He was on a highway he didn't know, in a state he'd never been to, between cities he'd never heard of, surrounded by what should have been corn but was something else. They looked like a crossbreeding of sunflowers and roses, enormous heads of petals enclosing a face full of giant seeds. The sky was purple, and the sinking sun was just a crescent on the horizon. There was a life behind him, a wife who was no longer his, though no children because she had, secretly, prevented their very possibility. A frost began to form on the edges of his windows. A chill seeped through the cracks and seams. He cranked the heat and it poured from the vents. The cold creeping in seemed to combat it, like soldiers on a battlefield a hundred and fifty years ago. A white mass like a cloud bank rolled out of the sky and a wind gust shook the body of the truck. It was all he could do to hold it in his lane. A shriek filled the air, low and constant, building until it was the only sound to be heard. Somewhere ahead, a new life awaited. He could have stayed, watched Jessica move on and perhaps marry again, maybe even have children. That would have been something akin to waterboarding. It would have filled his mind, for their lives had become so entwined that neither had friends of their own, their families merging into one cohesive unit. They regularly ate dinner together, held parties in each other's homes, spoke and messaged often. One of his cousins had even married her sister. There was no place he could exist where she would not emerge with consistency. So he had taken himself out of the picture, to ease pressure on the families as well as himself. He held no ill will toward her side, and wanted his to hold none against her. The field of sunflower-roses ended on an exit and he took it. The sign indicated places of food, lodging and gas. There was a storm coming, and he wasn't sure he'd ever seen anything like it. He could feel it's energy, the way you could just before a lightning strike. And it was getting more than chilly. His heater was pumping at it's limit and still that cold was winning. He thought of the last time he had seen Jessica. They had been on the porch discussing the weather. Sweat poured from his forehead and she was complaining of her sticky clothes, if she didn't get inside soon she was going to faint. They had left without their keys, only realizing it when they tried to drive away. Kyra was on the way with the spare, but she lived twenty minutes away. So they had been trapped in a sense, forced to face each other after so long avoiding such contact. The first building, a Shell station, was devoid of activity. There were no cars at the pumps nor inany of the spots along the building. He tried the door but it was locked. The place was dark, the shelvesfull. He knocked, but no one came. He turned to the rest of the little piece of the world he'd pulled into. The cold had more than crept in now, it was inside of him, like it meant to freeze the very blood in his veins. There were no vehicles in sight. He could see clear across the road to the Denny's and the Super 8, but both had empty lots. No one moved. Standing there, he realized it was more than that, no thing moved either. There was an American flag at full mast but it just hung there, like a lifeless corpse left as a warning. He moved closer, and as he approached realized it wasn't dangling, as it would if there were no wind, because there was, it cut across his cheeks, burning like a liquid flame. The flag wasn't moving because it was frozen. He spun, backing slightly into the flagpole. There wasn't a single bird to peep his movements. There were no distant sounds either, the way there always were when you made your way off the interstate, the low hum of sixteen wheels running over asphalt or pavement. The drone of lanes of traffic moving steadily along to their various destinations. Hurrying back to his truck, he drove on, not back to the highway but continuing on the two-lane in hopes of finding refuge from the cold, and just maybe someone to explain the desertion of the businesses just beyond the exit, places which surely saw enough patronage to support round-the-clock service. Still that cold remained. Worsening. His vents were directed at his face but he couldn't feel their warmth at all. Instead, the chill which had begun only ten minutes ago was now a frost, clouding his windows and sinking into his hands until he almost couldn't get them off the steering wheel. The first intersection came only minutes later. There was a sign which had an arrow pointing toward the town of Hyberia. It had a population of less than 2,500. That was good enough, and it was only five miles. He thought he could make it five miles, but put his foot down anyway. The truck growled but kind of sputtered before really getting up on it's hubs. He went from 50 to 70 and leveled out at 85. If he got pulled over maybe the officer could explain what was going on, and why it was so ungodly cold there. And getting colder by the minute. He had it in his mind that if he didn't find refuge soon he would freeze just like that flag, and the truck would just go on until it veered off the road or came head on with something it couldn't drive through. The town sign was large, a piece of carved wood reading Hyberia: The Only Place to Weather the Storm . It may have said something else but he didn't have time to catch it. Soon after, a small gas station appeared, a place which reminded him of the filling station in Mayberry. It may have been deserted, and he actually thought that was just the case. Beyond the station more of those rose-like flowers. It might have been the area's money crop, except they weren't like anything he'd ever even seen in magazines or on TV. If they existed anywhere else, no one was buying them. It wasn't a wonder why, there was very little aesthetic appeal, and he didn't even want to think about eating the seeds from that foul plant. Just the thought made his throat convulse. A cold shock burst in his chest and the breath went with it, reverberating from his body. It took a moment to get his lungs full again, heaving as he gripped the steering wheel. It felt like ice in his hands, or was that just the temperature in general? He couldn't decide because his brain was just then somewhat deprived of valuable oxygen. As if on it's own, his foot pressed harder on the pedal and he was going a hundred, passing those red flowers at a clip too great to even see them, merging it all into a massive blur on either side of the road. His ears were numb, and his nose, and the tips of his toes too. All of a sudden he became aware ofjust how much of his body he could no longer feel. His chest and hips were still there, but the rest was just a bunch of appendages attached, like the hoses and attachments on a vacuum cleaner, useless things he could no longer communicate with. It was almost the way he had felt with Jessica in the last months of their marriage, as though she were once something he could effortlessly talk and listen to. They had seemed so connected then, so singular. How they could ever have separated he would never know. He didn't want to think about it deeply enough to figure it out. As the flowers gave way to a small parking lot he whipped the wheel and aimed the truck at the building there. Higginson's Delicatessen and Grocery . He didn't bother with such niceties as parking spots and instead slid to a stop, almost into the red-brick wall. He threw open his door and tumbled out. His grimy hands hit the pavement and stuck, like licking a pole. For one terrible moment he was sure that was it, whatever was happening was going to happen to him and that would be the end, but his hands peeled away from the ground, a bit of blood splashing the dark surface. He didn't feel it, or give himself time to wonder how bad he'd just fucked his hands, if he didn't get inside soon, those hands wouldn't matter anymore anyway. He slammed into the glass doors. They didn't budge and his heart shot into his throat. He pushedand shoved and kicked. He turned toward the waning day, and saw what was coming. It was a wall of pure white, the clearest void of color he'd ever seen. The way some clouds looked on very clear blue days, but this was deeper somehow, like the complete opposite of a massive sinkhole. You thought you could see things in that darkness, and you could definitely hear them. This, though, this whiteness you could feel, down in the very fiber of your bone and muscle. It was coming for him, and it would fill him to bursting, it would sink down into him and form crystals of ice and expand every organ and bit oftissue until he exploded like a can of soda in the freezer. He spun, out of breath completely now, numb to his core, moving by fear alone, pushing and slamming and pulling now at the door and it opened toward him with ease. For a moment he just stood there, confused, until he felt something like ice on the back of his neck. Lurching, he stumbled into the store and fell onto his hands and knees, sliding onto his face as his bloody hands slipped out from under him. An already the encapsulating warmth washed over him, as though there was a space heater hanging just above him. For longer than he could tell or calculate, he just laid there. The floor was even warm, like one of those rich people's bathrooms. The lights above were dark, the only light that of the whiteness outside, falling in through the single door he'd escaped through. His hands began to sting and to burn. He would have to find some disinfectant and some gauze. As he sat up, he realized that door had been an exit. PUSH was very clearly stated above the handle. On the outside, he knew, it would read PULL . He got up and turned toward the store. It was mostly dark, the shelves like ghosts emerging from their unseen realm. It was just a humble little shop, no bigger than a McDonald's or Subway. There were two registers. It crossed his mind to wonder why the place was unlocked and unattended, and then it crossed his mind to search the register, but thought better of that. Just what he needed, a robbery charge to go with the divorce and his near-death experience. Near freezing-to-death experience. Everything outside was white, and he thought of that movie The Mist . He hoped that wasn't what he had found himself facing. As he watched, ice crystals began to form at the edges of the glass. They seemed to build one on top of the other as they spread, moving inward like ants, ants devouring some piece of food dropped onto the ground. He thought that if he kicked that glass it would shatter, and that cold would find it's way in. A thump from the darkness. He whirled, but it was murky still, no more than edges and vague shapes. “Hello?” he said, and told himself that was a stupid thing to do. If it was some criminal, or monster - No, he shut that thought off immediately, a storm so cold it formed ice in seconds, on pretty much any surface, that was one thing, he was not going to entertain the idea of monsters. Something answered him. Some thing being the only way he could describe it because there were no words, only a few guttural mewls like a little animal struggling into the world. He moved into the darkness toward that sound, telling himself this was how all the stupid white girls died in horror movies and slasher flicks, but too curious to stop his forward progression. He heard something else, like water dripping, and realized that his hands were leaking onto the floor. He wiped them on his shirt and pain flared into his wrists and arms. Yeah, he was going to have to deal with that soon. The mewling came again, so much closer yet no more intelligible. It could have been a puppy ora deer or some unimaginable freak of a thing no one had ever seen before. But of course that was more ridiculousness. There were no monsters or creatures scurrying through the darkness. Whatever it was, he'd likely come across it before at one time or another, his fear addled brain just hadn't recognized that sound yet. Out of the darkness, something did come crawling, but it was no monster or horrible creature or anything else he'd been