other in our own bay, deep in our hearts. That place is going to be only ours. Ours forever. Farewell, my love.


Have you ever wondered how the world would end? Of course you have. Everyone has. Will the Earth be struck by a huge meteor that wipes us all out, or will Global Warming melt the ice caps, raising the sea level above all but the tallest mountains and drowning the entire world’s population? Not even close. It actually all started when I was on my way to work. I’d just set off walking from my house, heading towards the train station on the outskirts of town (Doncaster in England). As I walked down the main road of my little village, I saw 2 lads on the other side of the road. They were probably about the same age as me: Mid-20’s-ish. They were walking side by side. “Probably a couple of mates”, I thought. “Probably just a couple of mates on their way to town”. The weird thing was though that they both had their heads down. They were both just looking at the floor silently. Not like a couple of mates at all. “Maybe they just aren’t used to being up this early”, I thought. “Maybe they’re still just half asleep and don’t feel like talking yet. Or hell, maybe one of them just got broken up with, or a family member just passed away. There are a million different reasons why these 2 lads would be walking in silence at half 8 in the morning with their heads down and their eyes staring at the floor. Anyway, it’s none of my business is it.” And so I continued to just walk. By the way I realise that by normal people’s standards, half past 8 is not early at all, but I oversleep most days. I’ve just accepted it now. I accept that I’ll be last into work and last out. I was even late for my late train this particular morning. I was trying to rush to the station because I’d left my house 10 minutes too late and was running the risk of missing the late train I catch. That would be unacceptable, although it had happened once or twice before. But that was the risk that I often ran. That’s just me. It’s just how it goes. It’s just my lot in li... I glanced back over at these lads and they were still just walking along side by side. Staring at the ground. Silently. “I’ll cross over the road”, I thought. “That’ll do it. I’ll cross over the road and walk in front of them. Then it won’t bother me that they’re acting so strangely. Out of sight, out of mind.” So I did. I looked right, and then left, and then right again. The coast was clear, so I crossed the road and continued walking on the other side. The lads were behind me now. The thing is, as quickly as I was walking to catch my train, the one that I had set off late to catch and was still running the risk of not catching, these lads were a fair bit taller than me. Their legs were a bit longer, and so their strides were a bit longer. Over the next few horrifying seconds they started to catch up with me. They emerged over my right shoulder at first, but then before I knew it, they were both walking alongside me, and I alongside them. We were now a line of 3. My stomach turned as I made the realisation. I was trapped. I couldn’t walk faster than these lads, on account of their longer natural gait. I couldn’t run away because they’d think me mad. If they saw me walking to the station the next day, they’d say “There goes that mad bastard again, let’s spread the word and have the community ostracise him.” I considered slowing right down and letting them pass me, like Luke Skywalker does on the speeder bike in Return of the Jedi, but I couldn’t afford to slow down and miss my train. My already really late train that would already get me into work at half past unacceptable. So I kept on walking. We kept on walking. We kept our heads down and we kept on walking. And that’s when I realised - These weren’t a couple of mates, suffering from an unusually early start or a breakup or a bereavement - These poor bastards were as trapped as I was. By the time we reached the train station, we were a line of 6. We’d recruited another lad, a middle aged woman, and a little old lady on a mobility scooter. And when my turning came up, I realised that I didn’t want to leave. I was a part of something now. A fellowship. I couldn’t throw that away for work. So we kept on walking. We kept our heads down and we kept on walking. By 6 o’clock that evening, we’d recruited the United Kingdom, Western Scandinavia, The Netherlands, Belgium, and parts of Northern France. By midday the next day, the whole world was walking. The whole world was walking in a straight line. We kept walking. We kept our heads down, and we kept on walking. Eventually we all starved to death.


