It had been a long day at work. Not literally, of course, every day on DS 42-c was exactly the same length, perfectly optimized to the circadian rhythm of an Earth born human, much to the chagrin of nonhumans and those hailing from the colonies. Even the days on board dripped with artificiality, a product of bureaucratic choices made by rich investors who cared only about their returns, and had never even been this far out in the galaxy. The day may not have been literally longer than any other, but it certainly felt that way, as days often do when you spend all of it on one tedious task. Ever since the budget cuts became official 6 months ago and the maintenance crew got downsized again, more days felt this way. More frequently, the entire staff would spend a whole day trying to fix one system on the brink of going critical, only to let other systems fall into the same state of disrepair. And even when we did manage to keep a system from failing completely, it was only a temporary fix. Nothing ever stayed working for long. This had been the general trend over the past few years. This was life aboard a private station, though, and in this economy, I was lucky to still have a job. This specific day had opened with a rather terrifying crisis. A leak in the oxygen recycler had grown, and was now threatening to cause a critical decompression in the entire station. The entire maintenance staff convened, even the already exhausted night shift, and our regular 8 hour shift became a nightmarish 15 hours. With the oxygen system stabilized, and our bodies exhausted and mangled by the day’s work, the crew dispersed, turning in for what was left of the night. I, however, had a tradition of going to the cantina on deck 22 after every shift, a tradition I planned on continuing after such a long shift. Deck 22 was rarely visited by the permanent residents of DS 42-c. It was for travelers, mostly, passing through. In accordance with Galactic law, all deep space stations had to have facilities for ships to refuel and crews to disembark and rest. Deck 22 was our station’s vagrant deck, and besides dormitories for crew of ships passing through and docks for ships to refuel, the cantina was the only thing of note. DS 42-c was the farthest space station in the Galaxy from the Core Worlds. No settlement in the charted Milky Way existed farther from the center of the galaxy, and as such, no station had fewer visitors. The cantina was nothing special, as far as the facilities the station had to offer. It was a dimly lit room with quiet jazz playing from a set of speakers. There was a bar against one wall, booths against the other, and on the wall farthest from the door was a window that filled all the available space. Depending on the position of the station, you could either see the entire galaxy or an inky abyss out of the window. Either way was profitable; if your clientele is having an existential crisis, they’re more likely to drink. Around the floor of the cantina was a smattering of tables for the patrons foolish enough to order food. There weren’t many guests normally, and tonight was no exception. A group of 3 Transadorians sat in one of the booths, muttering quietly amongst themselves. One of them had their horns removed, the mark of a murderer, another was missing one of their 6 eyes, and the third wore a flight suit. All 3 went silent and stared as I entered, only to silently resume their conversation when they saw I wasn’t there for them. A Hooloovoo was at the edge of the bar, still partially refracted from what looked like a special event. They moved their prism in and out of a Faraday Cage, causing their physical form to become distorted and weakened. Sitting at a table in the middle of the room were 2 members of the Cartography Guild. This far out in the galaxy, most of the strangers came from the Guild, though they never stayed long. I made my way to the bar and was greeted by Amanda, a human from the colonies above Venus. Before I could even ask for a drink, she procured exactly what I wanted, a Venusian Margarita, her specialty, and anxiously gestured to a table by the window. Either by my own choice or theirs, I hadn’t noticed before, but sitting alone at the table was a cloaked figure who stared out the window, which was perfectly positioned to see both the heart of the galaxy and the void that lay beyond its farthest edges. They looked tall, but the way they sat was hunched over, like they were trying to squeeze themselves into their chair, which made it hard to tell for certain. I made my way over to meet them, and their leg pushed out a chair on the opposite side of the table from them. Their gaze didn’t break from the window. I sat down and took a long sip from my glass. “Thanks for the drink,” I said. “Exactly what I wanted to get, you must have great taste.” The cloaked figure didn’t give any indication I had been heard. I cleared my throat and spoke up this time. “*Thanks for the-*” “No need to yell, I heard you the first time,” interrupted the figure, with the sweetest voice I had ever heard. Each word sounded like a song, harmonic beauty that resonated with the deepest part of my soul. “The Trasadorians in the booth likely won’t take so kindly to distractions at the moment. One of them is a convicted killer, after all. On the run and is understandably a bit jumpy.” I took a long sip from my drink before speaking again, softer this time. “You seem to know a lot about the people here. The Transadorians motives and my preferred imbibement.” “I know a lot about a lot of things. You will learn to quiet your mind and hear the music, too,” they said. “And you’re welcome for the drink.” They still wouldn’t turn to face me, opting to look out the window. “You know,” I said between sips, “it’s customarily polite to look at a person when you talk to them.” “Maybe among your people, but I’m not ready yet,” the figure said. I shrugged. “So, what brings you out this far? Not many folks come out to the edge of the galaxy for pleasure. Except the poets, but they’re weird anyway.” They were quiet for a moment. Then their shoulders moved slightly, like they were bracing for something, and they turned to face me. “I’m here for you,” they finally said. “Drink, it’s a muscle relaxant. It’ll help when we leave this station later.” “Wait,” I began. “Do you think I’m going with you? I don’t even know who you are. I don’t even know *what* you are, the people on this station need me. Why me, anyway? And why do I need to drink? I’ve been in Jump Space before and I was fine. And why the cloak? You look like a character from one of those old fantasy books. I have many questions, sorry.” After a moment of silence, they nodded, stood up, and walked to the coat rack by the door. There, they took off their cloak and hung it, revealing who was underneath. Now that they stood up properly, I could tell that they were about 3 meters, like I had assumed. Their skin was a pale purple, and completely hairless. Little was left to the imagination because they only wore a pair of pants, threadbare and too short for their long legs. Their figure was vaguely humanoid, save the long proportions. Their arms swung past their knees, and one hand had been replaced entirely by a prosthetic, with several computer inputs surrounding their wrist. Their chest was a mess of mechanics, and their spine had clearly been replaced, with mechanical joints connecting to pieces of exoskeleton, extending from their back, to their shoulders, to their elbows. Their face is what struck me most, however. It was human, or rather once was, by the look of it, but everything was wrong. Their mouth much wider than it should have been, and with some respirator attachment on their nose, with tubes running down into their back. Their eyes were massive for their head, and were black pits, seemingly without soul. They returned to the table and sat down; I stood up immediately and walked to the door. “I’m not going to force you to do anything,” they said, and I stopped. “I know what you think of us, but you’re wrong. Come sit and listen, and if you don’t like what you hear, you can leave.” I turned back to meet their eyes. There was nothing there, just a reflection of myself. But for some reason, I sat back down. Before they could say a word, I threw back the rest of my drink. They looked at the bartender, raised a hand, and I was brought another Venusian Margarita. “Thanks,” I muttered, staring at the table. “You’re welcome,” they said. “Now look at me.” I did. “What am I?” It took me a moment to respond, but after gathering the courage to say it, I replied “a Custodian.” The Custodian nodded. “What do you know of our people?” I took my first sip from my new drink. “Every species in the galaxy that we’ve found knows about you. You came to every world right before they made it to the stars.” “And?” “... And there are stories. Stories of people visited by Custodians who vanish. No note, they take nothing with them, they just vanish. And for some reason nobody does anything about it.” The Custodian sat for a moment, their eyes boring into the top of my head. “Normally,” they began, “it’s polite to make eye contact.” I looked up to meet their gaze and shuddered. They tried to smile sweetly to comfort me, but their altered face only made it more uncanny. I shuddered and they stopped smiling, to my relief. “I suppose first I should apologize. We have a rather negative reputation, though not entirely unearned. The stories you have heard are true, though only one side of the story. Before I can properly explain what, or rather who, we are, you should understand how the universe will die. Spoilers, by the way. “When this universe grows old, all that will be left will be black holes. Many supermassive black holes, drifting off into infinity, forever. What matter isn’t in those black holes will break down, the strong force holding the atoms together decaying. It is a tragedy, but that is how all universes must die. It happened to the universe before ours, and it will happen to the next in line, and the universe after that. Reasonably, you will ask yourself how there could be a universe after ours if that is our fate, or how we could exist if this were the fate of the universe before us. And that is where the Custodians come in. The universe is very messy, so when she’s done playing out this game, we clean up after her so a new one may begin. We collect everything together and effectively start up another big bang. “Every sentient being in the universe has the ability to make choices. But there are some whose lives have been carefully curated. They can make choices, but the circumstances under which those choices are made are decided. We think this is designed by the Custodians that came before, but there is no way of knowing for certain. All we know is that these individuals are made to become Custodians. We assume we were designed by the previous Custodians because we have laid the groundwork for the next generation in the next universe. As I’m sure you’ve guessed, you are one of these individuals. I’ve come to bring you with me to become a Custodian, the same choice I made so long ago.” While they spoke, I drank. You would, too, if presented with all of this information. Every developed species in the galaxy, potentially the universe, knew about the Custodians, but most had never met or even seen one. And here I was, having a casual chat with one about the heat death of the universe. After the Custodian finished, they gave me a moment to consider all they had said. I finally was able to speak after a time, though I’m not sure how long. It could have been 30 seconds or 3 hours. “Why would I want this,” I asked. “Why should I go with you?” “Earlier, I mentioned hearing the universe. Spacetime... She has a song. But not a song as you know it, with measures and sheet music, Passionately improvisational, all happening at once. Every note has happened, is happening, and will happen, all at once. Custodians can hear this song. We have to, the entire universe, all at once. It’s a lot at first, but learn to understand it... there’s nothing more beautiful, nothing that even remotely compares. Being a Custodian is a thankless job, only appreciated by the other Custodians, past, present, and future. But it is the greatest role in the universe, and among the most important.” “Does it hurt? Becoming like you?” “The transition isn’t easy, but when it’s done, it’s done.” “And I can say no? I can stay?” They nodded. “I cannot make you come. I cannot make you do anything. But you will choose to come. Nobody has ever chosen to stay.” “What if I do? Stay, I mean. You said you can hear the entire universe at once, can you hear..?” “You can choose to stay,” they began, “but you will live the next 32 years, 3 months, and 16 days, after which you will pass away quietly, in your sleep. That whole time will be on this station. In 6 years, you will become the lead of the maintenance staff, a position you will try to use to push for better conditions and pay for those beneath you. There will be marginal successes, but in the end, you will be another tool for those who own this base to keep your team in line. Nothing will change except you. You will die alone and unloved. No family, no friends, nothing to show for your life but a temporary position of power that meant nothing.” I only had one question left, the question burning at the back of my mind since the Custodian suggested I go with them. “Will I be happy? If I go with you, I mean. Do you even know that sort of thing? Do you know Custodian me? You can time travel, right? I mean, I’m not happy now, and it sounds like the most I can hope for in staying is to become complacent, so what’s out there for me?” The Custodian looked out the window again for a moment, and then turned back to meet my gaze. “Custodians don’t have many traditions. We’re a conglomerate, a melting pot of a million million different people from a million million worlds. Most of the traditions from our past lives were forgotten, we are all Custodians and nothing more. But there is one custom, unique to the Custodians.” They got out of their chair, kneeling to meet my gaze and placing a hand on my shoulder. “It is the privilege of the Custodians, in the moments before the beginning of the next universe, to travel back and invite ourselves to become Custodians. It is the true reward for our sacrifice. “I could detail every moment of what comes next for you if you leave with me. I could give every secret between the two of us you have ahead of you, but there is no fun in that. What I can tell you if that, in choosing to come with me, you will be happier and more fulfilled than you could ever hope to be here.” They stood up and walked to the door, grabbing their cloak and putting it on before they walked out. “You have an hour,” they said from the doorway. “Deck 22, dock 67. I’ll let you finish your drink, the time jump is hell if you’re sober *and* mortal.