scaring himself with. It was a baby. It saw him and sat back on it's butt. It was half-wrapped in a blanket, and had on a onesie with little paw prints like a pup had trekked all across the thing. The baby had bright blue eyes and starkly blond hair. It cocked it's head. “Hi, little baby,” crouching as he moved a little closer, “where is your mommy? Or your daddy, I guess. That seems more likely, leave it to a man.” The baby reached with one clutching hand, as if wanting something. He looked down at his own neck and found the bandanna he had been wearing, in case he should need to go into a place requiring coverings. He untied and offered it. The baby snatched it away and smiled. It made a giddy little yeeing sound and started swinging the kerchief from one side to the other. He finished closing the distance and picked the baby up, careful not too get too much blood on it's clothes, wondering if it was a boy or girl, and asking again where it's mommy was. If the baby knew, it wasn't saying, though it didn't take long to find out. Just a few feet away was the entrance to the little grocery. The door was held slightly open by an arm, the PUSH stark just beside it. He could just see a woman's face through the white haze building on the glass. Her other hand was firmly locked around the outer handle. As he watched, those crystals moved up her arm, forming even more rapidly than they had on the glass. Almost the way an animal will switch meals when a meatier prey presents. Through the space provided by her arm, the cold was creeping in, forming it's little crystals already on the magazine stand just inside the door. He knew what he had to do. If he didn't, that ice would continue spreading, and their warm little cave would no longer be much of a haven. In fact, it would be a tomb. He took the baby to the registers and placed it in the space between them. “Stay here, little baby, you shouldn't see this. I shouldn't do it,” he mumbled turning back toward the entrance and the woman who had tried to reach the safety the other side of it provided. The woman who had thought to save her child even as the cold crept into her. How much of her had frozen before she had gotten it to safety? How difficult that must have been. He had only felt the first wave of that chill and his mind had nearly shut down. He found the magazine rack almost completely white. He wondered if it would spread from there or if it needed the chill from outside to maintain itself. If he got the door closed, would that be enough to keep them from freezing as well? The only answer that mattered was, that it didn't matter, because if he didn't close that door, that woman's efforts would be in vain, and so would his own. So as much as he did not want to do it, he lifted his foot and kicked that door as hard as he could. The woman's arm didn't severe so much as shatter. Like a meat Popsicle, it hit the floor and burst into frozen red chunks. The door closed and the magazine stand began to thaw, though he could tell it would be quite a while before the pages of the periodicals there would come apart, if they ever did. Before those pieces of what had once been a hand and part of an arm could start to look like what they now were, he faded back until the whole scene was obscured by the comforting black of lightlessness. He found the baby, still between the registers, and sat down to wait for the storm to pass. He hoped it would be quick, but if it wasn't then at least they would have plenty to survive on. Pulling the baby into his lap, he reveled in it's warmth, and hoped the little guy, or gal, was enjoying his as well. For a while, that was all there was going to be. Maybe all there would ever be. THE END


My eyes were closed tight blocking the afternoon sunlight that peaked from my bedroom blinds, willing myself to fall back to sleep. If I just fall back to sleep, maybe I will wake up and feel better. Maybe this will all go away , I thought. Just then, she woke me. As if she were right next to me in my bed shouting in my ear, I heard her, my Aunt Maureen, shout, “BRIGID, WAKE UP! WAKE UP!” Her voice was so crisp and clear and loud, it felt like her lips were pressed against my right ear. My eyes shot open. My heart now was pounding, fluttering, buzzing, skipping beats all at once. I gasped for breath and slowly glanced to my side baffled. Is she here? Is she dead? She is dead. She can’t be here. But, I hear her. Wait, did she die? I felt drugged, confused, distorted. Her voice did not fade. Another shout. This time, her message was not clear. But that voice is unmistakeable. As my eyes scanned the room, I laid terrified to move my head, feeling the surge of pain up my spine like shock waves into my brain. She isn’t here, I thought. My Aunt Reen, who died of an aggressive cancer two years ago, could not be here but she is speaking to me. Screaming in my right ear drum. And I am awake. I am not dreaming. Is this what it feels like to lose your mind? Is this a psychotic break? Is this all a dream? An apparition, supernatural experience? If so, I am not comprehending the message. Am I dying? How do I explain this to anyone? What now? --------------------------------------------- Twenty-four hours before, I was in my classroom, my students not yet with me, dry heaving into a trash can. The fluorescent lights felt brighter. The stale, moldy school building air had a more pungent aroma, and my head felt like it was on fire, like someone struck a match and my scalp was slowly sizzling. It did not feel like one of my typical migraines but I came to teach that day anyway willing it away with Advil and nausea meds. It wasn’t long before my protein bar came back up and I found myself curled up in a ball around the little trashcan on my floor, hoping a student or colleague wouldn’t walk in. But, he did. “Brig, what the hell! You ok?” My friend James did just that. Popped his head in with his coffee and much to his surprise, there I was hugging a trashcan in my teacher garb with watery eyes and sweat smearing my makeup. All I could do was shake my head no. As he made his way over, I finally got out, “I think I have the flu or something. Maybe I should go.” I grab a chair and look like I’d fail a DUI test. “Ya think? Get out of here. Damn, you are unsteady. I’ll just walk you to the nurse.” I felt like a child. My vulnerability beat out my stubbornness and need for control, and I let him take me by the arm. I felt too shitty to care how this looked, weak and needing help. Deb, the old motherly nurse, took my temp and said, “Yep, low grade fever. You should really go, hun. I’ll call the office and they’ll handle your subs.” I remember worrying about my sub plans. I don’t remember how they got done. But, I do remember walking down that hall slowly. My buddy James trailing me to see I made it out. Telling me to feel better. I did not return for 456 days. Somehow I drove home, must’ve been like cruise control, because I certainly wasn’t in control and don’t remember that ride. --------------------------------------------- My dead aunt is no longer screaming. But as I lay there in my bed deciding my next move, I see movement in my corner. Black, flickering shadows erratically circling in my corner. I blink. I blink again. They are still there, and they have multiplied. I see bats in my corner right in between my closet and my beloved rocking chair passed down from my Mommom Rose. I have laid in bed many nights staring at it, picturing generations of women in my family rocking babies, myself included. Baby Owen first, and then Baby Hope, now in Kindergarten and Pre-K. I see that chair and I can smell that sweet delicate baby shampoo mixed with milk and I feel the warmth. Now, it is empty and surrounded by what appears to be bats. First, my Aunt Reen and now bats in my room. Terror engulfs me. I am not ok. This is when I call my mom. Whether you are 3 or 33, it is mom. “Mom, I am still feeling bad in bed. I’m feeling a lot worse. I don’t know... feeling loopy.” She’s the most anxious woman I know, so I spared the details. “Can you pick the kids up from school, please? I need to figure out what to do.” “BRIGID, I don’t like the sound of this.” She emphasizes my full name as she does when she is serious. “I am telling your father, too.” She calls out to him and repeats my words but with her motherly worry. “We both think you need to get to a doctor or hospital. I love you.” “I will call Jeff. He will take me if I ask. Don’t worry. I will do Urgent Care. I think it’s the flu and I need meds. Love you.” If she knew bats were infiltrating my room and her dead sister was speaking to me she’d die of a heart attack and then I would really be screwed. I take a deep breathe and call Jeff. He has called me dramatic before. We’ve had fights over it. I’ve gotten it in my head to rehearsal my words to him before I speak to assess how it sounds. I don’t want to sound dramatic. How do I say this without sounding insane? Looking back, I know now I should never have to rehearse words like this. And my fear of fitting his stereotype cost me some precious time. --------------------------------------------- I am laying on my side in fetal position staring at the white wall. I have been in and out of a sleep state, but at the time that the ER doctor finally came to speak to us about my MRI results, my eyes were open but I wasn’t there. I was like a prop, no feelings, no affect, and too weak to sit up. “It looks what we are seeing may be a mass. We don’t know what kind and she needs more testing.” The doctor said this without much empathy. The most peculiar part of this moment now looking back is my reaction. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t hysterics. It was an odd unperturbed curiosity, like it was not me who she was speaking of. Like I was watching a movie. Well that’s something. Look at the plot twist here with this bat seeing teacher, lady. Wonder how that’ll play out. It was not long before I was in an ambulance on my way to University of Pennsylvania Hospital. Turns out the ER I hobbled into was not equipped for batgirl. In fact, they thought I was pregnant or had Lyme’s disease for the first few hours there. My sister, a nurse, made calls and found a way to get University of Pennsylvania Hospital to see me, and time was of the essence. I am told I was fading. In and out of consciousness. That morning, I thought I was going to teach Shakespeare in front of 16 year olds all day. By 9pm, I was on oxygen on a stretcher in the ICU. Within minutes, they read the results, they did their doctor talk, and they made a guess in order to give me treatment. Herpes Simplex Virus Encephalitis. Not a mass. The doctor, who I actually do remember looking like a George Clooney type, pulled no punches when he said the previous hospital completely misread my results and also me. “All of the signs are pointing toward Encephalitis and though we won’t officially know for a couple days, we want to give you the anti-virals, seizure medication, along with antibiotics, to keep you alive. We will help you.” Turns out my psychological thriller film of a day made complete sense to him. The pain, the vomiting, the bats, and even my aunt, my aunt’s voice I have not heard in two years. My brain was inflaming, under attack by the herpes virus, and as a result, I was having Simple Partial Seizures. Instead of a cold sore because I was run down that month, the virus chose my brain. --------------------------------------------- My head and eyes are still throbbing. There is a rhythmic beeping of hospital machines, muffled conversations and sneakers squeaking. I hear a voice again, clear and close in my ear. Panic sets in instinctually. “You are still here. You are alive. You are going to be ok. You keep sleeping, sweetie. I love you.” It’s a whisper. I stir and blink, afraid I am alone with this voice, afraid to open my eyes for what I will see, but there is a hand and I squeeze it tight. I take a deep breath and exhale two days of pure terror. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know who it was. I wasn’t alone. A single tear ran down my face and all I could manage was, “I know, Mom.”


