11:09 pm I exited the house ready to make a quick getaway but I noticed something strange; there was no car. I was staring at an empty driveway; my plan had fallen apart already. I should’ve turned back at that point but I was persistent. I decided to go for a walk while I devised a new plan. I crept down the driveway and on to the sidewalk; I didn’t get far before I noticed another strange site, it was my moms van parked in an unusual spot. I felt relieved but uneasy, why was it there? It was parked along the street beside my house, almost 4 or 5 houses down from mine. Before jumping to wild conclusions like I usually do, I reasoned that my mom probably parked there to leave space for my brother. We’ve got a lot of cars in our driveway so sometimes this happens, but this was still pretty weird. To put my superstitious mind at ease I quickly inspected the outside of the van for booby traps; it seemed to be in good condition. All I had to do was clear the inside and I could get back to my plan. I hesitantly took the car keys out of my pocket and unlocked the car. I took a deep breath, readied the flashlight on my phone and stepped inside. Before I even got a chance to sit down, a familiar voice grabbed my attention. "Yo Tristan", I heard from off in the distance. My heart stopped. I was so close, but of course with my luck Ide get caught at the last second. Too afraid to answer I slowly poked my head out of the van to see who it was. As the voice got closer I noticed two figures appearing from out of the darkness. Sure that it was my mom and dad there to bust me, I shamefully got out of the van ready for punishment. As they got closer I noticed something was different though. My dad looked a bit taller and my moms shape was off too. They weren’t my parents, they couldn’t be. I breathed a sigh of relief as they got closer, and squinted my eyes again to see whom they really were. Seconds later Jessie and Altheas faces lit up under the flickering orange streetlight. They were my ex-coworkers. “Why are they here?” I thought to myself. They didn’t live in my area. It felt like nothing was making sense, but in any case, I was happy to see them. I was happy to see anyone besides my parents at that point. We exchanged greetings than broke into conversation. It turned out that they were headed to a party that wasn’t too far from me so I offered to give them a ride. Throughout the entire trip they persisted that I come into the party with them. I refused though, I just wanted to practice parallel parking, not steal my moms van. By the time we got to the house Althea had given up on me, but Jessie had not. “Just 5 minutes man. C’mon!” Jessie pleaded with me as he handed me a beer through the driver-seat window. I knew that I should’ve turned him down, went home, and dove into bed, but Jessie was just so damn hard to say no to. “Alright, just 5 minutes man” I said to him as I got out of the van. At that point I knew I couldn’t drive home so I mentally prepared myself to walk home later, than come back for the van in the morning. Thankfully the party was close by- and I mean really close by. We'd only driven for about 2 or 3 minutes; we should’ve just walked. It was too late though, I was already there with an open beer in my hand; there was no turning back. The music was loud as we walked up to the house stepping over empty cans and cigarette butts. When we got to the door two familiar women came out to greet us and directed us inside. I knew it was going to be a good night. 12:30 am After an hour or so I felt the drinks taking their toll; my inhibition was gone and so were Jessie and Althea. I didn’t mind though, I was feeling good- too good to have any minor concerns. Jumping from conversation to conversation I eventually found myself in the basement. I sobered up a bit as my foot touched the cold concrete floor at the bottom of the steps. The basement was unfinished but massive; I passed at least 2 or 3 rooms as I walked down the hallway. I heard faint talking in the furthest room, so I followed the voices. When I got there I could see that the lights were dim from the outside of the room, but knew people were definitely in there. I casually opened the door and walked in. The room was cozy: 2 leather couches, a futon, a large red carpet, and huge flat screen TV displaying the infomercial channel. At a first glance I noticed: a few pretty girls, well-dressed guys, some familiar faces, some new faces, but all were drunk. “This was going to be interesting,” I thought to myself. I sat down on the couch by the futon and tried to smoothly join the conversation. It worked; they welcomed me like one of their own. 2:00 am The party was dying down, at least in the basement. At that point the ratio of guys to girls was clearly in my favor. Unconsciously I took advantage of that. I had the attention of two ladies; one of them seemed really into me. As I moved couches to fill in the gaps between her and I, a semi- sarcastic voice blurted out "hey why don't you sit next to me?” I turned my gaze to the corner of the room where a lady I hadn't seen all night laid comfortably on the futon. I was intrigued. After she said that everyone took the hint and gave us our space. Some people paired up and ran into a room, some went home, but all left the basement. It was just she and I. I asked her her name. She said it was "Clarisa". She had pretty eyes, a beautiful smile and was petite- maybe 5'2" with long black hair, and a nice athletic figure. She looked like a mix of Chinese and Spanish or something like that. I just knew I was in love. We laid on the futon for a while getting lost in conversation. Eventually words weren’t needed; we had an understanding deeper than that. Once we knew no one was coming back, things escalated. Before I knew it, it was morning. 5:00 am We heard people coming down the stairs. I quickly grabbed a white sheet and threw it over our exposed bodies. We joked about pretending to be asleep or acting like we weren’t there, but time ran out. People soon flooded the room to see our half naked bodies. I was too hung-over to care and I sensed the same from everyone else. They said hi, made their clever remarks and gave us our space again. After they left reality hit me. I needed to be home to return moms van and Clarisa had her own obligations. I gave her my number and she promised to call. The next morning we talked but she had to baby sit so our conversation was short. She said she would call back at 6:00 pm that day. I lost my phone around 5:30 pm so I never got a chance to talk to her again. That was probably my karma for taking moms van. I seem to have luck when it comes to finding people, but Clarisa was the one that got away. Time went by and I eventually moved on, however every time I go for a late night drive I cant help but think that I might see her again.