The Box What was in the box? There have always been glimpses of that box. Dad would take that box out and hold it close. We were never to touch it. Dad would let us try to open it, but it was no use. We didn’t have the key. The beautiful, intricate box was a puzzle. Only he knew the key to open it. But now that Dad was gone, here was the box. Again. A few months before Dad died, he told me very specifically, to take the box and throw it away and never look inside, so I did, or so I thought. As we began the long, arduous process of cleaning out the dank, dirty basement a few months after the funeral, there it was. Sitting on a pile of rubbish, looking at me as if to say, “OPEN ME”. I thought, How had it found its way into the basement? I swear I had thrown it out! It looked like someone had tried to pry it open. Now it was irrevocably broken. It was probably my nephew Miles, who was always in some sort of trouble. Miles, who was supposed to be helping Dad, but was a leech, siphoning Dad’s pension, his retirement, for his own foul needs. I KNOW I put it in the trash. Miles must have taken it out thinking it had something of value in it. It was that kind of box, with its ebony inlaid picture of an Asian land, the kind you would see marked Made in China but were bought as souvenirs from Japan. It’s beautiful wood, tongue and groove corners, different pieces that lay criss-cross and diagonal on the sides of the box. If you pushed on some of the pieces just right, it would pop open. but you had to know the secret. I couldn’t fathom why it was there. I had thrown the damn thing out! I took it upstairs, walked outside to the already overflowing bin, and put it in the trash again, and I told my sister Georgia,” Dad wanted me to throw this box out.” When we arrived home, I saw it in the trunk of the car. Georgia! What the bleep! She had grabbed it from the trash and put it in the trunk of the car. I resigned myself. It made it here, what was I to do? I brought it in with the rest of the junk we just couldn’t live without and stored it with the other pictures and trinkets we decided to keep. I left it all on the kitchen table until I had a spare moment to put it all away. I wanted to respect my Dad’s wishes, so I refused to open the box. Georgia had other ideas. “Georgia, leave it alone!” I said with frustration.. “Whatever is in there, Dad didn’t want us to see it.” Georgia, being desperate (missing my dad) wanted to hope that there was some treasure in there that she could hold onto. Something of value. She had relied so heavily on Dad throughout her life for not just her emotional support, but for her financial support. Maybe there was something worth selling. The box sat on my kitchen table for a good month or more along with the other photos we had rescued from Dad’s house before the bank took possession of it. One day after our family had gathered for some occasion of which I don’t recall, Georgia decided to open the box. She pried at it until it broke open. She literally had to bust the box to open it. Once opened, the contents seemed to want out. They slowly unfurled and raised themselves out of the depths of the box like a snake or an accordion. They had been stuffed there for over 40 years. I don’t think one more piece of paper could have fit. Georgia proceeded to look through the contents with confusion on her face. I grabbed some of the letters and photos and looked closely at them. I remembered some of these photos. One time, when I was 15 years old, I remember coming to give Dad a kiss goodnight and he was holding the box. He had opened it, but he wouldn’t show us what was in it. “What’s in the box?” I asked. “Something very special, “ he said. “Can I see?” He opened the box and carefully took out one tiny picture. It was of a beautiful woman with long dark hair, clear sallow skin, and almond eyes. Dad told me about a special family that took care of him when he was overseas. I thought that was so nice, that he had friends who would look after him. He told me some other things, but either my mind couldn’t comprehend or I chose to not believe him. I asked him, “Does mom know?” “She does,” he said, so I went and asked Mom, who was busy hiding in the kitchen, sneaking licks from the ice cream container with her long teaspoon. Mom never would admit that she had an addiction. An addiction to ice cream. She thought that if she hid from view and just snuck a few bites here and there, they wouldn’t really count. I asked mom about Dad’s other family, the one in The Philippines. She said, oh yes, I know, but we don’t talk about that. And that was the end of it. I shrugged my shoulders and went to bed, not really comprehending or understanding what a dire circumstance I would one day uncover. I promptly forgot about the whole thing, forgot or refused to believe. Neither of them made a big deal out of it, so why should I ? And here I was, uncovering something my Dad wanted to have buried with him. He didn’t want us to know the truth. As we leafed through the letters, the photos of the same beautiful woman posing with my Dad, the truth started to unfold. This first photo with the woman and my dad looked chummy, like friends. The next photo was...oh, uh, what? That isn’t Dad, it can’t be. The man had his arms around this woman. His arms were holding her low on her stomach and she had her hands on top of his. She was beaming! The look on the man’s face was distant, blank. The man was very thin. This couldn’t be my father, who always seemed to have a weight problem and was in the FAT MAN’s Club in the Marines. He never came in at weight and had to constantly keep vigil over himself. The man in the photo was very stylish and stood at least a foot over the petite little woman. They stood in the photo as if they were a couple. I just knew this wasn’t my dad. But Dad was gone. I wasn’t even going to be able to ask him about it, to confront him with it. The next picture was a little different. It was of a newborn baby. I couldn't tell if it was a girl or a boy. Then the next, and the next, was of a little girl, She looked strangely familiar, like other little White babies. White, as in our surname. White, like a sibling, like family, like a sister..... The last few pictures were chilling. A beautiful casket laid out with ceremonial candles and little buddha statues. Inside the casket lay the same little girl. Still, motionless, beautiful in a fancy dress and perfect little girl shoes. It was apparent what had killed her. Only a tragic accident could have caused that kind of bruising and swelling that would be seen days later. A very large bruise on her forehead was easy to see in the photo, even with its age you could see it plain as day. No! No, no, no! NOT MY DAD! NO! It’s not true! How dare someone send these awful photos to my father, who was the BEST father! Who was the most devoted husband! Who everyone knew loved my mother over any and everything! Mom and Dad had the most perfect, storybook marriage. No one would believe he would have ever cheated on my mother. Who had never known ( in the biblical sense) anyone else but my father! They met at DISNEYLAND! They were the happily ever after at the end of the fairy tale. My dad never left my mother’s side for the last month of her life. He slept in a chair in her hospital room. Everyone, all of the nurses, cooed over my dad and couldn’t stop talking about what a SAINT he was and how dedicated he was....to MY MOTHER! My poor mother had suffered from brain tumors her entire adult life. She had married my dad when she was 19 years old and they had had a long, happy marriage together. That must be someone else, some other man who looked like Dad. He must be covering for someone. Yes, that was it. He was standing in for someone else. The puzzle pieces started to fit together. My dad had long declared himself an alcoholic, but he had stopped drinking by the time he was 40 when I was only 16. I never saw my dad drink that I can remember. The only thing I remember is the one time he came home so drunk, he lay on the bathroom floor worshiping the porcelain god. When I had asked my mom what was wrong with dad ( I must have been about 7 or 8 years old) she ignored me and said he deserved to be sick, kicked him, and let him lay there until he got up by himself, several hours later. But now, it all made sense. How my dad had told me to never start drinking because alcoholism runs in our family and it had ruined his life. He became another person when he drank. I had the same lecture from my grandfather, my dad’s father when I was 21. Now, looking at the box, it was clear what Dad had meant. So many things started to fall into place, Dad’s melancholy, his faraway gazes when he would hold onto the box, little things he would say like, “Wouldn’t you like to have another sister?” and of course, we were such a close-knit family, the five of us, that we would scream with joy, YES! Never realizing he was thinking of the little girl in the casket. What was in the box? It was an intricate puzzle. Only Dad had the key. Well, now we know. Sometimes, it’s best to leave puzzles unfinished, unsolved. Sometimes.