The sun went down some time ago. I can’t remember when. I'm always nervous, but this fire is warm. There were poplar trees beyond the camp before. Now there are shadows in the twilight. The tree limbs creak as they bend to the wind and some reach down to tickle my tent. I hope they’re still tree limbs. There are things out there, snapping twigs and shifting the darkness, but for now they're at bay. I’ll stay by the fire. I'll be alright. To pass the time I sit on this log and think about home. The white farmhouse with the red barn at the end of the pasture where my dog waits. When I get there I'll scratch him behind the ears. Inside, somewhere upstairs, I'll hear the creak of footsteps on the old floorboards. She'll call out: "Is there a stranger in the house?" and I'll smile and say: "Intruder!" Then I'll see her face: tanned skin and sun bleached hair, slanted smile and bright green eyes. She’ll look down from the banister at the top of the stairs. If I'm still home, then I never left. That's how I pass the time as I stare into the fire. When the morning light arrives and the poplar trees come back I'll move on, keeping the eastern sun on my right ear. Someday I’ll get out of these woods. Someday-- A drop of rain lands on the back of my neck. Is there a stranger in the house? The shadows sway in the breeze. Then something crashes through the dry underbrush behind me. I look that way, but I don't see-- Another drop, this one on my forearm. Goosebumps line to my shoulder. The rain starts to fall and the fire hisses. That thing in the darkness is quiet, waiting. I'm up, tossing my blanket in my pack. I leave my tent behind me, put on my hat and glance at the drowning fire. Go ! I grab my flashlight and point it toward the tall poplar I used as a marker to set up camp. Away from the sounds in the darkness. Go ! I run into the woods, stumble, stop and listen. Crash, snap from behind, like an echo. It's following me. I try to think about the farmhouse at the end of the pasture. A wagging tail and her face at the banister. There's a stranger in the house. I can make it out. I can get home again. So I run, but my legs are blind. Something thrashes in the woods to my right and feet pound the ground to my left. Something else cries in the night, a lonely howl. Just go . Think about the farmhouse and go . I come to a river and moonlight reflects off its surface. I stop to notice the rain letting up. The clouds have cleared and the moon is full. This current is too fast to cross. Which river is this? Which way is north? No matter now. Pick a direction and go . I turn to my right, following the current. A tree branch snaps ahead. I try to stop but slip in the mud and drop my flashlight. No ! I shut my eyes, cover my ears and shake my head. If it wants to come and get me, now is the time. An owl hoots to my right. The river roars to my left. And I'm still standing. Take a moment. Breathe. Come up with a plan. I set down my bag, bend over and feel for the light. When I find it I'll point it in the direction of the farmhouse. I’m fine. As I open my eyes again I see darkness. Clouds have covered the moon. The river is hiding. Something scurries away. Something else approaches from behind and knocks on a tree, crying out like a jackal: "GO! GO! GO!" Then it, too, runs away, its cries softening in the distance. " Go ! Go ! Go !" I don’t like these woods. The flashlight was right there . Why did I have to drop it? Why did I have to come here? Why did I have to leave? My hands move mud, hoping for the cold touch of metal. The underbrush shakes behind me. The river is loud. It's all so much. It's all too much. I back up a step and my foot slips into a drop off. My other leg fails and I can't catch myself. I grasp at the air as I fall. The moon comes back out. I close my eyes and drop into the river. This is it. I'll never feel any of it again: the morning sun lifting dew off the pasture. A wet dog returning from his run through the field. Chickens in the barn. A hot coffee brought to me on the porch by the woman I love. No plans for the day but to watch it pass by. Together. As I hit the water, something emerges from the woods. Then I'm under. The cold is piercing. My skin is numb and my blood feels like it’s on fire. The current is strong so I tumble and strike a rock with my hip. I’m blind down here, but I see stars and a white farmhouse as I slip away. The darkness descends like rain, blotting out the farm, blotting out the stars in my eyes until a hand grabs me by the arm and pulls me out of the water. It drags me up the bank, back into the darkness, back into the woods. It stops for a moment, but I can't fight it. I don't want to. I keep my eyes closed and it picks me up, hoisting me over its shoulders. It runs and I hold on. Its skin feels like fiberglass but I don't think about anything now. After a while it lets me go. I fall to my knees, dry again. I open my eyes and let tears fall to the detritus. There's a light nearby -- a fire next to a big poplar tree. And my tent. My pack leans on a nearby stump and my flashlight sticks out the side pocket. Twigs snap behind me as the creature slinks back into the darkness. I don’t know how to leave this place. The sun went down some time ago. I can’t remember when. I'm always nervous, but this fire is warm.