Charlie had been drinking for days, solidly, sleeping little and doing little other than drinking. The sleep wasn’t even real sleep; it was just his body crashing the way it does when one is perpetually drunk. It was midday on Thursday. He had crawled off the king-size luxury mattress at around 10am; the king-size luxury mattress that had lain on the floor, dirty and without sheets, since he’d destroyed the bed frame in a fit of pure rage a few weeks earlier. He had a mug of gin with a bowl of dry Weetabix, and then started on the ouzo. The pub next door didn’t open until after 12, and his sciatica was really playing up so our man had to make do with the remains of his dwindling home stock. Dozens of half empty bottles that sat in a small dark wood chiffonier pulled up right next to the sofa for ease of grabbing. It was a large living room, but the television and all of the furniture had been dragged over into the back corner, on the other side of the room from the bay window that looked out into the real world. It had been this way since Kelly left. His wife, his agent, the only thing bringing any semblance of organisation to his life, had left. And all that remained of a prosperous and happy partnership was an alcoholic old man, with a novel to write for a publisher that had already paid him, writers block and chronic back pain. **Charlie Slater and the fight with the delivery boy.** *I feel like shit. Where’s the remote? I can’t listen to these idiots anymore. I used to like chat shows, people mulling over their lives and careers with a man in a nice suit who really looked like he was interested and knew all the right questions to ask. I used to like a lot of things; movie stars and rock bands and popular culture. Then this new decade happened and everything just got fucking annoying.* Charlie scrabbled around the seat for the television control. He switched over from the light-hearted daytime talk show being hosted by a young man he didn’t know the name of talking to an old actor he’d forgotten the name of, and onto ‘antique hunters’, which was basically a lot of people without real jobs running around a car boot sale. He did this whilst simultaneously pouring himself another mug of ouzo and coughing violently. Charlie was a man who could multitask. *Jesus this is boring. It’s the sort of thing Kelly made me do. Put wellies and a windbreaker on and chasing around a car park at 7am looking for useless rubbish people are willing to sell for pennies. I might be miserable and alone but at least I’m not freezing my balls off trying to look excited about an old lamp.* It was lunchtime. The television and Greek alcohol had kept him occupied for the last couple of hours and now it was time to feed. He had peculiar eating habits did Charlie, and they’d become even more peculiar since he was left to his own devices. Kelly would always try and get him into a routine, whereby he would eat three square meals a day, with an equal amount of carbohydrates, proteins and roughage, but he’d never really taken to it. He would try to find ways out of sitting down for dinner at normal time; say he’d hit upon a purple patch, that he was really getting somewhere with a character and had to stay in the study to write. And if she nagged he would pretend to yield and take his plate into that dimly lit room with him, but instead feed the neighbour’s cat through the window. Over the years that little tabby grew plump, whilst Charlie just got leaner and leaner. Charlie was 6”4, and weighed on average just over ten stone. His doctors would say he was underweight, he would say he was svelte. His bones were brittle, and as a teenager he broke his arm in four places, his leg twice and his collarbone once. He kept all his old casts, sweaty and signed, in a cardboard box in the airing cupboard. Every so often he would get them out to show guests, almost as proof that at one point in his life he had friends. He reached for the nearest takeaway menu. He had hundreds of them scattered around the house, Chinese, kebab, pizza. There was even a leaflet from a place that only sold roast dinners, full roast dinners with gravy and Yorkshires and all the trimmings, delivered straight to your door by a man on a scooter. But these glossy little menus, all brightly coloured and screaming for your intention, were scattered out of reach and Charlie had no intention of moving from his groove. He grabbed at the only one he could. It was a plain and poorly put together leaflet, with bold Helvetica font on the front that simply read ‘The Tandoori Palace’. *What time is it? Can I eat curry at this time in the day? This place gave me the shits last time. I’ll just order some bahjis. And maybe some sag aloo. That’s onion and spinach and potatoes. All vegetables and the healthier I eat the more alcohol I can drink without feeling guilty. That’s actually three of my five. Then if I ask for some of that mint yoghurt stuff aswell I’m basically sorted for the rest of the day. Free delivery on all orders over £7...I reckon that’ll come to £7. They shouldn’t charge me for the yoghurt though. Should come gratis.* When Charlie was eleven years old, his sister Claire took him to Margate for a weekend. Claire was born a decade before Charlie and had moved out when she was just sixteen, just as Charlie would when he reached that age. She had decided she had been spending too much time drinking and taking drugs and had been neglecting her little brother by leaving him in a sterile home environment with their overbearing mother and mostly absent father. She wanted to get him away for the weekend to experience some life seeing as the only occasions she had spent any time with him in the prior three or four years he had looked painfully bored and lonely, and whilst it had taken her some time to convince their parents they eventually relented. Claire picked Charlie up in her rusty Vauxhall Nova and on a road trip to the Kent coast they went. She booked them into a bed and breakfast on the seafront; being the early nineties and Margate still being popular destination amongst day trippers and holiday makers from all over the country this wasn’t cheap, but Claire was doing alright for herself working for an insurance company in the city and wanted to treat the little boy brother she had barely seen in months. On the Saturday night Claire took him to an all you can eat Indian buffet. It would be the first time he would sample food of an ethnic origin, and he sampled all of it. A little bit of something from every metal trough. He had Chicken Korma, Lamb Madras, Vegetable Jalfrezi and egg fried rice. He had onion bahjis and potato fritters. He had little garlic prawn skewers and chapatti and peshwari naan. He had dal and endless poppadoms. He ate until he vomited, and then he vomited for the rest of the weekend. When Claire returned young Charlie home on the Sunday morning, pale, shaking and still occasionally expelling Indian food from his stomach, their mother went berserk, hollering charges of recklessness and irresponsibility at her reckless and irresponsible daughter. What she didn’t realise was that something had stirred in her innocent and impressionable young son. What had stirred was a love of anything exotic, and a composition of dangerous compulsion. *“Tandoori Palace...”* *“Hello can I make an order for delivery?”* Charlie sat upright on the sofa and adjusted his pants, still looking at the menu; still unsure of what it was he wanted to eat. *“Go ahead...”* *“Excuse me?”* *“I said go ahead”* *“What do you mean go ahead don’t you need my address first?”* Technology had always been something that had puzzled Charlie. When he wrote he used a pen and pad, and only occasionally a vintage typewriter. He didn’t have a mobile phone, wasn’t a member of any social networks, and consistently refused to upgrade his 25 year old television. The fact that the young man that had answered the phone to him to take his order already knew his address had caused a panicked and confused look to appear on Charlies face, and when he was in a state of panic and confusion he had a tendency to get angry. *“I have your address. What would you like to order?”* *“How do you have my address? That’s an infringement of my privacy”* *“It comes up on our computer system. If you don’t like it mate call someone else...”* *“I don’t like your tone.”* Charlie took a second or two to deliberate. Whilst he was extremely unhappy that his whereabouts could be so easily located, his stomach moaned at him in impatience. *“Can I just have some pilau rice, mushroom bhaji and some sag aloo please?”* *“Is that all?”* *“A thank you wouldn’t go amiss”* The line went dead, and Charlie cursed the abruptness of youth. Still, his food wouldn’t be long and he could then carry on his business of getting as drunk as humanly possible. The television spat noisy disorientating images at him; the sun crept in through a gap in the curtains and after what felt like a lifetime, the doorbell rang. Charlie stood up for the first time in over an hour and his knees cracked. It was a sound he had always enjoyed, and frequently initiated by way of bending his joints and bones until they popped. At the door stood a slight Indian boy, no more than 17, holding a crash helmet and a vinyl bag full of hot pungent food over his shoulder. *“Are you the one I spoke to on the phone?”* asked Charlie, with the intensity of a wronged man. *“Dunno what you’re talking about mate. Thirteen fifty yeah.”* *“Don’t lie to me you little shit”* he spat *“I recognise your voice!”* The boy, not intimidated in the slightest in spite of Charlies hulking frame towering over him, laughed impudently in his face. In a sudden fit of rage Charlie lunged, knocking the bag of hot food all over the doorstep. They fell to the floor, grappling and wrestling for dominance. In a moment of improvised genius, the boy reached out and grabbed a plastic spork from the vinyl satchel and rammed it in Charlies eye, snapping it in two and causing immeasurable pain. Charlie let out a high pitched squeal, the sound a dog makes when you accidentally step on his tail, and clutched his face with his spinach and potato covered hands. The boy sped off on his moped and left Charlie rolling around on the pavement. After a minute or so he regained his composure, scooped the bhajis and from the floor and stepped back into his house. Charlie smiled to himself, a packet of frozen peas strapped to his eye socket. A free dinner, and all it took was the blunt trauma of some recyclable cutlery to the face and a bit of a roll around with a teenager. The only downside was that he really fancied that sag aloo. *“Tandoori Palace.


