I once met this real oddball, can’t remember her name for the life of me, but man was she odd, really. She said her dreams come true, but these weren’t any ordinary dreams, like running into an old friend and then bam, the next day you’re walking down the street and there they are buying a cup of coffee at one of those breakfast food trucks. No nothing like that. She said the clouds spoke to her, not in any sort of language, but that they told her the future in the way they moved. She was such a weird one that one. I haven’t heard from her in years. The last she told me was that she had a dream about a man, a man I was to hear from. I can’t quite remember what this man did or who he was but that he would come into my life. That’s the last I heard from her. I’ve been trying to write lately. I’m working on my collection of short stories, this one story is about this tree, in the forest of fire--not that the forest is made of fire or anything like that, it’s just what the forest is called I’m not sure what will happen there yet but I had a dream once I was in the middle of the woods and the trees around me were all burning. I’m not sure if they have any significance in reality, but it’s where I got the name of this location--the forest of fire. That night, after sitting in front of my laptop, a partially blank screen and all three words, “forest of fire”, I decided to call it a night. I didn’t sleep much though it was one of those shallow sleeps where I tossed and turned and I had dream after dream. I needed water my mouth was so dry I got my glass and returned to bed I have a strange fascination with Christmas lights so my ceiling is filled with them I put them on stared at them until my eyes flickered closed for the night. I had dreamt about that fire again. The trees were really hot and glistened so beautifully, I had almost touched one. I couldn’t get my head wrapped around that real oddball--what was her name? She said I’ll meet a man, who won’t understand me. I laughed and asked which one? I need to write today. I have to get some writing done today. But that damn dream is bugging me and that woman. What was her name? She said it’s in the clouds if you look real close that there’s your future. So three words-- forest of fire--staring at me. Shouting, “got anything else?” But I resorted back to the pillow. Maybe, the dream will continue, give me more of a storyline or tell me that damn woman’s name. That’s when I saw her, standing, in a room, it looked like an office of some sort. It had a bookcase and a desk and she was standing in the room and all of a sudden the walls started to crack and pieces of plaster and wood began crumbling. The walls were coming down and there were the damn trees with the damn burning leaves that damn woman what a real odd one she said he’ll take it away. What was it that he’ll take away? I can’t remember for the life of me. She was so peculiar this woman. Green, red, blue, yellow, and orange, flash on top of me. I sat behind my laptop. Hand on the keyboard. Fire. Forest. Dancing. Who? Who is dancing? What was it she told me? Watch them float, she said. They change, they’re always changing, she said. The clouds. So strange, she said, the future is so strange, but watch it pass you by. It’s all around us. Look for it. So I closed my eyes and tried looking once more. There she was, watching the flames or was it me? I couldn’t differentiate the two. But she was there and so was the damn forest. It was all burning now the leaves. She said watch the clouds but when I looked up there wasn’t a cloud in the damn sky. There were only lights. Red green blue orange and yellow. Lights, above me. And then I opened my eyes. So bizarre, that woman. She saw it, in the way they moved. But all I saw were those damn Christmas lights. So I took them down. Those lights. I wanted to see the clouds. But when I closed my eyes once more, it was too late. I needed to write. I really have to get some writing done. So back in front of the laptop I sat and wrote “That real oddball.” Yeah but how can I talk about ole oddball if I couldn’t even remember her name. For the life of me I couldn't damn near remember. But she saw. Those damn clouds. She said she saw it. That they spoke to her. But I never looked up. I didn’t see. Maybe it was one of those damn clear days. When it’s just one of those days you couldn’t spot one damn cloud in the sky. How odd she was, really. She saw it in the clouds, the future and could see it in her dreams. She said they came true. But how am I supposed to write about oddball when that damn forest keeps haunting me. Not that the forest is haunting. It’s just on fire. Not sure if it has anything to do with that real oddball. But I decided maybe I’ll see it in the clouds too. What with all the lights taken down. I’ll see it tonight. If I closed my eyes maybe I’ll see and then I’d write. But remember that man. What’d she say, that he’ll take it away? What was it that he’ll take away? She said that I’ll lose it. How odd. So I closed my eyes and there I was in that room again. I thought for a second I was with ole oddball. But then the roof started cracking as if peeling away so that you could see the sky. And then right next to me I thought I saw the reflection of that real odd one. For a second I thought I got a glimpse and then I saw she was standing there I saw her. She stood right in front of me. You’re real odd she said. Look up she said. I saw the clouds. The leafy flutter of fire amongst the trees. I got up. I had to write. So I wrote and wrote until I finished. And then there it was. That story. I finished. Called it “Oddball”. It was in the clouds. I could see it in the clouds. If you look real close. You could see it--the future. It told me in the clouds and my dreams almost always come true. The stack of paper with the word “Oddball” staring at me. Haunting me. Not that I was scared I just couldn’t look away. I thought the best thing to do was burn it. I had to burn it. So I wouldn’t have to see ole oddball staring at me. My damn dreams come true. And that man, he did take it. I saw it in the clouds. But you ever like those clear days. You know in the sky when it’s one of those damn near clear days with no clouds in the sky. So I burned it. Because I saw it in the dreams. I burned the story. So I wouldn’t see “Oddball” staring at me. I burned it and decided to lay down. I saw the Christmas lights on the floor and put them up on the ceiling. I wanted to see the lights tonight. Red, green, blue, yellow and orange bouncing across the walls. That real odd one staring at me. Reflecting off each bulb. She is such an odd one that one.


The door was always locked. It was not supposed to be open. Rumors say that whoever went in never came back. I stood in the empty hallway, the air heavy with dust and sweat, my heart racing. It's okay; You're going to be okay. I stared up at the cracked, wooden door, its white paint peeling away. The knob was cracked, with a big silver lock attached to it. "Excuse me?" I snapped my head in the direction of the voice. A tall man, I would guess anywhere more than 6 feet tall, stood behind me. His eyes printed the word danger, and he wore a black t-shirt and vest, with security printed at the front and black jeans with brown army boots. His breath was foul and smelled like cigarettes. A deep, red scar ripped through his eyebrow down to the top of his eye. A bush of dark curls was hidden underneath his black baseball cap. We faced each other like soldiers, still and firm. But then I took a step back, fearful. "So?" I turned around and ran, the sound of my footsteps echoing against the plain white walls. My hair flew behind me as I sprinted towards the exit. The guard didn't come after me, and when I looked back, the only sight was the door, surrounded by sad, empty walls. As soon as I made it outside, I gasped for air. It was dark, and a blanket of stars pelted the night sky. The wind howls loudly, carrying the scent of rain off the trees and sidewalk. I trudged down the street warily. Streetlamps flickered, casting dim lights on the dark road. No one knew what had happened to our town. People started disappearing every year. They believed that the door had some way of attracting you towards it, like controlling your mind. Every year one person vanishes at night and is never seen again in the morning. Ever since it started happening, no one went outside much besides those who had jobs and needed to make money. Curfew was at 11 p.m; for everyone in the town because those who opened the doors ghosts would come and haunt us unless we found shelter in our homes. I carefully walked up the old, broken steps of the wooden porch and opened the door of my tiny home. It creaked loudly, interrupting the silence. The lights were already off beside the faint glow of the digital clock, flashing at 10:53, just in time. I crept across the stained carpet, a cloud of dust forming with each step I took. Laying down on my torn couch, the horrible stench of sweat and filth filled my nostrils. The broken windows couldn't keep the cold wind out of my shed, causing me to shiver. Suddenly, I heard a click. I jumped down and pulled out a knife from under the couch. Then, another click. The air became still and silent, and my heart started pounding against my chest. "Who's there?" Click. The wind howled, and the curtains swayed, causing the moonlight to flood into the room. I peered out the window, carefully holding the knife by my side. Something brushed my shoulder. I spun around, startled. The space was empty. I started feeling dizzy, and it was hard to breathe. I gasped for air, grabbing the couch for support. I felt like something was controlling me. Raspy voices screamed at me inside of my head, repeating "The door" again and again. I tried to snap myself awake, but then it was all over. There I was, in the middle of my shed, everything the same. The digital clock now flashed 11:01 in bright red digits. The couch still stank, and the carpet was still stained. The kitchen faucet still leaked, causing drops of water to fall against the steel sink every 5 seconds. I walked towards the door of my shack, dragging my fingers against the peeled wall. I pushed the door open, and it let out another screech. I pulled up my hood over my head and ran. As soon as I left, I felt like people were watching me. I ran down the street. When I got to a tall, rectangular building made out of glass, I walked around the perimeter to find a way in. There was no way in, so I picked up a smooth, flat stone and chucked it at a window. The alarm went off as I ran through it. Red sirens flashed in the corridor of the building. I ran to the locked door, unable to hide my desperation to open it. I banged on the door, more and more paint peeling off. I screamed in frustration as I continued kicking the door. It finally opened. I walked in, the darkness swallowing me. "Hello?" I yelled; the dreadful walls called back with a loud echo causing me to shiver. I cautiously walked step after step into the never-ending blackness. The only sound was the squeak of my shoes against the slimy, wet floor. I saw the light ahead of me and wandered towards it. There was a tall, gray gate with orange patches of rust on it. It was locked, but across it was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. There was a continuous field of green grass with a striking blue lake. Tall mountains stood high in the sky, their peaks hidden behind the white fluffy clouds. The bright sun shone down all over the happy people. It looked like what the world used to be, as the perfect slice of pumpkin pie on a fall evening. I wanted to cross the gate badly. I watched miserably, still clinging on to the gate. "Help!" I yelled, tears in my eyes. I hopelessly stared far away. I shouted, knowing no one was going to help me. I couldn't turn back, though. "Please!" I cried out as loud as I could. Out of all the people, no one could hear me. I dropped onto my knees, sobbing. It was all useless. When it's dark, the light helps us. But the light isn't always able to hear us call for help.


