“Wherever you want to go,” the man in the sport jacket said. He had an athletic build, and the white shirt he was wearing looked like it was just pulled out of the packaging. Blinding white. No one in Bend dressed like that. D was dressed in his regular school clothes, joggers and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He towered over the man in the sport jacket. “How about Ruby’s?” D said. The man in the sport coat and the heavy-set coach to his left smiled. “Yeah, sure, but you can go higher end, if you want,” Coach said. “We’re trying to get you to come to our school. You can order the chateaubriand.” D didn’t know what chateaubriand was, and he didn’t want to ask. But he knew enough and he hated the implication. It was as though some fancy dinner and the prospect of financial gain could just make him do whatever they wanted. “That’s just the way those big schools do it,” Robert told him. Robert and Karen, D’s adoptive parents, were not persuaded that D should even pursue an athletic career. Karen, especially was concerned that D needed an education. She cited statistics about the success rates of those who pursued big school or professional sports. “We just don’t want you to think that’s all there is in life,” she said. “When your career in sports is over, you need to assimilate. Sports careers are not that long.” But when he started being scouted, she and Bob, along with the rest of the community in Bend, got caught up in the hype. He was a phenom, as the press put it. Coach and the man in the white suit climbed into a large black Cadillac Escalade. They seemed oblivious to how it stuck out in a town whose inhabitants drove Subarus. “Take the front,” Coach said. “I need to stretch out my legs, anyway. Too much traveling.” Ruby’s was an unassuming local place. It was the sort of place that Robert and Karen took D when he got a good test grade. Sandwiches, wings, pizza and burgers. He had to hand it to them, Robert and Karen knew what he liked from day one, not like the other foster parents. Prior to Robert and Karen, D saw it all--the out-of-touch agency ladies and the leeches. The leeches were the ones who collected foster kids. Each kid was a new source of income. They piled them into the house and didn’t care what happened to them. And the other kids were insufferable. Some had been beaten up, and they were quick to beat up on others. D cowered away from them and tried to hide, until the day that Karen and Robert came to take him in. Karen never had children and Robert was in sales. They went to church every week and had already fostered D’s other adopted brother, Sid, who was now a banker in Ohio. Robert signed D up for basketball. It was white man’s ball. By that, D understood that it meant just the basics. Robert and Karen lived in a huge house and had a half court outside. On Saturdays Robert and D shot layups. Robert told D that basketball and sports would build character. But D didn’t care at the time. He only played it because there was nothing else to do. Ironically, Karen was the one who saw how much D took to it. She brought a flyer home about a travel clinic. She thought it’d be good for D to develop some skills. Besides, she’d pointed out, she and Robert could use the time that D was away for a little break. D was pissed at first. A break. They weren’t his real parents. D did practically everything for himself anyway. But it turned out Karen was right. D took to basketball naturally. When he started to pour himself into it, something magical happened. D grew. A lot. And the travel team played better basketball. They lined the players up and threw the basketball hard at their stomachs. Some of the boys got the wind knocked out and D found himself gasping for air, but it was a turning point. D knew it served a purpose. When D played other teams, he wasn’t afraid of getting hit or fouled. It sure beat getting a basketball launched at your solar plexus. “You’re Demetrius, aren’t you?” the waitress had long, dark hair that was tied up in a high ponytail. She was pretty. “Yes,” D said, before Coach cut in. “Hon, we’re trying to keep it low-key, OK?” The man in the bright white shirt tucked some extra bills into her hand. The waitress waved it away, “you got it,” she said. “Just wanted to tell you it’s a pleasure to serve The Phenom.” Coach smiled, but it was not a real one. “Lots of phenoms out there, honey. Now can you get us a couple menus?” Coach and the man in the bright white shirt perused the menu. D put his down. “What looks good?” the man in the white shirt asked. “I’ll have the double-decker burger, no fries,” D said. “Mind if I get two?” “Whatever you want,” the man in the white shirt said. “And the malted shake,” D added. This was a little splurge. In season D didn’t like to drink shakes, but this was an occasion to celebrate. He led his high school team to a winning season and now he was being scouted by the big ten schools. The press then caught wind. When national sports reporters showed up at the house, D knew that things were changing. They wanted to talk to D. They tried to get pictures. “You know we can’t offer you cash yet,” the man in the white shirt said, as he cut his burger in half and bit into part of it. Coach grabbed some fries from his plate. “Look here, son,” he said. “The money will come, but before it comes, you gotta show the world what you’re made of. I can help you get there. You come with me, and you’ll get court time, provided you are committed to putting in the time.” He paused. D smiled broadly. “I can put in the time,” he said. Coach smiled back. “Then you can collect your shoe contracts and do your commercials.” The man in the bright white shirt spoke next. “We brought along a couple things we thought you might like.” He pulled out a large duffel bag. “Just some college swag for our college boy,” Coach said. “You ever see these before?” He pulled out a pair of high tops. They were huge and light, but had some sort of stiff wedge above the sole. “No,” D smiled. “That’s cause no one has,” the man in the white shirt said. “Factory made for you when you join our team. Can’t wait to get you signed up.” He handed D the duffel bag. “Look through that when you get home,” the man in white said. “I’ll call you on Monday morning.” When D got home from dinner, he expected Robert and Karen to beam. Instead, Karen was pale and looked at D through red-rimmed eyes. There was a woman sitting on the sofa. “Demetrius, baby!” she held out her arms. Karen looked sidelong at D. There was a rather long pause. Robert spoke first. “Demetrius, this is your mother, Destiny Laximoore. She showed up at our door tonight.” * * * That had been three weeks ago. There were other schools after that. They all wanted to take D out to dinner. Some had given him gas cards, warmups. D wasn’t sure that cash equivalents were kosher under NCAA guidelines. At first, it had been fun to be treated like sports royalty, but D still found something unsettling about it. It was as though each duffel bag was a little piece of him that the colleges were buying. They wanted return on their investment. They really didn’t care what happened to D, D thought. They wanted to buy winning. Only Karen and Robert gave any thought to what was best for D, and then, well Destiny. It was obvious that Karen didn’t like Destiny. She never said anything negative, but D could tell the way she looked at Robert when Destiny called, as though she wanted him to say that he didn’t need to tell D that Destiny had called. When D gave Destiny the gas cards he’d been given, Karen looked hard at Robert, who’d said nothing. “Demetrius, I have always loved you, and I only need a little money so that I can get enough to get us an apartment together,” Destiny said. D took one look at Destiny and knew it was true. Destiny was skinny, like she could use a meal. She also needed to see a dentist. Years of neglect, thought D. The world is good to the Roberts and Karens, but the Destinys had to make it without any help. “Mom, how’s the search going?” D asked one day. “I’m pretty close to picking North Carolina for school. We could move there together. Look what I got you.” D pulled out the pages that he had printed from his computer. He circled three apartments. He’d given Destiny money from his savings account, already. It would easily have covered a down payment on any of the apartments. “Honey, I’m still looking,” Destiny said. “I gotta go now, catch you next week.” D hated it when she said that. It meant that she might or might not show up the following week. “Yeah,” he said, handing her a roll of cash. “Don’t forget to call me next week.” But she did. And every time she did, D found himself taking out his anger at the court, slamming the ball through the hoop, lashing out at anyone who screwed up at practice. Karen and Robert took notice. “Hey, D,” Robert said one night. “What’s going on with your savings account? I thought you were saving up for a car--remember, I’ll match whatever you put down.” “Yeah, my mom needed some money so she can get to her job,” D said. “Hmm. D, maybe she needs to come up with some of that money on her own.” Karen broke in. “Enough!” she said loudly. “Honest to God, I have had enough of all this. Why do we have to keep pretending? Demetrius, your mother doesn’t have a job. She’s sucking all the money off you because she sees you as one big paycheck. Where’s she been for the last fifteen years? Where was she when you spray painted the side of the school, huh? Did she get you out of that? No! That was us, Demetrius. Where was she when you were sick? Did she come to you then? How about when you couldn’t pass Algebra? She didn’t knock on our goddamn door then, did she?” This was scary. Karen never swore. Her face was white and D could see a vein throbbing in her neck. Even her fingers were shaking. “Wake up, Demetrius. She’s using you.” Robert looked bothered. “Karen--” “No, I got it,” D’s own hands were shaking now. “You’re wrong. You hate her because she’s my real mom,” he heard himself say. “You wouldn’t have any of this, the fame, the attention, all that stuff you love if my real mom didn’t bring me into this world. Now you’re just jealous. Yeah? Well, you’re gonna find out the hard way. I’m outta here. I’m not your son anymore. I never really was.” Robert looked bothered now. “Demetrius, we don’t mean that--” But it was too late. Demetrius had grabbed his jacket and was out the door. * * * Three hours later, he had traced Destiny’s steps. It wasn’t difficult. She drove a beat-up gold duster that stuck out like a sore thumb in a town of middle-class people. A few questions at the convenience store, and D found himself watching his mom from behind a dumpster in a parking lot on the edge of town. “Yeah, I got it,” he heard her say. She handed a man the roll of cash that D had given her. “Now you give me what you got. D didn’t see what he gave her, but he felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. What was she doing? That was the money that was for the apartment. The feeling in the pit of his stomach began to rise. It was nausea. D swallowed back bile. When the man left, D emerged from behind the dumpster. Destiny immediately turned toward the sound of a can falling from the dumpster. “Demetrius, what are you doing here?” she called. “What are you doing here?” D asked. “That money was supposed to be for our apartment, remember?” Destiny looked hard at D. D looked hard right back. “What’s your explanation? I mean, mom, why are you doing this?” “Demetrius,” Destiny said. She paused. “I’ve, I’ve--” She gathered herself. “It’s for my job, like I said,” Destiny finally said. “I’m a nail tech. That man gets me my supplies for cheap. Too expensive to buy them at the store. I buy ‘em on the street.” “Yeah? Where are they?” D asked. “Show me.” “Actually, he delivers them for me,” Destiny said. “You know I can’t show them to you--cause he delivers them so I don’t have to carry them home. . . Then I do my nails. I’ve got some saved up, Demetrius. It’s gonna be you and me. I’ve got some saved up. We gonna live in that apartment--I just need one more thing, Demetrius. Just one more thing, and that’s the gel drying machine. Cost me about $500 more. Can you get that for me next week? Think you can get me $500 more by next week?” D sighed. “Yeah, mom.” He walked slowly back to Robert and Karen’s. * * * Karen had been crying. Her face was red and her eyes were swollen. “Sorry, D. I didn’t mean it,” she was saying. “We love you and are just glad you’re back.” D looked at Karen and Robert defiantly. “I’ll sleep here,” he said. “But I want to you to know that you’re wrong. You were wrong. My mom’s a nail tech, and she’s been saving up to live at college with me. Till then, I’ll crash here, but only till then.” D then felt the overwhelming urge to cry, to run into the arms of Karen and Robert and cry, but he didn’t know why. Instead, he spoke. “I’m signing. North Carolina,” he said. “Then I’m outta here.” * * * The man in the bright white shirt was back. “I just want you to know that you made the right decision,” he said. “I think you’ll find that we are a real family at NC. This is where you belong.” Coach smiled and all his large white teeth showed. His large stomach shook with laughter. “So long as you perform, D!” he punched D in the shoulder. Karen and Robert looked on. They smiled, proudly. “Well done, son,” Robert said. They were standing outside, and D had signed four times on a clipboard balanced on the front of the Escalade. “Wait, wait, we didn’t capture this moment,” Karen was smiling. “Someone take my phone!” She handed it to Sid, who had come home to celebrate D’s signing. “Sid, you get in the next one.” Sid snapped a picture. D’s phone chimed. There was the picture. Karen, smiling with joy. Robert, slapping D on the shoulder. The man in the white shirt looking victorious, and Coach looking as though he had just eaten the canary. Ironically, only D looked out of place. A big kid, in an even bigger NC warmup jacket, looking out from a bowed head, just like he had when he cowered behind the sofa at his first foster home. “As long as I perform,” D thought. “as long as I perform.”