Lucy had been dreading this day for weeks. She was flying out to attend a family wedding in California and her husband, Adam, was unable to take her or attend due to his previous work commitments. In his place, her mother-in-law, Grace, had insisted she drive her to the airport, which was about an hour away. Lucy had accepted the offer reluctantly, not because she didn’t appreciate the help, but because she and Grace had a strained relationship. Lucy had always felt that Grace had overstepped boundaries. It was the constant way she tried to control Lucy’s life, making unsolicited suggestions about her career, her marriage, and even, on some occasions, her choice of clothing. Lucy had tried to be polite but it was hard to keep her emotions in check when Grace continued to poke her nose where it didn’t belong. As they drove down the highway, Lucy tried to keep the conversation light, but Grace was not in a chatty mood. She had on large black sunglasses that concealed her eyes and a scarf that kept her short hair tucked under it. Her hands were tightly on the wheel, and her lips were pressed firmly together. They drove in silence for a while before the car started to make a strange noise. Lucy glanced at Grace in alarm, and Grace muttered something under her breath. The car shuddered and slowed down, and then came to a complete stop. Grace tried to start the car again, but to no avail. It wouldn’t budge. “Great. Piece of crap,” she said, more audible this time. Grace slid her glasses of her nose and placed them in the holder atop the ceiling. She then leaned down and pulled the lever that popped open the hood, she got out of the car and crossed to the front, peering down into the engine. Lucy got out too, and looked around the empty stretch of highway nervously. They were in the middle of nowhere, and she couldn’t remember how long it had been since they had passed another car or even a gas station. Lucy watched her mother-in-law, who seemed to be lost in thought. It was clear to Lucy that Grace didn’t know what to do, but the silence between them became more uncomfortable with each passing second. Finally Grace came around the front of the car, to the passenger's side, looking grim. “Looks like we might be in trouble. The engine is completely dead.” A knot formed in Lucy’s stomach as Grace’s words settled in. She had a flight to catch, and she couldn’t afford to miss it. “Can’t we call for help?” Grace shook her head, the scarf falling slightly from the motion freeing her blonde hair. She help up her phone. “We’re out of cell range. I think we’re on our own for this one.” Lucy sat down on the side of the road, feeling helpless. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. She had been so anxious about the trip, and now this. Looking to Grace, who was pacing up and down muttering to herself, an idea struck. “Grace,” she said tentatively, “Maybe we should try to fix the car ourselves.” Grace stopped pacing and looked at Lucy, surprised. “What do you mean?” “Well,” Lucy started, standing up, “we don’t have any other options. Maybe we can at least try to see if there’s something we can do to get the car going.” Grace looked skeptical, but then threw up her hands. “Oh what the hell, worth a shot.” Lucy stood and walked to the car. She tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear and looked into the engine bay. As she gazed down into it, she realized had no idea what she was doing, but she remembered her father showing her how to change a tire when she was a teenager. Maybe there was something they could do, even if they just tried. She peered curiously at the engine. “We might need this,” Grace said from beside her. “I use it sometimes to find my car in the dark when I’m on my way home.” She procured a small flashlight that was hooked on the end of her keychain. Lucy raised an eyebrow, the woman was resourceful. Grace turned it on and pointed it at the engine. The two got to work, peering at each section with careful eyes, searching for anything that pointed to an issue to be solved. They worked together, Lucy asking Grace for advice, and Grace murmuring here and there what was supposed to be plugged in and what didn’t need anything. Lucy started to learn that Grace’s father had been a mechanic growing up, and she knew a little bit about cars, but not enough to do more than speculate on the issue. Lucy felt a sense of accomplishment, not only for doing something she had never attempted before, but that she and Grace were actually getting along without any underlying animosity. She felt a grudging respect building for the woman as they probed through the car. Maybe together they really could fix this thing. Another ten minutes had passed before they struck luck. They finally found the problem. It was a loose wire that had disconnected from the battery. Lucy and Grace looked at each other, exchanging a triumphant raise of their brows. Grace laughed a melodic sound that Lucy realized she had never heard before. She smiled, and curled the wire back around the battery. “Go see if it starts up,” Lucy said, taking a step back from the car. Grace complied, sliding into the driver's seat and sticking her key in the ignition. With a deep breath she twisted her wrist and the car roared to life. She laughed again, and Lucy joined in. The two of them stood there laughing and soaking in the moment before Grace glanced down at the digital clock on the car’s dashboard. “We’ve gotta get going if you want to make that flight!” She called, sticking her head out of the open window. “How much time do we have?” “Enough if I speed,” Grace replied with a waggle of her brows. Lucy wasted no time. She grabbed the top of the hood and slammed it back into place. She trotted around the side of the car and slid into the passenger seat. As they drove towards the airport, Lucy felt a sense of gratitude towards Grace. She had never realized that Grace was actually a kind person, who was just trying to help in her own way. She had always seen Grace’s actions as interfering, but now she saw that the woman was genuinely trying to be a part of her life. Perhaps there was more to her than she had previously thought. She smiled when she caught Grace’s eye and wondered how different their lives would look now they seemed to be on the same page.


Yeah, got chopped in half. Why; what's up with him? *I heard he got robot legs now. I was wondering if you heard that too?* Nah I heard The General is keeping him in stasis and putting him into the cloning program. *Nah that was Brent.* Shit, was it really? That fucker owes me fifteen bucks. I'm wondering will all his clones pay up if I ask them? *Well he's only got two of them. And both are currently infants so probably not.* Ah crap. (Boom) Crap, they 'invading' now. Who's in charge today? *I think it's The General's girlfriend. What was her name again?* Oh, The Red something I dunno. I just know I don't like her. *Woah man just because...* It's not because she's a woman asshat. It's because she's kind of a bitch and incompetent. Look I ain't got no problems with women being in high position. Look at Yolanda, head of Sales. Woman is a beast at what she does. Red whatever her name is always puts us in the wrong place, groups us up way to tight, and then blames us when she fails so her 'Boyfriend' doesn't punish her. The last base she was in charge of got destroyed. The G-man himself cut our budget and 1/8 the staff. *Nah man I didn't hear that. I thought it was because our performance that year was bad.* Oh come on man. Our performance every year is bad. At the last general meeting she basically cussed out half the staff because we weren't doing our 'job'. *I can't go to those. It's Jeremey's ballet time.* Your son does ballet? *Yeah. My wife wants to be progressive and all that. We tried to sign him up for baseball and he was really good at it. But let's just say the parents of the league were just not happy with him.* Ah jeez Pat I'm sorry, I didn't know. *It's fine, don't worry about it. I might try to get him in Dr. Malcontent's team next season.* Mal's got a team? *Yeah, I think they're called the Mustang's or whatever. Honestly they're not that great but the Doctor is really good about not yelling negative things and he tries to make them learn from their mistakes.* Well that's good. I'm wondering if he'll still being doing it when Millie is old enough. *I don't know I was gonna talk with him this Thursday about it.* (Louder boom) *And they're drawing closer. Rick you ready to [wink] destroy the enemy* Yeah let's do this. Hail the General, hail VENOM. Hail the General, hail VENOM.