I was born with perfect hearing. A genetic mutation that allows me to listen in on the inner rhythm our bodies provide. Until the previous generation, no one had detected the music our bodies produced. The frequency is so strange and subtle, that specialized listening devices had to be made. Surprisingly enough, when people like me first started experiencing the music of others, we were not treated as mentally ill. There was no hate campaign or b.s. politics. The first of us were treated with respect and it allowed science to flourish. Once it was determined that we weren't physically suffering and obviously no threat to society, we continued on as if nothing was different. Some of us hated always hearing the music. For them, a cochlear-like implant blocked the soundwaves. Others, like me, really embraced the ability. We considered ourselves privileged. There was something about hearing the music from so many that made us feel connected to them. Like mycelium under the earth. Connected to each other in a way no one but us could understand.  The music that humanity shares with us is mostly pleasant. It could be described as the definition of your personality. The music inside you is the truest form of self. Happy, healthy and whole typically provides an upbeat soundtrack to the world around me. Lots of music in C and G major, accompanied by A and E minor. Unfortunately there are lots of people who are born with disability, mental illness, or general malaise as well. In the key of D minor, their music is so sad, often reflecting on their quality of life. It's easy to tell the nature of a person when they don't know I'm listening. I know its kind of tasteless to always be eavesdropping, but my hearing is a natural function that I will not hinder. In the 2 generations since we first heard the music, there have been all kinds. All the music of the world, on display for all abled beings to hear, all the time. I enjoy being in public. The music never gets old, its always new and different. I spend time in malls, grocery stores, parks and carnivals. I enjoy walking downtown, where the hustle and bustle provides an amazing jam session. People watching takes on a whole new meaning when you're vibing to their music. I somehow feel my connection to them is more personal. Since we began keeping track, the music has generally been the same. The newborn and pre-dead produced psychedelic sounds, often convoluted, a cacophony of warped emotion. That was all anyone ever heard. Until the low, foreboding tones of G minor came creeping into my world.  It came on softly at first. A low rhythm over a static hum, seemingly blanketing the earth around me like rolling fog. I had never felt this before, never heard this before. It was filled with agony. It was rhythmic, rife with anger. A tone that suggested vile and violent intent. I could feel myself fill with dread, the baby fine hairs on my neck standing at attention. The cold trickle of fear on my spine. This music was unlike any other. It swelled and dropped. It ran through various chord progressions. It had become a hardened, driven beat, louder, angrier and vengeful. The sounds hit my hears like the speech of a brutal dictator. Fear seemed like the driving force behind this music. What was this? No one sounded like this. I wondered who else, if anyone, may have heard it. I wondered if anyone was as intrigued.  I went looking for disaster. I followed the music. This march of sorts. It was frightening and captivating. Every drum beat, every guitar chord, every bass string plucked drew me closer and closer. My brain was becoming very anxious, while my very soul was being drawn toward this powerful new sound. I searched, following the symphony of probable demise. It brought me to an abandoned prison. Dilapidated and weathered, the prison still stood. From outside the entrance, I could hear the tortured chords of hundreds of people in the halls and cells over the driving beat of this mysterious new menace. Filled with trepidation, I ventured forth into the prison. I had to find the source. It drew me closer. I walk into an empty hallway, lit only by the light from the outside, pouring in through holes in the roof. The screams went silent but the hurt increased in volume. It was uncomfortable and I hated it, but I shouldered the weight. In the distance, a red door, the only red door, was pulling me, magnetized and mesmerized. I stood, silent, scared. In that moment I took stock of my feelings, my emotions. I was of two minds, but a singular body. I hated where I was but only ever wanted to be right there, exactly then. I opened the door.  What I assumed to be a child stood before me. Androgynous and slight. Hairless, pale skin that appeared blue. Blue in the way that a cadaver is blue. The child hovered over the floor, its legs crossed in the way school children's are at story time. The child's eyes looked closed, yet open. Eyelids translucent over black eyes. It's lips were stretched tight across its mouth, the corners forced ever so slightly into a disgusted frown. The child seemed fraught, like it was disappointed in whatever was in its mind. I was compelled to speak but barely made a peep. The child's eyes shot open and all music stopped. *All* music had stopped. The silence was deafening. Staring through me, into my soul, I could feel its presence enter into my consciousness. It was then that I understood: the child wasn't a child. This being was the literal embodiment of hate. It spread itself, like a virus, covering everything in it's path with disgust, hate, anger, rage. Homicide, suicide, and genocide was the goal and this being was damned and determined to spread. The music resumed. It spoke to me. Not in words that any human could comprehend, but in a way that imparted all of its knowledge on me. I was the Eve to its Serpent like the folklore tales of old. I felt the change consume me. I hadn't been in pursuit of good or morality or love, so the hatred plunged into me like a dry syringe into the vein. The Hate imparted on me all the things it was, and left none of me. I was eradicated. I became the fear from which we run. I had become the destroyer of senses. I had become terror. I am Wrath. I am Jealousy. They will all feel me. They will all hear my death march. Humans and mutants alike will feel the chorus of a millions souls. It will be their prison. I will be exalted. No one had any idea what I'd become. I am Sin. I am despair. I am become death. I am death. They will acknowledge me. I am.  Edited to add: this is my first time writing. I initially posted this story originally on r/WritingPrompts I changed a couple things that I thought made the flow better. Please critique and criticize. Thank you for your time.


Lyla Magda and I lay sprawled out on Lyla's turquoise sectional in her spacious entertainment room. There were various modes of entertainment to choose from. A 50-inch flatscreen was mounted on the wall; programmed with any channel or movie you wanted to watch. There was fuse ball, a pool table, a VR station, a scrabble table (my personal favorite), and a recording studio where you could make a video to the song you were singing off karaoke. Lyla was checking her food delivery apps to see who was delivering with a discount. Lyla could eat and was always hungry. High metabolisms ran in her family. So she could shovel it in and not gain one pound. No matter what or how much she ate she stayed a skinny beanpole. Magda was sending audio clips to open voice over positions around the city. Her voice was lovely. People enjoyed talking with and listening to her no matter what the topic was. Magda wanted to host her own holistic radio talk show one day. Me...I was just lying on the sofa agonizing over my Aunt Astra's upcoming visit. Don't get me wrong. I loved my aunt; in fact she was my favorite aunt. She was smart, sophisticated, a stylish dresser, worked out and kept fit, did volunteer charity work, and owned her own advertising agency. So why am I agonizing you ask.....because although my aunt had all those great things going for her; she had two serious flaws. She was honest. Too honest. No I mean like brutally honest and she always repeated her self as if to underline what she said. No one was spared. She didn't discriminate. It didn't matter who you were. My Aunt did not believe in telling even a little white lie....ever. My aunt's attitude was tell and accept the truth and get on with life. After every declared truth she would say...."If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings shooot if I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings. Ohkay?" If someone pointed out how her words may have a negative effect.....she always replied..."band-aids are for babies!...shooot....band-aids are for babies! Ohkay?" Take my 5th grade science fair for instance. I was excited and nervous. All my family came to support me. I did my my project on wind energy. I made a wind turbine out of straws, popsicle sticks, and cardboard. The girl to my right did hers on vegetable batteries. The boy to my left did his on the solar system. It looked like no one helped the boy on my left with his project and he just winged it so he would not get a zero for failure to participate. His planets were balled up socks of various colors and sizes. The sock planets hung on strings that were knotted on several coat hangers tied together with clipped zip-ties to make a mobile. As for the girl to my right her actual project wasn't bad. It was her backboard that was terrible. It was handwritten with several scratch-outs and the handwriting was crowded and uneven. I guess she ran out of time to get information printed out to use for her blackboard. As people were milling around checking out each project praising, giving hi-fives, fist bumps, and good jobs; my Aunt Astra was videoing. She paused tape and said loudly, "I'm going to have to crop out these two crappy projects on either side of Torianne before I send this out to the family chat group." Even at 10 I was mortified. I wished a giant wormhole would have opened up and swallowed me right there on the spot. There were huffs and angry sucking of teeth along with widened eyes and incredulous raised eyebrows that said....OMG did she just say that?!?! My dad ever the diplomat tried to smooth things over. Aunt Astra was my dads baby sister. "Astra honey I'm sure these young people did their best," said my dad. To which my aunt replied, "If this is their best, she gestured with her hand, then I'd hate to see their worst." The girl started crying. Her mom came to her side to console her and shot my aunt a dirty look. The boy's face flushed red and his fists were balled up at his side. My mom shook her head and bit her bottom lip. "Jeez Astra REALLY?" she said. Aunt Astra said, "What?! If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings...shooot....If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings. Ohkay?" The boy's father said, "Wow lady don't you see that these are 10 yr old kids?" Aunt Astra shrugged and flung her hair over her right shoulder and said, "Mr. band-aids are for babies!...shooot...band-aids are for babies! Ohkay?" Then there was the time I was trying out for my high school varsity softball team. I liked sports and I was pretty good at them. My gym teacher personally recommended me to the coach as a star player. I was pumped. Many