We’d talked about it for months, despite the pandemic, despite everything. Over the years we’ve had hundreds of plans and promises. We keep saying that when the borders open back up, we’ll visit Canada together. We always tell each other that we’re going to drive across America and live out of our cars. We’re going to become bestselling authors and travel the world. We’ll be the greatest comedic double act the world’s ever seen. It’s nice, when you’re people like us, to believe in a future, any future. But our small lives, our day-to-day existence, offer real substance to those dreams. No, we aren’t the characters in the John Green novels we ruthlessly tear apart, but on an unseasonably warm December weekend, we can put on ripped jeans and band tees and grab our skateboards, and we can do our best not to fall, and we can laugh at each other, and days like this are enough to keep us fed. Last summer we stayed out of our houses as much as we dared, trying to get a breath of that freedom we had found in our first year of college. I would drive out to see her almost daily, making my way down the hills and into the valley in the late afternoons when the sun would be low and golden, and the bushes and leaves would overwhelm the roadside and tumble out onto the street. I’d pick her up at her house behind the near-vacant strip mall, where the train tracks ran right through and on, past the High School we went to together. Sometimes, when I slowed down to drive over the train crossing on my way to see her, I’d remember my brother’s face when he first learned that his friend had died on those tracks. Two kids were hit by the train in the four years we went to that school. I’d wait for her in the driveway and watch the feral cats run back and forth in the street, and listen inanely while the couple across the street shouted at each other, at their kids, at their dogs. She’d climb into my car and we would turn right around, back into the countryside, blaring bad music and laughing at our lives. We often found ourselves at the Overlook, where the gliders are towed off and into the warm updrafts that rise from the valley. It’s one of the highest hills in the area. There’s a large plateau and then a sharp cutoff into heavily forested cliffside that’s littered with plastic and crushed cans of Miller Lite. From here we could see our favorite part of town stretching far out below us. We would park my car and sit on the hard stone benches, looking out at the broad flat fields hundreds of feet down, while on the distant hills the red lights of the radio towers would get steadily brighter as the sky got dark. The valley had patches of bright and dark; the car park and the factory shone bright white, the bridge over the river was lit with gold, and underneath the water ran a satin silver-black. We could see car lights flashing through the trees on the hills across the valley, and fireflies blinking in the weeds in front of us. When it was time to leave, we’d pass the other visitors who sat in their cars, having sex, getting high and enjoying the view. Then we would get in and we would go. But sometimes we wanted a taste of civility, cuteness, and safety. We wanted to bask in the glow of wealth that the richer towns gave off, so instead of driving through those golden-green hills we would hop on the highway and follow the river down to civilization. Market Street, the Gaffer District, the Crystal City! A whole street lined with trees and golden string lights, home to shops that sold thousands of dollars worth of art and restaurants full of people who had just left their jobs at Headquarters. Even my parents, well-off engineers who work for the company, don’t have an office in that formidable glass building that stands beside the river, blocking little Market Street from the eyes of the rest of the world. I’d heard about it from them though. Apparently, the walls are lined with glass sculptures and the floor is decorated in mosaics of skeletons. It's made of windows but still feels dark, and its passages wound, snakelike, throughout the long, low building. I’m sure that I must have imagined some of that, though; every time I see it, I feel a shudder go down my spine. Millionaires work there, in those dark hallways, and for some reason that scares me enough to fuel my fearful imagination. My eyes never stay on Headquarters for long. We drive down Market Street, taking in the sites, enjoying every streetlight and every window. Then, we dine at the fanciest McDonald's in the area. It has electronic screens you can order from, watercolors of glass sculptures hanging on the walls, and a view of Market Street’s welcoming backside. All McDonald's have the same food and yet somehow, the fries are best there. Just a little saltier, just a little more greasy. It’s the perfect place for two bored teenagers with light pockets. One summer afternoon, I felt listless. I took her and we left the McDonald’s parking lot in search of something new. I had the feeling we were looking for something in particular, and I followed my instinct to the top of the hills that rise from the river that divides the wealthy side from the poor side. What we found was a playground. It was an adorable playground, made of wood. I’ve always had a soft spot for wooden playgrounds. They remind me of my hometown in the North Country, and so of course we stopped. When we looked closer we noticed the playground was a miniature version of Market Street. The museum, the clock tower, and the gaffer tower were all there in miniature, no taller than seven or eight feet at most. We adored it. Then we toured the surrounding area, where a flat, manmade field had been cut into the side of a very steep hill to make two smaller very steep hills. I knew what I had to do. I ran to the top while she sat in the field and watched me, laughing. I looked down and shouted that I wish I had brought my inhaler, and she shouted back that she wished she’d brought hers. I stood at the top and looked out at a new valley, one on the other side of our small world. Then I did what I always do on a good grassy hill and I rolled right down. We stayed at the playground for a long time, until the sun set and it got dark. We didn’t want to leave our little perch at the top of the world, but when we finally departed, we were in agreement: it would be a great place to sled. We left each other and our families for our second year of college, and our contact gently waned as it always does. The nights got steadily darker and colder, counting down the days until we would be home again. I stayed at school for as long as I could, dreading what I knew would be a silent and near-empty winter. I love the cold and I love snow, and I love clear winter skies and a blanket of darkness, but I don’t love being alone. I finally left my dorm late at night, listening to the same 11 songs on repeat as I drove down the highway. Soon after I got home, a snowstorm hit. I was delighted. I ran outside in the darkness and I threw myself into the snow, I built a tiny snowman, I rolled down the mountains of it we had piled up at the edges of our driveway, and when I got tired I lied down on my back and looked up at the night sky, listening to the snowflakes melting under me and imaging it was the sound of the stars. The next day, I woke up early and I sent her a text: "We did talk about sledding..." She responded, "Oooo yes", to which I replied, "This is gonna rock, I'll see you at McDonald's." We met in the parking lot and drove in a two car convoy up to the hills. The playground was overrun by families. School-aged kids were running up and down the hills and sliding all the way down, onto the frozen pavement of the parking lot. We didn’t dare put our adult-sized bodies on child-sized sleds and plow into a row of parked cars, so we made the voyage to the top of the second hill. It was steep. We are asthmatic. It was not easy. When we finally arrived at the top and had found a place suitably far from the children (to keep them safe from both our sleds and our colorful language), we took a second to catch our breath and look out again at the valley. The world had been transformed from the green summer landscape we remembered to the blue-greys of winter. The hills on the other side of the river were white with snow, and the leafless trees made them look cold and bare. We could follow their clear-lined edges all the way down into the town, where the houses looked dark under the white sky. The trees all around us were covered in snow, and seeing it gathered so perfectly on every branch sparked a million happy memories of wintertime in a town with a wooden playground hundreds of miles away. I don’t know exactly what she was thinking, but when I looked at her I knew she and I felt the same. We mounted our sleds and got ready. I admit I was scared. I had just recovered from a concussion and I didn’t want another any time soon. I sat perched on the most ridiculous sled I’ve ever seen. It was tiny, and shaped like a saddle with a black handle poking up from the center. It had a big decal number 8 on the side, which felt like a fast and dangerous number. I didn’t trust this little piece of plastic made for a third grader to keep me on, but I’d lent the regular sled to her. We decided I should go first, because we didn’t want to hit each other. I grabbed on to the handle with both hands and dug my heels into the snow. The hill was so steep. I mean it was really steep. I’d never sledded on a hill as steep, and in fact I hadn’t sledded at all in at least six years. I held on as tight as I could and pushed off, flying down the hill on my little red sled and engaging in a superb balancing act so as not to be thrown off. I broke through the soft layer of powder which was gently gathering and it was thrown up in my face, melting on my skin and dousing me in water. When I got to the bottom, I let myself fall off the sled and laid in the snow, laughing. She waited for me to climb all the way back up before she went. I sat beside her and watched as she got on to my old blue sled with its yellow pull rope. Like always, I was showering her in a constant stream of anecdotes and concerned safety warnings that she had learned years ago she didn’t need to pay attention to. She pressed her hands into the hillside and pushed off. She sped off down the hill and I saw the plume of powder hit her too, and leave a bright streak of snowfall in her wake. When she hit the base of the hill, the sled threw her off and she stayed where she was for a moment while I laughed from my little spot above her. We were there for a long time, but not as long as we would have liked. Our asthma had gotten the better of us, and soon enough, climbing the hill wasn’t worth the thrill of arriving at the bottom. I had started to throw myself down the hill on my stomach because I didn’t want to keep carrying the sled back up, and while it was surprisingly effective, my stamina quickly wore down. We elected to hold a final race down the hillside. I took the fastest of the three sleds, while she decided to take the slowest so that she was less likely to fall off. I had a minute of confusion about what to do with the third sled before she told me to push it down the hill before us, proving definitively that my year and a half of engineering education wasn’t as effective as I’d hoped. The seconds before the race were tense. I mounted my red steed with the practiced movements of someone who had been doing this for at least forty-five minutes. I gripped the handle and hunched over with the spirit of an Olympic cyclist. She scooted up beside me in her big blue sled and we agreed to countdown. I decided a French countdown would be the way to go, but after I mistakenly started in German, and at the number 1, I let her take control of the counting. Dix! Neuf! Huit! Sss-ssept! (It’s a good thing she had taken the lead on counting) Six! Cinq! Quatre! Trois! Duex! Un! Zero! And we were off! We rocketed down the hill. I leaned forward, feeling the ground under me rumble through the plastic underside of my wonderful vehicle. Woman and sled became one, and I urged us onward, my eyes fixed on the horizon, my body shifting to keep my weight center. The blue streak at my side disappeared from my peripheral. I heard a thump behind me and knew I had won, but I was going faster and further than I had all day, and I wanted to see just how far I could take it. I slid down the hill and across the field, never falling, and came to a natural, graceful stop somewhere in the middle. I looked at the edge of the field where the second hill which led into the parking lot started, and I felt a bit of relief that I hadn’t gotten any further. Instead, she took my sled and I slid down on my chest for the last time, still amazed at how fast my coat could slide on snow. We met up at the local Burger King and changed out of our wet clothes. Then, in our two car convoy, we set off on our next adventure.