It was a cold and stormy night. Okay, not like the one in that Edgar Allen Poe dude whatever story, and this isn’t some kind of metaphorical thing either. Alright? It was literally cold and stormy. You know? It was like 50 degrees or something. And outside it was windy and thundering and stuff. Oh, and by the way, it’s Minnesota so it can be any season. And by that, I mean it’s any season you want it to be so you can imagine this short piece, and it’s any season in this piece itself. That’s not specified. But if you want me to specify it, let’s just say it’s fall. Late September. Or early October. The year? 2020. Alright, back to it. It’s a cold and stormy night--we’ll stick with present tense from now on--it’s a cold and stormy night. And this guy- his name is Link- Link is sitting at the library, reading off the screen of his laptop that he bought with his graduation money he received earlier in the summer this year. Which means he’s a freshman. Poor freshy. I remember those days. He’s not partying, which you might expect a freshman to do on a Friday night at 11pm. He’s studying and being a good student, like he should be. Link’s eyes scroll through, word for word, the passage of his digital Biology 112 Textbook. Every word he reads is set into his working memory, and he hopes he can go to sleep before midnight and get enough hours in bed so that working memory is cemented into long term memory. He’s also listening to some music to help whet his mind. Beethoven. A classic. A beautiful classic. Seventh Symphony Allegretto. While the rest of the tables are desperately empty, another young Freshmen by the name of Oscar sits in a chair a few tables behind Link. Oscar twirls a deck of cards, maneuvering several split sections between the thumb and index and middle and ring finger of both his hands. If he was doing this sleight-of-hand trick any faster, he would look like fucking David Copperfield. But he’s not. He’s a fucking nerd. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but that’s what his best friends call him: a straight-up nerd who watches anime and hentai and hasn’t gotten any action because he’s just too damn shy to talk to the girls who might have been interested in him. Oh, and yes there were a few. Oscar never forgets the night he could’ve gotten some from that girl at the bar, when he and his friends all snuck in underaged. That stupid bouncer. What a joke. Oscar looks up from his deck when he quietly slams the deck flat between his palms. He sees Link. But he’s not looking at Link. He’s looking at Link’s laptop. It’s a MacBook Pro, retail price of over two-thousand dollars. He’s always wanted one. He still does. In his backpack is that boring, four-year old hand-me-down HP laptop from his older brother who just graduated college. It’s not even Full-HD and it only boasts 4 Gigs of memory. The damn guy can’t even play a good game of League with his buddies. He glides his poor 12/20, glasses-assisted eyesight over the thin bezel and the sleek touch-bar. The quality of the screen is so clear, almost so clear, that Oscar could read the words on the screen from thirty feet away. Okay maybe not that good, but a hyperbole is needed here. Oscar knows what he must do. He stares at the back of Link’s head, his vision piercing through to the other side and locking onto Link’s eyes. Link takes a sip of his water. Sorry, forgot to mention earlier that he has his water bottle next to him. He presses his chapped lips against the bottle’s crown and lifts it just enough to let the stream of cool, vacuum-sealed water trickle over his tongue. It’s so quiet in the library that even the reference desk attendant can hear the relieved sigh of Link’s quenched thirst. Link sets the bottle down and behind him approaches the enemy. A black sweater and a pair of dark blue jeans sits up from its seat. Oscar takes a brave journey forward, the deck still in his hand, and stops at the opposite side of the desk of Link. He plants his midnight blue shoes into the carpet flooring. He clears his throat. He licks his lips. Link looks up and his resting-bitch face says hello to Oscar. “Wanna, wanna see a trick?” Oscar says, his heart beating through his chest. Link looks at the deck of Bicycle cards, noticing the glaze of light that reflects from