other girls were nervous and worried if they would make the team. My aunt was talking to her friend Pauline on the phone. "If they make it great; if they don't at least they know the truth....that they don't have any skills for softball. Find something else to do. No need to sulk or cry about it. Band-aids are for babies!...shooot...band-aids are for babies! Ohkay?" she remarked into the phone. I blew air into my cheeks, closed my eyes, and shook my head. After try-outs coach read off the names of who made starting roster. I made the team and was happy. Rolanda Spivey was happy too. She'd made the team. Her friends cheered for her and grabbed her in a 'selfie' group pose. Aunt Astra, still talking on the phone with Pauline, says, "What in the heck was the coach thinking. That girl looks like she could play defensive end on the guys varsity football team. I mean unless she's just going to be the catcher." Rolanda was a BIG girl. She was heavy-set and stood 5'11 in her stocking feet. Still. I closed my eyes willing myself to break up into tiny particles and teleport to Starship Enterprise. "Aunt Astra, I croaked. "Please I have to practice and play with these girls. Don't make enemies for me." "She chucked my chin and said, "Oh baby girl don't worry. Maybe being on the team will do her some good after all. Get her moving; she'll drop some much needed pounds. Provided she leaves those disgusting fast food joints alone. If she does she'll look good and feel good. You mark my words. If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings...shooot....If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings. Ohkay?" Needless to say Rolanda and her crew hated my guts for the rest of high school right up until we were sophmores in college where she finally let me explain about my aunt and apologize. On many more occasions my aunt kept it real; while the rest of us had to try and smooth over, clean up, appease, hurt feelings and embarrasments. The all time worst situation involved Dexter Campbell. A guy I developed a crush on in college. We both attended the same local community college. I sat across from Dexter in sociology class. He had a handsome face, wavy black hair, and green eyes. He was popular, kind, and friendly. For an up coming study project; Dexter and I were assigned to work together. Professor Elbee wrote a long list of options to choose from for our project. We decided to tackle domestic violence and it's consequences in todays society. A weighty topic; Dexter and I spent a lot of time together over the next 4 weeks getting our project ready . Outside of class we would meet at the library, the park, the local coffee shop, and a popular diner downtown. Even after the assignment was completed and submitted we still hung out sometimes. Finally I got up the nerve to invite him, to my family BBQ. I can't tell you the relief I felt when Aunt Astra said she didn't think she would make it because she was tied up trying to work out some kinks in a contract for a cat food comercial in Arizona. On the day of the BBQ the weather was nice: clear blue sky with plenty of sunshine without being hot. Magda and Lyla of course were there along with a few other girls I had invited. Dexter came and brought his two roommates. My Uncle Herb the grillmaster was serving up delicious varieties of meats on one grill and non-meat options on another grill. The little kids were having a great time on the slip and slide. Other family members and friends sat in groups of two or more...chatting, playing cards, hang-man, and arguing over who was trying to cheat while playing a board game. Dexter and his roommates decided to toss a frisbee they had brought along. Magda hit me on the shoulder; then pointed to my patio door. "Hey look it's your Aunt Astra." I immediately got a migrane. "Please God do not let her embarrass me today in front of Dexter," I pleaded. Apparently Aunt Astra was able to wrap things up earlier than expected and take a direct flight and make it on time to the family BBQ after all. My aunt was making her rounds greeting family and friends. At the exact time she made it to me and my friends; Dexter threw the frisbee and clipped my Aunt Astra on the side of her head. Dexter came running over to us all apologetic; saying it was an accident was she hurt; could he get her a glass of water? My aunt looked at Dexter and asked him his name. "Hi I'm Dexter sorry again." he said. My aunt smiled and said, "My,my,my, so THIS is the sociology hunk my neice is madly in love with. No wonder you have a crush on him. He's cute, smart, sporty, and a gentleman. What more can you ask for. Torianne you better not let this catch get away." Dexter raised his left eyebrow as a slow grin spread across his face. I only know that because Magda told me later. I was to busy trying not to pass out. I was tingly and hot; my face red as cranberries. I felt like the wind was knocked out of me making it hard for me to breathe. "OMG Aunt Astra!" I finally gurgled out. "What?! If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings....shooot....If I'm lying I'm flying and I ain't got no wings. Ohkay?" Mom came over and gave me a side hug while rubbing my back. "Astra! Jeez! Can you stop embarrasing people?" she said. My Aunt came over to me and hugged me and then cupped my face in her hands and said, "Suck it up buttercup. He's a keeper. Remember band-aids are for babies!....shooot....band-aids are for babies! Ohkay?"


Hope. It is a beautiful thing, isn’t it? It is free of cost and gets us through the darkest of times. We can even call it our best companion. And, why shouldn’t we? It stays with us till the very end. It’s not its fault that we masochists can’t hold onto it. I hardly remembered the boy I used to be. But I did remember the man he wanted to become. It was funny how I was not even close to that. If anything, I was the farthest thing away from it, 73 million lightyears, to be precise. People still looked up to me, though. They praised me for who I was - a Class A Deep Space Astronaut. It was funny how far I had come in a career I resented. Earth was crumbling. All the resources were exhausted, economies were collapsing, people were dying, etc. In short, the world was beyond repair. This is why the UN declared an Emergency. All the capital and human resources around the globe were redirected to essential services. Deep Space Exploration Program was one of them. It was a ‘concerted effort to fix the irremediable.’ I started as a resource soldier at the age of nineteen. My primary job was to mine for resources (metals, clean fuels, etc.), amongst other things. Then, after a while, people were required in the deep space exploration program, so I was thrown into that. A skill manager there put me into pilot training. She thought I was good at it for some reason. Over the years, I successfully lead over 25 extra-terrestrial resource mining missions without as much as a single complication. After that, I was promoted to Class A and given my own unit. Only a handful of people were there in the Class A club, but I was the fastest and the youngest one to get in. But did I care about all of that? Absolutely not. I didn’t give two fucks about any of it. I did what I did not because I wanted to, but because I had to. To survive, or whatever. I didn’t hate the job in particular, though. I hated the world in general for what it had become. It ruined my life and then just left me for dead. My team and I were supposed to go to a planet 4.58 million lightyears away from Earth. Our main task was to explore and lay the groundwork for its mining. But, the wormhole we came through got unstable, and we ended up 73 million lightyears away from home, in the middle of fucking nowhere. Exposure to the unstable exotic matter had fried all of our ship’s systems. We had no way to contact Earth, or... Basically, we were just good for nothing. We were fortunate enough that primitive hardware-based technologies like oxygen filtration, heat, and refrigeration survived, or we would have died within a few hours. But that was bound to happen anyway. We had been stranded for a week, yet no one came to rescue us. Which meant that no one was coming for us in the first place. If they were, they would have come by then. The ship’s oxygen levels were falling dangerously, and the food and water were running out. The heat systems were running out of fuel as well. At best, we had just about two days left to live. That is when all hope was lost. According to our calculations, one hour at our location equalled four years on Earth. That meant that we had been missing there for centuries. Of course, that’s if humanity survived for that long, to begin with. The prospect of not having a home was taking a toll on me. Before, there was hope. Hope that someday everything will get better and I’ll find what I was looking for. But, now that that hope was stripped away from me, I broke down. I remember that day well. I was in the Geography Lab, lying on the couch...weeping and drinking. My nose was running, and my clothes were all weird. I was a mess. That is when my geographer and engineer walked in. “Chief, you okay?” Egor, the geographer, asked. “Yeah, I’m fine.” “Oh, you’re definitely not fine. I have worked with you longer than anyone else on this ship. But, in all these years, I haven’t seen one emotion on your face, not even a smile. And now you are crying. So, something is definitely bugging you. Besides the obvious, of course,” said Zoe. “Chief, we are all gonna die in a few days, anyways. So, you might as well open up your heart. Let it all out,” said Egor. “This isn’t what I wanted. Any of this.” “This what?” Egor asked. “This. All of this. This life, this world, this career, this stupid fucking Class A badge,” I said as I ripped the badge out and threw it away out of frustration. “Woah, Chief! That badge is a badge of honour. You’ve earned it. You have done so much for the world. You’ve...achieved so much. All that means nothing to you?” Zoe asked. “I didn’t want to do it. I just...did what I had to do. This is not the life I wanted.” “Then what did you want, Chief?” Egor asked. “I wanted to be a painter. I had it all planned out, you know. I’d go to art school, meet a nice guy, fall in love, become successful, get married, start a family. I had so many fantasies of doing all that cliché relationship stuff, of having an ordinary happy life. But that will never happen now. I survived all these years because I had hope. Hope that someday everything will go back to normal. But, that’s all gone now. Now, we are all gonna die within 48 hours, and I won’t get to experience any of that. I will never know what it feels like to have someone by your side. What it feels like to be in love. Or what it feels like to have a child depend on you. None of that. Just a lonely insignificant death. No one will even find our bodies.” “Everything will be alright, Chief. Don’t you worry,” said Egor and hugged me. And, just like that, I started sobbing into his chest. Years of pent-up feelings were coming out. The next thing I remember is waking up in my bed. A couple hours had passed by. I was feeling much better, considering everything. I guess it’s true what they say. You shouldn’t bottle up your feelings. I went into the lounge area, which is where everyone usually did nothing, but no one was there. I checked the labs and the rooms, but