As Stella bent down to pick up her glove, a shove from behind almost pitched her headfirst into the soup can display. “Sorry, love, couldn't see where I was pushing the cart,” said a familiar voice. “Are you alright? It’s these darn bifocals. Can’t seem to get the hang of them. Here, let me help you up.” It was Mrs. Jones, the large, shortsighted lady who came to clean Stella's house every week. She reached down and yanked Stella up by the arm with the strength of a stevedore. “Say, did you hear about the old Miller place?” “What?” said Stella, rubbing her arm. She hated to think what would have happened if Mrs. Jones had wished her harm. Mrs. Jones looked around furtively, leaned close and continued in a stage whisper. “A famous author bought the old Miller place. I heard it from Mamie Hobbs that cleans the real estate office. He’s been on Oprah and everything. I only read the Bible and the Baptist mission magazine myself, but they say he writes some real nice stories. His name’s Dan Bonfatso or something.” She grinned happily at Stella’s surprise. The old Miller place was a beautiful but very dilapidated antebellum mansion in the historic area of town. It had almost reached eyesore status after sitting empty for years since the death of the reclusive last inhabitant. “It’s a big house. Maybe they’ll need a cleaner when they’ve fixed it up. You’d put in a word for me, wouldn’t you? Well, best get home to feed the old man. See you, hon.” With an affectionate parting slap on the back which almost sent Stella reeling, Mrs. Jones trundled off. Curiosity stirring despite her intentions to remain above the gossip, Stella did a Google search as soon as she got home. The author’s name was Dorian Bonifacio, and he had indeed been on Oprah and the New York Times best seller list. His novels were ‘modern but timeless, sublime and daring, addressing the exquisite challenges and pain of the modern age’ according to one reviewer. Stella ordered a copy of his latest from Amazon. Dorian was handsome, looking at her with brooding intensity from the back cover, but Stella gave up after the first chapter, thoroughly confused. She’d stick to her murder mysteries and chick lit even if it meant admitting the limits of her literary taste. During the following week, Stella heard at the pharmacy that the house was going to be demolished and at the vet's that it was going to be renovated. The locals who gathered in the diner every morning for breakfast had a field day discussing the amount and colors of paint that had been ordered from the local hardware store. Everyone agreed that the author deserved credit for buying locally and using local firms for the work but the gossip grew more outlandish by the day. It was going to be a bed and breakfast. It was going to be a walled compound and trespassers would be shot on sight. A chandelier was coming from New York and tiles from Italy. Stella drew the line at listening to speculation about heart-shaped bathtubs and mirrors on the bedroom ceiling. Mrs. Jones was bursting with news when she next came to clean Stella’s house. She had brought her teenage granddaughter Lacey along to help her. “He’s been down here,” she said. “The writer fellow. Had lunch in the tavern with some people. Mary Barnes told my Joe that he tipped real well. He’s a vegan. I thought that was some kind of religion, but Joe says that means he don’t eat no meat nor milk and eggs. And something else...” Her voice dropped to a whisper, and she blushed. “He’s got a boyfriend.” Lacey rolled her eyes. “Grandma, he’s gay. He’s got a husband, not a boyfriend. So what? At least he’s married. You always fuss when you hear about people who aren’t married living together.” “Things have certainly changed since my young days. I don’t know what this world is coming to,” Mrs. Jones said, offended. “But I judge not lest I be judged. Go polish those mirrors, young lady.” She stumped out and began vacuuming in the next room. “Sorry,” said Lacey. “She’s such a dinosaur sometimes.’ “Your grandmother grew up in very different times,” said Stella. “It must be hard to adjust to the new norms. Be patient with her.” *** Work on the old house continued for weeks with the locals avidly following progress. Mr. Atkins sighed as he counted out Stella’s change after inspecting her car. No credit cards here. You brought cash and got a handwritten receipt at old Mr. Atkins' place. “I swear I never heard so much foolishness in my life as about this feller coming to town,” he said. “You’d think it was the second coming or something.” “At least people aren’t talking about me as much,” Stella said. “It’s nice not to be the center of gossip for a change.” Mr. Atkins gave a slow grin, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “You was a mite different,” he said. “Coming from the big city with all that talk of natural healing and New Age stuff. Folks had you conjuring the devil and I don’t know what-all. But you’ve made a right nice job of that café and shop, though I still don’t know why people would spend money on stones and doodads. Lord knows we need something to fill some of them empty buildings on the high street and my Janey loves telling me stories about working there.” “Janey is an exemplary employee,” said Stella. “And they are healing crystals, not stones and doodads, I’ll have you know.” She winked at him as she left. He threw his gnarled hands up in surrender and laughed as she drove off. They had a busy day at the coffee shop. Stella was in her office counting receipts when Janey stuck her head round the door. “Psst,” she hissed. "He's here." “Who is?” said Stella, preoccupied. “We’re closed.” “It’s the author. I was just putting up the closed sign when he tapped on the door. I didn’t want to be rude.” Stella emerged. She recognized him immediately. He smiled pleasantly and extended his hand. There was a tall blonde man with him. “Hi, I’m Dorian and this is my husband, Todd. Sorry if it’s inconvenient, but I wondered if we could get a quick cup of coffee. We were trying to avoid your rush hour. We seem to be causing quite a commotion wherever we go.” “I understand completely,” said Stella. “Of course.” Janey had already hurried off to make the coffee, thrilled. “This is on the house. Welcome to town,” said Stella when he attempted to pay. “If you need a housekeeper, I can recommend a very good one. I can also recommend Janey’s grandfather if you need work done on your car.” Janey beamed. “Thank you,” Dorian said. “We do want to support local businesses in the community. We’ll be back.” *** A few days later, Mrs. Jones and Lacey showed up at the coffee shop. Mrs. Jones was uncharacteristically quiet and appeared worried. “A word with you in private, Ms. Stella, if you please,” “Come into my office,” said Stella. “What is it?” “I like working for you, I really do, Ms. Stella. But the thing is that the writer fellow offered me a job cleaning that big house. I said no at first because I couldn’t get used to the idea of two men being married. But he seems like a real nice person and he’s going to pay me a whole lot. Lacey reminded me that I said I wasn’t going to judge, and well, I...” “Someone must have given you a very good reference,” said Stella, smiling. “Though I seem to have done myself out of a good housekeeper.” “I know it was you, and I thank you,” said Mrs. Jones. “But Lacey and I came up with an idea. Lacey can do your house for now while she’s home from college and give you time to find someone else.” Stella looked at Lacey who nodded eagerly. “It seems to be a win-win situation,” said Stella. “And, Lacey, since you’re in college, do me a favor, please. Try reading his books and tell me if you can make heads or tails of them. They're beyond me.”