I told myself to practice the longest and most difficult of my lines ten times in the mirror before I could go to the easy lines. She said practicing in the mirror was the best way to memorize while also getting used to having an audience. How I got myself into the role of a thespian in a high school play was still a mystery. I was sure Ernest W. Stanley, who I was cast to play in The Man Who Came to Dinner , would have sympathy for my bewilderment. The performances were all scheduled, tickets printed, costumes selected, and my name was in the program. There was no way out, so here I stood in front of a mirror trying to memorize my part, dreading the first day of dress rehearsal. My longest lines, directed at the lead character, Sheridan Whiteside, an unwanted guest in the Stanley household, were monologues. My character gathers his courage and says, “Not having your gift for invective, I cannot tell you what I think of your obnoxious interference in my affairs, but I have arranged that you will interfere no longer.” My character turns to three silent actors waiting off stage right and continues, “Mr. Whiteside, these gentlemen are deputy sheriffs. They have a warrant by which I will be enabled to put you out of this house. And I need hardly add that it will be the greatest moment of my life. Mr. Whiteside, I am giving you 15 minutes in which to pack up and get out. If you have not gone in 15 minutes, these gentlemen will forcibly eject you. Thank you, gentlemen. Will you wait outside, please? Fifteen minutes, Mr. Whiteside, and that means bag, baggage wheelchair, penguins, and octopus.” I then turn to exit stage left and exclaim, “I am now going upstairs to smash our radio so that not even accidentally will I ever hear your voice again.” Presumably, the audience applauds as my character exits. I focused on repeating words and phrases in the dialogue to anchor my memorization. ‘Mr. Whiteside’ and ‘fifteen minutes’ were each repeated three times allowing me to memorize using the repeated words as a focus. There was also blocking on stage, which started with my character briefly addressing his wife, Daisy, and then striding across the living room scene to Mr. Whiteside, my tormentor, who was sitting in a wheelchair, at which point I started acting like the man of the house. The play had been around for over twenty years by the time the drama instructor at our high school selected it for the annual school play. It had played successfully on Broadway before becoming a feature film. As high school students, we were more interested in films such as Cleopatra, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Longest Day, and Alford Hitchcock’s The Birds than a Broadway play. My best recollection is that the grooming started in English class, where we learned to write sentences about a noun the teacher selected that day and then diagramed the sentences. If we did other things to improve our English grammar, they have escaped my memory. The teacher was Miss Mortensen, back when it was still acceptable to categorize women by their marriage status. At least, such categorizing was acceptable in the dusty open spaces of eastern Washington State, where I lived at the time. As it happened, Miss Mortensen was also the drama instructor; another job for which she was underappreciated and unrecognized. It came to my attention that our school conducted some type of theatrical performance in the combination cafeteria-theater, but I never participated or attended. If it didn’t involve sports or girls, it exited through a black hole in my consciousness. My friends were even more oblivious to non-sports school activities. It had to be Miss Mortensen who injected theater into my world, and that world was never the same. I recall watching in disinterest as she diagramed a sentence on a green chalkboard, and before she finished, she put the white chalk in the tray and slowly walked downstage to her desk. I whispered to the boy across the aisle, “Pop quiz time.” He nodded. We had seen these sneaky tactics before, but not from Miss Mortensen. “The school play will be in May,” she said as she walked around her desk. I was anticipating she would pull out a file with the pop quiz questions, so I didn’t listen to what she was saying until she sat on the front side of the desk and crossed her legs. “Just a few months away,” she continued and allowed her dress to settle above her knees. The boys in the class considered Miss Mortensen an attractive woman in a mature sort of way. She was probably in her early 30s, tall, wore her hair short like Elizabeth Taylor, and frequently wore tight sweaters. She put her palms flat on the desk on each side of her legs, leaned forward, and looked at the class. Suddenly I forgot about diagraming sentences. She started to talk about the struggles she faced as a young teacher trying to bring culture into a school that is dominated by sports and tradition. “They say arts and theater have a place-- but do they really want to support a thespian program?” she asked without defining thespian. “Yes, we have a stage, lights, and a few set designs, but it takes more,” she continued as the room became quiet. English class seemed to be over. “It takes people, students, willing to play the parts to give of themselves to create theater. Students who want to expand their world beyond the muscle-bound culture we now have,” she continued. I noticed for the first time a box of tissues on the desk. Almost subconsciously, she pulled a tissue out of the box and continued to talk in a husky voice. “If I cannot produce a play for this high school, I doubt I’ll be here next year,” she said, turning her head to look out the windows to her left. As we looked at her profile, she lifted a tissue to her right cheek. Then, for a few moments, she sat and stared into the distance. Unsure what to do or say, we waited. “Students with undiscovered talent will miss the opportunity to act,” she said as she arched forward on her arms, looked up at the ceiling, the color rising in her neck, and the sweater stretching across her chest. “I’m not sure anybody cares. This is my responsibility to give young people in this community a place to grow and explore their gifts. Even if in the end we must cancel because, . . .” and she stopped, slipped slowly from the desk, reached for another tissue, and turned her back to the audience. We waited in her silence as Miss Mortensen wiped her eyes and straightened her posture before turning around. “I’m sorry,” she said very quietly. “This is not your problem. I came to a school that cares more about football than the performing arts, and I can’t change that.” “What can we do, Miss Mortensen?” a girl asked from the back of the room. “Thank you for asking,” she replied and looked down at the tissues in her hands. “Auditions are right after school today if anybody is interested.” I had wrestling practice that afternoon, and Miss Mortensen never mentioned the school play during class the next day. However, the following day before English class, I heard two girls talking about auditions and how they hoped to get a part in the play. After class, I waited for a chance to talk with Miss Mortensen, who was wiping the chalkboard. “I’m interested in helping with the school play,” I offered while she was still wiping the board. Without turning around, she said, “I was hoping you would be willing to be in the play.” I was not sure how to respond, but I found my voice and said, “Is it too late to be in the tryout?” She turned around, put the eraser in the tray, looked me directly in the eye, and said, “They are called auditions, and you don’t need to audition. Wrestling season is over next week, so come to the first rehearsal. I have a part for you.” That was the beginning of an English lesson and much more. I had never been on the school stage or the backstage area, so it was all new and exciting as we gathered for the first rehearsal. Every step on the slanted wood stage could be heard in the cafetorium. Backstage was dimly lit, with black curtains, black painted walls, and accents, adding to the intrigue of being in the theater. Miss Mortensen gathered us on stage around a wheelchair, passed out scripts among the would-be actors, and began assigning roles. She directed one of my classmates to sit in the wheelchair to become Sheridan Whiteside, the lead character. She motioned for me to stand by the wheelchair. “You are Ernest W. Stanley, owner of everything around you, but your life is about to be controlled by the man in the wheelchair,” she said. Next, she walked to a group of girls, took the hand of one, and stood her next to me, “You are Daisy Stanley, the wife,” she informed us. In a manner of seconds, we all had our assigned roles. During the third rehearsal, I stood offstage behind a curtain, listening for my cue, when we heard a knock on the metal exterior door backstage. Miss Mortensen told everybody to take a break as she went to push the door open with the crash bar. Daylight poured into the backstage area as Miss Mortensen held the door for a man silhouetted in the bright light. When he entered and came closer to the cast members, I heard somebody whisper that he was a former student who graduated three years ago. Miss Mortensen called him Russ, and he called her by her first name, which we had never heard anybody use. She made a brief introduction without explaining what Russ had to do with our play and why he came in the backdoor. Russ always came to rehearsals and performances through the backstage door with the assistance of Miss Mortensen. It became apparent to our cast that Russ and Miss Mortensen were friends who had a love of theater in common. Over the following weeks, we watched them together, their body language, standing close when talking, smoking on the stairway landing at the backdoor, sharing ideas. Our young minds were filled with imagined roles for our drama instructor and her young protégé. We grew to appreciate Russ for his ability to see when an actor was stuck on a line, he would whisper the missing word or words from offstage. As our first dress rehearsal approached, I still had not mastered all my lines. I figured that since Russ was good at prompting, he might be helpful with memorization. After rehearsal, I found Russ backstage walking to the backdoor, and I followed him out to the parking lot. As we talked about memorization, he asked, “Have you been practicing in front of a mirror?” I nodded and waited for his assessment. “That’s good,” he said. “Was Miss Mortensen the one who told you that was the best way to practice?” “How did you know?” I asked. “Was that before or after she cried and described how hard it is to be the drama instructor here?” he asked as he lit a cigarette. I looked at him, unsure of how to respond. Finally, I said, “You have seen her do that before?” “How do you think she got me to come back here to help with this play?” he replied. “You mean that is how she recruits people?” I asked. “Consider it your first acting lesson from a professional,” he said and got in his car.


DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! As the last toll faded, I shifted in my oversized lounge chair, rested my head back, and raised my eyes from my book to look outside. The snow-covered street sat dark and silent compared to the havoc inside the town hall across the street. Since the town’s founding, New Year's Eve was a massive event where everyone gathered together to welcome the new year. Even now, I could see the shadows of the volunteers hurrying back and forth past the windows as they prepared for the celebration. I laid the book on the windowsill and pulled my blanket to my chin as I snuggled back into the chair with a sigh and listened to the fire crackle in the fireplace. This is the life. My eyes wandered to the large illuminated clock on the town hall. “Crap! Six?” I threw my blanket off and clambered to my feet as I cast a glare toward my cat, who curled in front of the fire. “Pepper, why did you let me sit here and read all day?!” He blinked his sleepy eyes at me with a soft mew. I rolled my eyes at him and tried to ignore the anxiety that filled me. I used to love this event until eight years ago when my best friend and I had a falling out. I avoided it as often as I could now, but mom made me promise I would be there this year. The problem was, he would be there, too. I bit my lip. “Six. Um.” I ran a hand through my hair and scanned the living room. My least favorite part of the event had always been when we shared if we completed our resolutions from the year before. I was the only one in town who consistently failed. I had every intention of completing them, but I always ended up reading or at my desk, writing. I’d sworn to myself last year that I would finally do it. That THIS would be the year. “Where did I put that list? Only six hours. Shoot.” I hurried to my desk and yanked open the drawers. My eyes darted back and forth as I shuffled through the contents. I slammed each drawer shut after my inspection, then searched on top of the desk. My hand bumped something and knocked it to the floor. “Oh. That’s where my phone went.” I grabbed the phone, unlocked it, and found my mom’s number. I turned in a circle as I waited for her to answer. Where did I put that? “Amy? Is everything okay?” “Mom. Yeah, everything is fine. Did I give you my paper from last year?” Silence. “Mom?” “Your paper from last year? That’s not very descriptive. What paper?” “You know, the one I wrote things down on that I wanted to accomplish this year?” My mother’s laugh tinkled through the phone. I dropped my head back and stared at the ceiling. “Mom, it’s not funny.” “I’m sorry,” she said, laughter still in her voice. “I don’t know why you bother.” “Mom.” I drew the word out, but grinned. I really wanted to shock everyone by completing my list this year. My accidental procrastination and forgetfulness was a constant amusement for everyone. “I told you to hang it up somewhere, so you’d see it every day to remind you.” “You did...” I ran to the kitchen, stumbling over the upturned carpet on the way, and eyed the papers on the fridge. “It’s not on the fridge.” “Is it under the fridge?” “Under? Why would it be... Hm. Let me check.” “Good luck. Love you, hon. I’ll see you tonight. Try not to be late. You promised.” “Ha. Thanks. I’ll try. Love you, Mom.” “And don’t forget. You promised to talk to Freddie.” “Mom, you know we didn’t part on good terms.” “Amy, it’s been how many years now? You’ve both changed. And you promised.” “I know, but-” “See you soon, hon.” My mom disconnected the call. “Ugh!” I tossed my phone onto the kitchen table as I got on my knees to check under the fridge. No paper. I let out a sigh as I pictured the gangly but adventurous teen Freddie had been the last time I saw him. His family had moved away because of his dad’s military job, but when his father retired, his parents had moved back. Freddie had had his own life by then. He served a four-year enlistment in the military and had even traveled to serve in orphanages with a missionary group. Everyone who knew him and still communicated with him praised his character to no end; but I didn’t need them to tell me. I followed his social media and knew he stood by his values and took after his parents with his integrity. I’d never admit it to anyone; I barely acknowledged it myself, but I envied his courage and drive to impact the world. The last thing he’d said to me was, “You’re too involved in your fiction worlds. You gotta get out and actually live some!” “Get out and live some,” I grumbled. “Humph. I’m quite content with my fictional worlds, thank you.” I did hope to make an impact, and I prayed that my writing would do that for me because it was something I felt called to do, and I loved it. My first book, When the Clock Strikes Twelve , was selling better than I expected, and the publisher had offered me a contract for the sequel. But there was still a part of me that I tried to ignore that wanted more from life. The only thing was, I was comfortable with what I had and didn’t want to rock the boat. I shook off thoughts of Freddie and my avoidance and crawled to the side of the fridge to check the space between it and the wall. A handful of bent papers sat leaning against the wall. “Ah!” I grabbed them, then sat back on my heels to flip through them. Old card. Grocery list. “Doodles? Why did I keep these?” I tossed each aside as I read it. Finally, at the bottom of the pile. “Ah-HA! Get ‘er done list.” Hang up photos Paint the bathroom Change the porch lightbulb Glue the coffee mug back together Straighten the picture above the fireplace Tack down the carpet so you don’t keep tripping Make it to the ball drop on time “Okay, that’s easy enough. Just no getting distracted.” Pepper sidled up next to me and rubbed against my hip. I scratched his back. “What should I start with?” Pepper mewed, and I pursed my lips. “Gluing the handle back on the mug? Alright.” I pushed myself up and rummaged through my junk drawer until I found the tube of superglue, then headed to the small room I’d converted to a library. My broken mug sat on the bookshelf, covered in dust. I’d placed it there to remind myself to fix it over a year ago. I scanned the books on the shelf. So many books, so little time. I fingered them, then pulled one off the shelf. I flipped the book open to chapter one and read it. As I turned the page, I shook my head and slapped it shut. “No. Focus.” I shoved the book back into its place and took the mug and broken handle to the kitchen. After I reattached the handle, I got a pen from the drawer and crossed that off the list. “One down, six to go. With...” I glanced at the clock and winced. “Five and a half hours.” After another look at the list, I decided to do the thing that would take the longest. Paint the bathroom. I skipped steps as I hurried to the basement to get the paint and supplies I’d purchased a few months ago. Once I had everything balanced in my arms, I clambered up the stairs and into the bathroom, trying not to let the tarp slip from where I’d wedged it between my side and elbow. I dumped everything in the bathroom and carefully avoided the upturned carpet as I ran to the living room to turn music on. I found the T.V. remote wedged between the couch cushions and selected the mix of my favorite songs, then turned the volume all the way up. Pepper ran from the room as the music blared through the house. I set a timer on my phone for eleven and propped it on the shelf before I changed into basketball shorts and an old t-shirt and laid the tarp out. Then I frowned at my supplies. I forgot to buy tape. Oh well. I’ll have to do without. And... I left the ladder in the basement. After I retrieved the ladder, I set it up, grabbed the cutting brush and set to work, meticulously cutting in against the ceiling. I lost myself in the process of edging and alternately singing along with the music and letting my mind wander back to my current writing project. As I started on the last side of the bathroom, a light caught my attention in my peripheral vision. I glanced at my phone to see my mom’s face on the screen. “Oh.” I tilted the paint cup a little too far as I climbed down from the ladder and paint dripped over the back of my hand. “Aw, man.” I grimaced as I answered with the speakerphone. “Hello?” “Amy? What’s that noise? I can barely hear you.” “Oh, my music. Hang on.” I turned the speakerphone off and shoved the phone between my shoulder and ear, bumping the paintbrush against my forehead in the process. “Dang it.” I balanced the paint cup on the sink and the paintbrush over the top of it, then ran to the living room. “Oof!” I dropped my phone as I stumbled over the carpet and reached for the remote. I jabbed the mute button, then recovered my phone. “Hello?” “What are you doing?” my mom asked. “Painting the bathroom.” “You’re... you found your list, I take it?” “I did.” “We started eating already.” Her roundabout way of telling me I was late. Again. “Um, I’ll be on time for the countdown.” “Amy.” The disappointment in her voice cut. “I’ll be there.” “Fine. Do you want some help?” “I can go,” a man offered. I couldn’t place the voice, but shook my head. “No. No, that’s fine. I’ll be okay.” “Okay.” She drew the word out with doubt. “For real.” “Alright, I’ll let you get back to it.” “Okay, bye.” I hung up and dropped my phone on the coffee table, unmuted the music, then started back to the bathroom, but paused and scowled at the rug. “I’ll take care of you first.” I headed back to my junk drawer, found a few nails and a hammer, and bopped my head to the music as I hammered the carpet down. When I returned the hammer to the drawer, I checked on the mug handle, which stuck very nicely, and headed back to the bathroom. It took about a half hour to finish edging the bathroom, then I used the roller on the walls. When I finished, I looked it over critically. It’ll need a second coat. I’ll give it an hour or so to dry, then I’ll come back. I jogged back down the steps to check my list again. It took no time at all to straighten the picture above the fireplace. Why did it take me till tonight to get this done? “Three and a half jobs done. Two and a half to go.” I glanced at the microwave clock that read seven fifteen. That doesn’t seem right, but I guess I got the first coat on faster than I thought. Now, for the photos. I retrieved the hammer again and more nails, then went in search of the picture frames. I found them on my closet floor with the photos already inserted. I wandered through most of the house before I decided on the stairway wall and hung them up. After that, I got a new light bulb and carried the ladder onto the porch. “Gah! It’s cold out here.” Pepper stepped onto the porch like he was going to follow me, but when his paw touched the dusting of snow, he scrambled back inside. I chuckled through a shiver as I quickly changed the lightbulb. I flicked the light on as I shoved the ladder back through the door, then nodded in satisfaction when a bright glow lit my porch and front steps. I carried the ladder back upstairs and my stomach rumbled as I checked the paint. A quick snack first, then I’ll finish up here. As I grabbed Oreos and peanut butter, I glanced at the clock again. Nine thirty. Plenty of time. I sank onto a stool with a sigh and enjoyed my snack. When the clock read nine forty-five, I went back upstairs to finish the second coat of paint. When I finished the last section of the wall, I opened the window. Across the street, everyone in the town hall was gathered around the T.V. with drinks in their hands. “Oh, no.” I searched the bathroom and patted my hips. Phone. Where’s my phone? “Living room.” I practically flew down the stairs. When I unlocked my phone, I had five missed calls and realized my loud music had drowned out my alarm. The time on my phone read eleven fifty-eight. It was only then that I remembered I had never changed the time on my microwave when we turned the clocks back in the fall. I slapped my hand to my forehead. “No! No. No. No.” I tossed my phone onto the couch, jammed my feet into my boots, and bolted from the house, slamming the door behind me. I was only crossing the street, but I grit my teeth against the cold and crossed my arms over my chest as I ran. When I barged into the town hall, everyone turned to stare at me. I bit my cheek and gently pushed the door shut. My long-time friend came over and shoved a glass at me. “You made it, but what in the world are you wearing?” I looked down to see I was covered in my paint-splattered basketball shorts and oversized t-shirt. “Oh. Busy night.” I laughed. “I thought I had more time than I did.” I scanned the room again and met the amused looks of my friends and neighbors who were mostly dressed for church, if not an elegant party. My friend shook her head as my mother approached. “Well, you made it,” Mom said with a smirk. “I didn’t think you would.” I shrugged. “I promised.” “Ten! Nine!” The people at the front of the crowd started. We all joined in the countdown. “Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!” We all raised our glasses and drank together. I hugged my mom and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Happy New Year, Amy.” A man’s voice. I turned to see Freddie, a hesitant smile on his bearded and very handsome face. My eyes widened as I looked him up and down. I’d seen him on video and knew he had grown up, but seeing him here before me was quite a different matter. My stomach twisted in knots and heat crept up my cheeks. “You’ve got a little something...” He pointed to my cheek, then chuckled and gestured at me. “Well, everywhere.” “What?” I looked down again and noticed the paint splatters on my legs and arms. I wished I could sink into the ground. As I looked back up, my eyes caught on a book he held under his arm. My book. My fiction book. I raised my eyes and met his gaze. He took the book out and held it up. “I’ve followed your writing. You’re really good. You do a great job sharing meaning and purpose through the characters’ journeys.” I blinked at him. Words. What are they? Do I know any? “Look, I wanted to apologize to you. I know what I said before we moved hurt you. I didn’t mean it that way, but it... I just meant,” he hesitated and shifted his feet. “Honestly, I was jealous of how much time you spent with your books.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It sounds ridiculous, but you were my best friend, and it seemed like all you ever wanted to talk about was books. I’ve wanted to contact you for years, but I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me. With the way you stormed off, I thought it would be better to apologize in person. I’m only sorry it took me so long. Do you think you could forgive me?” Forgive him? I nodded slowly. If he keeps this up, I just might kiss him. Sweat broke out on my forehead and I pressed a hand to my cheek. I can’t believe I just thought that! And about Freddie! He released a deep breath. “Thank you.” He smiled and my heart melted. He tilted his head toward the crowd, who had separated into groups of dancers and talkers. “Dance with me?” He had to remember that I couldn’t dance. Words finally returned to me. “But, I don’t-” “I don’t care.” He set my book on a table and held out his hand. I raised an eyebrow at him and he raised one right back at me, a playful challenge in his eyes. I squinted at him and he bowed. “Okay, then.” I grinned and, with exaggerated grace and dignity, placed my hand in his. A dance with Freddie hadn’t been on my list, but I wasn’t about to argue. He didn’t know it, but he’d just rocked my boat... and I didn’t mind one bit.