I leaned against my car in the parking lot of my apartment and took the first drag of my cigarette, Tony’s voice behind me nearly made me jump out of my skin. “I thought you quit.” “Son of a biscuit eater, Tony!” I yelled at my husband as I tried to calm my racing heart. “You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days.” Tony was always sneaking up on me. I had considered putting a bell around his neck like a cat. The thought made me laugh now, despite my annoyance. I passed the cigarette to my husband, who had quit smoking long ago, and watched him blow smoke rings. I sighed. “Yeah well, just another thing that vile woman has done to me. She has me so stressed every day. Six months smoke free, down the tubes. Thanks, Mitzy.” I spat her name from my mouth like sour milk. Tony passed the rest of the cigarette back to me. I used to like my job; or, I should say it used to be tolerable. Five months ago, my manager Mr. Murray had retired. He had been with the company for twenty-five years and I had been with him for twelve of those years. Mr. Murray was a kind man, he treated his staff like people, not just numbers on a spreadsheet. When he left, our company, rather than promoting from within, hired Mitzy Davis. Mitzy was in her mid-thirties; she had a major chip on her shoulder, big blonde hair that looked straight out of the eighties and clearly, something to prove. Within her fist three months, Mitzy Davis had turned our once friendly and collaborative office into a battleground. She picked her chosen few pet employees and made life a living hell for the rest. I was not, one of her pets because I, am not a brown-noser. Mitzy took extreme pleasure in pitting staff members against each other; she manipulated us like puppets. So far, my personal tortures had included being given incorrect instructions for three major projects and then being thrown under the bus for my “mistakes”, not being included in several trainings I needed and berated for my appearance. The worst part of it all was that she was smart. The crafty witch was very careful to leave me with no proof. Yesterday I had asked her to give me the instructions for the current project via email rather than just verbally; if I had her instructions in writing, she wouldn't be able to claim it wasn’t what she told me to do. Mitzy had snorted with laughter. “If you can’t remember my instructions without me writing them down for you, maybe it’s time for you to retire, Hannah.” Retire? I wish! But I’m only forty-three. Then there was today’s whopper. Today Mitzy had summoned me to her office, my timecard was laying on her desk. “Didn’t you leave early on Monday Hannah? Your timecard says you clocked out at five. Did you have someone else punch it for you?” Mitzy glared at me, but I could see a glint of enjoyment in her eyes. “Nope, I was here ‘til five o’clock just like every day.” “I don’t think so.” Mitzy tapped the timecard with her perfectly manicured, blood red fingernail. “I believe you left at one o’clock. I’m going to make this adjustment to your timecard and you’re going to initial it.” Now she was trying to mess with my paycheck? This is where I draw the line. I stood and placed my hands on the edge of her desk in the process. “Didn’t I tell you to get a manicure during our last meeting? Why are your cuticles still a mess?” “Mitzy, having perfect cuticles is not in my job description, nor is it in yours to critique them. I was here until five o’clock on Monday and every other day. I will NOT sign anything that says I wasn’t. I’m going to HR now.” As I left her office, Mitzy called out. “Good luck with that. I’ve already spoken to Carl about you. He knows you are a troublemaker.” Her cackle of a laugh followed me down the hall to the elevator. I saw red all the way down to the first floor and down the hall to Carl Benson’s office in the Human Resources department. I knocked on the door. “Come in.” Carl yelled from across the room. I entered and closed the door behind me. “What can I do for you Hannah?” “I need to file a complaint; multiple complaints actually.” Carl raised an eyebrow. “Oh? About what?” “Mitzy Davis.” I said flatly. Carl leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily. “Hannah, Mitzy has confided in me that you and some of the other ladies are having a difficult time adjusting to accepting her authority. I know you all liked George Murray but, things change. You must give Mitzy a chance. Just because she’s younger and attractive, doesn’t mean she can’t be a good manager.” “Younger and attractive?” I couldn’t believe it. Carl had a crush on the enemy. “Her age and looks are irrelevant Carl. The woman is evil.” “Evil? That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?” “Nope. Can I fill out the complaint form, now?” I looked at him expectantly. Twelve years here and I’d never had an issue with any other employee, management or otherwise. I didn’t know how this worked but I had foolishly expected Carl to be professional and unbiased. If he WAS biased, shouldn’t it be towards me? But I am not “younger and attractive” so perhaps not. “Hannah, go home. Take tonight to cool off. If you still want to file a complaint in the morning, come back and we’ll do it.” “Fine Carl. I’ll see you in the morning.” On the way home, I had stopped at the jiffy mart and bought a pack of cigarettes. I was smoking the first one when Tony had scared several years of my life out of me in the parking lot. “You could always quit.” Tony looked at my sympathetically. “No job is worth this. I’m sure you could find another job quick.” “Maybe but, not one that pays this well. It’s like --- it’s like being stuck in golden handcuffs. I’ve invested so much time with this company; I hate the thought of letting Mitzy Davis run me off.” “What I hate, is the thought of you being miserable every day. Just quit Hannah. We’ll figure out the bills. Your mental health is more important.” Tony gave me a hug. “Now, give me the pack of cigarettes. Hand ‘em over." Reluctantly, I handed him the pack and watched him crush it in his fist before throwing it in a nearby garbage can. “I want you to be happy and healthy; that’s all that matters.” He kissed me on the forehead. God, I love this man. I had just finished typing up my resignation letter when my phone rang. It was Laurie, my best office buddy. She was crying so hard I could barely understand her at first. Eventually she was able to convey that Mitzy had called her into her office at the end of the day and informed her she was being written up for doctoring my timecard. According to Mitzy, I had thrown Laurie under the bus when confronted about the discrepancy in my clock out time. Hearing this filled me with homicidal rage. It was probably a good thing I didn’t know where Mitzy lived. “Laurie, I hope you know I would never say that.” “Oh, I know that.” She sniffled. “You would never fib on your timecard either. I HATE that woman! I don’t know if I can keep working there.” “Speaking of that, I am quitting tomorrow morning. I have my resignation letter ready to go.” My revelation was followed by stunned silence. “Laurie? Did you hear me?” “What are the rest of us going to do without you? You can’t just leave us there with Mitzy!” “I’m sorry, I really am. Tony and I have talked about it and it’s just not worth losing my sanity.” The following morning, I arrived at the office early. I quickly packed up the personal belongings from my desk and took them out to my car. I wanted to be able to walk right out the door after turning in my resignation. I was waiting for Carl outside his office when he arrived. He sighed when he saw me. “Haven’t changed your mind about filing a complaint?” “Nope.” Carl let me into his office and handed me the complaint form. I spent twenty minutes furiously writing out each and every offense Mitzy Davis had committed that I knew of, even ones that didn’t involve me directly. If any of the other gals ever got brave enough to complain, my account would back them up. There was nothing else I could do for them. I pushed the form across the desk to Carl who quickly skimmed through it. “Hannah, you should probably just take some of this as constructive criticism.” I raised an eyebrow in question. “Like this part.” He pointed at a paragraph about Mitzy critiquing my clothing and nails during a meeting. “It’s inappropriate Carl and you know it. If that were all she had done, I wouldn’t even bring it up but as it stands, it’s part of a pattern. She’s a bully, an adult bully.” “Alright Hannah.” He took the form and scanned it in. With a few keystrokes, my complaint was officially filed. “Anything else I can help with?” “Just this.” I pulled my resignation letter from my purse and handed it to him. “I know it’s proper procedure to give this to my manager but, given the circumstances, I think you’ll agree it’s best I give it directly to you.” Carl took the letter, his jaw dropped as he read it. He recovered himself quickly. “Well, we hate to lose you Hannah. Can you at least work out a two weeks' notice?” “No. I’m sorry but, I really can’t. “ There was no way I was going to subject myself to two more weeks of retaliatory harassment from Mitzy. I opened the door of Carl’s office prepared for my triumphant march out of the building. Lined up in the hallway were Laurie and four other gals from our department. “Here to send me off?” I asked. “Not exactly.” Laurie grinned as all five of them held up their resignation letters. “We’re here to ambush Carl. We are quitting too.” “Umm, just to be clear, this isn’t a Jerry McGuire moment. I am not asking anyone to come with me and I don’t have jobs for you all to go to. I don’t even have one for myself.” I didn’t want the unemployment of five other women on my conscience. They all laughed at my reference. “We know that silly. We’re just done with Mitzy’s tortures. Wanna watch?” “Do I ever!” This was about to be delicious. All five ladies crammed into Carl’s office unannounced. I stood in the doorway, a silent grinning observer. “What’s going on here?” Carl demanded. The ladies each tossed their resignation letter onto his desk. “We quit.” Laurie said cheerfully. “Let’s go ladies.” The six of us sashayed our way out of the office together. It was liberating, even if we were all headed for potential financial ruin. Three more victims of Mitzy’s resigned within three weeks of our mass exodus. That left Mitzy and the few employees that had been her pets. According to the grapevine, with no one else to bully, Mitzy had now unleashed her wrath on even those chosen few. As it turns out, Tony was right, I was able to find a new job quickly, one that was willing to match the salary I had been making at the last job. Laurie took a job there too and I was glad we would still be work besties. I haven’t smoked a single cigarette since.