there was still no sign of anyone. The last place I expected them to be in was the cockpit. “What are you guys doing in this dump?” “Looking at that asteroid,” said Saad, pointing in a random direction. I squinched my eyes and tried to focus. Since I was a bit hungover, it took me a while to see it. “It’s gonna hit us,” said Zoe. “How can you be so sure?” “I just know,” she said. “Well, at least, this way, it will be instantaneous.” “That’s a valid point,” said Bethany. “How long until impact?” “I’d say ten hours,” said Zoe. “Okay... Everyone, listen here. Wrap up your business, whatever it is...if any. We’ll all gather here T-30 minutes from impact. Dress good, people. It will obviously be an open casket.” Those somewhat ten hours were the longest ten hours of my life. Accepting death is one thing, but waiting for it is far worse. I cleaned my room and packed everything. I don’t know why, but it felt necessary. After that, I dry-cleaned myself and wore my uniform. All of us gathered in the cockpit way before time. We all sat in our seats and talked about our lives for the rest of the time. There wasn’t much, though. Just work, missions, and...that’s it. Finally, it was time. The asteroid was here. Saad started the countdown, and I closed my eyes. Three... Two... One... And, boom. Everything went quiet. There was nothing but darkness around me. I was in what seemed like a void, pure emptiness. And, the silence... It was deafening. I felt no pain, no anger, no pulse, nothing. Just dread. It was like standing in the middle of the jungle at midnight. Terrifying. Was I in hell? Or heaven? I didn’t know. But, it was agonizing, the loneliness. And, apparently, you can’t fall asleep in death. It’s not an option. I don’t know how long I was there, but I could feel my mind breaking. Just the prospect of spending eternity like that is enough to break you. Suddenly, there was light. It was like a dot, twinkling, at a far-off distance. And, I could hear something too - the faint sounds of waves and seagulls. It was overwhelming to feel the presence of something else in existence. I started walking towards the light. I walked, and ran, and then again walked. I kept walking for what felt like years. But, giving up wasn’t an option. Eventually, I could feel it getting closer to me, the light. And, the sound of waves was getting louder as well. When I finally got close enough, I could make out that the source of light was some kind of an orb. It was also the source of the wave sounds. When I touched it, my hand went through. It was spine-chilling, but I somehow pulled myself together and walked in. I was blinded by the light, and then I woke up. There was a small window in front of me, and I could see the sky through it. It took me a second to realize that I was in bed. Then I felt it, a breath at the back of my neck and the hands wrapped around me. I gently untangled myself from the firm grip and got up. I saw the man who was holding me. He had tanned skin and short dark hair. He was also shirtless. I could have admired his form all day, but I had more pressing issues. I had no idea where I was besides in a wooden cabin. I walked out of the cabin and was met with the most beautiful beach I had ever seen. It was mesmerizing, the caramel sand and the blue water. The sky was a seamless gradient of purple and orange, so it was hard to tell if it was dusk or dawn. But, the landscape was breath-taking nonetheless. The cool sand against my soles, the gentle breeze against my skin, the sound of waves and rumbling trees falling in my ear, it was all magical. It had to be heaven, I thought. A few minutes later, I went back into the cabin. The man was still sleeping like an angel. When I looked up from him, I saw myself in the mirror. I didn’t recognize myself at all. I looked much younger, and I was skinnier than before. And, I had a beard. And medium-long hair! And, the scar on my forehead was gone. I took my shirt and shorts off only to discover that my abs were gone too, and so was the scar on my thigh. I also noticed something else. There was a ring on my finger! Shocked, I pulled the quilt off the sleeping beauty, only to find a ring on his finger as well. I was fucking married to this guy! I was processing everything when something dinged - a phone. I didn’t recognize the model. But, it unlocked the moment I picked it up. It knew me, I guess. The wallpaper was a picture of me giving the sleeping beauty a piggyback ride. I got dressed and sat on the stairs outside the cabin. It took me a while to figure my way around the phone. I didn’t recognize the OS or any of the apps. But, I was familiar with one thing - Gallery. The pictures in the gallery were exhilarating. In this life, I had already done everything I wanted to do. I was a successful painter. Dated for years and then got married. I even had kids, a boy, and a girl. As soon as I found about them, I had this uncontrollable urge to know their whereabouts. I went in to ask the sleeping beauty about them, but when I got in, he was already looking at me, all confused. “Where were you? Come back to bed. It’s still too early,” he said. “Where are the kids?” That was the first time I heard my own voice. It was different, less hoarse. “What do you mean where they are?” he asked. When I didn’t say anything, he got up from the bed and hugged me. “Hey, we dropped them at your parents’ house. Don’t you remember?” “My parents? They are still alive?” I accidentally blurted out. “Of course, they are! What are you talking about? You sick or something?” “I’m fine.” “Let’s go back to bed. Come on. You are probably sleep-deprived. We went a bit too crazy last night,” he said. We went back to bed, and this time, he cuddled up to me. I had never felt such peace before. It was truly blissful. I had the best sleep of my life that day. The other version of me was as alive as I was. With time, our consciousnesses merged, and we became one. While he got the inspiration for his art, I got everything I always wanted. Death is inevitable, yes, but it is not the evil everyone makes it out to be. In fact, it is the best thing that ever happened to me.


For the sixth time that day, he was sitting there again. Staring out the window at the chickens within the wired fence. I could not imagine what it was he was finding so fascinating about the chickens he had spent his whole life taking care of. This was only his second week back and I had been hoping he would be overjoyed to see the family he had not gotten to see in four months. Hawaii was a dreamy place and I knew that. But you have to come back to reality at some point. I asked him earlier, “Are you happy to see me and Ma again Freddy?”. He, still staring out the window, responded in a melancholy tone. “Of course, I could never not miss you after so long.”. Something about his response seemed distracted. I moved on with my day. He would tell me eventually. He always did. Another week went by. Then another. He still would not explain his sudden loss of presence in our daily activities. It was a Saturday evening when I was entering into our living room that I finally gained some idea of what was bothering him. He was on his phone talking to someone. “I wish we could. It’s just not an option to leave right now.”. He hung up. I tried to escape before he could spot me there in the corner. “Don’t tell Ma what you heard.”. This was clearly not an optional request. I just nodded and escaped from the tension. Who could he have been saying that to? And why was he only now, at 24 years old, hiding things from us? We had always been a close family, close and open with each other. The next few days were spent with the fear that I was going to lose my one and only brother. He was one of the two people I had in this wide, scary world. Who could he have talked to that would make him leave us? I am not sure I could stomach the truth. I saw one of my biggest fears become a possibility on that Saturday evening and I am not sure what I could possibly do to prevent this harsh reality. I stopped and gave myself a mental smack. What was I thinking? I had heard two sentences. It could have been nothing. I had other things to focus on. If I didn’t stop, Ma would realize something was off and confront us. Not that Freddy was working to make sure she couldn’t notice a difference. He would sit in the same place every day, solemnly staring out the window towards the chicken coop. Something in him had changed. In a very scary way. Throughout the next week, I would catch him on his phone more times than not, texting or calling with his anonymous acquaintance on the other side. I was not sure what to make of it, but I remained uneasy. One Monday morning about three weeks after I had heard the end of the first conversation, I noticed he had left his phone on the coffee table in the living room. He was nowhere to be found. I tried to access it. No luck. He was not using his usual passcode. It killed me. I had to know. I had to know who he could have been talking to that would make him want to make such a radical change. I heard footsteps behind me and quickly put it back. He walked back in and sat down, while I avoided his gaze. He said nothing. A week later, I was bringing in the groceries with my Ma. I was focusing on getting the vegetables out of the bags in the kitchen and chopping them up for my mother to make her special stir fry for dinner later this week. The chicken had to go into a sweet marinade. It was one of my favorite meals. As I was reaching for it in the pantry that was the furthest towards the living room, I saw Freddie headed to the bathroom with a towel. This was my chance to try again. I quickly entered the living room where his phone was and started attempting to enter passcodes. His birthday, special dates, the last four of his social. Nothing was working. I gave it one last ditch effort. I heard it click. It was my birthday. My chest became warm as I realized how much I must have meant to him. Suddenly, the phone was ripped out of my hand and I spun to the right to see my brother standing there angrily. “What gives you the idea that it is okay to be going through my things?!”, he exclaimed angrily. “I wasn’t! I mean, I was. I mean.... You are just so distant and off lately! Can you blame me for being so worried?” I responded loudly. He stopped and looked at me, then sat back in his chair. He took a deep breath, like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “Do you really want to know why I have been so upset lately?” he asked me. I nodded, eager to hear his reasons. “I fell in love while I was gone.”. He stated. I blinked. I couldn’t have heard him correctly. He was acting like this over a girl? How strange for him. He had never been the type to lean into romantic relationships. “The love of my life just happened to be in Hawaii when I went on my trip. Now they’re gone and there is just no way to continue to have this relationship for any longer.”. I suddenly felt horrible. He had been sitting in his pain for weeks now. Instead of asking him how he was truly doing or why he was being so distant, I had been waiting. Hoping it would disappear. Now I knew that it would not. “I am so sorry Freddie.”, I said sympathetically. I knew he must have really fallen in love to have been this upset for so long. “What was her name?”, I questioned. He smiled. A sad, hollow smile. “His name was James.”.