Sadie set the basket of rolls down on the table as the front door shut. "There," she whispered. "That should be it." "What's for sup?" Davy, her younger brother, asked. His frowsy brown hair hung in front of his soft green eyes. Sadie smiled down at him. "A beautiful rabbit stew Mama just finished cooking. Come, Davy. Let's see if we can mend your trousers any better." Looking up, she saw Papa standing in the doorway, taking his mittens off. "Good evening, children. Where is your mother?" he asked, his deep voice like the rumbling of thunder. "In the kitchen," Sadie replied as Davy ran into Papa's arms. "She used that rabbit you got this morning." After a few moments, Mama came out to announce supper. "Go warsh. Thank you for setting the table, Sadie. Hurry, Davy. After saying grace, Papa cleared his throat to signal he was about to say something as Mama dished the stew in the chipped, old bowls on the table. "Children, we must begin to head up to Oregon as soon as we can. I fear the trail may get worse as the year passes with all the snow and ice. I talked to a man today who is organising a wagon train. We leave in two weeks before the snow." "But, what about our first Christmas here?" Davy whined. Mama placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, dear, but in order to make it there before the bad weather we must leave very soon." "You promised!" he accused, sinking into his seat. "Oh, dear, we did. But we'll have our first Christmas out on the trail," she pointed out. "It's not the same," Davy grumbled back. "Watch your mouth, lad. You may enjoy your studies on the wagon again. Inside the warm, cozy wagon," Papa warned, taking a spoonful of the stew. "But what of horses, Papa? Or oxen? We sold the ponies when we got here so we could buy the house," Sadie asked, blowing on her steaming bowl. "I'll deal with the fact of that later, Sadie. For now, everyone eat. Hot meals may be harder since it will be in the winter," Papa ordered, bringing silence to the table. "Dear, don't frighten them," Mama pleaded. "Mama, Papa, please don't fight again!" Sadie begged as Davy looked sadly into his half empty bowl, his spoon sitting on the edge in a chip. "Silence, girl. Only speak when you're told," Papa boomed, slamming his fist down on the table. "But Papa-" Sadie began. "We let it go too long. If you are finished with your supper, you may go. No, either way, go to bed," Papa demanded. "No, darling. You just said yourself, that hot food may become more uncommon. Let her finish. Everyone must have at least second in order to, well, let her eat, John," Mama said quietly, looking down in her lap. "Are you on her side too, woman?" Papa growled, clutching his spoon so tight that his knuckles turned white. He looked down at it, noticing its wornness. "Go polish the silverware when you finish, then, Sadie." "I'll help you too, Sadie," Davy spoke up, now sitting up tall in his seat. "No, boy. Do as you are told, not as you please. I order you to read your Bible until your sister finishes. Maybe you will learn some good from it," Papa said, now eating and almost finished. "John, be gentle. He wants to help his sister," Mama cut in, letting her spoon fall onto the table with a clatter. "But May, the next thing you know he'll be wanting the dogs to ride in the wagon with us, he'll want his own pony, he'll want his own wagon soon enough!" Papa shouted, running his hands through his hair. "No I won't!" Davy cried. "Silence!" Papa boomed. "John, the only thing he'll want is love and a dog," Mama pleaded, exhausted from arguing. “See, he’s being needy and greedy and unthankful! He wants more than what he has when first he has to be thankful for what he gets,” Papa grumbled. “I wonder where he got it from!” Mama shouted indignantly. Father slammed his fist on the table again, causing everyone to jump. “Be quiet so I can eat my supper in PEACE!” he yelled. Again they became silent, only the clink of the spoons against the bowls and the sound of the wind outside could be heard. “Are you finished yet?” Mama asked Papa, taking Sadie’s and Davy’s dishes. “No, I’m not done yet,” Papa snapped. They became silent again, Mama waiting for Papa to finish. Davy twiddled his thumbs and almost began to whistle but caught himself. Sadie crossed and uncrossed her legs under the table, pretending to study dirt under her fingernails. “Who will take the first bath after I clean up the kitchen?” Mama finally asked, still standing over Papa’s chair as he purposely slowly ate his stew. “I will,” Davy said quietly. “Sadie still has sewing to do on my pants.” Mama lowered the bowls down. “Why, Davy?” “I fell off out of that old elm in the back and scraped myself on a root,” Davy admitted. Mama sighed. “Please be more careful, Davy.” Papa handed his bowl to Mama. “Yeah, Davy. Be careful or you’re not going to have any more pants left.” “Did you really have to say something?” Mama demanded. “Did you have to add on to it?” Papa shot back. Sadie, tears sliding down from her cheeks, whispered, "Why do you have to turn everything into a fight? Is our family going to be split up forever? Broken into pieces like this?" "No. No, of course not, child. We will put this family back together if it breaks our necks and backs to do so," Mama replied, tears streaming down her own face. "Maybe I was a bit harsh, and I don't mean most of it. I'm just nervous about the trip, I suppose. But, don't worry you two. This family is together. Together forever," Papa said softly, wrapping them in a big bear hug with his long arms. "Together forever," Davy whispered. "I like the sound of that."


A man dies. Death comes to collect him and tell him of his eternal fate. When the man reaches the afterlife, he is first startled and then smug to find that the afterlife has all the comforts he had hoped it would have and he is content in the knowledge that surely he’d gone to Heaven for Hell was said to be full of tortures that surpassed anything mankind could think up. Even as he came down from his haze of smug self satisfaction for what he saw as God agreeing with him and thus allotting him a special place in Heaven, he was greeted with the sight of dishes upon dishes being brought out, all by the most beautiful men and women he had ever seen. The only thought that greeted the man as they lifted the lids of the dishes of different and delicious looking foods was that he deserved this. He was right. He didn’t notice anything was off until he had been there for time immeasurable and he went to once more bite into a slice of pie that was literally exactly how his mother used to make. Instead of the flavors that he expected to greet him, he tasted nothing but ash. Frowning and taking a bite of another dish, he tasted the same flavor. It was exactly the same flavor. Ash. He started to notice that while what he ate still filled his stomach comfortably, he could no longer taste any of it. All he could taste no matter what he ate or drank was ash. He was put off by it and stopped eating soon after it was proven that he could no longer taste the flavors that he knew he had tasted when the feast started. He soon found other pleasures to occupy his time, the main one being the pleasures of the flesh. He had a far better time than he did in life and he thought that surely if things like this were in Heaven that God had no problem with him vigorously partaking. He did so and as he moved from person to person taking what he wanted, he began to feel less and less. Soon no matter what he did, no matter that he had been given the stamina of a man in his prime, he could not satiate himself. He always wanted more and the encounters became increasingly unsatisfying. He hadn’t wanted to admit to himself that he felt these encounters less and less. He didn’t want to face it when he realized that he finally felt nothing despite how good it had all felt when he had started. Slowly, the pleasures of the flesh were stripped of their pleasure and he abandoned such things, for surely there were still plenty of things for him to enjoy in the afterlife. It wasn’t until he had gone through the multiple (and at one time, enjoyable) aspects of the afterlife that he realized that he had nothing left to do, for everything he had once enjoyed had become a chore. Nothing that he enjoyed still existed as it had when he had first come here. Nothing caught his interest like it used to. The afterlife had become bland instead of pleasurable and he was left with bland, beautiful, boring people who only ate and partook of the pleasures of the afterlife as if they could still taste and feel them. It was at this point that the man realized that this was his reality for the rest of existence. He then began to realize that despite what he initially thought, he had not gone to Heaven or any incarnation of such a thing. He had gone to hell, surrounded by the joys of life and unable to enjoy partaking in any of it. It was only then that the man began to regret. Too bad for him that regret did nothing to get one out of their deserved fate. He had every pleasure he’d enjoyed in life slowly taken away from him until he had nothing left and that was to be his existence from then on. The man did not rage, nor cry, nor even react at the realization of what his eternal existence now was, for he no longer cared. He was empty.