John Schaufensterscheibe immigrated to Canada in 1793 with his young wife Gerta. John was an inventor and a visionary - he loved to tinker with things. He loved to make wooden items - everything from surprises for die kinder (the children) - to decorative nutcrackers - to handheld corn seeders and mortar and pestles - just everyday things: nothing too fancy or modern. After a busy day of working the fields John would dread having to bend over to take off his muddy shoes, especially since he was a very tall man, so one day he used a nearby stick to aid him. After a few days of using this shoe stick, as he called it, he whittled it down into a smooth tool to slip into the heel and slide the shoe off. He soon got the idea to refine and market this tall man's aid - the shoe horn - it was a raging success! He became moderately wealthy and was able to provide for Gerta, and later his twelve children for the rest of his life. Over a century later, John's great great great Grandson Arnold Schaufensterscheibe is still receiving royalties from the largest shoe horn company in North America. Now Arnold fancies himself a celebrity for the worldwide utilized invention of his forefather John. He loves to take quarterly vacations to tropical destinations on deluxe cruise lines: he always asks for the King Suite and mentions his ancestry; he becomes belligerent when his shoe horn nobility is taken into question. Arnold also doesn't like to wait. He wants immediate service anytime his patience is tested. Whenever he goes out to the local Stroop-waffle house he refuses to wait to be seated; he will forcefully push costumers off their seats and onto the floor if necessary. Whenever this arrogance is mentioned he asks with a stone cold expression, "..and how did you get your shoes on this morning?" When the costumer responds, "I just used my shoe horn," Arnold's face becomes rosy with burst veins as he says mockingly, " Do you know who I am?" He intensely pauses as he shakes with anger then continues, "I'm the great great great grandson of John Schaufensterscheibe!" The costumers face goes blank - nobody would dare argue with history. Arnold isn't married - not because he isn't desirable (so he tells himself), but because he can't find a suitable mate to carry the Schaufensterscheibe heir. He once dated a charming brunette named Isabelle. She was a good woman with many unique abilities and skills. Isabelle could paint-by-number holding a paintbrush between her toes, she was a miraculous ventriloquist and she made the spongiest spongecake in the region. Where's the catch? She used her index and middle finger to put on her running shoes - like a savage. There was no subtle conversation of "I think we should see other people," or "it's not you - it's me," Arnold just stomped Trumpishly and showed Isabelle the door - he barely waited for her to clumsily slide on her sneakers: watching her struggle just asserted his reasoning for parting with this inefficient woman. Arnold gave up on his search for the ideal mate, and settled into the realization that there is no one who could tick every shoe box. How could such a handsome, intelligent, charming, and modest young Schaufensterscheibe man be left a bachelor? He longed for companionship: for comfort, and for strudel. As all men do. One last romance ditch attempt surfaced itself: a Singles' 7-day Caribbean Cruise was scheduled in a months time. Arnold booked a ticket and began planning his itinerary details and even his packing list. He would bring four pairs of dress shoes and 8 deluxe-handcrafted-shoehorns (one for each day and a spare - heaven forbid one should fall overboard). Everything else was pretty standard and uninspiring: shirts, shorts, toothbrush blah blah blah. Soon the time came to finally pack up his Volkswagon and drive to the cruise ship terminal. Along the way he visualized his luggage and it's contents, and just as he arrived he suddenly remembered he'd left his silk satchel with his 8 monogrammed shoehorns on his dresser at home! This was catastrophic - there were only a few significantly worse things that had happened in his lifetime. He would rather get a parking ticket for blocking a handicapped spot during business hours, or an ingrown hair in a very sensitive place, or suffer the wrath of a destitute seagull when he's trying to handle not one, but three corn-dogs! The time to decide is now. Not tomorrow - not when he's situated in a chair by the pool with an umbrella in his drink - but now. He exited the vehicle and patted every pocket in his pants: perhaps he had put an extra shoehorn somewhere. He often does - he's found them in very unusual places before - in the dishwasher, under the dryer, in the Gerber Daisy planter box. No luck - nowhere on his person. What course of action should he take? He figured there have probably been many people faced with the very same situation, and no news of some disastrous outcome has ever surfaced from their poor packing. What is the worst possible consequence from a shoe horn discrepancy? He might have to loosen his laces, or he might not end up getting the shoe securely on his foot. Only a slight bit of discomfort could possibly manifest - don't overthink this Arnold - he said to himself. Inhale, exhale, panic tingled up his spine giving him shivers, or maybe that was the ocean breeze. The sea air felt like clean sheets on his skin, and it sounded like chaos and calm, the ebb and flow of the universe. In that moment a mystical notion unearthed itself in the stillness: not everything needs to be forced into it's place. He held onto the guard rail with one hand and his suitcase with the other and boarded the ship. He was greeted by a dark haired woman in a loose flowing skirt and bikini top. She smiled like the sun and hung a flower necklace around his cleanly shaven neck. "Welcome," she said with a voice like apple strudel. "Excuse me miss - where is the gift shop? ...I need to buy a pair of flip flops." He turned around and let out a freeing sigh.


It was her name that jarred me. Miss Josephine Paxton. Miss. A large boardroom table with a dozen seats. Dark mahogany, shelves of worn books, the air filled with dust motes, musty and stale. I wondered if all lawyers had a room like this, or just the ones that served rich clients and read wills to greedy families gathered in the half light. The busy London traffic was humming behind the heavy dark curtains and in that afternoon heat, my mind drifted back through time. Back to the war years, back to my youth, back to a time when I was deeply in love. I’d been a trained confectioner, creating candies and crafting chocolate. The rationing brought an end to my youthful aspirations. No sugar meant no sweets and so the little shop that I’d taken over was forced to close. I wasn’t alone in this time of desperation, there were many of us who’d had to change career and I decided it wouldn’t do me any good to brood over the subject. I was lucky, my family had money, a large house in Surrey and I’d been allowed this exciting foray into business until my mother could find a suitable bachelor to marry me. Now that most of them had departed to fight the Germans, I was granted a temporary reprieve from the matchmakers that congregated at my parent’s parties. It wasn’t considered a tasteful subject to bring up the lack of eligible men in the neighbourhood, not when they were fighting for King and country. In the run up to Christmas in 1941, the National Service Act had passed to include women. Childless spinsters between the ages of twenty and thirty, should join the forces and ‘do their bit’ for England. I fell into that category, having celebrated my twenty-first birthday over the summer. The Land Army wasn’t an easy option for me, but I’d decided it was better to be outdoors than working in the munitions factories. I was assigned to work on a farm in a tiny village on the outskirts of Dorchester, deep in the heart of Dorset. Those first days were hard, cold and dark but by the time spring had arrived I was used to the muck and dirt, early morning milking and hands that were calloused and sore. I shared a cottage with two other girls, and we fought over bathwater and overalls in equal measure. The longer days of sunshine warmed our spirits and before long we were enjoying our days off with trips down to the seaside in Weymouth. We made friends and when the locals held a village dance, we were invited. The local lads were harmless and mostly farm workers, too old or damaged to fight in the war. Then the American GIs arrived. The first time we attended a dance with the yanks, the whole place was filled with Glen Miller music and laughter. The atmosphere was lively and the chatter of accents distinctly different to our own was enough to excite us. Glances were exchanged across the dance floor and it wasn’t long before we were all being twirled and hurled through the air by dashing servicemen. I noticed him sitting in the corner, taking in the scene with every drag of his cigarette. He was handsome in the smart, clean cut way that men used to be, but his demeanour made him seem unapproachable and stand-offish. I was caught mid stare and given a firm prod and a push towards him. I braced myself and accepted the challenge to engage in conversation with the only man in the room who seemed disinclined to make small talk. I took out a cigarette and sat down at his empty table, avoiding his stare. Like all men, he responded with a source of light and I resisted the urge to look into his eyes until he held the flame in front of them. He smiled warmly and we both laughed at the significance of the gesture. Steve was a New Yorker, his words took time for me to process but he spoke about his life back home, his parents’ store, the newspaper where he worked and the places he loved to visit. There was a sadness behind his chatter, I thought it was a dose of homesickness. The real cause of his melancholy didn’t emerge until we’d been courting for a few weeks. We’d taken a walk down to the riveron a Sunday afternoon, I’d packed a meagre picnic lunch that was bolstered by his contributions of cheese, two hard boiled eggs and a bottle of cider and we sat lounging in the afternoon sun. It was then that he told me about his ex-wife. My heart sank at his confession, but I was falling in love for the first time and the fact that he wanted to be honest made my heart thump with gladness. He loved me too. The weeks rolled past and the more time we spent together, the more in sync we became. He wanted to marry me and insisted that he ask my family for permission. The weekend pass came, and we headed to Surrey to meet my parents and extended members of the clan. Impressed by the family home, rolling countryside and lush green lawns, Steve looked nervously at me as we rang the doorbell. My father was a docile man, bowled over by Steve’s winning smile and now exuberant nature. My mother was easily won over by a pair of silk stockings and his New York drawl. Then my Grandmother, Seffy, joined us. The inquisition began in a harmless way, talk of his working-class roots, Scottish American heritage and ambitions as a journalist. Then I left the room to make another pot of tea. I knew that this was the point when his imminent proposal would be discussed, and permission would be granted. But when I reappeared with a tray in the drawing room, the atmosphere had shifted, my head began to swim in panic. Divorced. His honesty had been his downfall and my Grandmother left the room, brushing past me with a look of dismay. Steve stood and looked crestfallen; his smile was replaced with a tight grimace of acceptance. He held my shoulders firmly and whispered in my ear, “I’m sorry, your Grandmother is right, I’m not good enough” and then he left me. Standing with tears rolling down my cheeks, he didn’t look back as he drove away. After a weekend of crying and arguing with Seffy, I returned to Dorset by train, a wholly dishevelled mess. Despite my efforts, messages and phone calls to his base, I never saw him again. Here I was in a stuffy room fifteen years later and the name MISS Josephine Paxton, rang in my ears. “I’m sorry, you said Miss Paxton, you must be mistaken, my grandmother was Josephine Lake, Mrs Seffy Lake”. The solicitor cleared his throat uncomfortably and looked at me over the rim of his glasses, “I’m afraid your Grandmother was never legally married to your Grandfather my dear, if you’ll allow me to explain.” The explanation was long. A previous wife had existed, marred by insanity and a spell in an institution, there was no easy divorce back then, just more secrets and more lies. Thank goodness my father had never lived to discover his illegitimate birth and my mother was not well enough to attend. I left that room in disbelief, a rich woman. A rich single woman. I had never married and the past fifteen years had been lost. The sun shone outside, I stopped and breathed in the dull city air. As I walked toward the train station, a poster made me stop in my tracks. The heavy door needed a push to enter the office and a young girl smiled politely as she asked, “How can I help you Madam?” I looked around at the travel brochures and signalled to the window, “New York, I’d like to buy a ticket to New York.”