Nicholas has been having an absolutely horrible year. When he received word that he would have a promotion at his marketing consulting firm, he thought it would be phenomenal. He would have a bigger paycheck, he would have assistants, and he could set his own hours. Those hopes would not last. Expectations were high on him to deliver not just in terms of work but in terms of personality. Clients would love the work that they did, but they would cut out the consultant anyway because something in the budget needs to go. Nicholas has to constantly be attending lunches and work functions to make sure the client at least likes them. He also has to compete with other consultants for the same job. To top it off, his underlings hate him for telling them they need to work overtime or that their work is not to the clients liking. People say don't shoot the messenger, but the bullet holes in Nicholas's suit say otherwise. It is a few days before Christmas, and a restaurant has tasked them to prepare new marketing ideas for next Valentine's Day. Nicholas sits in his office reviewing work when he hears a knock on the door. "Come in," he says. "Excuse me. I was wondering if I could head out early tomorrow. I got my work done, and I would like to spend Christmas with my family," Kelly, a new-hire, says. Nicholas opens her file and looks it over. "I am sorry, but I think you are going to redo parts of this. I will send you a more detailed draft tomorrow, but for now, why don't you go re-look at it," he says. Kelly's face drops as she walks out the door. Nicholas looks out of his door and sees every employee shares her disposition. Nicholas hates it here too, but they have to do it. His cellphone rings. The name reads Jim Ross, an old college friend. Why would he be calling? "Hello, Jim what is going on?" Nicholas says. "Oh not much, I figured we have not spoken in a while, and it is Christmas," Jim says. "That is very nice of you, but I am busy right now," Nicholas says. "Really, it is eight at night, a few days before Christmas. Why are you working?" Jim asks. "That is the job. Besides, I am not alone. Other employees are here," Nicholas says. "They must be miserable. I know I would," Jim says. His words sting Nicholas, even though Nick had the same thought earlier. "Yes, well, we all do what we must. Bye, Jim," Nicholas hangs up before Jim can react. He gets back to work marking up Kelly's paper when his phone rings again. It says Mom. "Hi, Mom," he says. "Merry Christmas," his mom sings into the line. "Mom, can I call you back please? I am busy," he says. "Busy, son, you should be off work and enjoying the holidays," she says. "I know, but I need to get things done." "I remember you used to love Christmas as a kid. You took charge of overseeing how we decorated the house. I guess that carried over to adulthood. Will we at least be able to see you on Christmas Day?" she asks with a tinge of sorrow. Nicholas takes a deep breath. "Honestly, probably not, sorry Mom," he says. "Oh," Nicholas can almost hear the tears start to fall, "Well, I love you and Merry Christmas." "Love you to Mom," Nicholas hangs up the phone to get back to work when the phone rings again. "What?!" Nicholas yells into the phone. "Woah, sorry man for calling, is this a bad time?" an apologetic man says on the other end. Nicholas pulls the phone away to see it is Mark. He used to play basketball with Mark before the promotion. "Heyyy, Mark, no, just busy. Sorry for yelling. What is happening," Nicholas stands up and a smile starts to form. "Not much, I know it is last-minute, but my boyfriend and I are throwing a Christmas party tomorrow. I know it is last-minute, but you haven't been to the courts recently so I couldn't tell you," Mark says. "Boyfriend?" Nicholas's smile starts to fade. "Oh right, remember David that cute guy in the park I was telling you about. I asked him out, and we are together now. Wow, it really has been a while since we talked," Mark says. "That sounds wonderful. I am sure he is awesome," Nicholas looks back at his computer, "I would love to meet him, but I am busy these next few days. I am sorry." "No worries. We should do lunch later," Mark says. "That sounds great. I will text you when I am free," Nicholas hangs up the phone and checks his calendar. His days are all booked up. He may never see his friend in a while. His phone rings again one more time. "Hi, Nicholas, where are you," a woman's voice that Nicholas knows well asks. "Joanne, my god, I am so sorry," he gets back in his seat to apologize to his girlfriend, "Things at work got out of hand, and I forgot about dinner. "That seems to happen a lot recently," her venom slips through the phone. "I know I have been a jerk. I will make it up to you. I promise," he rubs his temples. "You keep saying that, but I don't think that means anything anymore," she goes straight for the jugular. "You are right. I am sorry. I have been a bad boyfriend. I will do right by you," Nicholas says. "We'll see won't we. Merry Christmas," she says. "Merry Christmas," he replies. Nicholas looks back at his call-log. His new salary and hours were supposed to make life better. All he has done is fall out of touch with friends and family. He starts to analyze Kelly's work again, but he realizes that he is making her do the same. When he glances at her desk, he sees that she is just as miserable as he is typing away. Nicholas closes the document and logs out of the computer. He jumps out of his desk, and with a spring in his step, he goes to the open-floor office where his underlings sit. "You know what? It is Christmas. Go home and spend time with your families. We will finish the work before New Years, but for now, be happy," every head in the room looks up and brightens. Papers are shuffled, and computers are turned off. "Thank you so much sir," Kelly says as she walks out of the office, "Merry Christmas." "Merry Christmas to you," Nicholas walks out of the building and calls up Mark. He tells him that he will be at the party tomorrow, and he can't wait to meet David. He texts Joanne about the party, and she ecstatically replies that she wants to go. On the way to his apartment, he picks up a bouquet of roses to give to her tomorrow. When he reaches his apartment, he calls his mom and tells her that he will be home for Christmas this year. She tells him how wonderful that is, and she looks forward to seeing him again. When he reaches his apartment, he collapses on the couch and dials the number that started it all. "Hey Jim, I am sorry I was so curt earlier. Why don't you tell me what you have been up to and Merry Christmas.


It wasn't dark like she believed it would be. Actually, it was super fucking bright. She knew she was dying, no more oxygen and it was making it hard to think. She couldn't feel it but was aware of it. You know, like when there's something you forgot to do but you know it had to be done? It's just that feeling. It's kind of like a shedding of a skin or a layer or a peel. It's weird however you want to describe it. Death is so scary because we don't know what is next. Kinda the same with life except we feign control of life. Death is like nothingness and who can deal with nothing. At least while living we have some semblance of control. It does all flash before your eyes. Your life. Mostly it's the lessons you learned. It all becomes crystal clear. The last thing she remembered of her life was swimming and getting tangled and gasping and fighting and the struggle then peace. Fighting for that last breath was the worst. Then it was the easiest. She'd only been in the keys for about a month. There was something about island life that pulled her in. Maybe because she was born on an island. Granted, it was in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay but an island nonetheless. It's nothing but a highway full of strip malls now, just a route to get to the beach. She loved growing up along the creek waters and playing in amongst the marsh reeds. People knew one another and looked out for each other. She'd been searching for this again most of her adult life. She thought she'd found it again but the place grew faster than her childhood island did. Too many people. Too much commotion. The keys were exactly what she was looking for. It was a different pace here and it was WARM. She had gotten her scuba certification before moving down. Always wanting it just never doing it. That dang breathing thing just scared her. But fuck it she said. "I'm almost 65, I've got shit to do!" In the month she had been here she had friended the next-door neighbors. Their trailer was on the canal while hers was one over. They had a boat and went fishing and diving quite often. They invited her to go on the next trip. They wanted to do some spearfishing and it would give her a chance to go on a dive. The traffic was BULLSHIT. It took two hours almost to go 8 freaking miles. She had driven in LA traffic and DC traffic. Grandpa in his RV going down highway 98 was worse. Way worse. When people overtake an area it sucks. She'd found this place by accident. Drawn to the white sand beaches and emerald waters. It was the most beautiful place she had ever seen and in the last 10 years, it apparently became the most beautiful place thousands of people had ever seen! The growth was heartbreaking. People suck the beauty out of nature. They bring their bullshit with them wherever they go. They ruin paradise she thought looking at the jam-packed road full of tourists. I think it's time to move she suddenly thought. She didn't like the thought of moving again. Not knowing a soul, again. But at the same time, she kinda liked it. Life's an adventure, right? And to be honest, she was great at making friends. People just seemed to want to be near her. She had just gotten her SCUBA cert because she wanted adventure. She'd been bored too long. Got too comfortable. And frankly, it had been on her bucket list for a long time now. She wanted to feel the freedom of being under the water. To see the animals that lived right in her beach backyard. Then go to the keys and dive there where the diving was amazing. Routine had finally gotten the best of her. She didn't want to do this anymore. The business kept growing but she was done building it. It was time to let someone else do it. Ten years was plenty of time to devote to something. Every day was the same. The people were the same. It was cold outside too. She wanted to wake up and go sit outside with her coffee and listen to the birds and the sea every day. To have a perpetual tan and a perpetual smile. As she tugged on her coat and felt properly suffocated she went outside to her car. The wind whipped through her it felt. The iciness causing her to pull inside the coat even more. Fuck it's cold today she thought as she slipped on ice and almost fell. That was it! I'm out of here. Driving to the office hoping she didn't hit any patches of black ice. She eased her convertible into the lot thinking how badly she wanted to be able to feel the warm sun on her as she rode with the top down. Once inside she immediately started to google beaches in Florida. She was done with winter. She was done with this routine. Destin and the emerald coast came up. That intrigued her. So she booked a trip. Write your own obituary. Well, that seems kinda morbid she thought as the professor handed out their assignments. Hmm, I guess I need to first figure out how I die, she thought as she bounced the assignment around in her head. She could come up with plenty of ways she did NOT want to die. Violent or bloody was a definite no. She didn't want to suffer in any way either. She didn't want to be so old that she was crapping her pants and needing someone to take care of her. She decided that dying suddenly while doing something fun was probably the best way to go. So, no blood. No pain. I'll die while scuba diving! Seems like a good way to go. Kinda terrifying but painless. Lacey Grey Simpson Born 1970 Died 2034 Lacey lived an exciting life...