-1- I met her for the first time today. She's wonderfully lovely and funny. I should get to know her better. -2- She came to visit me again. Her smile is enough to warm my heart. For the first time, I dont feel so alone. -3- Her hands brush mine and my skin is hot. I watch her as she watches the screen. Her eyelashes flutter. I could get used to this. -4- Afterwards, she traces my face and holds me close. Her bare skin against mine is comforting. Our chests rise and fall together. She makes my life so much better. -5- We go out together. I cant help but hold her hand. I want to protect her. She is mine and I am hers. -6- We are no longer separate for very long. She follows me, I follow her. I watch her face. She lights my soul up when she looks at me. -7- I don't remember the last time we were alone. But I wouldn't want it any other way. I want to create a family with her. She agrees. -8- She wants to go out with her friends. I see the way she dresses when she leaves and it makes me sick. I watch her come and go. -9- She's busy. Even when she's here, she's not here. She's mine, but I'm more alone than I ever was. -10- She touches me and I light up. I remember how good we are, how good we feel together. I don't think I can survive without her. -11- She is separating herself from me. I can feel it. I've gotten myself stuck. I need her to keep going. -12- She says there's nothing wrong. She's lying. She doesn't pay attention to me like she used to. -13- She goes out. If she looks like that someone will take her from me. She's mine. I need her. -14- She tells me she's taking a step back. She tells me she loves me. She tells me she doesn't want a family. I don't know what to believe. -15- She tells me she cant do this anymore. She tells me she can't commit. I need her. She can't leave me. -16- She's gone. ~~~~ -1- I met him at the beach. He's cute. I give him my number. -2- I seem to be spending more time with him. The more I get to know him, the more I like him. -3- I'm with him. I watch films, he watches me. How odd. -4- I sleep with him. I touch his face and tell him he's handsome. His curls fall over his face and my heart strings tug. -5- We go out. His crooked smile warms me. My hand holds his and I am at peace. -6- He makes me laugh and I reward him with a kiss. My life is carefree, bright and happy. I am safe. -7- I have no commitments but to him. I am with him always. He wants a family. In the future, I tell him. -8- I haven't seen my friends in ages. I am going out drinking with them. They dress me and pull me away. I watch his eyes storm as I leave. -9- I start work again. Life becomes hectic but I am still safe. He is still here with me. We do our best. -10- I miss holding him, so I do. I miss touching him, so I do. He is sad, but I am trying to help. -11- I see my friends more often. I am working, I am productive, I am happy. I wish he was too. -12- He questions me about my intentions, my whereabouts, my actions. He questions my integrity. There's nothing wrong with my actions. -13- I get ready to go out with my friends. I listen to him rage about my clothes. I go anyways. Its not his decision. -14- I feel like he's trying to control my life. I can't let that happen. I need more space to exist. I no longer feel safe. -15- I tell him I can't be with him anymore. I refuse to be caged by a man when I can be free forever. He'll make it without me. -16- I leave.


Last night, while asleep upstairs in bed. I was startled awoke by the sound of something heavy hitting the living room floor. Mere seconds went by, then the sound of what appeared to be a chair falling over. I just lied there, too afraid to get up. All I could do was listen. I started to hear footsteps moving slowly throughout my house. After a few seconds, the heard the sound of a plate crashing to the floor in the kitchen. Is someone in my house? Do I have a poltergeist? Am I gonna die? These questions raced through my head. I thought about calling 911. But, I realized, I couldn’t, because I accidentally left my phone in the car like an idiot. Lightning crashed outside my bedroom window, lighting up the skies, as the thunder roared on and the rain came pouring down. For a moment, my mind got swept away in the soothing sounds of the falling rain. I started to doze off again. I was just about to fall back asleep, when the sound of creaking stair steps jolted me conscious from my rain induced slumber. Someone or something was coming up the stairs. I pulled the blankets up over my head and lied there, shaking, sweating, and praying for this thing to go away. CREAK!! -- CREAK!! -- CREAK!! Suddenly, the creaking stopped. I knew it had reached the top of the stairs, and was mere feet away from my bedroom door. Second went by, I heard the sound of a small tap on my bedroom door, causing it to slowly creak open With my back to the door, I could hear slow gentle footsteps enter my bedroom, then stop almost immediately. I could feel a presence within the room. I could feel eyes beaming through the darkness and deep into my soul. My body began to shake with fear. My heart beating fast, as if it was about to burst right out of my chest. Another lightning crash, frightened me. I screamed. Suddenly, I felt an enormous weight come crashing down upon my back, pushing me stomach first down into the bed. This thing was now on top of me I screamed again I started to squirm in a feeble attempt to free myself. I screamed at it. “STOP, GET OFF OF ME!!!” But, it didn’t stop. It didn’t move. I felt it’s forearm land hard on the side of my head, forcing my face down into the pillows. I felt it’s hot, wretched breath on the back of my neck. I couldn’t breathe. I knew I was gonna die. Through all the fear and chaos, I somehow remembered what my father used to say, “If you’re going down, you better go down swinging.” I took his words, and with a primal scream, I mustered up every ounce of strength I had within my being. I thrust back against this thing, finally flinging it off of me. What followed after that, was a loud thud on the bedroom floor. I quickly reached for the lamp on my nightstand, turning it on, and turning back around, just as this things head began to rise from the side of the bed. I was soon face to face, eye to eye with this...this monster. We stared at each other for what seemed like forever. It’s eyes, black as night, it’s teeth, as sharp as the devils blade. Finally, I sighed and said, “Buster...You’re one heavy dog.


“All right, honey,” he said. “Are you ready to do this thing?” “Hun-nee,” she replied, smiling. “Good,” he said. “Could you hand me that screwdriver?” “Daddy!” she said, pointing at him happily. “Yes, I’m daddy,” he replied. “And that is a screwdriver--could you hand it to me, please?” “Peas,” she said, picking up the screwdriver. “Fowk.” “No, that’s not a fork,” he said. “Screwdriver.” “Bottow,” she said, handing him the screwdriver. “You don’t get bottles anymore, remember?” he said, twisting a stubborn screw into place. “You get a cup now.” “Cup,” she repeated. “That’s right,” he said. “But you didn’t want a cup, so now we’re down here in daddy’s workshop.” “Bottow?” “No, sweetheart,” he said. “Could you hand me that sifter there?” She picked up the sifter and said, “Boon?” “No, that’s a sifter, not a spoon,” he said, taking the proffered sifter. “Thank you.” “Day-doo,” she giggled--her version of *thank you* always good for a laugh--before suddenly running across the shop. “Take it easy, squirt,” he said, directly before she skidded to a stop in front of a teetering stack of books. “Whoa,” she said, steadying herself with the help of a low-hanging unicorn-bedazzled backpack she had insisted stay in the workshop. “*Whoa*,” she said again, looking beyond the book-stack into the shiny steel box behind. “Careful, now,” he said, swiveling in his seat to face her. “That’s uranium.” “Nanium,” she said. “That’s right,” he said, proudly. “Well done! Now, If you could--” “Nominoes!” she squealed, distracted by the multitude of multicoloured dominoes she had earlier strewn across the shop. “Yes, honey, but right now daddy needs the uranium. Could--” “Nanium,” she said, picking up a purple-dotted domino. “Greem!” “No, that’s purple.” “Purpo,” she said, picking up another, this one both yellow and pink. “Ornange!” “No--that’s yellow and pink.” “Pink!” she said. “And yellow.” “Yeyo,” she said, reverently. “And that’s uranium,” he said, smiling and pointing at said uranium. “Could you bring that to daddy, please?” “Peas,” she repeated, making her way around the books before stopping. “Heaby.” “Heavy, yes it is,” he said. “But you’re *strong*, aren’t you?” “Heaby,” she repeated. “Show me your muscles,” he said, encouragingly. Her face contorted and her arms shot out in front of her, little twigs of effort terminating into acorn-sized clenched fists. “Mussos!” she said, proudly. “Good girl,” he said. “Now, pick up that uranium and bring it to daddy.” “Haew,” she said, showing off her pigtails. “Yes, that’s your hair all right,” he said. “Let’s stay focused here, kiddo: bring daddy the uranium?” “Nanium?” she said, palms raised. “Nanium?” “It’s right behind you, honey.” “Hun-nee,” she said, smiling. “Behind you,” he said, pointing. She turned and looked at the uranium, then turned back. “Nanium?” she asked, palms again raised. “Look, sweetheart,” he said, crouching to her level. “If you’re not going to have a nap, you’re going to have to help daddy with his work, okay?” “Nap,” she said. “Miwk!” “You want some milk?” he asked, thinking she might be persuaded to have a nap after all. “Daddy will get you some milk!” “Nooo!” she yelped playfully. “Nooo! No! No!” she continued, running toward the dominoes. “Purpo.” “That’s green, honey.” “Greem,” she said. “Mommy?” “Mommy’s at work.” “Papa?” she said, raising her palms yet again. “Grandpa’s at home.” “Gamma?” she asked. “Honey,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Didn’t we agree that gamma-rays were too unstable to properly configure a bomb of this magnitude? Remember, sweetie? That’s why daddy went and got all this expensive x-ray equipment: because you took one look at the schematic and said *no gamma*.” She frowned. “Gamma?” she asked again, looking around. “I told you,” he said, standing up. “No gamma.” “Papa?” He sighed. “Grandpa’s at his house.” “Gamma?” “Wait,” he said. “Are you saying *grandma*?” “GAMma!” she said, smiling. “Well, grandma’s with grandpa,” he said, absently. “Have you been saying *grandma* this entire time?” “Doggie,” she said, pointing at the stairs. “You mean to tell me that I changed the entire operational system of this bomb based on you looking for grandma?” “DOG-gie!” “Yes, the dogs are upstairs,” he said, brushing a gaggle of crayons off the blueprints. “X-rays aren’t going to work at all, are they?” “UMMMMM,” she said, looking around the shop for something she knows the name of. “And it’s not like I can just trade this stuff back in,” he said, fastening his hands to his hips. “Bwoom,” she said. “Sorry, honey,” he said, sadly. “It doesn’t look like we’re going to be making a boom after all.” “Bwoom!” she said again, pulling on his shirt. “I know,” he said. “I’m disappointed too.” Frowning, she ran off towards the stairs while he glowered at his half-completed bomb. “Bwoom!” she said yet again, returning to jab him in the ribs with something hard. “Yes, dear,” he said, looking at her and her weapon. “That’s a broom.” She handed the broom to him and crouched, patting the floor with an open hand. “Mess,” she said. “Oh, it’s a terrible mess,” he said. “The whole thing’s a terrible, terrible--hold on. Is that what you meant when we first came down here, sweetheart? Broom?” “Mess,” she repeated, jabbing her finger at the floor. “Eew.” “You just wanted me to clean up my workshop?” “Keen,” she said, pulling the broom away from him. “Oh,” he said, watching her manipulate the broom in a vain attempt to clean up daddy’s mess. “Hey, honey?” “Hun-nee,” she said, smiling. “How about we go get some ice cream?” “Ice keem!” she said, clapping and running towards the stairs.