Do You Believe? Arriving early for a group therapy appointment in a beautiful home on Lake Promenade, I park my car and decide to meander across a grassy patch to the water’s edge. The early evening sun caresses my shoulders as I gaze at the distant sailboats bobbing up and down on Lake Ontario. Gentle waves kiss shoreline rocks. My grief is validated, soothed, its weight somewhat lightened by a soaring seagull. Oh, how I miss my Peter. He is absent, stolen by prostate cancer on April 15, 2012, at the age of sixty-two. I had believed we’d have more time for our karaoke dates, our mutual love of movies and food, our shared memories, and the support we provided one another when we worried about our only adult child, a son we both loved fiercely. Russell suffered with addiction and we agonized, rescued, detached, rescued yet again, and clung to each other in the midst of our powerlessness. Now who do I lean on? Bereft, an abandoned single parent, I struggle with ongoing crises, feeling so alone. Inhaling deeply, I turn to head back across the fresh emerald-green field toward the house where I will find some solace. It is my safe space to grieve. Out of nowhere, a gentle male voice whispers, “If you don’t look too hard, you’ll find them.” Find what? I stop in my tracks to look around at the empty space surrounding me. For absolutely no conscious reason, I look down at my feet, and right there, nestled next to my right sandal, are three four-leaf-clovers. I stoop in wonder, gently releasing these treasures from the soil. As I do, I flash back to my childhood, hiking with my father through High Park, occasionally squealing with delight when he spots a lucky charm and hands it to me. I behold my three treasures. One is big, the second a medium size, the third smaller. I recall the days when Russell was a small boy and I held such high hopes for our family-of-three. I rush into the therapy group session to show off my beautiful souvenirs, omitting the part about hearing a distinct message in my left ear. Grief can play tricks with the imagination. Later, when I show them to my son, he cries out and declares, “They’re from Dad!” His intense mourning and escape into alcohol and drugs are a serrated knife sawing at my heart, so I refrain from dismissing my experience as mind trickery, and open my heart to possibility. I place the clovers on a white card, write WE ARE FAMILY at the top, record the date, laminate the keepsake, and put it on my fridge. A few days later, I Google four-leaf-clovers and learn that they sometimes grow in clusters. There’s my explanation. I return to the little field and begin my hunt. To both my disappointment and, at the same time, secret elation, there are none to be found. For the next five and a half years, I witness my son’s battle as he moves from utter despair, to surrender, to glimmers of hope in recovery, only to cycle back down into the fierce jaws of addiction. On November 8, 2019, I come home to a door slightly ajar. The kitchen tap has been left on. There is silence when I call out. A giant centipede of terror skitters up my spine. I gallop down the hall and find Russell lying face down. Blood trickles from his mouth, and for a crazy moment, I worry about his teeth. His teeth, for God's Sake! Reality breaks through, and I hear a distant howling as I race for the Naloxone kit and try to roll him over. He is dead weight. I call 911 and am told to get a neighbor, who helps me turn my boy over and I scream because I am too late and he has turned blue. My shrieks echo the cries of almost four decades ago during child labor. Paramedics and police arrive. I hear the sound of the zipper on the body-bag, the heavy footfalls as they carry my baby away from me hours later, after the coroner has arrived in the early, early morning. I am flat-lined, screamed-out, for now. Weeks later, the voice of the coroner, a faraway foghorn, emerges from the density of a grey cloud to tell me my boy has died of a fentanyl overdose. I trudge through molasses as I try to resume routines. I have to take care of my son’s old and sick pussycat. As I pay at the counter of the pet store, I see three dimes at my feet. I am compelled to stoop over and pocket them. Two days later, a parking machine that accepts only loonies and toonies, spits out a dime. For the next month, my bathroom light flickers and hisses, like radio static. Eventually, I have to put my son’s cat to sleep when he can no longer eat or walk. After that, the bathroom light returns to normal. Time stretches toward tomorrows as the grief attacks ever so gradually ease. In February of 2020, during a blizzard, I hear robins singing outside my kitchen window. Impossible! I peer outside to see three of them, perched on a nearby roof, fat and puffed out, drizzled in snowflakes. I love that they have visited, but worry about their survival. Robins have always been a special source of joy in early spring, and I marvel at this unusual sighting. A "Doubting Thomasina" and One Who Believes battle within me. So, sixteen months after my son’s death, I arrange to have a reading done by a well-known psychic. He will phone me long-distance from thousands of miles away on the prearranged date. The day arrives. I am anxious as I hear that my parents, my husband and my son are coming through. Their deaths are described with startling accuracy. “Your son passed very suddenly. It was an accident. He didn’t feel pain. He is telling me he never meant to hurt you. It was a slip. I see him riding on the back of a dragon. He is laughing. Does this mean anything to you?” I explain the phrase “chasing the dragon.” Opiate addicts use it to describe the horrors of withdrawal and the relentless craving for more. The psychic has never heard this expression. In a moment of clarity, I realize my son is no longer chasing or trying to slay the dragon. He is at peace. “Now, I am being shown a flock of robins,” the psychic continues. I feel my heart open like a flower. “Does the number fourteen mean anything?” he asks. “I am being shown this number over and over.” I draw a blank. “What’s with the three four-leaf clovers?” he suddenly queries. I gasp. Remnants of disbelief dissipate like fallen leaves in late autumn. I tell him my story. He laughs and says, “Bingo!” The next morning, after a sleepless night of rumination about the number fourteen, I rush to look at my good-luck charm on the fridge. The date I had written on the card was June 4, 2014. Life is full of mysteries. For myself, I have come to believe. Do you? The following is a poem dedicated to my son: The Flying Dragon Russell rides a dragon-beast. It’s big and green and scaly. He laughs because his newfound pet, Isn’t one bit scary. Instead of breathing deadly flames, This would-be monster sings, Of winning awesome video games, And other happy things. Like chocolate bars and candy-canes, Or swimming in a pool. Or jumping up and down in puddles, Acting like a fool. “You’ll never need to chase me. Climb aboard and take a ride. I’ll carry you above the clouds, And always be your Guide.”


The door to my room flew open but I did not look up. It was just a dream. There my mother stood a torch in her hand. She was wearing an apron and smelt distantly of warm baked goods. Somewhere inside the house, my brother was playing chess with my father. Both of them sipping tea from large mugs and nibbling lightly on cookies. They would be irritated that the lights had gone out. My father would curse and sigh and my brother would soon throw himself on my bed and break out into a long rant like he always. But, the house was silent. It was not a dream. But my mother really was standing at the doorway to my room. She wiped her hands down her apron and looked at me sadly. The world was still. The crickets had stopped chirruping, the evening birds had ceased to sing every living creature attempting desperately to answer the question that lingered in my mind. Why was she there? She knew I had no interest in speaking to her. We rarely exchanged words at all letting the tired moans of the old house fill in the silence. She stood silently as if she expected me to say something. I was grateful that the lights had gone out, that way she could not see the annoyance that had crept onto my face. “What are you up to?” she finally asked forcing warmness into her cold voice. I smiled. For a moment, we were just a mother and a daughter having a casual conversation. I would tell her about the painting of our house I was doing. How I had spent the whole day trying to get the perfect green for the beautiful grass that carpeted the garden. If someone stood outside my window and peered in what they would see was a mother and a daughter. To people who looked shockingly similar. Both with the same soft features. I wonder if they would see the coldness in our eyes or the hostility that now filled the silence. “What are you up to?” my mother repeated with the tone of someone who was beaten down and tired. “Are you busy?” she asked. It shocked me how hard she was trying to be normal, as if the three months we had lived together in that house in complete silence had not gone by. As if the only sounds that filled the house were those of the house itself. The dripping of the bathroom tap like a slow and steady drum, the distant creaking of the third stair that my father promised to fix but never got the chance to. I listened for those sounds but they seemed no longer to exist, as if the sound of human interaction made them retreat to the silence. Even if I wanted to answer her questions, I could not. The thick cloud of blackness had filled me and I was paralysed. The words were lost in my head like scattered puzzle pieces at the very thought of speaking my heart screamed, its high-pitched ringing bouncing in my ears. I wished she looked hurt, that she was offended by my silence but she stood with her soft gentle motherliness and soaked up the tranquillity like a sponge. “We’re going camping,” she said. I nodded. She stayed still, waiting for me. I wished there was something I could busy myself with but there was none. I wished desperately that I could object, that I could say anything but despite my best efforts I could not form any words. I opened my mouth and let out a dusty groan like that of a car that would never run again. I felt tears of desperation well in my eyes and quickly brushed them away, but still she saw me. “Come outside nhanha, ” she urged the soft Shona words rolling off her tongue softly. Finally, I nodded and followed her out to the tent that sat in the middle of the garden. I saw a younger me linking arms with my brother as we rushed into that tent eager to make up long exaggerated stories and waste the day away. Sometimes I heard my voice soft, wispy, and other days loud and song like each day just a figment of my imagination. She placed a hand on my back and led me to the pair of chairs that sat next to the tent. I did not want to be near her. I wanted to climb into the tent and hide away from her but my stomach raged and rumbled with hunger and the food the boiled on the fire made my mouth water and so I sat. I kicked my shoes off and let my feet graze the grass slowly and gently the long blades of grass tickling them softly. The ground was wet and had the familiar smell of the mud that came with the rain. I figured the electricity had gone because of the rain and hoped that it would return soon. She mixed the mealie-meal that was bubbling in the large pot and paused only to wipe the beads of sweat that formed on her forehead glistening like the stars in the endless night above us. “I could teach you,” she said looking at me expectantly once again. Before, she would have said that I needed to learn how to cook if I was going to get married. A small part of me wished she would become a mother again. That she would not look at me as if I were a ticking bomb that sat on the verge of exploding. I wished she would shout at me and point out the faults in everything that I did. I wished she would not present me with constant questions she knew I would never be able to answer. I could teach you, she had said as if I could simply say no and return to sitting and doing nothing. She could teach me, but it was up to me whether I wanted to be taught. I nodded and moved closer to her so that I could see her more clearly so that I could hear her explaining everything she was doing but I was not there. Instead, I was watching a memory play before me a memory that sat in front of me bright as day. I reshuffled the deck of cards