Dear Diary, Have you ever had to grieve the loss of something you never had? I’ve been trying to. For months now. I’ve been so caught up in this loss of mine that I’ve never truly experienced before, it's finally driven my roommate, Georgia insane. She bought me one of those small, spiral bound legal pads from Food Lion and told me to write my crap out so I could finally put it somewhere that wasn’t the air. So, this is it. These are letters to Sam. Things I’ll never say to him. Things I wish I had. Dear Diary Sam, The first time you kissed me was July 18. It was dark in your apartment; a movie was playing in the background. I could feel you looking at me. Last time I was with you, you looked at me that same way. I looked away, then, because I wanted you to kiss me so badly, I was sure you could hear it in my thoughts. This time I didn’t look away. Dear Diary, Here is a picture of Sam. There is a weight behind his eyes that presses down on me when he catches my eye. Actually, that isn’t entirely true. I can feel it anytime he looks at me. It’s not an unpleasant weight that burns the muscles and pulls you through the floor. It’s not dragging or even heavy per se. It’s just noticeably present. I can feel it, wrapping around me tight like an embrace he’d given me once. It’s a feeling I like, being looked at by him. It’s laced in his gaze, in the crinkles by his eyes and the hints of brown caught in the blue. I have been looked at before, but never has someone’s eyes caught me off guard like his. I want him to look at me forever. I don’t know how to ask. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make my eyes speak the same language as his. I can’t make them say what I think. That I think he’s beautiful. That I see the way he holds himself, so still, so carefully. That I see the hesitation in his stance and the careful way he laughs. I see you ; I think. I don’t say it out loud. Dear Sam, The fourth time you kissed me was on March 1. I didn’t think that would be the last time. Dear Sam, “Look at me,” I say, because you won’t. “Do you see me?” I ask. “I see you, but I don’t think you see me.” Dear Sam, Remember how we used to argue, speaking paragraphs of words but actually talking in circles? “It seems to me that you’re more focused on the later than what was happening right in front of you,” I say, with more heat behind it than I mean. You say nothing back. Dear Diary, He didn’t leave me. I never had him to begin with. Dear Sam, I don’t know what it is. It’s a knot or a lump or something round, I don’t know. I can’t properly describe it. But there is something lodged in my chest, behind my sternum, between my lungs. It’s hard and solid, and I can’t make it move. It hurts. Dear God, it hurts and sometimes the pain goes away and I forget about it. I forget it’s there through distractions and noise and people talking at me but when I’m alone, I can feel it. I can feel it burrowing inside of me and it won’t go away. You put it there. I helped you do it. I don’t know how to remove it and I want it gone so badly that it makes my eyes burn. I felt it on the bus, with my headphones in and a game on my phone, failing to hold my attention. I felt it in my shower, turning the water as hot as it could go. Because I couldn’t stop shivering. I felt it when I tried to go to sleep last night, pulling me awake and reminding me that it was there because of me. I can’t get rid of it. Getting rid of it would mean getting rid of you. And I don’t want to do that. I foolishly can’t. But this thing lodged in my chest, it hurts me. Dear Diary, Lonely people find lonelier people and then they eat pasta together and tell ghost stories of past experiences that don’t let them sleep. But these relationships never work out because in reality both parties are just using each other, so really, they were better off alone. Dear Diary, Here is a scenario: He walks up to her front door. The porch light is flickering, because no one’s bothered to change it. He raises a fist to knock, but he hesitates. All the lights are off in the apartment except for the glow of a lamp. He knows exactly which. It’s the little yellow one on the end table next to the couch. She always leaves it on at night because she doesn’t like the dark. He knocks. Footsteps rattle the walls from the inside and the door opens. She has been crying, a balled-up tissue in her right hand. She looks surprised. She didn’t expect this. It wasn’t like him to show up without warning. “Hi,” she says, and her voice is thick and slightly nasal. “Hey, are you okay?” he asks. He takes a step through the doorway, and she backs up to let him in. It’s familiar, the process. “Uh, I’m fine. You know, sad movie.” She wipes her eyes with the tissue and quickly throws it away in the too full trashcan in the kitchen. He takes off his jacket and hangs it on mix-matched hooks by the door that are already weighed down with coats, rain jackets, and two umbrellas. She goes to turn on the other lamp in the corner, while he leaves his shoes by the door. It was a habit he learned from watching her at his place. She hated when people wore their shoes in the house, but she would never ask people to take theirs off. She wasn’t the type to ask for things. Favors, love, food. She was a giver who hated to take. “Everything alright?” she asks. She has already sat down on the couch. The couch has witnessed them in their entirety. There are some things that it hasn’t seen, the sweetest parts in particular, but it has watched. It has seen them laugh a lot, but it also saw the time he made her cry for hours, days, weeks. The couch is wary, yet it welcomes him as she did. He wedges himself into the corner closest to the yellow lamp. He wants to hold onto one of the cushions bunched up behind him, but he resists, choosing to cross, uncross, and cross his arms again. “Are you okay?” she asks, resisting the urge to reach out and touch his arm. He sees the twitching of her fingers, knows that she is holding herself back. She always tries to hold herself back. He doesn’t say anything. Not at first. He just looks at her. For a moment he allows himself to look, to really look at her and take in every aspect of her face. The shape, the moles and freckles, the tiny creases by her eyes from smiling, the twitching corners of her mouth. Her eyes. Her big, searching eyes that seem to look into him and through him at the same time. He’s startled out of his staring by her blinking and looking away. She does that sometimes, breaking eye contact that she herself starts. But she has too. Because if she looks at him for too long, she feels a pain start to rise up inside of her chest and settle between her lungs. “What?” she asks, looking back at him. “Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. It’s a lie, and they both know it. His head is so full that he fears the weight of it will crush him. She can see that weight and how it has settled into his shoulders and seeped into his bones. She’s pointed it out to him before. How she could see this weight holding down his very soul. It scared him that she could see it when he himself had tried so hard to pretend it wasn’t there. He avoided her for a bit after that. Right now, she could see he was being weighed down by words he couldn’t bring himself to say. She wants to reach out to him but again, she stops herself. There were many conversations they never had. The ghosts of them hung in the air around their heads, teasing their minds with the possibility of events that couldn’t or wouldn’t occur. Both of them were too incapable of using the words that they had to say, what they were truly thinking. To themselves--in the privacy of their own minds--they could guess, or make things up, but the silence, that constant thing that sat between them on the couch, that watched them, mouth open and ready to drown them out with its screams. The silence was deafening. It drowned them. She felt like it was suffocating her. He felt like it was boiling him from the inside. “Please,” she says, forcing herself to smile, hoping he will read it as teasing. The ‘please’ says much more than one word can. It says, “talk to me,” and “I don’t understand you,” and “I think I love you.” He doesn’t hear any of it. “It’s nothing,” he says, smiling back, but he can see through the cracks of her face that she’s begging, that she needs him to talk. But he can’t. So, he doesn’t. He misses the whispering of the words not said as they brush past his ears, completely unaware yet still, somehow, feeling their loss. He feels it in his chest, a pain that is familiar, that originally came from a different source. He doesn’t recognize it as heartbreak this time so that isn’t what he thinks it is. Still, he rubs at his chest and waves off the question he knew she was about to ask. “We always do this,” she says, leaning away from him to put some distance between them, because being this close to him makes her skin ache in a way that reminds her of being ill. “I know, you’re right.” And he laughs, because it is funny, but it’s only funny because it’s sad. He’ll leave her soon. And when he does, he will be weighed down further with the regret of not saying any of the things he planned to. And she will turn off the lights and lay in the dark. And she will cry, because that’s the only way she can empty herself of the feelings that he creates inside of her. Neither of them is aware of what the other is feeling. Neither of them will ever know. Dear Sam, I wrote this when I was twenty and so desperate for you to look at me the way you did the first, second, and third time you kissed me. There was something about your eyes then, that made me believe you would look at me forever. I wanted you to. Now the memories are fading, and I can’t remember what your hand felt like in mine or how the timid way you kissed me felt. I can’t remember your laugh or how you lit up over a topic that interested you. The fading of these memories does not dull the pain of losing you. It only makes it sharper. I imagined saying goodbye to you a thousand and one ways. I knew it would come, sooner rather than later. I had to leave, and you had to stay but this was going to be more than your standard moving away goodbye. The permanence of it was on the tip of my tongue. I was afraid to do it, but it had to be done. Not for your sake, but my own. You see, I thought if I said goodbye it would add a period, a proper “The End” to our story. Let’s face it, everything is a metaphor to me. It’s the way I understand the world around me. I needed to finish you in order to begin a much happier sequel. I imagined phone calls where you would answer the phone all surprised to hear from me. You would say, “Hey! How are you?” And I would pause to collect myself because hearing your voice would make me feel like I was about to cross the ocean in a canoe. I would fail to fake the composure I needed, and I would blurt out, “I’m leaving.” And I would start to cry. Softly. You wouldn’t notice. Or you would, but you wouldn’t mention it. Because you were decent like that. “When?” You would ask, bewildered because you weren’t expecting that. Of all the things--me asking you to dinner, again, or just wanting to say ‘hi’-- ‘goodbye’ would leave you floored. “Tomorrow,” I would say, having to wipe my nose with my sleeve. It runs easily, you would know, in theory. I could’ve called you sooner, but I wait until the day before to shock you. To make you panic. To force you to realize what you’re about to lose. And all you would say is, “Oh.” Because you don’t use your words. You lock them inside of your brain and you don’t share them with anyone. Me, my words spill out of me so much that I have to keep diaries and journals and Word Documents to collect the ones that escape. I used to say I spoke enough for the both of us. You prove that is still true. We would be silent for a moment, waiting for the other to speak. I would, taking my cue, say, “I just wanted to say goodbye, if that’s alright.” I don’t know what you would say back. I’ve made up scenarios to help me sleep at night. But they are wildly inauthentic. Because they aren’t really coming from you. And if they aren’t coming from you then what’s the point? I’m deceiving myself. That’s the point. I’m pulling at loose threads, searching for something deep down I know isn’t there. Hoping, praying, begging--mutely, silent. Because these are all the words I never said. Couldn’t say. Because I had no right to. And I wouldn’t force that on you. I don’t ask for things. It’s a well-known characteristic of mine. I love you, but I will never tell you. I need you, but I will never ask you to ask me stay. I want you, but I know you’ll never chose me. So, I’ll save us both the embarrassment by keeping my mouth shut. Dear Diary, It starts to hurt less, after a while. The pain. It dulls from a throb, to an ache, to a soft pulse. It’s still there; but don’t think it will just leave one day. Don’t think that you’ll wake up free. No. It will just hurt less. Dear Diary Sometimes, things just don’t go according to plan. Mistakes are made. Things are done with good intentions, or bad. There are misunderstandings the size of mountains and words said without any meaning behind them--these can be good and bad as well, based solely on context and whether or not you’re actually paying attention when they are said. Feelings are hurt. No one apologizes when they should, even when asked. People are left behind--usually in pieces. You grieve. You grieve for however long it takes. You don’t eat. You don’t sleep. You call your best friend and cry because your body can’t produce the right string of words to describe how that knot in your chest won’t go away. How it throbs at night when you’re all alone--so, so alone. You take long showers--sitting down--that eventually go cold. You smile like everything is just fine when you are around people who don’t know. Who were never informed. Who you will never explain anything to because of the overwhelming shame of your own stupidity. Internally, you’re screaming. You’re screaming so much it becomes its own form of white noise in your mind. Every moment of your passing days begins to resemble a checklist. Don’t snooze your alarm. Brush your teeth. Think about eating breakfast. Settle for coffee. Make it strong. Get dressed. Catch the bus if you have to. Thank the driver when you get on and off. Go to class. Or work. Or wherever it is you need to be. It doesn’t matter what it is, just get there. Think about eating lunch. Drink water and have some yogurt instead. Go home. Cook dinner. Even if it’s instant mac n’ cheese. Talk to a friend if you can. Cry. Cry and cry and cry. Watch something that you enjoy. Something on YouTube or TV or Netflix. Anything that you can draw some kind of joy from. Go to bed. Even if you’re just lying there in the dark for hours until the sun starts to come back up again. Repeat the list until it becomes a habit. And don’t be mad at yourself if it takes “too long.” There’s no such thing as taking too long to heal. A wound is a wound is a wound. Sometimes you have a good wallow for a day. Or two. Or five. Other times you go to dive bars with friends to watch them sing karaoke while you struggle to drink a beer you don’t even like. That knot in your chest, that all over pain that seems to be holding you down against the floor, it will fade. Slowly. Count the days until it does if you have to. Mine took 119.