Huck laid down in Elliot's grave and got comfortable in his bones. His heavy torso ground the decaying bones to dust. "Goodnight, Sweetheart," he said to the starless sky. "May the everlasting-" A scuffling reached Huck's receptors and the bonesman peered into the grave. His hood was pulled back and his full bodied ginger beard framed his aged features. He literally glowed from the lantern he had attached to his left shoulder. "Oh, Huck, not again," the bonesman drawled. "Hello, Bonesman," Huck said calmly. "Isn't it a nice night to sleep together with the ones we love?" "When people say that they don't mean this. How many times do I have to repeat myself?" "Hmm, perhaps once more." Huck laughed and crossed his ankles, placing his laced fingers behind his head. More of Elliot's bones cracked and ground beneath his weight. The bonesman sighed, stroking his beard. "Get out of the grave, Huck. You're destroying sacred remains." Huck hefted a bone, possibly a femur, and it disintegrated in his hand. "This? It's just dust, Bonesman. No harm, no foul." "If it's just dust, why do you keep digging up and lying on my skeletons?" "Yours, Bonesman?" Huck tsked. "These are my family. Not yours." "I have guardianship of all bodies delivered to my door. You get to pray at the headstones, but I get to ensure the remains stay buried. And unmolested." "I'm doing no harm that the earth won't do eventually. Let me lay with my sweetheart undisturbed." "No, Huck," the bonesman said roughly, slamming the butt of his shovel into Huck's chest with a hollow thud. "Get out." "Bah! Alright, alright, I'm moving." Huck slapped the wooden shovel handle aside and climbed up and out of the shallow grave. "Spoil sport." The bonesman immediately started to fill the hole that Huck had dug with his rapid hands, groaning and griping to himself. Huck watched for only a second before stalking off into the wistful night. So much for spending a long, quiet night alone with his sweetheart. Should he take care of the bonesman? Make him a grave somewhere near his beloved skeletons? No. He was a friend, or at least he was friendly. No matter how much he persevered in kicking Huck out of the graves he didn't deserve to take a permanent dirt nap. "Hey, Huck," the bonesman shouted through the graveyard. "Is this yours?" Huck narrowed his eyes and saw a metal object in the bonesman's raised arm. Was that a chalice? He strode over casually, like he wasn't fascinated beyond control, and held out his hands palms upwards. The bonesman handed him an iron chalice that was stripped off all jewels and embellishments. "This was Elliots," he gasped. "Someone has been grave robbing, Bonesman. You've got a much bigger problem than me lying in your graves. This was buried in a chest two feet under his remains. Stop burying him and help me dig instead." He tossed the chalice, now a worthless relic, over his shoulder and knelt in the grave. His hands moved at the speed of lightning, scooping and throwing dirt aside nonchalantly. "Woah, woah, woah," the bonesman said and slapped his hands with the head of the shovel. "Don't go desecrating any more than you already have. I have a reputation to uphold." Huck forced the shovel aside, but stopped momentarily and scooped up a handful of bones. They turned to nothing between his fingers and sprinkled the earth with a fine powder. "It was too late to try and protect these bones the moment you buried them," Huck said. "If you cared so much about them you wouldn't have placed them in dirt. Now help me dig or give me the shovel. This isn't good for my joints." He waved his dirty hands and they groaned in disgust. The bonesman thrust the shovel towards him. "I won't dig up a grave I buried. But I also know I can't stop you. Can I?" Huck laughed joyously and gratefully accepted the shovel. He got straight to work shovelling mounds of dirt haphazardly. "Mind the... oh never mind," the bonesman sighed, watching Elliot's decaying remains go flying into the crisp night air. After only a few seconds Huck hit something with a solid thwack. He scraped the remaining dirt aside and unveiled the majority of a wooden box. People used to be buried in these instead of their favoured belongings. That might have kept Elliot's bones from decaying so quickly. Oh well, there was nothing he could do as the last of the remains were swept aside. All but the skull were destroyed. Before opening the chest to see the damage he carefully hefted the skull and peered into the eye sockets. "Hello, Sweetheart," he whispered, "I'm just going to have a peek into your chest. Won't be long and then you can rest again. Sorry about your body, but I'm sure you don't need it anymore." He placed the skull outside of the grave and used the shovel to pry the box open. "My God," the bonesman cried. Huck stared flabbergasted at the living, breathing, pulverised man that was curled up and bleeding inside of the cramped chest. He was wearing poor man’s garb and had only exposed hands, neck and face. All of his visible skin was yellow and pocked. Huck didn't know what to say or do. This wasn't Elliot's treasure obviously. "He's alive," the bonesman said, stating the obvious. "We have to get him to the hospital. Who knows how long he's been suffocating and bleeding out in there." "Don't touch him," Huck instructed, using the shovel handle to block the bonesman from entering the grave. "Look at his pallor. He's sick." "He's been buried alive! Of course he's sick." "It's not just that. He looks like he has Biter's Sickness. No wonder they buried him here. They were doing their fellow men a favour." "Biter's Sickness? You mean the Kissing Vampires Disease?" Huck laughed and appeared to roll his eyes, even if he didn’t actually have eyeballs. "Nobody calls it that anymore, Bonesman. That nomenclature fell away with your generation’s decline. It’s simply Biter’s Sickness now. And whoever this man is, he has it. Look at the pustules and the pallor of his skin. I think that we should close the lid and bury him. Right now." "We can’t just leave a man in need to die alone buried in the ground," the bonesman refuted. "If you won’t help him then I at least will." "You’ll die. I might as well just bury you in the ground now." "Then you must do this. Have some human compassion." "I can’t. Not for a man who was stealing from my beloved." Huck gazed at Elliot’s skull and sighed mournfully. So recently he had been within reach, and now he was just that last piece of bone. What a great loss. What tragedy. He wanted to lie down in his bones again and soak into their memories together. Damn the bonesman for dragging him out of the grave and ruining his melancholy. "He was your beloved?" the bonesman enquired. "Then who are all of the other people in this graveyard to you? Why have you dug up and laid in all of their graves too?" "Practice," Huck stated matter-of-factly, glancing at the bonesman’s inquisitive face. His features appeared to morph. The corners of his lips went up, his eyebrows went down and he bared his teeth. He was furious. "Practice!" The bonesman yelled. "You've desecrated my graveyard to practice lying in a particular grave?" "You say that as if it wasn't important that I get it right," Huck argued, throwing a glare. "Elliot deserved that I figure out a way to dig him up without destroying his bones. Everything was right until you kicked me out of the grave." "But why? Why do this at all?" Huck gestured at the man in the box. "I think we're forgetting something. Let's bury him before you catch what he's got and then we can talk all about this." The bonesman grumbled and snatched the shovel that was still pointing in his direction. "We are not doing this, Huck. Pick him up and I'll walk a few metres ahead of you until we get him medical attention." "No," Huck said and slammed the chest closed, immediately starting to scoop in the loose dirt from all around him. The bonesman, the wily old goat, stepped into the grave, his heavy boots making the lid of the chest creak and crack though he didn't fall through it. He kicked Huck's hands until he stopped his efforts. "Stop that," Huck cried, greatly offended. "You'll catch the Biter's Sickness if you keep fooling around. This is no joke." "I don't care," the bonesman said stiffly. "I'll risk catching my death to protect my fellow man. Even if he does turn out to be a grave robber." "Huh? I don't understand you, Bonesman. Is this some mad human trait? To throw your life away for a stranger?" "How do you not have that coded into your central being? To be alive is to care for our kin. Surely you care for something enough to risk yourself protecting it." Huck dusted his hands and stared straight ahead into the bonesman's eyes. He was so powerful in his stance for someone who's livelihood required man's death. But did Huck feel any of what he was asking? Did his programming allow such human compassion? He felt something for Elliot, but would it have been enough to pressure him into sacrificing his own life? Probably not. But it did bring him back night after night to lay in the graves of men he would never know. "No, I don't," Huck said finally. "My own safety and survival comes first and foremost. It would be a poor design to be otherwise. Humans are weird." "Humans are versatile. Adaptable. We are above all else protectors. Whether it's for friend or foe we will do whatever it takes to preserve life." "I remember a time when your kind brutalised and murdered animals. How does that fit with your proclamation?" "Let me take this man to safety and we can have a conversation about the ethics of killing animals versus killing men." "Hmm," Huck drawled. "No. By keeping him contained I’m preserving the life of my friend. You." "Oh, Huck. We are not friends. You’re a nuisance who I have to keep driving out of my graveyard. Our relationship begins and ends there." "Rude." Huck laughed. "After everything we’ve been through together." The bonesman grinned. "You’re a wily one. Too bad you won’t win me around to leaving this man in here. Now get out of my graveyard and leave me to worry about what might happen alone." Could Huck live with allowing the Biter’s Sickness to potentially spread? Was this one grave robber’s life worth that risk? How would he feel if the bonesman died because he allowed him to expose himself? Surely none of that was his concern. However, the man could help him hunt down the other grave robbers who had stolen Elliot’s treasure. Perhaps he should let him out. Even just to ask him some questions. "Get out of the grave, Bonesman," Huck said. "This man knows who robbed my Sweetheart." The bonesman glared at Huck for a few quietly tense moments and then stepped up and out of the opposite side of the grave. "Don’t hurt him," he said. "I won’t. He’s probably hurting enough as it is." Huck stepped into the grave and opened the chest. He took a close look at the man trapped inside and was fairly certain that he wasn’t going to get any answers out of him. The Biter’s Sickness had claimed his life. "Well shit." He slammed the lid and started using his hands to fill in the grave once again. "Hey!" the bonesman said. "Not again." "He’s dead. Unless you want to come down here and get real close to confirm it, then it's time we buried him six feet under." "Hmm, I believe you. But I can’t just have an anonymous man buried in someone else's grave. We’re going to have to move the chest out until I can find him a new plot." "No way," Huck said, still scraping in mounds of dirt with his bare hands. "Elliot won’t mind, seeing as it’s only his skull going back in here anyway." "His family will not be happy when they come to claim his treasure in fifty years if they find a skeleton instead of trinkets." "I’m his family and I won’t be coming back after this. Let the man lie." After there was a few inches of dirt covering the chest Huck picked up Elliot’s skull and placed it at the head of the grave. He knelt in the dirt and went to start talking, but saw the bonesman shuffling around restlessly. "Do you mind?" he said. "Can I have a little privacy?" "I’ll be back to make sure you filled in the grave correctly," the bonesman said and departed with the shovel left stabbed upright in the dirt. "Sweetheart, I’m sorry this didn’t work out right. I waited so, so long to ensure that everything was right. I let the passage of time pass me by, practicing for our moment together. That second that I first laid down in your bones was everything that I could have asked for. If I could dream that would have been what I would dream of. After having you alive again of course. "So, once again this is goodbye, My Love. I had a whole other speech prepared to mark the occasion, but that’s rather ruined. So I will leave you with these last few words. I love you. I always loved you. I will hold our memories in my core forever. Goodbye, Elliot." If Huck was able to cry he knew that he would have wet tears staining his face. Instead he simply felt morose as he sprinkled two handfuls of dirt onto the skull and then got out of the grave. It only took him several minutes to fill the hole and then he stood back and surveyed his handiwork. Because he had thrown the dirt out haphazardly there was a few inches missing and there was nothing he could do about it. The bonesman approached and placed a hand on his shoulder. "It’s never easy to say goodbye to the ones we love," the bonesman sighed. "What would you know?" Huck replied shortly and walked away. "Hey, Huck. What about the answers you promised me?" "They’ll have to wait, Bonesman. I have treasure to find." "You didn't even check the man you buried for clues. What chance do you stand?" "How many grave robbers do you think there are around here? It won't be hard to find a few very specific trinkets for sale." "Well then, good luck, Huck." "I don't need luck, Bonesman. I have all the time in the world.