pausing every few seconds to use them as a fan. It was a hot day the type where your clothes clung to your body as if they were covered in glue and where the endless cups of ice cold water did nothing to quench your thirst. My brother sat with a triumphant grin as if he had won the game long before it had started. We played slowly each of us thinking our moves out carefully. In the next room our parents were fighting the sound of their raised voices echoing throughout the living room and bouncing off the walls. I wished they were not talking about me. About all the things that I had done. The door swung open and my mother looked angrily at me, I knew instantly I was in trouble. I was disposable to her, just a clump of flesh with which she could do anything she pleased. I closed my eyes bracing myself for the verbal abuse she was inches away from yelling. She told me to get up. Ignoring the violent shaking of my body, I got up and followed her to the kitchen. I stood up as straight as I could. I wanted to cry but my eyes had turned to sandpaper and scratched me every time I tried to blink. She touched my hands softly and traced the lines on my fingers. My heart was thumping against my rib cage, threatening to burst out of my chest. “You did this,” she said quietly. I nodded. It was my fault. She raised her hand and hit my cheek with all the force she could muster so that days later I would still feel the violent pang in my cheek as if there thousands of glass shards lodged into my face. “Disgusting girl,” she hissed. I nodded again. I already felt dirty, I wanted to claw away at my skin until it was all gone and I could finally be rid of everywhere her soft slender fingers had touched. “Now look what you’ve done. Your father is going now and he’s taking your brother,” she paused and moved so she stood next to my ear her warm breath sliding down to my eardrums. “Look what you’ve done demon child,” she whispered. I knew what she was going to say next. She was going to speak about the horrible curse I had cast on the family. How the shave that followed me would never let me go and would haunt anyone who got near me. It was then that I began to float as if time itself had stopped and I was floating in a dark glue. It was the Shave and they had taken my once again. Rudo tossed her diary aside and looked from the pill bottle that sat beside her to the rising and falling chest of her husband who slept next to her. She crawled out of the tent and sat looking up at the stars and the beautiful garden, which was illuminated by the soft kiss of the moon. “Ru?” her sleepy husband called before coming to join her outside. They sat quietly for a moment. “Have you been awake long? You should take the medication,” he said even though he knew she would not. Rudo was tired of all the doctors and specialists that tried hopelessly to find what was wrong with her and prescribed her to endless amounts of pills. ‘These will help you sleep’ ‘These will help you anxiety’ they assured her. Rudo did not want help fighting the Shave. They were, after all, her ghosts. She let them keep her up at night. She let them bite at her feet and hold back her tongue. She let the thick black cloud wash over her and she wore her memories like a heavy coat but she had stopped letting them steal her happiness away from her. They were a part of her now but she would not let them take anything away from her. “Are you okay?” he asked. She nodded and smiled happily at him before resting her head on his shoulders. She listened to the soft sound of his snores until the soft yellow disc finally rose from the end of the world.


The Sky - Alan Hancock 2024 With thanks to the illustrators of the cover to Ian McEwan’s novel ‘Saturday’ - this image inspired my story 1, 150 words He doesn’t go and make that coffee, he doesn’t check the NASDAQ and the Dow Jones Index, the DAX and the FTSE, the Brent Crude spot prices or US dollar exchange rate forecasts, not that day, or ever again. Because he lingers at the bedroom wondow and watches Venus beaming down on North London, next to her the Post Office Tower lit by its electronic and neon beacons that outshine any star or planet. He’s not sure which comes first, the thought or the vision that arrives, and stays for only moments, but then stays in his mind for the rest of his life. And not just in his mind. It’s a presence he can feel as it courses through his body, lighting up a tracery of nerves and neurons like a coloured Taoist body map. The thought goes like this: If I have a grandchild and they are alive in this city in 2084 - Why 2084? he wonders later, but the date arrives ready formed, implacably precise - what if they look out, one night sixty years from now, when I am long gone from this world - what will they see? Will this city, this country, this world still be a pleasant place to live? And what have I done to help ensure that it is? He’s unsure whether the vision comes as the thought unwinds, or a moment earlier. But he sees it, as real as the plane trees that line the street beneath his bedroom window. Afterwards he often asks himself exactly what he saw that night, as if he might rewind a video and pause it at 03.09 on the third of June 2024 and examine the picture in detail. But his mind has no such function, as well he knows. He’s read all the articles on unreliable witnesses, on the frailty of human memory, on the way we create and recreate the remembered moment each time we recall it until it wears out, until it becomes a Chinese whisper version of the original that no longer bears any resemblance to the moment lost in the flow of time: a fake. But no - this is different. It remains clear, timeless, vivid both for those short moments and then for him to hold for the rest of his days. In the years since it happened he has told only one person what he witnessed. They had listened, nodded, and then said just three words: “Yes, of course.” Of course. In that moment, at three oh nine precisely, a disc of light descends, concentric circles centred on the top of the Post Office Tower. It is all colours at once, ripples of violet, green pink and dull red running in together to form a tight ball above the tower’s summit. There is a sudden burst of white light out of which a figure emerges, in silhouette. It must be many metres tall to be clear at this distance: feminine but not human, that’s all the information the memory holds about its form. It is definitely not human. And feminine - maybe it’s the effect of Venus, shining close by in the pre-dawn sky. Then in a shift of perspective he realises that the figure isn’t a giant, far off on the top of the tower, it is person-sized, and close. In fact it is no more than a few feet away from him, poised in the air above the rain-slick tarmac of the street in front of his house. It raises an arm as if in greeting, or recognition. Without hesitation or any awareness of deciding to take this action, he finds himself lifting his own arm in reply. He’s not fearful, but intrigued and delighted. It is as if he’s seeing a strange new species of bird or butterfly in his neighbourhood, something that is normally restricted to places far from the concrete and human din that is central London. Then it’s gone and the night sky returns to its usual state. But something remains and hangs in the night air - an idea, a message, wordless inside his head, but still clear. He cannot say if it is spoken, or comes to him as a piece of music or some kind of song. It is simple: ‘We are waiting for you.’ Over and out. Later he thinks it might be, ‘Come and find us. You’ll know.’ And he has the realisation that what he witnessed was like a bridge between worlds, or a mobius strip that joins up things that occupy different dimensions in time and space. What he saw, and heard inside, was both happening in 2024 and in 2084, with his grandchild. He sleeps long and well. Next day he wakes with a decision: he will go and find them, or it, or whatever it is that is not here in this house, in this life. He makes a number of phone calls: he’s taking leave, needs a rest, the last few years have been gruelling. He will travel, get away from city and work; he’s not sure when he’ll be back. There are protestations, which he ignores. He has decided. This phase of his life is over, now it’s time to find out what will be the next. When was the last time he had travelled footloose and free? he wonders. Before he married, before the children were born, grew up, and left, followed not a long time later by a wife who had expressed a desire to leave the confines of a comfortable life where she came second to a husband’s career and find her own way in the world. It would have been the late-70s, and he had spent three months taking a random tour through Eastern Europe, Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan and Nepal. Well he wouldn’t be repeating that trip. No wad of US dollars and travellers cheques packed into a body-belt wallet this time: just the app on his phone. ’Come and find us.’ But where to look? He’s on the flight-booking website when it comes to him. Without knowing how he knows it, he now has his destination. He resists the urge to question, analyse and look for other options. For a man who has spent the last thirty years making large amounts of money for both himself, and for his employers in the hedge fund business, out of making carefully considered decisions about which option to take, for a man who has lived his adult life through the application of rational thought and the rejection of intuition, this is at the same time deeply uncomfortable and thrilling. A few minutes later he has booked a flight for the following day to Denver Colorado, with a connection to Santa Fe Mexico, then a Rail Runner Express to Taos Mexico. He’ll sort out the rest when he arrives. The instructions that had come to him had been precise. Then what? ‘You’ll see’. He digs out from the recesses of a cupboard a North Face backpack that he hasn’t used for years. He’s ready.


His finger slipped under the upper right corner--ready to turn the page--even though his eyes had only met the third line of text. He wasn’t really paying attention to the words on the page but rather getting to the next line. The next line. The next line. The next page. He flipped the page he was holding with one fluid motion and began on the next word. In eagerness he grabbed the upper right corner of the page he had not even began looking at. The hot and sweaty fingertips were holding onto the corner of the page so hard it was creating an indentation in the paper. An ovular spot the size of his thumb where he had been holding was visible so much so that he noticed the error in his ways when he reached the first line on that page and his thumb was in his line of sight. “Shit,” he mumbled to himself. He released his thumb to examine the damage. He went over it a few times, forcefully, to smooth out the damage. When his impatient thumb slid over the corner for the last time, the mark was still there. He had damaged the book. It was impossible now to return the book to the bookstore and get a full refund. The paranoia set in. They would know as soon as they saw the book that he had used it so much the spine of the book was practically falling apart. No use wasting gas on driving to the bookstore to even attempt a refund. A waste. That is what he thought of himself as he got up and placed the book he was holding--holding like a dying cat being carried to the vet--on the stack of books. Ten, no, fifteen books in this stack all with the receipts sticking out of the top. Receipts placed on the damaged page and shut forever; almost like a tombstone to remember the book he had killed. The stack next to it was far too high to become the final resting place of this one. The stack behind it was also too high, and so was the one on the floor next to it. The bookshelves were all full of christened books as well. He was reduced to making stacks on tables and the floor in front of the bookcases; he could not even see all of his failures without having to move the others. He regressed to the velvet love seat in the center of his makeshift library to start a new book. Not one of the hundreds of books in his possession were finished because he felt he would only further damage them if he continued reading. There was no point. The book was past the point of return and was no longer pristine enough to read. He opened the next book and put the receipt next to him on the couch. Maybe he would be able to return this one.