At ninety-two years old, Herman Barrett had been through a hell of a lot in his life, and complained about it a hell of a lot more. In his mind, however, he’d earned that right. Those kids today, those yuppies, those whippersnappers, just didn’t know how good they had it. The things his generation had gone through to give them the cushy, oversaturated lives they blasted shamelessly over the internet. He’d make sure they knew it though. Darn sure. Herman was born on the cusp of the Great Depression. His father slaved away in a rubber factory to put food on the table of their ramshackle apartment, earning a fatal cancer as an end-of-year bonus. By the time Herman finished high school, he faced death himself, serving in a little thing called WWII. Barely able to fend off his local bullies, he was placed against the might of the Jerry army, promptly wounded when he misfired his own artillery shell. He woke up screaming on the boat back across the Atlantic, his searing side loaded with shrapnel. The war hadn’t been all bad though. Without it, he wouldn’t have been forced to recover in that dreary Toronto hospital, his bedpan emptied by a pretty nurse named Cordelia Robbins. Once he’d been deemed ‘healed enough’ to leave, he took the opportunity to marry her. Though he wanted to stay in the city, times were tough, so they left for Cordelia’s sleepy hometown of Day’s End, where he could work in her father’s metal shop. They moved into a small two-floor home on the corner of Swindon and Bristol, where they spent some seventy-odd years together. There they raised three boys and a host of dogs, celebrated birthdays, anniversaries, Christmases- a barrage of happy memories. Times had changed though. They’d certainly changed. Now Cordelia resided in a brass urn on the mantle, and Herman’s only regular human contact was with Juanita, the caregiver his eldest son hired to maintain his fragile longevity. Herman had convinced himself that Juanita was more for his son’s peace of mind than his own wellbeing. At the very least, her daily visits meant that he didn’t have to be locked up in a home- he’d take a second load of shrapnel before he let that happen. Currently, Herman was seated at his kitchen table. He was flanked by the usual fare- orange pill cups and bowls with hardened-on oatmeal residue. Juanita was across from him, watching the blood pressure monitor that gripped his forearm like a chain. “Hold still” she instructed, voice professional despite her shrinking patience. “This is stupid!” Herman spat back. “Thing’s so tight it’s gonna chop my arm off!” Juanita rolled her eyes as the rubber cuff swelled, the gauge arrow rocking side-to-side until it finally settled on a reading. “One-forty-five, Mr. Barrett. Still high” she reported disapprovingly. “You need to lay off the cupcakes.” “What cupcakes?” Herman asked, brushing a rogue sprinkle from the tablecloth. His caregiver sighed heavily, pulling off the monitor with a crackle of Velcro. She placed it in a bulging grey case of what Herman saw as further instruments of torture. “Are we about done?” he grumbled. “The Wendigos are on at 2. Although a lot of players have stupid hair nowadays, you ever notice that? What happened to just a nice, short Sunday cut? Now you’ve got mohawks and dreadlocks and hipster beards and all this crap.” “You still need to do your exercises.” “Exercises?!” Herman gasped. “Oh no, I’ve got things to do. Important things. The exercises can wait. I’ll just double it up tomorrow.” Juanita frowned. “No arguments, Mr. Barrett. This is your health we’re talking about. You refuse to use a walker, so your legs need to be in tip-top condition.” She always said that. *Tip-top*. It drove Herman insane. Juanita lifted a rolled-up mat from her bottomless chest of supplies. “I’ll get this set up. You just stay here and relax...and that means *stay*.” She flicked on a nearby radio, the Glenn Miller Orchestra swelling from nothingness. Herman scowled, watching as Juanita disappeared from the kitchen. He didn’t *mind* her company, truth be told. She was someone to speak to. Someone who would listen to his long, meandering stories. But she was certainly no Cordelia. Cordelia wouldn’t have forced him to do exercises or have his blood pressure taken or swallow pills the size of his head. She would’ve wrapped her arms lovingly around him from behind, whispered sweet nothings in his ear, her red locks brushing the side of his face. She certainly wouldn’t have made him stay in any one spot, that was for sure. Gripping the chair-back, Herman hoisted himself up, vertebrae cracking like pistol shots. He’d been warned not to move too much on his own, especially up and down the stairs. One morning Juanita arrived to find him lying sideways by the bottom step, hip bone jutting out like a dorsal fin. He was admittedly not as swift as he used to be, but an old war wound plus being almost a hundred basically guaranteed that. He headed defiantly to the den, with a stride resembling Frankenstein’s monster. Rather than a cane or walker (“what do you think I am, some kind of old man?!”), Herman had set up an elaborate trail of chairs throughout the main floor of the house, allowing him to grapple his way around. It also gave him quick places to rest, which he needed every few feet. He was already out of breath by the time his slippers sunk into the den carpet, the Orchestra but a muffle of brass. He collapsed into his favourite armchair, a thin sunbeam slipping through the musty drapes. The chair had been there over fifty years now and, though stuffing burst from the seams and it groaned and creaked just as much as he did, to Herman it was the most comfortable thing in the world. It also gave him a perfect view of the fireplace, the inside blackened with soot from blazes long ago. The mantle was covered in old volumes and trinkets, his wife’s urn resting in the centre, on eternal guard over the house she once kept. Beside it was a yellowed photo of the couple from the day they’d moved in, standing on the front lawn over a wooden “SOLD!” sign. His arm was around her, their sparkling ’46 Ford in the driveway. Looking into his own younger eyes, Herman saw himself as almost handsome. He had thick black hair rather than the grey weeds that now sprouted from his scalp. His skin was clear instead of liver-spotted, he stood tall and at attention rather than hunched over like Quasimodo. Cordelia looked even better, though she always had. Despite the black-and-white of the image, he could still see her fiery red hair, the blue of her eyes, the smear of pink on her lips. He could hear her laughing as she told her father to keep the Kodak steady, the smell of wet paint wafting from the new garden fence. “Mr. Barrett!” echoed Juanita’s voice, interrupting his memories. Herman grumbled. Maybe if he pretended to be dead she’d leave him alone. However, his caregiver was already leaning in the doorway, wearing an arm brace. “What are you doing in here? The sooner we start, the sooner we finish. You know that.” He took a longing glance at the photograph. A young Cordelia was smiling at him. “Fine” Herman murmured. It was best not to argue with the woman who controlled his medication. Hoisting himself out of the armchair, he ignored Juanita’s outstretched arm for support and headed down the hall, using seatbacks like stationary crutches. He soon arrived, gasping for oxygen, in what had been a rec-room in its infancy, when the boys were growing up. Back then it was home to a train set and a ping pong table. Once they went off to school, Cordelia transformed it into Herman’s gently-used office. Now it was filled with junk. Towers of cardboard boxes lined the walls, nearly blotting out the overhead light, each crammed to the brim with mementos from ninety-two years of life. The old ping pong table hid behind it all, cobwebs strung from the legs like a second netting. When Herman did bite the big one, his sons were going to have a terrible time sorting through it all. It brought a wry smile to his face. “Alright, Mr. Barrett, easy does it.” He groaned as Juanita slowly lowered him onto the rubber mat, laid out on the dusty tile. He was on his back, as helpless as a turtle, staring up at the plaster ceiling. Juanita tightened her arm brace and rolled up the hem of his corduroy pantleg, exposing a near-skeletal limb. She slowly stretched it upward, trying to combat the stiffness, knowing what was coming. The leg had been raised barely five degrees when Herman started barking in agony. “That’s enough! That’s enough!” As his face contorted, Juanita gently returned the leg to a resting position. The left was always more tender, though probably not as gut-wrenchingly painful as Herman made it out to be. Ignoring him, she went to work on the right. “So, I was speaking with Charlie this morning...” she reported. Charlie was Herman’s eldest son, now a senior himself- he was also the one who paid her to routinely torture him. He had escaped Day’s End for the city the day he turned eighteen, a lifetime ago. “He said you need to finish the final draft of your will.” “Isn’t that some punk lawyer’s job?” “You still have to write it. Charlie just wants to make sure that all your...assets” she glanced around at the looming boxes “...end up where you want them to, and not an estate sale.” “Estate sale? They’ll have to pry this stuff from my cold dead....” Herman clenched his teeth as Juanita gave his leg another jolt. She’d learned how to shut him up when she had to. “He also suggested you leave something to charity. Maybe the Salvation Army?” “Not that thieving cult.” “Well, think about it then. It’d be nice to leave a legacy.” As he stewed over the thought of his will, she suddenly wrenched his leg up a full ten degrees. Herman screamed. “Stop it! Are you trying to kill me woman?! You’re fired! You’re fired!” Juanita let go of the leg, and it flopped to the mat with dead weight. She knew her job was stable- Charlie had assured her as much, no matter what his father said. Herman ‘fired’ her at least once a week. “I can tell you’re tense, Mr. Barrett. Why don’t you try some of those stretches I gave you in your chair tonight, and we’ll give it a second shot tomorrow? *Tip-top*?” Herman sighed. “*Tip-top*.” Juanita smiled weakly, sympathetically, and gathered her equipment. Herman stomped back to the den, and simmered in his armchair until he heard her car back out the messily-paved driveway. Then the silence of the house overtook him. \*\*\* Slowly, Herman hobbled out onto the front porch, a steaming TV dinner in his unstable hand. He wasn’t sure what it was- beef, maybe chicken- but Juanita had left a whole pile of them in the freezer. Must’ve been on sale at Costco. Keeping his free hand on the doorway, he lowered himself into the plastic chair that lounged atop the steps, bordered by a rusted railing. He heard a small crack extend beneath his weight, and prayed he wouldn’t fall through. However, he needed a change from the drab interior of the house, and from the ghosts that lingered there. The front porch was the furthest he could go without needing another new hip. The summer street stretched out before him. It was a row of near-identical suburban