Our daughter lives in the toilet, it is not of our choosing, but it is there that she resides, she can often be seen peeping out of the basin wanting to say hello, we leave the toilet door open so we can say hello too. Firstly let me say we do not use the toilet, not since she has taken up residence, oh no, we haven’t used the toilet in years. We know that she uses it as we hear it flushing in the night, but for me and my wife we have to go in a bucket and pour it down the sink, for the more “demanding” toilet breaks we go to our neighbours, they are quite understandable as they have a boy who lives in a bin. We have tried to get her out, pull her out, tug her out, even called the fire brigade, but it is not that she can’t get out, she just doesn’t want to. If we force her out, the moment our back is turned she goes back in. We have asked her why she likes the toilet so much, and she says it’s like having a miniature swimming pool in the house. I tell her that even if we had a swimming pool in the house we would still sleep on a normal bed. She laughs and says “Daddy you are funny”, I didn’t laugh, didn’t see what was funny. She used to leave the toilet sometime, for example when she had to go to school, but when the teachers complained that she spent her entire lunch breaks in the school lavatories we thought it best to home school her, at least our toilet can be kept reasonably clean. As she grew older we hoped that it would grow out of her, but it did not, she wanted her privacy as she aged so we put a lock on the toilet seat (on the inside of course) and put a little door bell by the side. Not sure the need in this, as the toilet seat was quite easy to knock on, but the wife thought it was best. Our daughter was always home, but I can understand the decency in knocking first, how rude just to walk in uninvited, she might have been “on” the loo or anything. Her independence got so bad that we had to register the toilet as a separate home, Flat 2 she called it, Flat 2. I did laugh at that reference, but wouldn’t Flat 1 have been just as funny. My wife says no, 2’s are funnier than 1’s. Then the fateful day came when the postman had a special delivery for “Flat 2” so we let him in to our house, he went upstairs and into the bathroom, rang on the doorbell and waited for our daughter to answer. She had been washing her hair, so took a little time to get to the door. The postman rang again, she finally answered. “Sorry to disturb you” he said “I have a package for you to sign, but do you mind if I quickly use your toilet?”. Well we always brought our daughter up to be polite so what could she do other than say “Yes of course”. So with trousers down and with both of them holding their packages, the toilet was... how shall we phrase this... hmm. Used. It wouldn’t have been a problem, of course our daughter blushed bright red at seeing what she saw, anyone would have, no the blushing wasn’t the problem, the flushing was the problem. The postman didn’t know, and she didn’t say, he pulled the flusher and flushed her down the toilet. We never saw her again. Now I know I said above that we always heard her flushing the toilet, but she always flushed when she was sitting on the toilet, not when she was inside. The postman told us later (when the shock had worn off) that she swirled around like a whirlpool, her hair spinning like wet candyfloss, and then she was gone. We tried to find her of course, but how can you really find someone that was flushed down the toilet.


To say I’m nervous would be the understatement of the year. My hands are shaking where they sit in my lap, but I can’t let it show because I acted way too calm when she came into our store earlier. I think it was a mixture of absolute shock and mild panic that made me act that way. I was in the middle of teaching an oil pastel class on how to blend darks to lights when the windchimes on the door jingled. Violet was in the front of the shop, so I expected her to get it, but when a voice that sounded a little too eager and too familiar called my name, I wasn’t expecting to see her . I knew I should’ve called out sick. “I’m sorry I was gone for so long, it was work. Where were we again?” Lillian sits back down at the table and I do my best to maintain composure. Her plunge black v-neck blouse was more than revealing, but I didn’t let my eyes linger. She wasn't this dressed up when I saw her earlier so it's a little jarring. It shouldn’t be this easy to still idealize someone who dumped you out of the blue. I mean, we’ve barely spoken thus far, and it's not as if our conversations are meaningful. So then, why? “It’s fine. The food got here while you were gone, so at least you don’t have to wait.” I forced myself to smile, trying to fix the coils I had diffused only 30 minutes ago. I don’t know why she invited me out for dinner anyway. I mean, what was there for us to talk about? Remember that time we killed the guy who groped me on the bus and followed us home? Or maybe the time I cried in a jail cell after you had already left? Good times, huh. “So how have you been lately?” She smiles, knocking back the last swig of her second glass of wine since she’s gotten here. Her fingers linger by the half-full bottle on the table which is being emptied by her alone. “Good, good. Going to City College is okay, and I work at the art store down the street, but you probably know that by now.” “Yeah! I was so surprised to see you there. I was only in this part of town to see someone and they wanted to drop by that little store since they're a painter -- it was total luck!” “Avery,” I mumbled. They’re a regular and pretty good friends with Violet, so of course I would be familiar with them. But, who would’ve guessed they kneow Lillian. Small world, unfortunately. “Yeah. They told me they go there often, but I would have never guessed to see you there.” She smiles and some of her red lipstick has transferred to the glass, leaving a lightened pink stain on her mouth. Her steak sizzles on the plate before her, which she promptly drowns in A1. I hate the fact that I knew she’d do it -- that I remembered. “Well, what have you been up to? I heard you got into NYU forever ago, so how’s that been?” “Wonderful! I thought it would be overrated and full of snobs whose egos are bigger than their bank accounts, but everyone seems really down to earth and all of the teachers have been great. I actually have an internship at the court of appeals in Albany next semester, so things are looking up for me.” Good to know the criminal record point on your transcripts was wiped clean. “That’s amazing! I’m happy for you.” She pours herself another drink before taking a bite from her steak. “Yeah yeah, but enough about me. How’s your Mom? It’s been years since I’ve seen her.” Well, she reminds me of my no-good white friend anytime I do something that displeases her but, “She’s doing good. I’m sure she misses seeing you around.” “Yeah well, I miss her too. Dinner was always better at your house.” She sighs and the awkward silence when I nod my head in response was deafening. I take a sip from my glass and push my pasta around the plate. I’m too nervous to eat, but Lillian looks like she’s out-drinking herself. It’s pathetic in a weird way. “Why aren’t you eating?” She quips and her blonde beach-waves bounce with her tilted head. “Don’t tell me you're still doing those stupid diets.” “I’m not, and they aren’t stupid.” I frown, taking a bite of the pasta I don't want and forcing it down to prove a point. She doesn’t know anything about me, so why is she so comfortable. “Looks like I’ve struck a nerve,” she giggles a little too loudly and I’m afraid the alcohol’s gotten to her. “You were always so cute when you were mad.” ‘Lillian--” “And stop calling me Lillian. We aren’t strangers Rose.” I take a deep breath before continuing. “ Lily ,” I take the bottle of wine and move it to my side of the table. “I think you’ve had enough .” “Awww, but I was just getting started,” She frowns and I hate that my heart stumbles. It’s been five years since she left, and I thought I was finally over her, but this , this isn’t helping. It’s so unfair. “You’re so cold, Rose. Do you treat the girl with short hair like this?” “What girl?” I frown when she takes another bite instead of answering. “Lillian, what are you talking about?” “Y’know, the one at your job with the short braids and circle glasses near the cash register.” Violet? “Why do you care about that?” “Cuz,” She mumbles. “She kept staring at you when I saw you earlier. I thought you guys were like a thing or something.” She’s... jealous. But I don’t want her to be. I don’t want her to feel anything towards me. I don’t even wanna be here but everyone was looking at us and I couldn’t really say no to dinner with fifteen people watching. “It doesn’t matter whether we are or not. Aren’t you with Avery? You two seemed mighty close.” “We’re not... official... or anything. We just talk.” I sigh and feel disappointment settle into my bones. “Why did you ask me to dinner, Lily?” “Cuz, I haven’t seen you in years, and we ended on bad terms.” “You moved. We could’ve just ended like that--” “I wanted to see you.” She places her hand halfway across the table and I have to physically restrain myself from reaching out to grab it. “I missed you, Rose. Really. I- I wanted to apologize.” “You don’t have to say anything,” Please don’t make me want you again. “I already know.” “But you didn’t get to hear it from me and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you, but I was a pussy, and I was scared, and I didn’t wanna see the face you’d make when I told you.” “Lil--” She continues talking anyway. “But I’m sorry for moving away. My parents didn’t want me living there anymore after what had happened. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I was leaving, or that I loved you, or that I was going to miss you. I was... so scared, But I treated you badly and that was wrong.” “Lillian, you're drunk.” “Drunken words are sober thoughts, aren’t they?” There’s a look in her eyes that conveys more than her slightly slurred together word vomit does. “Now can you be real with me? Instead of putting up this long time friend charade. I don’t wanna know how you’ve been Rose. I don’t care about work, or how school is, or small talk. I just wanna know about you. What happened while I was gone?” “You won’t remember in the morning.” She finishes the rest of the glass she poured before I took the bottle. “Then humor me.” “Well, my mom hates you now.” “I had a feeling,” she laughs, but this time it’s how she used to -- high and whimsical like music to my sore ears. “And I hate my job, but the people there are nice.” “Also had a feeling. You looked miserable before I walked in.” “And I hated you. I don’t know if I still do, but I hated you so much it made my chest hurt.” She’s silent this time only nodding along when I continue. “You were... my everything. I would have followed you no matter where you lead me, I even lied for you. I loved you, Lily. So imagine my surprise when the case was dropped and you were gone the next day. I thought... I thought it was all my fault or that I did something wrong.” “I’m sorry, Rose. I was stupid.” “Yeah, you were. You really, really were, but I don’t hold it against you anymore. I mean, we were what, sixteen? Everyone thinks they’re in love at sixteen.” “Do you think you’re in love at twenty-one?” she asks dryly and all the words I had planned to say were gone in an instant. “No...? I mean, you were gone for so long that I--” “It’s okay. Forget that I said anything.” She nods, pulling her hand back from the table. “Are you sure you don’t wanna eat? I’m paying.” “I can pay for my own--” “I said, I’m paying, Rose. Why don’t you get your food to go? I don’t really wanna eat anymore.” “Well you drank three whole glasses, so I’d expect that.” She flashes me a smile that turns into a grimace. “Sorry, I drink when I’m anxious. You’re done though, right?” “Yeah, I guess. But I wasn’t done speaking.” “What d’ya need to say Rosey?” She rests her chin in her hand on the table, letting her eyes flutter close and I feel myself get hot in anger. She does this thing where once she doesn’t get the answer she wants, she just shuts down. It used to happen with trivial things, but whenever we argued, this shit would happen too. “I just... I just wanted to say that what you did wasn’t fair. I’m glad that you walked into the shop today though because at least I don’t have to keep wondering about how you are and where you’ve been.” “I know it wasn’t. I know sorry can't fix what happened, but I’m sorry Rose. “ I look down at my still trembling hands, picking at the nail polish when I realize there's nothing more to say. “Well, at least you don’t have to lie about your Mom liking me anymore.” I snickered before looking up at her. She smiled wide as if that was the funniest shit she’s ever said, and with the mix of bloodshot unfocused eyes and giggles, she looks drunker than she should be. It makes me laugh harder than I should. “Shut up.” # “Why are you still standing here?” “Because you drank the rest of the bottle even though I told you not to. I’m not just gonna leave you on some street corner by yourself when you're drunk. “Aww, how sweet,” She puts a cigarette between her lips, lighting it, and letting smoke spill everywhere. “I didn’t know you cared so much about me.” “Shut up.” I snapped, yanking on her arm so she wouldn’t fall over. Being this close, I could smell her perfume and the faint -- now strong -- sickly sweet smell clinging to her hair. “I didn’t know that you smoked.” “I don’t do it often.” She pulled the stick from her mouth and exhaled -- the white paper now stained pink where her lips had been. “You wanna try?” “Not really, no.” “That’s a shame. I think it’d be cute.” “Watching me smoke?” “Watching you cough.” I have the sudden urge to drop her. “Y’know, you were kinda cute when you were tipsy. Now you’re just annoying.” Her head whips around and her eyes nearly sparkle. “You think I’m cute? Really?” “Shut up,” I grumble and she laughs way too hard and way too loud. Passerby look at us and she cackles, leaning into me like a wall at a frat party. “Did you mean what you said about NYU earlier? I wanna transfer there once I get enough credits, but I don’t know.” “Well, half of it anyway. I’ve met a lot of nice people, like Avery for example, but there are still people who blow smoke up their own asses. I mean, it’s an expensive school for a reason. They’ve got good resources. I’ve interned a bunch of local courts” “Oh god, I forgot you were a law student.” “Doesn’t look like it on the surface but, I’m kinda smart.” She giggles in a way that sounds extremely dumb but is still endearing. I hate how even if she’s adorably drunk or obnoxious, I still can’t deny her. It’s... upsetting. “Rosey Wosey, pay attention to me," She sing-songs in my ear annoyingly loud. “Don’t make me run into traffic.” “How much longer till your uber gets here.” She opens her phone which takes a painfully long amount of time. “Like four minutes, probably longer. Getting tired of me already?” “Yes.” She hits me on the shoulder before swaying lightly. “Gimme your phone.” “Why would I do that?” “Because,” she suppresses a hiccup. “You want my phone number.” It never even occurred to me that I didn’t have it. Instagram served as a perfect place to type out messages I’d never send, but I guess iMessage made more sense. So, against my better judgment, I hand it to her and watch as she stumbles through the contacts app. “There we go, now you can bug me at any time.” “Whose to say I’ll text you first?” I tilt my head and she reopens the contact list, scrolling all the way to the bottom to look at the ‘My Card’ info. “I was going to text you, you didn’t have to do that.” “I don’t trust you. You hate me.” “You think I hate you?” I raise an eyebrow at her and she pouts at me like a child. “Yeah. I was an asshole at dinner, and now you’re babysitting me. I feel bad.” “I don’t hate you, Lily. I thought I made that clear earlier.” She squishes the cigarette she barely smoked under one of her heels. “Well, everything's a little jumbled, all I remember is the part where you said you hate me.” “You’re an idiot.” “Your idiot.” I freeze almost instantly, but she opens her phone again as if nothing was wrong. My heart ached at the memories in her bedroom: fighting over Mario Kart, crying over chemistry homework, all of the cuddles, the kisses, and playing Just Dance in her bedroom at 2 AM. “Earth to Rose? I said it’s okay if you leave. I think my driver’s lost. I should call them.” She slurs a little. Her lipstick is smudged against the corner of her mouth where the wine bottle was. Without thinking too much about it, I rub my thumb against it, smearing the pigment off of her skin. When I look at her again, her eyes don’t meet mine, instead focusing a little lower on my face before we make eye contact again. Most of her red lipstick’s been wiped off at this point in reality, but I guess my lips couldn’t make it worse, right? My forehead is against hers before our lips are touching and my hands are on her waist. She tastes like cigarettes, a lot of wine, and something else, but I can't tell what it is when I pull away after only barely kissing her. Her eyes are a little dazed and that’s when I remember, fuck, she’s drunk. “I’m sorry, I shouldn't have done that! You’re drunk and that wasn’t okay, and I don’t wanna take advantage of you--” She closes the gap I made between us before cupping my face in her hands. “You’re so cute when you blush.” I avert my eyes out of shame. “You can’t see--” “I can tell. You always blushed when you kissed me.” She mumbles against my lips before yanking on the collar of my sweater and crashing her lips against mine. Steak sauce . That’s what it was. She tastes like cigarettes, and red wine, and steak sauce. She tastes like the past; like ice cream after passing a quiz in biology, like sunshine on the pier in summer, like getting to play Princess Peach in Mario Kart. She tastes right. Her waist feels like I miss you in my hands, her hands feel like I’m sorry in my hair. She feels and tastes like Queens, she smells like regret and missed opportunities, but it’s all so her. And even when her Uber driver gets there and we slide into the backseat as a mess of limbs, unable to tell where one begins and the other ends, it feels right. It feels like Lillian.