Grandmother Lovely By Skye Woods Maria Alvarez's heart slammed against her chest after she watched two police officers shoot an innocent African-American teenager. The teenager who suffered being killed was a thirteen-year-old honor roll student. The young man was a hero because before being killed by the police he had just saved a little boy from being hit by a car while walking to school. Instead of being thanked by the child’s mother for his heroic actions, the teenager ended up getting shot to death by two racist police officers, who thought he was reaching for a gun. The teenager got into an altercation with the two policemen, when the two officers said that he fit the profile of a wanted suspect. The policemen killed the teenager, even after they witnessed him saving a child’s life. Maria felt outraged after witnessing the two policemen shoot an innocent thirteen-year-old boy to death. When Maria woke up in the morning, she somehow knew that two cops would shoot an innocent teenager right in front of her house. Sometimes she could see the future and she knew that the policemen would kill the teenager because the child’s Nubian black skin color made him a threat, even after he saved a two-year-old baby from being struck by a car. Maria knew that the two policemen would shoot the teenager, and she also knew what it felt like to have a bullet inside her. One night while Maria was at a gas station, an attacker tried to rob her and he ended up shooting her multiple times in her back and in her chest. But Maria didn’t even have to go to the hospital that night after being shot eleven times by the carjacker. She ended up killing the carjacker when he attempted to steal her SUV with her four-year-old grandson still in the backseat. The carjacker threatened to shoot Maria’s grandbaby if she attempted to stop him from stealing her car. The carjacker underestimated Maria thinking she was an average helpless old lady. Maria broke the carjacker’s neck with one arm and she dislocated the man’s arm before officially killing him. Maria killed plenty of criminals over the years, and the carjacker was one of many. Maria was a sixty-three-year-old woman who used to be a rock musician, and she looked younger than her age. She had spiky silver hair that had a purplish tinge. She wore earrings shaped like skull heads and she also wore a silver ring in her nose. Since Maria was a huge rock fan and a former rock artist herself, she had the logo of the rock band Van Halen tattooed on her right arm, and she tattooed the young face of rocker Jon Bon Jovi on her left. Maria was a very attractive old lady and her clothing style was gothic. She loved wearing her black dresses and her black leather motorcycle jacket. Maria’s gothic fashion blended well with her very shapely and well-sculpted breasts and hips. She found it funny that at her age she still would get asked out on dates by younger men who were old enough to be her grandsons. Maria would have to reject the advances of younger men because number one, she was too old for them, and number two, she wasn’t ready to enter the dating scene again. The last man Maria dated was her husband. Maria had to watch her husband die all because she refused to do a job for a London crime lord, and she also refused to do a job for the boss of an underground Japanese crime syndicate. Maria had a dark past that went with her. She used to be a former rock musician, but her rock career was only her part-time job. Maria used to be an agent for the CIA, and she was one of the best operatives the CIA ever had. But Maria ended up getting laid off from her job because of government budget cuts and new CIA recruitments who were far younger than her and could do the job longer. It didn’t hurt Maria when she lost her job, but she tried to search for a new job that demanded her skill set, which was killing people. When Maria first joined the CIA, she didn’t start out as a killer, but a hero. It was fun at first when she had to execute a terrorist leader or a corrupt politician, but things took a dark turn for Maria when she had to carry out assassinations that required killing innocent people. Maria was an efficient killer, and she could execute using anything as a weapon. She once killed a man ten times her size using a screwdriver and when she had a gun in her hand, she had a special gift at shooting with deadly precision. One time she had to assassinate five men who were terrorists, and she ended up killing all five of the men using one handgun that only had two bullets. She killed three men using one bullet, and she killed the other two men using her hands instead of the gun. Maria loved using knives and swords. She perfected the art of knife throwing and her favorite sharp weapon was a sword. She remembered after getting hired as an assassin; Her boss gave her a contract to kill a rival London crime boss. After Maria lost her job with the CIA, she began looking for a job that paid and she knew that becoming a contract killer wasn’t the best option, but she did it because working as a cashier at a local Walmart wasn’t paying enough. Maria remembered the night she had to kill the London crime lord. She remembered how he was a burly and rugged man who collected Samurai swords and displayed them on the wall of his office inside of a nightclub he owned. Maria remembered the look on the London crime boss’s face when he tried to shoot her using his machine gun. The man watched in shock as Maria slapped down every single bullet that came out of his machine gun. She even sliced some bullets in half using one of his Samurai swords. The London crime lord never thought he’d see an old woman do something that was impossible, and he also never thought a beautiful old lady would end up chopping off his head using one of his Samurai swords. Maria remembered what she was wearing the night she chopped the London gangster’s head off. She remembered how his blood splattered all over her black leather jacket and the white sleeveless dress she wore beneath it. Maria never forgot how she carried the London crime lord’s head with one hand while using the Samurai sword in her other hand to slaughter thirty of the London crime lord’s bodyguards. Maria remembered how she turned a South East London nightclub into a war zone using the sword to execute one man after the next. Young men and women were on the nightclub’s dance floor, moving to the sound of hip-hop and electro dance music. The young men and women were oblivious to Maria who was running and flipping across the nightclub’s floor avoiding gunfire and chopping off heads, arms, and legs using her sword. This was the night that Maria discovered she had supernatural powers. While fighting inside the nightclub, Maria ended up getting shot thirty times. But the bullet wounds would heal in a matter of seconds, and Maria couldn’t feel the pain of the gunshots. The nightclub became vacant when Maria started shooting explosions of white fire out of her hands. All the young men and women who were dancing to the club music ran from the nightclub. Maria was alone standing in the middle of the dark club holding a London crime lord’s head in her hand and looking around at the sea of dead men’s bodies that surrounded her bare feet. It was a night to remember for Maria. She thought about how she was racing through the streets of London on her motorcycle, holding a man’s severed head and realizing that she was the world’s most dangerous assassin at fifty-nine-years-old, which was her age at the time. Being an assassin at first felt good for a moment, but Maria soon grew tired of killing people. She didn’t mind executing criminals, but she had a problem with killing innocent people. Maria had to find a way out even though she knew there would be consequences. Becoming a contract killer gave Maria a one-hundred-thousand-dollars a year, and Maria enjoyed the money, but she felt that she was losing her soul. There was an underground secret society for contract killers that Maria was a part of. The only way you could leave the society was by sacrificing a loved one. Maria didn’t want to lose her husband, but it was the only way she could get out of the game. Her husband, Frank, even agreed to have himself killed so that his wife could be free from being a member of the underground world of assassins. Maria remembered how her husband