bungalows, bathed in the shade of maples and ashes. Sprinklers waved lazily across blooming lawns, catching the late afternoon light. The tire swing across the street twisted in the breeze, and from nearby yards he could hear dogs barking, underscored by the rumble of a distant passing train. A car hummed by- it wasn’t a ’46 Ford, but an ’18 Toyota. Day’s End was picturesque, sure, he couldn’t deny that. Perfect small-town Ontario. But it wasn’t his. It was Cordelia’s. He preferred the facelessness of the big city, while this community- a *damn commune* as he labelled it during their rare spousal arguments- was all hers. Whenever they used to sit out on that very same porch together, as afternoon melted into evening and evening faded into night, she would strike up conversations with whoever passed by- the dogwalkers, the mailman, the mothers bringing their children home from school. They all greeted her with an enthusiastic “Hello Mrs. Barrett!”, as if Herman was just part of the scenery. She gushed as though each was her own child, asking them about their day, their feelings, their cousin’s wedding, everything. Even during Cordelia’s last days, people from all over town brought cards and flowers and homemade chicken soup to try to cheer her up. They were always surprised when Herman answered the door, as if expecting Cordelia to leap out of her bedridden, near-death state to come greet them- which she certainly would’ve, had she been able. When she finally passed, people stopped visiting. Stopped coming to converse. Herman was a pariah, the eternal outsider. He had always wanted to leave- he was a city boy after all. But getting his wife to pack up and move would’ve been like wrenching a child from its parents’ arms. Although he was now ‘free’ (he hated saying things like that), he was long past his expiry date in being able to set up a life elsewhere. So he would die in Day’s End, he assumed, in Cordelia’s shadow. His own passing wouldn’t be the local tragedy that hers was- people would only remark, “oh, the house on Swindon and Bristol is up for sale”. The only prevalent reminder of what had once been was a wooden sign staked in the dirt of the front garden, declaring ‘*Two Old Crows Live Here*’. Cordelia had seen it at the garden centre shortly before Herman’s ninetieth, and thought it was cute. The One Old Crow hadn’t gotten the nerve to remove it. The One Old Crow disliked Day’s End. He took a deep groan when, suddenly, a foam projectile flew from nowhere. It bounced off the porch railing, careened off the chipped doorway, and knocked the TV dinner from Herman’s hands. It splattered to the floor, trails of meat juice making their escape from the plastic tray. “Ah! Look what you made me do!” Herman shouted, despite having no idea what happened. “I’m...I’m sorry mister.” Herman turned his head. The voice had come from the young boy next door, standing on the lawn at the edge of the Barrett property. He was six or so, with hair like a mop and a t-shirt with the logo of a rock band he was much too young for. *Everything wrong with today’s Day’s End*, Herman thought. The kid’s Nerf football sat in the remains of the TV dinner, smeared with gravy and mashed potatoes, slowly shuddering as it came to a rest. “I’m sorry” the boy said again. Herman was about to lay into him, when the thought of Cordelia gave him atypical restraint. “No, it’s...fine” he muttered absent-mindedly. He prepared to hoist himself up, intent on grabbing another dinner, when he noticed the boy was still staring at him, wide-eyed. “What do you want?” “You’re so...” the boy said slowly, as if knowing his comment was inappropriate, but not being able to put his finger on why. “...old.” Herman was slightly stunned. “You bet your butt” he muttered, almost out of nowhere. He nearly said a different word, but maintained his restraint. It was just a kid, after all. “Why do you walk so funny?” the boy asked. It was the type of question only acceptable when it came from the mouth of a child. Herman had seen this particular child before, running around his front yard screaming, playing with his football, forcing Herman to crank up his radio inside. It struck him that he had no idea what the boy’s name was. “I was hurt in a war.” If he was going to answer the kid, he might as well make it interesting. “A war!?” the boy exclaimed, his jaw nearly striking the grass. The inevitable question came next. “Did you ever kill anyone?!” Herman frowned. The closest person he’d come to killing was himself. But the kid didn’t need to know that. “Oh yeah, a *lot* of people. Tons of bad guys. I once had Hitler himself in my sights.” The boy probably had no idea who Hitler was (Herman doubted the town’s education system), but it blew him away nonetheless. “That’s so cool!” he gasped. “Then what happened?!” What did happen? He met Cordelia, moved to Day’s End, had some kids, grew older and crankier. Then he thought of something the boy might like. “I worked at a metal shop. Made all kinds of stuff. I got to use a blowtorch.” That was enough to send the kid spiralling into awe. Herman felt awfully good about himself. Maybe his young neighbour was more curious than he assumed. “Ryder!” called a woman’s voice from the screen door of the adjacent house. The boy glanced over his shoulder. “I gotta go. Suppertime.” Herman was about to nod his head goodbye when he felt a...strange sentiment. “If you ever want to hear some more of my stories, you come back to my porch at anytime, you hear? I can tell you about the time I sailed across the ocean.” He quickly added, “as long as your mother says it’s okay.” The kid lit up. “I will mister!” “Herman. My name’s Herman.” “I will Mr. Herman!” Herman leaned down and lifted the football, wiping off the gravy with his handkerchief. “Go long!” he exclaimed. The boy, in fact, had to rush forward to catch it, but caught it all the same. At least he was still playing outside, Herman thought. He wasn’t one of those drone kids he pictured, glued to the screen of some iThing like a B-movie zombie. Herman watched the kid run off with the energy he wished he still possessed, bounding over the toys scattered across the lawn. The One Old Crow smiled. “See you soon.” \*\*\* “Mr. Barrett!” Juanita called out, her keys fumbling in Herman’s lock. “Mr. Barrett, are you awake?” The door creaked open, and she kicked off her shoes. The house was eerily silent, as if completely abandoned. Juanita hated mornings like this. It was just like the one where she found the old man lying at the base of the stairs, comatose in pain from his shattered hip. On one hand, he could be fine, gently napping in bed. Or there could be something horribly wrong. She walked up the thin, carpeted entryway and turned into the den, worried by what she might find. The scene, however, appeared relatively...peaceful. Herman was lying in his favourite armchair, feet up on the ottoman, slippers pointed towards the ceiling. A NASCAR race blared from the static-y TV, the rapid colour flashes reflected in his reading glasses, which drooped low on his nose. At first Juanita began crossing herself, thinking he was dead, but then she noticed the slow rise of his chest beneath the wool sweater. Herman gave a snort-like snore, turning his head side-to-side as if troubled by whatever he was dreaming about. The war, maybe. Juanita walked over and switched off the TV, plunging the house into total silence. Admittedly thankful that she wouldn’t have to put up with an *awake* Herman for the time being, she tip-toed into the kitchen to set his pills for the day on the counter. That’s when she noticed a printed document lying casually on the tablecloth, beneath an antique lamp. Its letters were blocky and all capitalized, as if drafted on a typewriter. She felt a wave of surprise at the title stenciled across the front- *Last Will and Testimony of Herman Barrett*. Feeling almost voyeuristic, she began flicking through the still-warm pages, hole-punched and bound together by a thick paperclip. She reached a section labelled ‘Endowments’. Herman’s physical and financial holdings were to be split three-ways between his sons, with Charlie gaining ownership of the house. She was surprised to see her own name listed, as the lucky recipient of his wife’s old clothes and belongings, still jammed in boxes in the spare room. *Typical Herman*, she thought. She was probably the only other woman he knew. However, Juanita was most astonished by the last item listed. It was a significant financial endowment, made out to the town of Day’s End. Herman had scribbled beneath it in red ink: *For Cordelia*.


Ned lives in Dusk Island, Australia. He thought he was a superhero. It ruined his normal life, and turned it around and around, until it became a withered heap of nothing. One boring rainy night Ned ducked under his small splintery wooden framed door. *Today something fun will happen.* He thought. He had just read a book about superheroes. He had liked it so much, that he had wanted to become one. *I’ll be super Ned!* He thought as he skipped across the cool damp lawn. It was lit by a faint tall lamp post that stood by the beaten road. He sloshed across the lawn with his wet leather shoes. He thought leather was cool. Infact, he thought it was so cool, his whole outfit was made of it. He was outside at nighttime, because he had wanted to catch a criminal. He should have known it wouldn’t work. He ran across the wet pavement, his leather shoes thumping on the beaten pavement. He ran all around until he reached a bridge. This bridge stretched across the ocean. It led to Sydney. He could see the tall skyscrapers up in the sky. The Sydney Opera House lit up the dark sky. The moon was covered up by thick wet clouds. He came to the end of the bridge. Then he ducked under the toll booth. He ran through the loud city, looking for crime. He ran all around the city. His lungs felt like they were on fire. He wad hurting all over. His skinny body was not used to such exercise. He sat on a bench next to an old man. He instantly felt better. The old man was leaning on a small tin trash can next to the bench. He looked pretty bad. *Bad as in crime.* Ned thought. Ned sat next to him and waited for the man to do some crime. He sat there. He waited a couple minutes, then he looked at his clanky old watch. It was midnight. Time for crime. Ned’s back was pressed against the cold metal bench. He was waiting still. The old man croaked, “Whatcha doing?” “What??,” said Ned the old man had surprised him. “Oh! Uhhh... Nothing!!” The old man cracked a smile. His yellow teeth were coated with plague. He smelled like cigarettes. Ned ran behind some nearby bushes. His leather shoes were soaked from the cold wet grass. He had to wait for the crime to happen. The old man had to be alone. After about five minutes of waiting, he saw the old man walk into a jewelry store. *Old men don’t go to jewelry stores at night!* Ned thought. The old man walked out. An alarm was sounding. Ned ran over to the man. The old man bashed him across the forehead, and walked home, back to his house. His home he had owned for years. The one with the small splintery wooden doorway. The one with the beaten road beside it.