Times were tough. It was no secret I was miserable. A cloud of gloom followed me everywhere, including my job. A relationship breakup like mine would put anyone to the test and frankly, I was failing it. Still, I had bills to pay and it wasn’t going to help if I gave up and stopped getting out of bed. Each day I’d drag myself to the office and go through the motions like a zombie. I know my performance and attitude suffered but I didn’t care at the time. Much of the occupational grief and aggravation of the nine-to-five grind involved being employed so a person could afford nice things and have a fulfilling relationship with a significant other. Once the relative rewards of that dynamic went out the window, so did my motivation to work. I guess it’s a testament to my ability to do my job well, that I wasn’t fired outright after I went off on a difficult client. Behavior like that was a threat to the corporate ‘bottom line’. Obviously they didn’t want that. Apparently they didn’t want to let me go either. Instead, management tried a very unorthodox tactic which I only found out about much later. They actually hired a temp to ‘romance’ me, and boost my ego. It’s called ‘the girlfriend experience’ because it is supposed to feel ‘real’. It’s far more than paying a person to be intimate with me. That stipulation wasn’t even in the contract. Legally it couldn’t be. They just paid her to pretend to be infatuated and smitten. How she managed to achieve that artificial flattery was her business. I must say, it totally caught me off guard. In all fairness, I might’ve recognized the ‘snow job’ a mile away if I wasn’t deeply sad and emotionally vulnerable. Instead I ate up the attention with a spoon. They were smart enough to not hire a supermodel. They found a lady that was probably in the top register of who I might’ve had a chance with in real life, if I tried really hard to woo her. Not that I had to, mind you. She was the definition of a ringer. I gotta say, it takes a certain skill set to seduce a person with that level of believable sincerity. I totally fell for it. They brought her in to the office and assigned her to assist me on a big account. At first, it pissed me off. I didn’t care that she was attractive and working extremely closely with me. I resented the idea of having to hold anyone’s proverbial hand in training her to be actually helpful. To my relief, she was a quick study and eager to learn. Knowing what I know now, I still marvel at the theatrics and lengths the company went through to insert this woman into my life. It is kind of flattering to know they orchestrated the whole thing. I know it was only about the money I normally brought in, but it makes me feel damn important. ‘Missy’ was coy at first. Respectful and aloof even. She maintaining a polite distance while giving off a slight smitten vibe or schoolgirl crush. Like a big knucklehead, I swallowed the performance hook, line, and sinker. The truth is, I wanted to believe. Honestly, who in their right mind would’ve suspected such an elaborate hoax for my behalf? it wasn’t long before we were sneaking off after hours to see each other socially. The whole time, I was scared to death they would send her back to the temp agency. Inter office romance is strictly forbidden by HR so we kept the relationship a secret as long as we could. Once we had moved past a certain point, I didn’t care if anyone found out. I was finally happy again. By all appearances, she was too. I eventually asked her to marry me, and she accepted. Of course I didn’t know it was originally an arranged fling, so I definitely wouldn’t have guessed it was about to lead to an arranged marriage. The thing is, at what point does the facade cease to be worth playing along with for the corporate payout? Even for a person pretending to be interested in me, at some point, you’d think she would call the whole thing off, right? Either that or invent an excuse to break things off and still maintain the original deception. Here was an actress who entered into a contract to perform as ‘my girlfriend’ and then (for whatever reason) kept up the pretense long enough to marry me. At that point I still didn’t know the truth. I would have expected my employers to come clean then but it had went too far. It’s one thing to pay for a brief little office ‘flirtation’, it’s quite another to keep silent while their gullible employee committed to a legally binding contract. I was blissfully happy and absolutely ignorant to the disturbing truth. She was everything (I thought) I ever wanted. Believe it or not, she confessed the whole organized charade on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary! I was gobsmacked. I thought it was part of some prank or practical joke but she was dead serious. My whole world crumbled. Our three children were grown up and already out of the house. I’d made partner with the firm and yet, I found out the last 25 years of my life were based on some bizarre farcical performance script. Missy explained that while she had entered into the contract just trying to be a professional actress, she soon developed sincere feelings for me. On one hand, after admitting it started as an elaborate seduction hoax, it was hard to believe anything she said. On the other however, I’d had a quarter century of marital happiness and fantastic kids. Was she finally telling the truth, or was she still acting as a consummate professional actress dedicated to the role? I thought long and hard about it as she slept peacefully beside me. I loved her and I honestly believe she loves me. Much of life is pretending until it becomes true.


He lets out a sigh, staring at the ceiling he said to himself "lying next to the woman you love, watching a movie and just cuddling, isn't that what they call goals ?" She chuckled, "What's gotten into you today?". She got out of the bed and picked up her clothes from the floor. "Going already?" he asked, "Can't you stay a little while longer?", extending his hand out to her. Placing her hand on his she replies, "I told my mom the party will end by 6, I should be home by - ". He pulls her towards him and she falls on top of him. "Lying to go to your boyfriend's home - can't say if its a "Hash-tag" goals" he teased her as he pulled her closer to himself. "Really? What's gotten into you today?" she asked, snuggling her face on his chest. Taking in a deep breadth, her sweet smell filled him, then staring back at the ceiling he let it out "Just thinking how perfect you are, how you saved me..." Smiling she raised her head to face him and placed a kiss on his cheek,"I'll have to go now or they'll kick me out of the house" she tried to get up but he held her tighter. "Say you love me" he said gently caressing her cheek, he got up and sat next to her. "We've only been going out for two weeks now..." she softly replied and leaned her head on his hand's touch, she got up and gave a fervent, long kiss on his lips. "Anyway i have to go now...". She tried to get up once more and he hugged her again. "Say you love me" he said in almost cracking voice, looked straight in her eyes. She saw his eyes water, she thought she had hurt him by refusing before but this only turned her off,"If that's what you want to hear...I love you" she said rather bluntly. "Now" he said as a tear escaped his eye, "Say your heart belongs to me" She didn't like that "You are being creepy" she said "Your heart belongs to me? Isn't that a bit cheesy?" she mocked him. His loosened his hands around her and finally pulled them away. She got up and started gathering her things in her bag, as he laid down again, facing up, with right hand hiding his eyes. She didn't want to leave on a bad note, so she went back to him and leaned toward him and placed a kiss on his forehead. Holding his face on her hand she said "I'm sorry, didn't take you for an emotional one." His right hand swiftly grab her neck, "I'm not" he replied as he reached down the pillow and pulled out a knife from under it. Gently caressing her face with the knife and looking up at her "Say your heart belongs to me, my love" he commanded. She was scared, her breadth got heavy but she didn't try to get out of his grip. She just froze their in fear, "Please...get that away, you are scaring me" "That is the plan, sweetheart" he said as he placed the sharp edge of the knife on her throat. "Now say your heart belongs to me" He pressed the knife a little on her neck. "Why are you doing this?" she muttered, now trembling as she realized she was truly in danger. "I just want to live" he mumbled, for a brief second she thought she saw some pain in his eye but it was quickly replaced by acrimony "Bitch, Say your heart belongs to me or I'll slit your throat" He said and pressed the knife harder, cutting her a little and a tickle of blood trialed down her neck. She looked down at him, she couldn't understand what was going on in his head, she didn't want this to go on any longer, she thought if that would satisfy him and he would let her go, she might give it a try, "My heart belongs to you" she mumbled. He loosened his grip on her and let both his hands fall on his side. As soon as she was free she grabbed her bag and ran out of his room, as she was running away towards the stairs she could hear him cackle and bawl, somehow simultaneously. She felt her chest tightening but kept running, soon she could feel a burning sensation on her heart, panting she urged herself to keep moving, but everything was going blur, she could feel cold sweats running down the side of her face, as sudden exhaustion took over her and she collapsed, tumbling down the stairs. Back in the room, he was still lying on his bed facing up, as the last drop of tear fell from the corner of his eye to his already stained wet pillow, "I did like her" he sighed, "But I wanted to live, you know ... I just wanted to live so bad" he said staring at the ceiling, as thing starred back at him and nodded, as if conceding.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Prompt: Set your story at a shopping mall.** - **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** An argument occurs during the story This week’s challenge is to set your story in a . You can use any part of the location as long as it is the story’s main setting. You could set it in a clothing store or nail salon, at a pretzel cart, an employee break room, or even on the roof! Maybe it’s a haunted mall, or in an underground city! Feel free to think outside the box and use the setting creatively. The bonus constraint is not required. **Next week, we’ll be doing a *fall constraint table*! If you have suggestions for words/objects, character actions, settings, or other fall-related constraints, *DM me*!** You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 2pm EST next Monday. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read the stories aloud and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and/or listen to the others! Everyone is welcome and we’d love to have you!