blew a kiss at her before getting shot in his head at point-blank range. This story could have ended sadly, but just because Maria watched her husband get shot right in front of her doesn’t mean he died. Maria soon discovered that she had the ability to resurrect the dead, and that’s what she did to her husband. Maria never forgot how she almost gave her daughter Jenny a heart attack. When Jenny went to visit her mother, she almost went into shock when she saw her father sitting at the dining room table after just attending his funeral a month ago. Maria had a lot of explaining to do to her daughter and even after explaining her supernatural gift to Jenny, Jenny couldn’t believe it. Maria tried to explain to her daughter that after she became a born again Christian, she felt something enter her body. It was something that Maria never felt before like a supernatural charge running through her veins. Maria also told her daughter she was a former assassin and that she used her God-given gift to resurrect all the innocent people the government sent her to kill. It was a hard thing to explain to her daughter, but God helped her. Maria was a goddess or at least that’s what she felt like, thanks to the God she believed in. God had given her powerful gifts and now every criminal who lived in the state of Texas feared Maria because she had become a new assassin. She was an assassin who now worked for God instead of working for a crime boss. Maria had a smile on her face when she first woke up in the morning. She did not know that she would walk out on her front porch to witness a child get shot to death by two trigger-happy police officers. Before she saw the policemen shoot and kill the teenager, Maria could hear the boy shouting at the two policemen. “Man, fuck y’all! I was just walking to school, and I ran out into the street to save this baby from being hit by a car! Now y’all gonna try to arrest me and I didn’t even do nothing!” That’s what Maria heard the black teenager say to the policemen through his tears. While arguing with the policemen, the teenager reached for his smartphone in his back pocket so he could call his mom. When Maria walked out on her front porch, that’s when she saw the teenager reaching for his phone, and that’s when she witnessed the two policemen open fire on the child, assuming that he was reaching for a firearm. It enraged Maria to see that after the two policemen discovered that the teenager didn’t have a weapon, to exclude themselves of committing murder, the two policemen planted a small twenty-two caliber pistol in the dead teenager’s hand, to make it look like the child was armed and that the officers were only defending themselves. This angered Maria. It angered her so much that she crushed in her hand a hot cup of coffee she was drinking. Maria looked down at the blood and the broken pieces of glass in her hand that used to be a coffee mug. The gothic grandmother watched as the bloody cuts in her hand healed up in an instant. Maria’s body transformed into a state of invincibility and she was a sixty-three-year-old woman who now had bulletproof skin, thanks to God. Through her years of working for the CIA, Maria witnessed countless acts of racism. She realized that the U.S. government was the biggest racist organization in the world. Maria was glad that the CIA ended her employment after she secretly discovered a top-secret government program that involved killing off all African Americans. The government planned to release a bioweapon into the drinking water that ran through inner-city neighborhoods and places heavily populated with blacks. Besides corrupting the water filtration plants near inner-city neighborhoods, Maria also discovered how the government was using law enforcement to kill off young African Americans. But what Maria discovered was only the tip of the iceberg. There were darker government secrets, and one of them involved a top-secret program called Operation Nightfall. The Operation Nightfall program involved creating a neuro-gas that was colorless and odorless and could only affect the minds of people of African American descent. The name of this neuro-gas was X714. Once X714 becomes inhaled through the nose and mouth of an African American man, woman, or child, it triggers chemicals in the brain such as Serotonin that causes deep depression and suicidal tendencies. The government planned to not only use X714 to kill off African Americans in the United States but they also planned to use their bio-weapons throughout the world, especially in Africa and in Haiti. X714 would exterminate every starving baby, every mother, every father, every African tribe and all African families who lived in every African continent. X714 would cause every person of color to fall into a deep depression and commit suicide, along with every black person living in the U.S. and across the world. X714 would affect African American celebrities and even an African American woman who was the president of the United States. It was the rise of a deadly bio-engineered disease that would cause an already oppressed race of people to kill themselves, and soon the African race would become extinct. X714 was in its early stages of development. The government released samples of the weapon into the air over parts of Chicago such as the Southside, and in parts of California, such as Compton, Los Angeles. The government still had to work a few bugs out of X714, because instead of causing suicides, it would cause black on black crime, race riots, and irrational violence and anger with African American young men. Black people were still destroying themselves through poverty, drugs, criminal activity, and gang violence because of X714, but it wasn’t the way the government wanted blacks to kill themselves. Committing suicide was a much cleaner and efficient way of destroying a race of people. It would take years to make X714 perfect so that the bio-engineered chemical weapon could do what the government designed it to do. At first, the government considered bringing slavery back, but they felt that eradicating black people altogether was a better plan. X714 would be the answer to a racist white person’s prayer. There would not be any more prejudice towards black people and fear towards black people thanks to X714. The little mind of a racist white man or woman would be at peace because they didn’t have to worry about their sons and daughters marrying a black person or worrying about black families moving into their neighborhood. Thanks to the U.S. government, X714 was on the rise and Operation Nightfall was starting its process of destruction. But the U.S. government and their brilliant team of military scientists had a problem. That problem was Maria Alvarez. A grandmother who was a former rock musician, a former CIA agent and a former assassin who would cause the U.S. government a world of trouble because of her God-given supernatural abilities. Maria would not stop and she was a powerful and relentless killer. Imagine the fictional action movie hero, John Wick, only if John Wick was a beautiful Hispanic sixty-three-year-old woman with short spiky hair and supernatural gifts. It was all going to crash and burn for the U.S. government. Maria stood on the steps of her porch watching the two policemen who were standing over the black teenager’s body mumbling to each other and speaking into their police radios. Maria felt herself becoming more infuriated while listening to the conversation between the two policemen. They were talking as if they were at a restaurant. Maria could see that one policeman was far younger than his partner. He had blonde hair and a clean-shaven face with a medium build and pale white skin. Maria thought the younger policeman had a boyish face. He looked like a nerdy little boy with a man’s body which irritated Maria. From his looks, she could tell that he was a rookie. The much older policeman looked ruggedly handsome in the face. He looked like the cowboy type, sporting a thick gray mustache, a three-day beard and experienced wrinkles in his square-shaped face. Gray peppered his hair, and he was balding a little at the top of his head. The older cop had a bigger and bulkier body compared to his younger partner. The older policeman also wore dark aviator sunglasses that concealed his lifeless eyes. Maria began to saunter down