the card’s coat. He looks back up at Oscar and says nothing as he returns to his studying. “Uh, o-o-Okay.” Oscar clears his throat again. Loudly. Very Loud? Very Loudly? Which one... Damn. I dunno, I’m not Reed Richards. And Microsoft Word isn’t putting that blue line under any of them. Whatever. Something more important is happening. Oscar fans out the deck with his left hand, sparing equal room for each of the fifty-two cards. Then, with his right, he pulls one straight out from the deck and sharply reveals it. It’s a Jack of Diamonds. “You see this card.” It’s not an interrogative statement; he’s not asking Link if he sees the card. It’s declarative. “Commit this card to memory.” He brings the card in front of Link’s screen and slowly waves it in a circular motion, as if attempting to hypnotize him. It doesn’t work, but it steals his attention. “Commit it,” he repeats. Link looks up at Oscar, his face still unamused. Instinct then draws his eyes to the card, and they bore over the glazing coat. Cool white and hot red. Jack. Diamond. “Okay. I’m gonna make this card reappear somewhere.” Oscar takes a pause and then whispers. “Somewhere you won’t expect.” All of a sudden, and I mean really all of a sudden, Oscar flicks the entire deck of cards into Link’s face. The cloud of white, black and red disappears just as Oscar grabs the MacBook Pro off the desk. He takes off, but not quick enough, as Link jumps up from his seat. He’s right behind him, stride for stride, even as Oscar begins pulling down chairs as obstacles. The pursuing Link leaps over the first chair, and then the second, but stumbles as the momentum of his jump brings him too close to the third. He presses on and locks his eyes on poor Oscar, who has been running in the wrong direction and only now notices the wall and its windows from fifty feet out. Outside, the storm continues to batter the sky with Zeus’ rage. Inside, however, Oscar faces Link’s rage. Link catches up to Oscar just before Oscar can attempt to cut the corner of a table and gives his best Muhamad Ali impression. The towel flies in. Oscar, absolutely rocked, stumbles back and then falls. There’s a crack heard, but it’s not Oscar’s body or Link’s MacBook Pro that is still clutched to his chest. It’s his own laptop. The pathetic HP has met its defeat. There goes twenty-four gigabytes of high-quality porn and an entire summer’s worth of Minecraft mods. Oscar, still conscious but barely, lies on his backpack, his arms unfolding and relinquishing the two-thousand-dollar beauty. Link leans over, his fist shaken but ready to deliver another blow. Instead, he reaches for his MacBook and opens it. The screen is intact, the buttons still in place and the reading still as boring as it was before. Link looks at Oscar in disgust and turns around. “Wait!” Oscar shouts with a groan, barely audible. “Hold on!” His words turn Link around, somehow, and he slowly and dramatically, I might add, lifts a hand up. It’s shaking in pain, but he’s able to extend his index finger to Link’s hips. “Check your pocket. Jeans. Right side.” Link raises an eyebrow. Barely. He reaches a hand into his pocket and feels his iPhone 7 Plus, his old but reliable friend who he let down by dropping several times. But something else is resting against it. Something flat. Something smooth. Link’s eyes squint in confusion. He pulls out the phone and he turns it around to reveal... Oh. It’s just a stupid card from the tech desk. Link looks at Oscar and shakes his head in disgust. He returns to his desk and begins packing his belongings. He looks around to see if anyone might have seen the commotion, but the only other person there is the reference desk lady, who is too far away and too focused on her own homework. Link prepares to leave but glances one last time at Oscar. He’s is still pointing at Link. His eyes are weak and the strength in his hand is brittle, but his glare and index finger is intense. Link turns around and leaves the library. Fast-forward! Link arrives and stops at the door to his four-bedroom apartment, only to hear music coming from inside his living room. And moaning from upstairs. And a bed banging up against the wall to the beat of Queen’s “Another one bites the dust.” He shakes his head, sighs, and relieves the keys from