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Weekly points are awarded based on the following system. **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** #Rankings for - u/AGuyLikeThat - u/rudexvirus - u/wileycourage ###Crit Stars - u/AGuyLikeThat - u/Peter_Palmer_ - u/rudexvirus - u/wileycourage *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Simon and Peter were the only kids in their neighborhood. They found each other out of necessity more than actual affection for one another. But what started out as a playdate forced by their moms, did eventually grow into a bond with some measure of fondness. By the time they were 8 years old, they were inseparable. In school, they sat next to each other, until the teacher moved them for talking too much. They walked home from school together, ate after school snack together, did school work together, and played together. When they could manage it, they ate dinner together and stayed at each others’ houses too. Their parents were just glad to have them out of their hair most of the time. It was on one such afternoon, that the boys started an adventure club. It was very exclusive, as they were the only two members. In this club, they would explore the unexplored; see what they had not seen; go where they had not gone. It is entirely possible that they were reading too many adventure stories, but as long as they were out of the house and home by dinner, they were free to do as they please. Simon found an old leather helmet in his garage and donned it for their adventures. Their first adventure was to Peter’s garage, to see what kind of gear they could find him. They tried on a ski mask, a bicycle helmet, and a snorkel but nothing quite had the adventurous zeal they were going for. Then, out of a dusty old box, Simon pulled a dusty on black derby hat. He wiped the dust off of it and shook it to try and clean it more thoroughly before placing it on Peter’s head. It was perfect. Simon and Peter donned their explorer’s gear and ventured out into the neighborhood, in search of unexplored frontiers. On the edge of town, they found an old house. Its windows were boarded up and missing their glass. There was once a deadbolt on the door but it had long been forced open by some enterprising hobo. Carefully looking out for any snitches, they snuck into the dilapidated building easily. Inside, they found less treasure and more animal droppings. The carefully scoured the main floor, looking for anything left that was worth finding. They contemplated going upstairs but after inspecting them, they decided it was probably best to stay on the ground level. They left with nothing to show for their efforts. They were soon called home to dinner and their adventuring for the day came to an end. They parted ways and returned to their homes, shelving their adventure chapeaus for the evening. Simon fidgeted through dinner. His mother tried to ask him how his day was but he was not forthcoming. His dad asked if something was wrong, but he insisted he was fine. As soon as he was done eating, he bolted to his room, where he spent the evening planning their next adventure route and daydreaming about the treasures they would find. School dragged on that day for both of the boys. Lessons were even less interesting than usual. Lunch was less tasty, even the desserts their moms packed. Even recess had lost some of its usual charms. There was just nothing to replace the pure joy of exploring the unexplored. No one understood like Simon and Peter understood. Finally, it was time to return home. They skipped their snack, they fibbed and said they had no school work to finish. They grabbed their hats and hurried on their way. Simon had told Peter that he had a route all worked out. Peter was satisfied with the plan and went along with it without arguing. First, they would go to the old bridge over the river. No one ever went there anymore and there were sure to be some coins on the banks of the small river. Then, they would go to the field where all the big kids played their sports and explore under the bleachers. Finally, they would go to the woods behind the grocery store, surely there was treasure to be found. They eagerly headed out to the old bridge. It was a simple footbridge, made of wood with some iron pieces holding it together. The river there was never more than three feet or so wide. There was nothing in this part of town anymore. Their parents had told them that across the river there was once houses, a playground, and even a store or two, but everything closed down and was demolished. They say someone was going to build apartment buildings or something, but they never did, so the land sat, now overgrown by local flora. Though unused, the bridge seemed safe enough, it was only a few feet above the water anyway. The boys crossed it several times, their eyes on the surrounding ground for anything shiny or noteworthy. Simon found a coin. Neither of the boys knew where it was from, though that did not stop them from speculating. He pocketed it and they pressed onward. Once they had decided that they had found all there was to find at the bridge, they went across it and over to the abandoned field. You could still find remnants of foundations to buildings and other rubble. They sifted through it and kicked rocks for a while. They were still conducted their grid pattern search when an old man came walking down the path. He was already across the bridge by the time the boys spotted him. Peter saw him first. When Peter pointed him out, Simon just shrugged his shoulders. Unless he tried to stop them, they had no interest in what an adult was doing. Peter, ever the follower, shrugged as well and continued his hunt through the grass and gravel. But the man walked up to the boys without hesitation. “What are you boys doing here?” his tone was inquisitive rather than accusatory. “Exploring,” said Simon. “Oh is that what you are doing?” he said, a smile on his gray whiskered face. “Yeah, it is,” confirmed Peter. “Well have you found anything yet?” he asked. “Ye-” Peter started to answer but Simon cut him off. “Not really, we’re still looking,” he shot Peter a meaningful look. If they told this man what they found, they may have to give it up to him. Simon was not in the business of sharing his treasure with anyone but Peter. “Oh well that’s too bad,” he said, consolingly. “Maybe you would have better luck somewhere else?” “Oh, well, we think the woods behind the grocery store,” said Peter proudly. Simon shook his head, disappointed in his colleague. He had no idea when to keep his trap shut. “I really don’t think you boys should go there,” he said, furrowing his brow. He checked his watch and seemed alarmed at what he saw, he began to walk away. “Good adventuring boys, but do stay away from the woods!” He waved as he walked away, not waiting for an answer. They weren’t going to give him one anyway, Simon just shook his head and turned his attention back to the ground. “Don’t you think we maybe ought to listen to him?” Peter asked. “Don’t be silly,” Simon responded, “He’s just a grumpy old adult, trying to ruin our fun.” “Ok..” replied Peter, unconvinced. All of their searching in the field that was once buildings turned up a silver dollar and a pendant with no chain. Disappointed in their haul so far, Simon insisted that they skip the bleachers and go straight to the woods, where they would surely find something worth finding. Though uneasy, Peter agreed and off they went. The woods behind the grocery store were proper woods, not just some trees and grass in the middle of town. Behind it, was forest as far as was visible. There was a hiking path through that woods, but it did not come near the grocery store; that would sort of ruin the hiking experience. At the end of the tree line was the expected garbage collected by the wind from the store parking lot. The boys stepped over that, keeping an eye on it just in case it held something worth finding. Seeing nothing, they ventured into the thick underbrush. They spotted several squirrels, rabbits, and chipmunks. They even glimpsed a deer before it ran off. This was more of the adventure they were looking for. They found funny looking mushrooms which they knew better than to touch. They found a tree that had been struck by lightning and fell, its charred body resting on the forest floor. They found some caterpillars and let them walk all over their hands and arms. This really was a proper adventure. But they knew it was getting late, and they were further from their neighborhood than they should be so they soldiered home. Luckily, they made it back before dinner time, so they had not worried anyone. But they had vowed to keep their adventure in the woods a secret. If that old man did not want them in the woods, their parents probably didn’t either and they were not about to give up a prime adventure spot just because some adults wanted to be poopy pants. Simon knew Peter had a hard time keeping secrets so he had Peter ask his parents if he could have dinner at Simon’s house, they agreed. They just sat down to dinner when Peter started to itch. He tried to scratch quietly under the table, but it was no use. It was getting worse. Soon, Simon was scratching as well. They soon drew puzzled looks from Simon’s parents. “What is wrong, boys?” his dad asked. “You’re awfully fidgety.” “Looks like you have something itchy...” his mom said. “Come over here,” Simon climbed off his stool and obeyed. His mother had to inspect him for only a few seconds before she started laughing. “Where did you boys get to today?” she asked. “Just around town,” Simon said. “What is it dear?” Simon’s dad asked. “Well, it appears that the boys picked up a nice case of poison ivy,” she said a smile on her face. “Where did you pick up that?” he wanted to know. “The woods behind the grocery store,” answered Peter’s small and guilty voice. “Well,” she said, “that place is absolutely crawling with the stuff so that makes sense. Let’s get you boys cleaned up.” She had them wash and put on clean clothes. She smothered their now red and rashy skin with some sort of soothing lotion and put the poor, uncomfortable boys to bed. They were laying there, awake, when Peter spoke up. “Next time, let’s listen to the adults, ok Simon?” “Yeah, ok Peter.”


“You’re a very brave young woman,” Mr. Weiss told me. “Babysitting alone under the current circumstances.” “What circumstances?” I asked. “Well, you know. I’m sure you’ve heard of the maniac who escaped from the asylum last night.” My eyes widened, and it felt as if most of the organs in my thorax had suddenly vanished. Many words could be used to describe me, but brave did not fall into that category. I stood motionless in absolute terror until his wife burst out laughing. “You poor thing,” Mrs. Weiss chuckled. “He’s messing with you of course. There’s no asylum anywhere near Wellington Hills.” The couple reveled in my panic for what seemed like an eternity, cackling heartily as I made every effort not to lash out at them violently. Good thing their daughter was sitting in the living room with us, forcing me by her presence to watch my language. “You really got me there,” I said, faking the shadow of a smile. “I do get scared quite easily. My big brother told me too many babysitter legends when I was younger.” “Big brothers,” sighed Mr. Weiss. “Aren’t they the worst? Caroline’s brother couldn’t even sacrifice his social life for one night to watch over little Sybill.” “Stop it Peter,” said Mrs. Weiss. “My brother babysat tons of time before, it’s about time we actually pay someone to watch over her. Sybill is at that age where girls can be a tad difficult sometimes, aren’t you darling?” Little Sybill sat completely still, her face unreadable. She must have been around eight years old, I thought. Something felt off about her. This was my first time in the Weiss residence, and the kid hadn’t said a single word since my arrival, remaining perfectly steady in the living room couch. The family lived in a vast, spacious home - a manor, really - with long halls and a majestic marble staircase that curved and circled the open second floor. In my babysitting experience, eight-year-old children rarely acted difficult. If anything, most would have been running around such a house ecstatically at all times, turning it into one big playground. Had my parents been able to afford a place like this, my babysitter would definitely have found me swinging from the chandelier. “Alright, time for us to go,” said Mr. Weiss. He got up from his white leather armchair and walked over to his daughter, the orange glow from the fireplace dancing across his face. “Promise me you’ll behave with Lexie, my little darling. Dad is counting on you. Remember what happens to little girls who cry wolf.