the steps of her home while listening to what the older policeman was saying to his younger partner. “We’re not getting in trouble for this,” the older policeman stated. “Yeah, but he didn’t have a gun.” The young policeman said. “That’s why we planted the gun on him to make it look like he had one. We want this execution to look legitimate to the public.” The older policeman gave his partner a confident smile. “It felt good firing a gun for the first time.” The younger policeman chuckled. But he was looking around to see who was watching the two of them. “Yeah, it always feels good firing a gun for the first time. Now we shot this boy, but we shot a black boy which is a good thing because we’re only doing our jobs as government officials. We’re doing what our government wants us to do. We’re supposed to annihilate some of these black folks, but make it look subtle and accidental,” the older policeman told his partner through his Southern drawl while gently nudging the black teenager’s dead body with the tip of his cowboy boot. “We shoot unarmed black kids all the time because we’re supposed to. That’s our job now given to us by our government. Once we report this to the organization director, we’ll go grab something to eat.” The older policeman patted his partner on the back while turning his head and looking to see Maria, who was approaching them from behind. The older policeman at first didn’t know how to react to Maria, who was creeping up towards the residential street where the two cops were standing. “What’s the matter?” The younger policeman asked before turning his head and seeing Maria approaching them. “You want me to stop her? It looks like she’s coming over here.” The young policeman didn’t even wait for an answer. He turned around and began telling Maria to stay back. “Excuse me, ma’am. We’re gonna need you to stay back.” The younger policeman spoke calmly as he began approaching Maria with his hands out in front of him, trying to stop her. When the young policeman placed his hands on Maria’s arms, it was the worst thing he ever did. The young policeman screamed when Maria took hold of one of his hands and began crushing it like it was a soda pop can. The young policeman screamed out in pain as he heard the bones breaking in his hand, which sounded like tree branches getting snapped in half. “I’m sorry,” Maria hissed out her insincere apology to the young policeman while crushing his hand down flat like a pancake and balling it up like it was a piece of paper. The young policeman screamed for his partner to help him as he watched his hand get turned into mush. The policeman wanted to reach for his gun, but he was in too much pain. Maria made things even worse for the young policeman when she reached down and grabbed the area where his penis and testicles were. The young policeman stopped screaming because the pain of feeling his penis and testicles getting crushed made his vocal cords lock up. After feeling the pain of a fist pierce through his torso combined with the earth-shattering pain of getting his genitals crushed, the young policeman’s heart stopped beating. Maria lifted the young policeman’s two hundred pound body off the ground by his throat after removing her fist from the police officer’s stomach. While Maria was mutilating the young policeman’s body, she was getting shot at by the older policeman who became overwhelmed with terror by what he was seeing. The older policeman was already horrified after watching Maria punch her fist straight through his partner’s stomach, but he was even more horrified because he couldn’t kill Maria no matter how many times he shot at her. The older policeman ended up unloading his gun on Maria. He watched as the bullets passed through Maria’s body and he saw how the bullet holes disappeared on her body, leaving behind not a single trace of blood. The older policeman dropped his gun on the ground with his body full of desperate fear. He watched Maria hurl his partner’s body into the air. The young policeman’s dead body landed on top of the hood of his squad car putting a huge dent in its hood. The older policeman thought the world was ending as he looked into the cunning hazel-gray eyes of a beautiful old Hispanic lady, who was approaching him with fire shooting out of her hands. Maria’s shapely hips were rotating beneath her tight-fitting denim blue jeans. Her wide breast bounced beneath her black sleeveless blouse and her skull pendant earrings were wildly swinging back and forth on her ears from every hard step she made towards the older policeman. It seemed like everything was moving in slow motion for the older policeman as he took off his sunglasses and dropped them on the ground while watching a blast of white fire head towards him. The pain was beyond excruciating. The older policeman went into shock as he felt his skin burning and melting away. He never thought he would experience getting burned alive, and it was an experience that Maria forced him to endure. The fire had engulfed the policeman’s body, and it made him look like a walking, screaming human torch. Maria folded her arms while watching the older policeman’s burning body slowly stumble down the street before collapsing to the ground like a burning pile of rubble. Maria could smell the fire cooking the policeman’s flesh, which reminded Maria of the smell of hamburgers cooking on a grill. After destroying the two policemen, Maria laid her eyes down on the body of the teenager who was lying on the sidewalk a few feet away from her driveway. While kneeling down on the ground beside the teenager’s body, Maria looked around to see people standing outside their homes and on the sidewalk watching her. Maria waved and smiled at her shocked neighbors while holding the African American teenager’s body across her lap. She took her attention off the shocked faces of her neighbors and put her eyes back down on the teenager’s face, with her fingers stroking through his well-trimmed afro. Maria could feel the blood leaking out of the bullet holes in the teenager’s body. While stroking the child’s head, she began healing all the bullet wounds on his body. Even his blood that stained the fabric of his blue basketball jersey was disappearing. While bringing the thirteen-year-old back to life, Maria admired the young man’s handsomeness. She admired his Nubian dark skin and his strong but baby-like facial features. She could see how his puberty was setting in from the peach fuzz beneath his nose, which would soon become a full mustache once he reached his twenties. A silver necklace hung around the teenager’s neck and it had a pendant hanging off of it which were two diamond-encrusted letters. The letters that hung from the necklace said JD, which were the child’s initials. Maria caressed her hand across a bullet hole in the child’s left arm. She also waved her hand across a bullet hole in the teenager’s neck. After removing twelve bullet holes in the teenager’s body, it was time to wake him up. “Wake up, baby,” Maria whispered down to the teenager with her hand caressing his face. She adjusted the child’s body across her lap before restarting his heart causing the thirteen-year-old to wake up gasping for air. The young man began taking air into his lungs and coughing as he opened up his eyes and looked up, to see a sweet but edgy faced old lady looking back down at him and giving him a loving smile. The teenager studied the silver ring in Maria’s nose and the silver stud pierced in her lip. He looked at her shimmering skull head earrings and he also noticed that Maria had a missing eyebrow. The teenager could see that Maria had a slight purplish color in her silvery short hair, and he admired her pretty but edgy facial features. The teenager had never seen such a cool looking old woman, and he had never seen an old lady with tattoos on her shapely arms. “Wow! Who are you?” The teenager asked Maria while looking at her through his cocoa-brown eyes filled with confusion and wonder. The young man watched as Maria slowly leaned down to kiss him on his forehead. Maria never answered the teenager’s question. The grandmother only smiled at the thirteen-year-old boy while gazing down at the lost expression on his face. She held the teenager in her lap while gazing down into his eyes for a good long time and stroking her fingers through his soft mini afro.