his backpack. He unlocks the door and then opens it, welcoming himself inside to royal red Hue lights and Gavin DeGraw’s “Finest Hour.” Eyes turn to him and as he closes the door. “Yo, let’s get this guy a shot,” David, one of Link’s three roommates, says. Link barely takes a step inside and David approaches him with a shot glass in one hand and a bottle of Hennessey in the other. “What’s all this?” Link asks. “My sister Lisa. You remember her. She got pregnant, and so we’re throwing a party for her. She’s right over there!” David says, pointing to her. “She don’t wanna drink because the baby and all, but yo, it would mean a lot if you take a shot for her.” Link sighs in regret. “Alright.” “Eyy, my man, yo!” David throws a hand over Link’s shoulder and the two walk towards Lisa. “Ey, Lisa!” Lisa turns around and reveals a barely-noticeable baby-belly. “Ey, you remember Link, right?” David says, patting Link’s chest twice. “Oh, hey Link!” Lisa says. “Hey,” Link answers, exhausted of the party already. “Alright, I guess I’m taking a shot for you cause your brother wants me to.” “Oh, no, that’s okay,” Lisa replies. “No, all my other roommates did,” David interrupts. “Link’s gotta take one too.” Link faintly listens to their conversation but is more focused on pouring himself his own shot. He holds the spout steadily over the cup and once it’s filled to the rim, he stops. He lifts the shot-glass up and his eyes meet Lisa’s. “Alright, to you and your kid.” He takes the shot and once the taste of alcohol hits him, so does time. Shot. Shot. Another shot. That’s right: he’s drinking underaged. Admit it, you all did too. And, hey, for an eighteen-year old, he’s strong. I guess that breaks the image of the good boy he is at the library. “Yo, slow down!” “This guy’s so fucking lit!” “Back to back!” “Yo, this my song. Turn the volume up!” “Ay, you good, bro?” “Ohhhhhhh!” “No, we just played that song!” “Nah, he’s good! My boy’s good! He’s good!” “You need help, bro?” “Yo, it’s your ex.” “Link, we need to talk.” And that’s all she wrote. Not really. But that’s the last thing Link remembers hearing: his ex. Nine hours of sleep later and the sun slips through the blinds to kiss him good morning. He’s lying in his bed and atop his sheets. He’s still fully dressed. Surprisingly, there’s not a sign of puke or a bag anywhere in his room. Good job, my man. Good damn job. Link peels his eyelids open. He takes in a deep inhale through his nose and opens his mouth to part ways with his exhale. He turns to his left, right and then back to his left before fighting his hands under his pillow. No phone there. He sits up and looks around himself. While he can’t yet find his phone, an inviting glass of water sits on his desk which extends perpendicularly from the head of his bed. The water’s not cold anymore, but right now it sure looks like Benjamin fucking Franklin on pale blue. That’s a hundred-dollar bill, by the way, for those who don’t get the reference. You know? Because they updated the bill? Anyways, Link sits up from his bed and extends a hand for it. And it sure does taste better than Hennessey. Three large gulps is all it takes to finish the glass and with a satisfying sigh he moves to place the glass back on the desk. But something catches his eye. An orange post-it note sits flat against his desk, which was hiding under the glass just five seconds ago. He looks towards his stack of post-it notes to see that it’s been meddled with. And one of his pens is out of place. He sniffs heavily to clear his nose and then stands up to trade the glass for the note. It’s written in fine print with handwriting that he recognizes from his past, and from his heart. “Hey Link, Rose here. ‘We couldn’t talk last night. ‘I left something for you. ‘Check your pocket. Jeans. Right side.” Link raises an eyebrow. Barely. He reaches a hand into his pocket and feels his iPhone 7 Plus, his old but reliable friend who he let down by dropping several times. But something else is resting against it. Something flat. Something smooth. Link’s eyes squint in confusion. He pulls out the phone and he turns it around to reveal... another post-it note. It’s folded, almost wrinkled. Rose’s recognizable handwriting reads... “You’re gonna be a dad. ‘If it’s a boy, I like the name ‘Jack.