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Goodbye daddy,” said Sybill in a soft voice. I heard a hint of tremor escaping her throat. In no way did she seem difficult, quite the contrary. It was a tremor of anxiety mixed with an otherwise sweet voice. “What about me?” asked Mrs. Weiss. “Goodbye,” added Sybill, her voice growing colder. Her mother frowned, prompting her to complete the sentence. “Goodbye mommy.” Mr. and Mrs. Weiss moved into the atrium. Minutes later, I heard the entrance door closing. Sybill and I were now alone. “Would you like to play a game?” I asked her with the cheerfulness expected from first-time babysitters. “I brought Monopoly.” “No.” I had apparently overestimated the popularity of property transaction games with young kids. At first, I assumed this was the attitude her mother had warned me about, but the more I looked into her eyes, the more I got the impression Sybill just did not trust me. “How about video games? Your father told me you liked Mario.” “No.” “There must be something you’d like to do. What’s your favorite game?” “I don’t have one.” “Everybody has one.” She stopped replying and avoided further eye contact. “Okay,” I said, increasingly desperate. “We can watch TV for now. Hopefully there are no escapees from the asylum on the news. Let me know if ever you want to talk, we can also just have a chat.” The reference to my frightful episode did not amuse her. I turned on the TV and resolved to watch it in silence. At the very least, the news anchor’s voice dissipated the tension and gave both of us the opportunity to stop pretending like we had to interact. We waited diligently until the end of the newscast, faking passion for world politics. “Done,” I said. “Time for bed now. Thankfully, no dangerous prisoners on the loose. Your mom won’t get to laugh at me again tonight.” “She’s not my mom.” I muted the TV. The silence had now reached whole new levels of awkwardness. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, your father never mentioned she wasn’t your biological mom. You know, I have a stepmom too, and she never replaced my biological mom in my heart, but we’re a lot closer now. We’ll get there.” “That’s not what I meant. I did have a mom. Until yesterday.” Her voice betrayed a tremor again and sent a shiver down my spine. “I’m not sure I understand. Where did she go?” “To the basement.” “And then?” “Then... she never came back.” “That’s impossible. Mrs. Weiss...” “Whoever this woman is, she’s not my mom, I swear. She just showed up this morning, and dad tried to convince it was her, but it’s not!” Her conviction was such that I almost believed her for a split second before coming back to my senses. It couldn’t me. Mr. and Mrs. Weiss were clearly very familiar with each other, the kind of familiarity that only comes from several years of marriage. I grabbed Sybill’s hand. “Sybill, I think you might be a little confused.” “Why don’t you believe me? You said we could talk.” “We can talk about true things, not about lies. Is this why your father told you not to cry wolf? Do you come up with stories like that often?” “It’s not a story! Mom went down to the basement last night, I saw her, and she never came back. I think...” She stopped short. Whatever it was she wanted to say, a part of herself would not let her. The girl’s frail little body quaked, agitated by some horrifying thought that she refused to share. I grabbed her shaking hand and did the best I could to put up a brave front. “What is it? Is there something you’re afraid of?” “I... I...” After many a failed whisper, she took a deep breath and steadied. “I think my dad killed her.” My blood ran cold at the words. “That’s a very serious accusation you’re making,” I replied. “It’s your father we’re talking about. Did you go down to the basement to see if she was still there?” “Of course not! I was terrified.” “It’s very inappropriate to invent such stories.” Her story sounded completely ludicrous of course, but there was only one way to disprove it. For once in my life, I had to be brave and go see for myself. *** The basement door swung open, creaking with every inch along the way. I shone my flashlight down the sinister wooden stairs and carefully inspected the concrete floor from afar. From my squatting position in the atrium, I could see nothing out of place: no body, no blood, no signs of struggle. A murder could not possibly have taken place down there. “You see Sybill. Everything is completely ordinary.” “Maybe he cleaned up after.” “You don’t just clean up murder scenes overnight, Sybill. Please, I need your help with this. I need you to admit this was just your imagination.” “I know what I saw.” “Very well. Let me go down and take a closer look.” “No, please! What if you don’t come back either.” “Sweetie, of course I’ll come back. We’re alone in the house. I’m just going to prove to you once and for all the whole ordeal was nothing but a bad dream.” “I’m begging you, don’t go!” Before she could even finish, my feet were already making their way downstairs. The steps cracked every time I moved. Cobwebs dangled from the low ceiling, which did cast upon the room a certain eeriness, although this had to be expected from a basement. Mr. Weiss might not have been a murderer, but he was certainly a hoarder. Every corner overflowed with old furniture and rusty appliances. There were enough coffee tables and armchairs to fill up another living room altogether. For a brief moment, it felt as though I had stepped inside a cave of wonders. Until I heard his voice, that is. “My wife did like to redecorate a lot.” I spun on the spot. Mr. Weiss stood up from a dusty loveseat in the shadows behind the wooden stairs, a body bag in his arms. A tuft of hair poked out of the topmost opening in the zipper. “How sad she had to leave us. No more decorating on the horizon.” “You... I don’t understand, you left an hour ago,” I shakily blurted out, dropping my flashlight under the shock. “I’m afraid what you heard was the basement door,” said another voice, cold and calculative. This time, Mrs. Weiss emerged from the shadows. “You already met my new partner of course,” added Mr. Weiss. “As you saw earlier from our little joke, she has a taste for terror. It’s something we have in common. There’s nothing like a good real-life scare. Not all maniacs come from asylums.” Mrs. Weiss reached down her left stocking and pulled out a small dagger before approaching in a slow, bloodthirsty walk. At the sight, my thorax emptied itself again, this time leaving behind a void so overwhelming I could barely make out the room around me. As I backed up into a washing machine, it took everything I had to keep breathing. “You can’t do this,” I said, my voice breaking with every word. “Sybill’s upstairs, she expects me.” “Don’t worry,” replied Mr. Weiss. “My daughter often cries wolf. No one ever believes her.”


“Dear whomever it may concern,” the words are written flawlessly on the white paper. “My end is near, and I have given a lot of thought to this. As many people know, I am a billionaire. My family has not stopped bugging me about my will. I could not decide which family member would inherit my money or any of my other belongings. That is why I have decided to leave everything to whoever finds this letter. The reader of this letter will be a curious young soul. All I ask from whoever finds this - do not be selfish. You are one of a kind. Do not forget to dream. I hope your life gets brighter, and you remember who you are. If you hurt people, you will be in grave danger. Best wishes, Arthur Ainsley.” He puts down the pen from his and puts the letter in an envelope and proceeds to rest. Sarah put on her heavy coat and hid her face. She hated herself. She hated how everyone treated her like garbage. She is tired of the pain and ready to end it. Sarah runs outside and looks to the abandoned mansion. That is where she planned to end everything. As she grew closer, she felt odd. Something wasn’t sitting right. She continued despite the feeling. She opened the door slowly and was astonished by what she saw. The place was not creepy at all. In fact, it looked like the inside of a castle. Curiosity got the best of her, and she continued to study her surroundings. She noticed at the end of the corridor was a room. It looked like a study. She found herself walking closer, and unable to walk away. At this point, the strange feeling in her chest grew. Her heart pounded harder and harder. She went into the study and relief overcame every fiber of her being. Sarah noticed a small envelope on the floor. Of course, she had to pick it up. She unfolded the paper from the envelope and began mumbling the writing to herself. “Grave danger. Best wishes,” she paused. “Arthur Ainsley. Wait, isn’t that the guy who died twenty years ago?” Sarah was confused. She wasn’t sure what had happened, but she knew it was big. She wasn’t ready to end her life anymore. She had to tell her mother. She flew out the door, down the hill, and to her house. Her mother was surprised to see her. “What are you doing, Sarah? You should be at school!” Her mother scolded. Sarah was catching her breath before she answered. She didn’t know what to say, so she gave her mom the letter. “This is a joke. It can’t be possible.” “I know, Mom. I don’t think it’s a joke, though. It is really happening. I found the letter. I am going to bring it to city hall.” “Go ahead. I have to leave for work, sweetie.” The city hall was right in front of Sarah. It was a tall white building with a bell on top. It looked more like a church than anything else. She stepped into the building. “Hello, how may I help you?” a woman’s voice came from behind the desk. “I found a letter from Arthur Ainsley.” “Oh, that’s weird. I don’t think he left a will, but I can get you to discuss this with the mayor.” “Okay.” She led me to a small room and let Sarah in. She told her to take a seat. Sarah waited approximately thirty minutes before being let into the mayor’s office. “Have a seat, please,” the mayor said. -”Mr. Mayor, I found this letter, and I don’t know if it’s real or not.” “Let me see it, please.” Sarah quickly handed the letter over. She watched the mayor read over the letter and watched his expression change. “I did not realize he left a will. His family will not be happy about this. I cannot believe an eleven year old has just become a billionaire.” “Excuse me, I am thirteen.” “Whatever, well it looks like you are now a billionaire with a mansion.” Sarah’s mind clicks. She cannot believe it. She decides she will use the money to her advantage.. She can gain friends this way! I don’t have to be alone anymore! I can finally have friends! I don’t have to hate myself! Sarah quickly leaves the city hall and runs home. Her mother is still at work, so Sarah goes to her school. It’s time for her social studies class, so that’s where she heads. Everyone watches as she sits next to the most popular girl in school. “Excuse me, freak, what are you doing sitting next to me?” Olivia scoffed. Sarah smiles slyly, “Oh, I don’t know. Sitting next to the second richest girl in town.” “Ha, you mean first richest girl in town.” Sarah looks her dead in the eye, “You mean you have more money than a billionaire?” “There are no billionaires in town, so joke’s on you.” “Really? Because I am.” Olivia burst into laughter and the whole class followed her cue. Her voice turned more sarcastic and dry. “Oh, really? You, a dirty, worthless, nobody has that much money? I don’t believe it.” “I inherited all of Arthur Ainsley’s money and his mansion.” “How?” Her voice was a whisper now, “I found his will. So, how does it feel to be second to me?” Olivia only scoffed and looked away. Then, all of the sudden, students were asking Sarah if they could be friends. They all wanted her. Sarah realized it was only for the money and not for her. They could care less about her. Sarah decided she didn’t want any of them to be her friend. None of them actually wanted to, anyway. She couldn’t stand the thought of being alone around so many people. She thought they were disgusting, greedy pigs. “You know what? Stop! None of you will ever see any of my money. I will not share with you guys!” To be continued.... **PART 1 OF 2**