The rookie gathered his gear as Bert told him “time to go to work son.” It was early morning, around 0600 hours, sun wasn’t coming up for another hour or so. Bert fired up the crown vic and the Rookie jumped in the passenger seat. Still fixing up his gun belt. It was the dead of winter. Feet of snow and blistering cold. The Rookie had no idea what was going on. He had no idea the next few hours would change his damn life forever. Bert usually rode shotgun, ever since the Rookie could be trusted to drive. He fumbled around for the lights and sirens. “What’s going on?” The Rookie asked. “Sarg said he needs us on the highway by the old mill.” Natural fear crept in and the Rookie swallowed it down. It was foggy and the drive seemed to take forever. No one was on the road that early, especially with the recent snowfall. The Rookie looked out the window at the snow covered pine trees passing. He loved this time of year. “Looks like the Sarg’s rig up there” The Rookie jumped out of the passenger seat and approached the police truck. The driver’s side door was open and the red and blues were flashing. Bert called it in. The Rookie had a real bad feeling as he peered into the pickup. Sarg wasn’t there. The Rookie motioned to Bert, he had to see the confused look on his face. The Rookie followed the tracks in the snow. Into the thick fog. He wasn’t sure just how far he had gone. The fog was so disorienting. He heard Bert try to reach Sarg on the radio. “Dispatch, what was sam 5-9 responding to out here?” “Anonymous caller stated they saw a female walking on the roadway, requested a welfare check.” The Rookie overheard the traffic as he followed the footprints in the snow. His eyes doubled open as he saw a second smaller pair of footprints appear next to Sarg’s. “Robert 2-5, I got another set of tracks up here!” The Rookie keyed in. No response. He knew his handheld radio wouldn’t reach dispatch; but why wasn’t Bert answering. The Rookie heard static and could make out a familiar ten code: “Rob -5 10-9 son I can’t copy yourr.. Rad... tr... ic.” “I’m gonna turn back” The Rookie thought out loud. He shuffled around in the deep snow and started heading back towards the way he came. Something in his gut told him to turn around NOW. He caught a glimpse of a figured dressed in white. The Rookie drew his 9mm service pistol. “Sarg?” his voice cracked. A faint whisper echoed all around him. Throughout the tall pine trees. Someone else was here and it sure as hell wasn’t moving around like a normal human being. The Rookie took a sharp deep breath feeling the cold chill in his lungs. He pulled his beanie down. Loosened and then tightened the grip on his pistol. He began following the two sets of footprints further into the foggy abyss. It wasn’t many yards further when he saw what looked like a scuffle in the snow. He could tell where a large male, Sarg, had fallen down. He could see blood drops and lung tissue sprayed across the white snow. The Rookie stood there for a minute trying to muster up some courage. Sarg’s footprints didn’t go any further. The smaller set of footprints continued into the darkness, and they were dragging something heavy. MOVE! The Rookie began running back towards the vehicles and where he figured Bert had to be. It wasn’t a dozen steps he took before something knocked him down. He began clawing at the snow in front of him trying to crawl away. He felt the skin just below his knees peel away. Claws puncturing his calf muscles and pulling him the opposite way he so desperately wanted to go. He felt a separate set of claws, had to be feet, push on to his torn calf muscles. He could feel the weight of something heavy. The weight held him in place. The Rookie turned his head to see what was on top of him holding him down. It was like a little girl but with sharp razor like teeth. Black hair and black eyes. It’s arms were skinny and long. At the end of the arms were long fingers with bloody claws. The damned thing just sat there crouched down staring at him. It cocked it’s head sideways shifting it’s jaw open and from side to side. The Rookie lifted his trembling hand and pointed his weapon at it. It lowered its head and giggled. Kind of like a girl, but it had a deep devilish voice. With both hands it started tearing into The Rookie’s gut. The Rookie lowered his hand.. And squeezed the trigger.


In an ocean of starlight, on an ancient wooden rowboat stained with centuries of service, we sail in solitude through the night sky, towards the After. There is no scenery here. No mountains to frame the world, nor seas to divide it. The rower drives an ore into the shadows and ink laps against the sides. On this final voyage, conversation does not flow as freely as the water in which it takes place. The passenger usually studies the stars in silent contemplation, while the rower rows. Eventually, an invisible milestone is spotted amongst the shadows and the ore is lifted. The boat lulls idle for a moment, before being swept by the current, evermoving to the After. “Not far now,” the ferryman’s voice is hoarse. “I s’pose you already know what you’re doing here.” I nod. “And where you’re off?” I nod again. The ferryman, a cloaked figure around the height of a small tree, takes a seat on the bench across from me. Their countenance is disfigured by shadows, but the reflections of starlight reveal a lifetime’s worth of wrinkles. “I must warn you; I’ve been doing this job for a while, and I’ve seen all sorts of things. You try to jump, try to swim, try anything, you’ll soon regret it. Anything but complete obedience won’t be tolerated. Is that clear?” I nod. “Good. Now, I’ve no interest in introductions. You do this as long as I have, and you’ll have heard every name in the book. I do have something to share with you, though.” I flick my gaze from the sea. The ferryman is a strange creature of abstract shape and shifting size, though its discernable head and shoulders and general silhouette resemble that of a human and do little for its divinity. Beneath the cloak could be my grandmother, withered and frail, or my brother, who stood at six feet, four inches in his youth. “On the way to the After, everybody is offered the chance to relive a single memory. In this memory, you can do and say whatever you like. You’re no longer bound by the laws of time and objective reality, but there are three rules,” the ferryman says. I expect a wave of dread, of sorrow, of regret for the opportunities that passed by like ships in the night. Instead, an aching absence. “Most people use their memory as a chance to say goodbye, let someone know that they’re not coming back. Others use it to speak with a loved one that they haven’t seen for some time. Last week, a boy took his dog for one last walk...” the ferryman’s shoulders drop, and they sniff a breath. “You can also use it to fix a mistake. Right some wrongs. It’s a lot easier to get into the After with a clear conscience, believe me.” “The rules?” I ask. “Oh, the rules. Yes, the rules,” the ferryman remarks. “The first rule is that it must be a true memory. Number two, you can’t do anything world shattering. If your memory is a tour of the White House and you fancy pressing the big red button, you won’t be accepted into the After. Clear?” I nod. “The last one,” they sigh and study the ripples that the boat creates on the water as it passes through. “You can’t stay.” The ferryman says. “At some point, you’ll return here. No matter what. The second your mind departs from that moment, you’ll come straight back to the boat. Just...” They pause and nod their head, “try to enjoy it.” The ferryman reaches their arms across the length of the boat and a hand emerges from either sleeve. I take them in mine. The ferryman has rough palms, birthed from centuries of labour and love for this strange sailboat on a strange sea. “So, where you headed?” “The beach,” I hear myself say. “In Barcelona. The sun is setting, and my feet are bare in the sand, and jazz music is pouring from the windows of a nearby cocktail bar, and she is there, and I have her hand in mine, and...” My words ebb away and the sweet scent of suncream and freshly cooked seafood surfaces. I press my eyes closed. Hot sand singes my heels and beads of sticky sweat pool on the collar of my linen shirt. The scaly hand in mine is now soft and plump and cool. I trace her varnished fingernails with the tip of my thumb, and then her knuckles and the veins protruding on the top of her hand, and I am reminded that this is false. She is not real. She is not here. She is at home, hopefully asleep in her bed, with the electric blanket on and a dog-eared book on the nightstand, waiting for a phone call to tell her that I had to stay at the office, once again, and that I am on my way home. And then she squeezes my hand. “What are you doing?” She asks. I keep my eyes closed out of fear. “Babe?” “Just walking.” I manage. “Open your eyes,” a honey-sweet giggle rolls through her - I could drink the sound. “Look, the sun’s setting.” I peel them open. Vibrant daylight fills my head and, in being blinded by the sun for the final time, I am reminded of my agonizing reality. But, as the glare fades and my vision clears, she comes into focus. A captivating beauty crafted with wild locks spun from onyx, sapphire eyes peppered with starlight, and round cheeks so full of life. A delicate breeze catches her hair and, on its passing, delivers the light aroma of her perfume. I let it surround me and inhale enough that a whisper of the scent nestles within the crevice of my mind. I make a mental note to use sparingly. She slows her steps and I stop. I remember what happened here, she asked me to stay and watch the sunset, but I wanted to go back to the room and get ready for dinner. “Let’s stop here for a moment,” I say, before she gets the chance. “Watch the sunset with me?” Her face illuminates. We lower ourselves onto the sand and she lays down, resting her head on my lap. I should have stayed. Sunlight bleeds into the ocean, staining the sky with scarlet streaks, and another day is stolen by the horizon. Violet blooms in the absence of the sun as the embers of its dying light are swept away with the current. I can feel my mind slipping, as though the After has wrapped a wire around my thoughts and is starting to pull. I dip my finger into the cooling sand and write ‘STAY’. “What do you want to do tonight?” she sits up and asks as dusk