"It will all be over soon." the voice said as I awoke from my dream. I was overcome with despair at the realisation that I was still in this cabin. I got up and pulled my jacket around me tightly. I glanced out the window and saw a hint of white. I stopped, realising what I had seen. I turned around and ran towards the window. Snow. The last thing I needed was snow. I ran down the stairs, tripping on the last step. I needed to wakeup, I had things to do. I brushed myself off and walked over to the fireplace. Three blocks of wood left. "This is my life now," I muttered. I walked into the kitchen and went through the pantry. No food. We were running out of the essentials. I knew we would get snowed in. Every winter we have been snowed in. Every day it snows. I walked upstairs and went into the second bedroom. Lily was still asleep. I had met Lily five years ago when this all started. She was only ten. I can't forget it. You see, five and a half years ago something bad happened. I remember asking my mum what was wrong. I was only twelve, and whatever it was, she didn't want me knowing. Everything was fine for a while and then it happened. The outbreak. People started getting sick and losing their minds. I don't want to sound too cliche but it reminded me of a zombie apocalypse movie I had watched. My family fled towards the woods on the side of the mountain but we got separated and I've never seen them again. I travelled for days looking for food or shelter and that's when I met Lily. I had crossed a small bridge and heard a child crying. When I saw her I planned to leave but she begged me to help her so I did and we later found an abandoned cabin which we live in now. There was a tiny town nearby and we went there to steal food and other items. That's when we learned about the power outages. All the sick people who were attacking the cities were causing so much damage that power was out all over the country meaning we had no service. We also met a lady there who worked at the daycare before the outbreak. She had about ten kids with her. Every week she would update us on the outbreak. I felt bad for her. Every few months we would turn up and there would be one less child with her. Without proper food and water, no one was going to survive. One graze or cut could mean death. That's when we took in the twins. We had gone down to get an update and found she had passed. By then Cora and Kaiden were the only kids left. Lily wanted to leave them but we ended up taking them back to the cabin. Now the five of us live in a cabin on a mountain with no power, no service and we are living off river water and canned food. Not the greatest scenario. I sat down next to Lily and grabbed her shoulders. "Can't you leave me to sleep Hannah?" she begged. "No. It's snowing and we are not taking any chances of getting snowed in and starving to death. Now get up, we're going." I stated. I went downstairs to find the twins sitting on the couch. "We are going out. Lock the doors and don't leave," I said as Lily joined me at the door, "and don't let any strangers in." Lily and I walked through the snow. We never spoke. It was a subtle agreement. We weren't doing this because we are friends, it was because we wanted to survive. The town was only ten minutes away so it was pretty easy to get to. We arrived and walked over to the supermarket. I assisted Lily as she climbed through the broken window. Once we got our trolley in we walked through the isles. We only took what we needed. I grabbed the bottles of alcohol and put them in the cart. They were very useful as a disinfectant for cuts and grazes. After grabbing as much canned food as we needed we left the store. After about thirty minutes we had gone through all the stores. We had gotten over 50 cans of food, books, coffee filters and many other items. As we started our walk home I knew I had to talk to Lily. "So...how are you?" I asked. I knew the answer. "We don't have to talk," she replied. I stopped walking, causing her to turn and face me. "Look, I'm just a little over all of this. Can't we just find a way to travel down to the city.?" Lily asked, "We heard on the radio that the outbreak has been partially contained. At least we can try to find out if any adults we know survived. Please?" she begged. I knew what she was talking about but it was dangerous. "Go back to the cabin and cut some trees down for wood. Enough for a few months." I replied. Lily nodded and headed towards the cabin. I turned and walked back through the town. I knew that everything she said was true but I wasn't taking any chances. Police would take anyone under 18 without parents or guardians to homes underground where they would be 'safe'. Only one person could help me. Joe. Joe lived in a little cottage on the outskirts of the town. He was an old fat man who looked like Old McDonald. A true farmer. He made it clear not to talk to him unless it was an emergency. Probably just wanted us to stay away from him. I knocked on the door. The door opened and there he was. "Whatcha want kid, better be good," he yelled. I explained the problem. He nodded every once in a while. "The only way 'round this is if ya birth certificate got destroyed. All four of ya's, so you little lady can re-register as family. That's all I got." he stated, "now out ya go" he said as he pushed me out the door. I started walking. He was right. All documents were destroyed in the attacks and most digital copies got deleted when the electricity stopped working. If I re-registered, the government would give us money and get us food if need to be. The little town was close to being empty. I needed to go to the city before the snow hit any harder. I ran back to the cabin. Lily was putting the logs of wood next to the fireplace. She turned and looked at me. "Did you think about it?" she asked. I relayed everything to her and waited for her reaction. "So what's the plan?" she asked. "We get the old truck behind the house and fill it up with the emergency fuel and go to the city," I stated. Time Skip We had gone down and found that none of us had living relatives in the city so I took the liberty of re-registering us meaning we would be siblings. While there we were given a new radio and lots of donations to help us survive in the cabin. Turned out they had found a potential cure and had, at the very least found a way to contain the outbreak. With that everything was going to go somewhat back to normal. We got out of the car and went into the cabin. It had snowed while we were gone. I wasn't surprised, it snowed most of the year except for a few weeks in summer. I sat the twins on the couch. I didn't love being stuck in a cabin with no power but it wasn't the worst thing in the world. I turned towards Lily as she walked through the door. "Hey Hannah, why did you pick the middle name Snow for us and why is our last name Resort?" Lily asked. "Because the name of this cabin is Snow Resort. I took the name plaque off when we first came here to use it to make a lock for the door." I said. I smiled. I knew we were never going to get our full life back but I kinda like our Snow Resort and I wouldn't change it for the world. Diary Entry #1829 Hannah S. Resort 16/12/2037


I have always liked pretty and romantic things. You know--pinks, glitters, lipsticks, cakes, love, French, and of course... tragedy. Well, it isn’t weird since I’m a girl, but I feel like I’m a little bit more obsessed. Some girls aren’t expressive with liking pretty and romantic things, while some girls simply don’t like ‘em and that’s fine. But I’ve got no problem wearing laced dresses and jeweled anklets and eating strawberries for snacks. If I put on purple eye shadow, pair it with bright red blush and pinkish lip tint, most people would giggle at me, but that’s fine as well. I liked it. I had to pay the price, though. Of course, I was bullied and ostracized a lot among my peers and just because I was fine with it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. It sucks, honestly. I tried fixing up my face and fashion with the standard rich-looking monochromatic style to match everything and it was good; I didn’t hate it and thought it was a different kind of pretty. It was too elegant and beautiful for me, though. I feel too much like an adult, though I actually am. But trying on the shades I want and messing it all up a bit was somehow a little more magical to me. Like the colored powders would sparkle and my face would brighten up like a dolly beauty. Anyway, my 21st birthday was coming soon and mom gave me some money to celebrate it with my friends. But like I said, I wasn’t lucky enough to have those kinds of people. No one likes to be with someone as odd and stubborn as me, but I didn’t want to lose face either, so I had to go out and spend the money. I thought that since it’s my birthday, I might as well make the most of it and enjoy it. I also don’t have any issues walking with my solitude. So when the day came, I dressed up, putting on my most beloved white dress with lots of frills in it. I wore a fabric headband, pearl necklace and earrings, and 3-inched heels. I made my make up as messy and pretty as I wanted it to be and finally headed out. I ate my breakfast at a pancake house and ordered myself a towering sweet pancakes with an extra syrup on it and had hot chocolate for a drink. I rested for a while, then walked around the area to decide where I want to go next. Fortunately, I was able to spot a pretty-looking hotel that had a unique design and neon-flashing signboard barely lit up against the sunlight. The misty weather added mystery and allure to the building, beckoning me in. The receptionist welcomed me warmly, asked for my room accommodation preference, an ID, the payment, and the transaction was done. A man escorted me towards my room and inside made me feel like a princess. Just exactly what I needed. The soft bed was like a warm ocean. I had to read some bawdy novels and touched myself there and took a bit of nap. Then, I listened to music, danced, and watched a movie that I have been putting off for a while now. When I finished the film, it was almost time for lunch, so I went out. A man had also just went out from the room next door. When our gazes met, he smiled at me and bowed gently as a sign of polite greetings. I smiled softly and began walking past him. It seemed like he hesitated at first, but he eventually called out to me, “Uh... miss?” I turned around, “Yes?” “If it’s alright with you, may I join you for lunch?” He asked. I was kind of reluctant at first. At first impression, he does look decent and polite, but who knows? Anyway, he wasn’t trying to be forceful, it’s just lunch, and it was my birthday, so why the hell not? I agreed and we went to the dining hall of the hotel building. It was a pretty restaurant as well that served wines and pastries and delicious foods. I ordered soup, steak, and potatoes for main course and had a shortcake for dessert. Meanwhile, he ordered himself a seafood meal and a bottle of red wine. He began opening a friendly conversation by asking me why I ended up in this beautiful hotel and I told him that it was my birthday. He asked several more things, like why I wasn’t spending the day with my friends or how I celebrate my previous birthdays or what my favorite songs are. He was a real good listener, I couldn’t help but be at ease and speak my mind in front of him. Soon, we ran out of things to talk about me, so as courtesy, I asked about him. “I actually have a confession to make,” He chuckled, sipping on his wine. “I... I don’t know if you’ll believe me.” I shrugged, “Try me.” “Uh, well, to be honest, I have a curse.” “A curse?” I asked, trying to suppress my disbelief. “What kind of curse? What does it do to you?” “It’s a curse that whoever becomes my friend would die. It may be hard to believe, but it’s true. All the friends I’ve ever had, they’re dead. That’s why I have no choice but to talk and interact with strangers all the time. And it gets lonely, you know... having my friends die. The only thing that makes it bearable for me is this, the fleeting moments with people I hardly know.” It was such a strange confession. I had nothing to say about it and he noticed it, so he immediately changed the topic. After lunch, we returned to our hotel rooms and we never met again that day. The moment I checked out, he was already gone. I had my dinner at a restaurant nearby our house and soon went home afterwards. The day ended peacefully and I was happy with how I celebrated my birthday. The next morning, while my mom was drinking her black coffee, watching news from the television, I saw the man that I met in the hotel from yesterday. He was reported to have died from a car accident. Of course, my first reaction was shock. But that was only for a few moments. It turned into interest and then, bliss. I’ve told this before, haven’t I? I like pretty and romantic things. And that kind of tragedy was one of the most romantic and prettiest thing I have ever encountered. I felt shivers down my spine, my skin was crawling with fascination, and my lips curving to an uncontrollable smile. The coincidence, the occurrences, the strangeness of the whole thing--I loved every single bit of it. Few years later, I began spiraling down to my depression and the whole world was becoming duller and bleaker. Sometimes, I’d find even sparkling, pink jewelries void of prettiness. I got constantly bullied, especially while I was inevitably entering adulthood. My mom got sick and everything in life went the wrong way. I simply didn’t liked it anymore. So then, I gripped my resolve and steeled my heart. I withdrew money and went to *that* hotel. The one where I went to during my 21st birthday. It was still eerily the same. The receptionist, the staffs, the golden hallways, the chandeliers, and the lobby. It felt like time was nonexistent inside that building. I requested the same room number and luckily, it was available at the time. I did the same things I did during the first time I went here. Read the same bawdy novel, touched myself the same way, listened to the same songs, danced the same way, and watched the same film. And then, when it was lunchtime, I went out. I looked around and the hallway was spick and span neat and glittering of luxury. I opened my room door again and positioned myself just between the threshold. When I noticed that the room next door was opening, I prepared myself and made it seem like I was just going out as well. I hesitated for a while, then called out to the man that came out from the next door and asked if I could join him for lunch. He seemed to think of it for a while before finally agreeing. We went to the restaurant downstairs and we talked about him. He narrated that his wife banished him from their home because he was caught cheating with some other woman from his work. He said he regretted it and that he wished to return to his wife. He was only staying there for a while until she cools down and he plans to return and ask for forgiveness. We talked about him for so long until there was nothing else about him, so as courtesy, he asked about me. And then, I confessed that I have a curse. I told him the exact same curse that the man told me years ago. The one where his friends die, so he had to deal with fleeting moments with strangers. He laughed out loud and ate and drank. I did the same. The day ended well after I checked out from the hotel. And then, the next day, I jumped from the rooftop of the office building where the man I met yesterday was working and accomplished my suicide. Everything went black, but for some reason, what I saw wasn’t darkness... it was rather a pretty pink.


A dark, rainy night riding down State road 4, on their way home from a wedding, sits a family of three. The mom drives as the dad is asleep in the passenger’s seat, and a baby three months old sits in the back. The road is dimly lit with scattered street lamps, they are one of few cars traveling so late at night. A sudden jolt wakes the father now, rumbling from the front left side. A tire has blown, just what they needed on a rainy ride home. The baby in the back begins to cry as the mother pulls to the roadside. With flashing hazards and an open passenger door, the car now sits lopsided as father begins to raise the front with the jack. Mother has soothed the child in minutes, and the spare is tightening down now, it seems that this hiccup won’t slow them down much longer. With the new tire on the father stands up to climb back in the car. Jason had only been a licensed driver for 8 months, every night be drove this way every day for his job, delivering pizza to any home in a 5 mile radius, but the shift was over now, it was time to head home. A buzz between his legs, his phone lights up, “New message from Kate!”, reading this he eagerly unlocked the phone. “Come over, I miss you” was what it read and Jason couldn’t believe his eyes, maybe things were beginning to look up. Still grinning at his phone, Jason has drifted toward the median in the road. Mesmerized by the text from his ex-girlfriend, he doesn’t notice the orange lights that flash through his windshield. He was going 92 in the 70MPH zone so he had no time to brake on the rainy pavement as he looked on with horror the second before colliding with the passenger side of a Honda mini-van. The impact was deafening, the open passenger door flew off the hinges and down the highway, the father’s tattered body lay sprawled a lane over, dead on impact. Mother had no time to mourn as she attempted to stop her skidding vehicle as it travels to the oncoming side. Finally losing momentum from the crash, the van tips to its side, the mother now leans on pavement and broken glass. Baby wailing in the back, mother unbuckles to attempt to escape, but a bright light and blaring horn freeze her in her tracks. 18 wheels and 40 tons collide with the already beaten mini-van and the mother is impaled with glass and steel. The baby in the back screams to an empty car, unaware that it is now an orphan. Sirens howl and red and blue light the sky, a police convoy leads the ambulance and fire truck to a gruesome scene. Jason stands shaking on the median of the road, his truck perched up on the concrete slab. He had witnessed what happened to the van he had crashed into, he was terrified and desperately dialed 911. For the arriving officer on the scene, this proved to be the most terrorizing setting of his career, the howling cries of an infant rang in his ears. The image of the mutilated body of the mother burned into his brain. He saw a terrified teenager onlooking the whole event as well. This would be the final case of his career. 22 years for vehicular manslaughter. A third life now wasted. The punishment fits the crime, says the state, but there is no way to bring life back. Nothing can come out of this but more tragedy. Jason’s mother hadn’t stopped crying since the night she’d heard of the crash. She hadn’t seen much of her son as he sat in a cell, waiting his trial. Pleading to the court, she begged for mercy on her son, there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. Still, she hugged her son now before he was to be hauled to prison, only 17 years old. The jury had decided and the judge had sentenced, 22 years he would be locked away. A decade passes and the baby now has a new home, a foster family had adopted him on his 5th birthday, now 10 years old he learns the story of his parent’s death. He had known of the car crash, but not of the manner, and not of the person responsible for the loss of his parents. Since that day, he had always wondered about the kid sent to prison for the accident. I stand before you today, and I tell you this story because it is a story I know well. I was just a baby then, but now I stand before you to say that there is no peace in anger, and there is no love like forgiveness. Our lord shown us the power of forgiveness when Jesus laid his life on the cross. Jason is here with me today as I speak to all of you, a single mistake cost the lives of two beautiful people, my mother and father. 15 years after the crash, I had petitioned for the release of Jason from prison, I would not let that mistake claim another life. Jason has worked at this church for the last ten years, he is one of my closest friends. I close today’s sermon with a final statement from Peter in Matthew 18: “Lord how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? Till seven times!?” Jesus replies, “I say not unto thee seven times; but seventy times seven.


When I was in high school I was in love with this girl . We were only friends like classmates not best friends or anything we used to talk occasionally and I always used to try to make her laugh. I didn't talk to her much because I was too shy at that time. She was in my mind day and night so I thought of asking her out finally and I proposed this idea to my best friend who knew I had a crush on her and he said "Dude don't you know she's dating that tall dude on football team from last month". Fuck. I thought they were cousin or something because they both were redheads and looked kinda similar. I still had my hope on and thought of asking her out after she broke up with him. Sadly they broke up just before the high school graduation he was cheating on her or something. Again when I use the word sadly it's because now I couldn't ask her out just after she just got out of relationship. University came up by then and I had to leave town she continued in the same town so I thought okay maybe I can ask her later when I come back at home. I got into a relationship in university so I forgot about her though her picture came up in my mind now and then. I did saw her once when I was back at home at Walmart but I didn't say hi or something. I don't think she noticed me I was wearing a hoody because I had fever at that time. That was also the last time I saw her. I didn't follow her Facebook or something at that time because I thought it would look creepy. I don't know why I thought that. Anyways after that I got into many relationships and used to still think of her now and then. My marriages didn't workout. The first one went wrong after she turned to alcohol because of her work stress due to work pressure. She is a lawyer so I don't completely blame her on that but soon I found out that she was cheating on me with another lawyer. We had a 6 year old son who she got custody of which broke my heart. My second marriage was when I was 32 it's actually quite interesting. We both were friends from work and one night we got drunk at a party and started making out and stuff. Later we were friends with benefit and then we decided we should get married as we both were compatible and we were aging. It was her first marriage .My second divorce was last Christmas. Today at my 36th birthday I thought of searching up her online and trying to talk but I realized I forgot her name. I cannot even remember her face clearly it's just bits and pieces , I tried guessing her name and looking up but I don't even remember her face. All I remember is how she made me feel and how mad I was for her and all this story crap but I can't remember her name. It's hilarious. (Any feedback would be highly appreciated).