sets in. Tonight . The word twists my stomach and I long for the absence of feeling once more. Tonight. We went to a restaurant and then to bed. She finished reading her book and I had another late night at the office. “We can think about that later, let’s just stay here for a while longer. Let time pass.” How much time? Not enough. Never enough. I reach for her hand and pull it up to my mouth, grazing her knuckles with my lips and gripping. If I squeeze hard enough, maybe this will become real or maybe I will wake from a terrible dream and she will be lay beside me, her sleeping face illuminated by strips of moonlight peering between the gaps in the blinds. The silhouette of her hips will be cast on the wall and she will have the entire duvet pulled to her side, but it would be okay, I would let her keep it. I place a delicate kiss on each finger and then the back of her hand and her wrist and the inside of her elbow. I stroke my hand against her cheek and brush a kiss on both eyelids. She breathes a laugh against my skin and every hair stands to attention. She tucks her hair behind her ear, and I follow her lead, barely touching my lips to the base of her neck and drinking in her cherry-cola perfume. After some time, she pushes me away with a smirk and a raised brow. She stands over me and brushes the sand from her shorts. I push myself up and hold my hand in hers. She slips her fingers between mine and we walk along the sea, our path illuminated by distant streetlights that line the nearby promenade. The sea is in slumber now, and reflected on its ripples is the glow of a full moon. Her eyes study the coast. What thoughts does it conjure in her wonderful mind? She once told me that her thoughts appeared in colour, rather than an internal voice. It must have been lonely, I used to think. Having since visited a place so absent from colour, sailed on an ocean of black, I now realise that we who think in words are the lonely ones. “So...” she says, though her mind is elsewhere. “Have you thought about what we’re doing tonight?” That invisible wire tugs again and my mind drifts. Our time together is coming to an end and the hole where my heart should be throbs. I prepare for a tsunami of thoughts, but nothing comes. The steady thrum of her heart beats through her hand against my palm. I search for something to say. Anything. I try to form the words ‘I love you’, attempt to describe just how beautiful she is, warn her of the accident and prepare her heart for the impending news. I breathe a tentative breath and consider a goodbye, and then I envision her eyes darkening and her cheeks sinking and her mind becoming plagued with the same voice that infects everybody else’s. She is untouched by death. She has no pain lingering in the shadows, nor a heavy heart brimming with grief ready to overflow at any given moment. I could never do that to her. To say goodbye now would be to stain the rest of her life with a minute, almost undetectable speck of black. “You once asked me, if my life was a painting, what colours would be in the palette.” I say, finally. She turns, her brows furrowed. “I remember.” “Well, the palette would be made up entirely of--” My mind flashes with shadows of memories. No. No. No. All of the late nights at the office. A blonde one with long legs. A green-eyed one with auburn hair. A short one with tanned skin. And I am transported back to the boat. Her hands are no longer in mine and her face is nowhere to be seen, but the scent of her perfume lingers.


Space Adventure To Paradise (And Back) What, where am I? My head feels so strange, like a clamp is pressing in on either side of my face. So this must be space.. Tim’s eyes darted around through his helmet to the great blackness beyond. After a minute, he could see little dots of light, but they seemed very far away. He felt compressed in his space suit, and wriggled in it as best as he could, seeking a sense of freedom, but the part encasing his feet was so heavy. Of course, to combat weightlessness. Suddenly, Tim felt a heightening of reality accompanied by fear. Would he be out here until his death? How could he get back into the rocket where he had been before, no one was there to pull him back into the cabin. He thought back, how unexpected and sad to have Bill die. Bill had a painful accident too, impaled by some sharp equipment. They had set up a sharp stake to hold important papers down, but no one thought of the potential hazard for the weightless astronauts bouncing around the cabin. Tim took pictures, even through his shock, to establish it was an accident, and not something more sinister. Then somehow his effort to check the rocket was able to go forward went really wrong. He was locked outside. Tim must have blacked out for a moment and become disoriented. Action. I need to busy myself with a plan. Tim moved gently towards the cabin holding the rope that was attached to him, the rope that was pressed into the locked door of the cabin. He was like a balloon on the end of a string, so it wasn’t easy to move in towards the cabin door. At last he reached it. He tried to pull the door open, but as he did, the rope tore. He began to float slightly away from the spaceship into the darkness beyond. He moved slower in space than he ever thought he would. I feel utterly alone. I’m going to die here alone. Just as Tim was thinking this, a golden flame began to bolt quickly towards him from a distance. He saw as it approached closer, that it was a wondrously strong-looking angel! This angel also resembled the medieval Italian artists’ depiction of angels except its hair was living and moving all the time, as if made of warm fireplace flames. The angel stood before him, fiery hair dancing, golden robes rippling, and gestured to Tim to remove his helmet. At first Tim’s eyes were incredulous, then stern, as he refused. The angel just looked at him, nodding patiently. Then he thought about his options. I’m bound to die soon. I might as well have company, and follow this apparition. Tim removed his helmet. He knew he should feel like he was being drowned, or being smothered, but he did not! He felt freedom and peace. He also felt like he was looking down on himself from somewhere higher. The angel put one golden hand on his arm, and they both flew up and away from his helmetless body and the spaceship. The angel reassured him that all who he had left behind would be just fine. Tim noticed his senses were so enhanced. He really felt like he was living for the first time, and the life he thought he had before was some form of pale, suffocated phony existence. He could see 360 degrees around him. If this was death, why had he ever been afraid? He could breathe, he saw colors he never knew existed. Reds deeper than scarlet, wilder than magenta, yellows brighter than can be described, greens that topped the most beautiful aurora borealis photographs. Tim had knowledge of all around him. He also had knowledge of his past life, and those he had known. It was like a woven tapestry in his mind of how his actions had affected others for good and for bad, all the connections to other people. He felt so very alive. He was ready for wherever the angel was leading him. They arrived at a beautiful place, all roses and lush gardens, and there in the middle of a distant garden stood a magnificently beautiful woman surrounded by many children. She shone like an angel, and yet, she seemed human. He wanted to meet her, but the angel led him away. There were waterfalls and many flower gardens, angelic creatures and happy people enjoying the perfect weather. Everything smelled better, looked brighter, felt more real than ever before. Tim spotted Bill, who waved to him joyfully as he joined some people who looked like they could be Bill’s relatives. Tim followed the angel, marveling at everything, and how his legs didn’t feel tired at all, though they had walked a long way, and leaving the suit was usually exhausting. Tim felt like he could walk forever if need be. The angel seemed to be enjoying guiding Tim around. Then Tim met with someone greater, someone he knew was The One. The One saw right through him, and told him he was going back, because his mission was incomplete. The One said, “We brought you here, so you would know you are never utterly alone. I’m always holding you. You have to know how your life affects others too. You have just a little more time to make it right.” Then The One showed him many things, like why there were mosquitoes plaguing humans, why the dinosaurs died out and when, why the human mind can help heal the body, and so many things He could read in Tim's mind the desire to know. Tim listened, then wept a cleansing kind of weeping, overwhelmed with the knowledge, and the beauty, and the mercy of it all. He would never doubt again. He then began to weep sadly, because he did not want to return to complete his mission on earth. He knew those who loved him would be just fine without him. The angel had told him so. So why couldn’t he stay? He tried to ask to stay, but the words wouldn’t come out. He knew it was no use. It was as if The One answered his request in Tim's head. As the angel led him back from Paradise the long distance to the rocket lingering in space below, Tim asked it how he could return to earth. The angel said, “You should know by now if The One sends you back, you will safely return.” Tim accepted what was happening, and watched the streaking comets and the meteor showers with a heightened sense of awareness and appreciation. As they approached his body, Tim suddenly felt a bit deflated. He was going back to the world, that was a miserable pale shadow of the one he had just left. He reentered his body, but learned it was different to unite soul and body now. As he buckled the floating helmet onto his head, he realized there was a warm, pleasant burning inside of him, a new peace. He still retained the vivid memory of where he had been, and all that had been said to him. He would never be the same, and if others on earth didn’t understand, that was okay. He knew. He knew what his mission was, and how to live each moment of his life. Above all, he knew he needed to return to The One to stay. The angel led him to the entrance, and opened the rocket door for Tim. Tim calmly entered, knowing his return to earth would be viewed as a miracle, then probably quickly forgotten by most. But he would never forget.