1117 words Rated PG; violence, blood, unsettling imagery Prompt: Write a cautionary fable about someone who always lies. Gather ‘round, those old and young. Come closer, and ye will be met with worlds of mystery. Sit at the stream, drink the sweet nectar within, and be reborn as is the phoenix from the ashes of the fire of the night. Stay at my shoes, and ye will be compelled to go forward with nothing but the stick of virtues and the sly hand. Our story begins when the moon shone above the world, moving downwards, perhaps contemplating crashing into the earth. The village was old. So old that Elder Mcallen could become one with the cracks on the buildings built near the river. The water had begun to chew on the land and spit it out as punishment for the farmers who did not wear belts on their waists. The folks would stop on their way through a town, not unlike that of the river, and use their forearms to reach the stall that was worth the suffering. There were two who never had to do this because they were already tending to the stand. It was the merchant and her husband. Their product was one thing of intrigue: a plant. This plant had a top that was reaching for the sun. The bottom looked like a child’s toy that spun with magic. It was so good that the merchant and her husband would only sell to those who wanted legumes with this fantastical plant. The merchant and her husband would jingle as they walked because of it. Every 6th sunrise, the two of them would take a mare and a carriage, and go to harvest their mystical plant. They would be gone until the moon cast shadows in the water lilies for the second time. The merchant and her husband always returned with burlap sacks about to burst, ready for the coming days. The folks wanted to find the magical clouds where these plants fell from. They tried to follow the merchant and her husband into the trees that lapped at the North end of the village. They tried to be mice, to not be spotted. They tried to be snakes, wiggling among mud and root. They tried to be squirrels, pulling themselves up on branches and scurrying. Alas, to no avail. A fog covered the merchant. A mist covered the husband. Their tracks were taken with the wind. Not a soul could find the fabled spot. Those who searched would return with noses, ears, and eyes dripping red. Their hands would have disappeared. Their irises were soulless black husks that might have been portals to the underworld. Those who returned screamed in agony The nights were never peaceful. For whom the screaming was for was never clear. This was, at least, was rare. Most did not return at all, but were lost to the everlasting wood, which most likely only ended when the merchant saw fit. There were rumours that she who could not share a secret was a witch. She might need to be burned to leave the village to its tasks. The issue was that the harvest she and her husband provided was too important to the town, so she was left to do as she pleased. The merchant’s long hair was covered by a dirt coloured cloth that never moved. Her skirts were always stained by grass. Her face had not been washed in moons, yet she carried elegance. The villagers would cry out to her. How did she find the wonderful roots that could feed an angel? She would never let a word slip past her tongue. It was of no consequence the people who would plead, the length of their groveling, or how often they would fall to their knees and mumble into her filthy boots. The merchant had never opened her mouth to anyone who was not her husband. Even the husband was not one for canards. His small hands would be wiped quietly on an apron that was no longer white so he could touch his products. He would only speak of prices, which would always be wrong. Not one thing he said was ever the truth. The village was always frustrated by this pair. They had come here once upon a dawn and would leave twice the whisper of the night if the time ever arrived. Most would only interact for the food to give their family, and no more. A blessing from above must not be asked questions. Other whisperers did not agree. They would clench their teeth and breathe small rumors that had no base in any facts. When the sun left no shadow, a person in a ragged shawl and nothing more approached the stand. The husband and the merchant were speaking silently. The only indication of conversation was the small movement of broken lips. When the person came close, the pair turned toward them slowly. “What will you be needing?” The merchant’s husband demanded. The person, the stranger, did not offer a response. They instead focused on the husband. They traveled down his light yellow hair to his blue shirt. They lingered on a pendant, which might have been glowing with green sparks. The chain it was attached to swung off of the husband’s neck. “What will you be needing?” The voice was louder. The stranger smiled. “The plant you carry so close to your heart.” The husband reached out the skilled hand he always used and picked up the special roots which made lips smack and eyes open. He picked a half dozen and laid them down on the smooth counter. The stranger shook their head. The shawl spun wildly. Their irises sparkled with knowledge. For the merchant’s husband was always one to lie. “You have lied to me.” The stranger purred. “I am asking for the plant that you carry close to your heart.” The merchant’s lips dipped downwards. She glanced at her husband. He returned the special roots to their basket. He next wrapped his fingers around an ear of corn. He lifted it and offered it to this peculiar customer. The corn was beautiful. The bland day could not reach the smooth bumps on the vegetable. It shone like the butter in the stall to the right of the merchant and her husband. It was very clean, and you might see a reflection on the yellow surface. The stranger was still not satisfied. They waggled their fingers in disapproval, and a grin showed yellow teeth. The stranger had come prepared for this trick. “You have once again hidden the truth from me. What is closest to your heart, dear man?” The merchant rose from her seat. She cupped her tanned hand and leaned down to advise her husband. He listened quietly and nodded. They exchanged a glance like crystals. The merchant fell back on her stool once more. Puffs of dirt rose from her skirts. The husband knitted his eyebrows and was now ready. “I have not an idea what you speak of.” The stranger threw back their oval head and laughed into the sky. “You have lied three times, my dear. Once more, a-” The folks who were in the area gasped and stumbled backward. The stranger was now lying on the ground, with a forehead of violet. The merchant’s husband shook out the hand which had been in a fist. Blood fell from his knuckles and dripped on the corn he had placed on the wooden counter. He did not bother to wipe it. It was of no value from this point forward. It would be cooked in a stew once the day fell. The merchant stood once more and embraced her husband. The perfect start to a day of profits. Moral: never pretend you can defeat the merchant and her husband.


I have lived a thousand lifetimes. Oh, not exactly a thousand; I lost track long ago. And I won't even try to guess how many years I've lived; trying to refer to a calendar isn't exactly straightforward. You see, I'm something of an immortal. Every time I die I open my eyes and I'm being placed in my mother's arms, a baby opening his eyes for the first time. Every time the world is reset, everything exactly how it was except for me. I have all of my knowledge, all of my memories, everything. I am a constantly changing constant, while everything else gets rewound and rerun. I still remember my first life most clearly. There was nothing particularly special about me - on the short side of tall, a bit overweight, enough brains to do well in school but not enough self-discipline to do great. I had an OK life and muddled my way through like most everyone else, and then I died. And then I woke up. I was a baby again. And it was the worst thing I've ever experienced. Everything that I loved, everyone that was precious to me, it was all gone, and no one could understand or would even believe me. I cried like a baby, which wasn't all that odd because, of course, I was one. That second life was a haze of confusion, both for myself and those around me. I still had to learn how to see, how to move, how to walk, how to control my bowels and bladder - my, wasn't that embarrassing - but once I did I could walk, talk, and try to tell people what had happened to me. They were amazed at this impossibly gifted infant, but they never really believed me. They never have, in fact, all the times I've been through it. And I didn't really believe it either, that first time. I had all of these memories, could even tell people about things before they happened, but I was always doubting that it was real, that it wasn't some fever dream or head wound or delirium. So I went through my life, muddled through the best I could - this time making a bit more money in the stock market - and then I died. And then I woke up. And then I believed. I tried, those first cycles, I really did. I tried to understand what was happening to me, tried to make sense of this madness laid atop an already crazy world. But there is no explanation - or if there is I haven't found it. I just keep on keeping on, functionally immortal and just starting over again and again. I am so, so tired of starting over again. So yes, I have lived a thousand lifetimes, give or take. I have been rich and poor - and let me tell you, rich is better. I have lived short lives of hedonistic debauchery, and spent a century living the life of an ascetic high in the mountains of Tibet. I have grown financial empires out of the seeds of a child's weekly allowance, and used them to try to remake the world. I have prevented tragedies only to see other ones take their place. I have suffered horrible diseases, punishing myself on the thought that I was being punished in some afterlife and could hasten the end of the punishment. I have been an incarnation of justice, punishing the villains of the world for crimes sometimes not yet committed in that lifetime, and through the process become the villain. I've even walked on the moon, if you can believe that. It took lifetimes of study and memorization, working with people way smarter than I am, but pushing them a little farther each time to make their discoveries a little bit faster, and all the while they were thinking I was the genius. Hah! But it worked, and I pushed humanity to the stars. And then I died. And then I woke up. I have been a doctor, a scientist, a politician. I have been a bricklayer, a garbage man, a soldier, a fighter. I have been a billionaire and lived as long as medical technology could take me, and I have died young from the search for the next adrenaline rush, or the sheer weight of despair. I have lived in every country and every culture in the world, and I've forgotten more languages than I can speak right now. I've been ordained in every religion that exists, and even started a few of my own. I have cured cancer and the common cold, and I have brought down governments and remade the world. And none of it matters. And it's all for nothing. Because every time I die. And I wake up. And I know I can never get what I truly want. Oh, don't get me wrong, I've tried. I've tried to move on, I've had hundreds of wives and hundreds of children, and I have loved them all. But they never quite manage to fill that hole, to satisfy the nagging curiosity of whether that first lifetime went on without me, and what happened to my wife and my daughter and my sons. And I've tried to recreate that first lifetime too, letting tragedies both great and personal proceed as I remembered, suffering indignities and abuses, even rescuing the same cats at the same animal shelters, anything to try to recreate the conditions of that first life. I've married the same woman hundreds of times, and she's just as wonderful and just as endearing. But life is a random thing my friend, and you and I are the products of very small odds. Sure, the odds of having kids might not be that rare, else we as a species wouldn't be there. But the odds of having one specific child? Or three very specific children? It would take more lifetimes than have existed in the universe during my strange cycle to get even one of those combinations. A very specific egg, a specific molecular structure in one specific sperm out of millions, affected by all the choices and experiences of a life spent to that point - this is what makes an individual, and any little change will result in a different individual. All I want, really, is the end of this cycle. I want to open my eyes and see my wife next to me. I want to see my daughter's beautiful brown eyes and be there to see what she makes of her life. I want to see my twin sons and meet the men they grow into. I want to meet their children, and I want to grow old as a part of that family. And I want to die knowing that their lives will keep going after I'm gone, that something I've built will outlast me, that I've actually made an impact on the world. But until that happens I will keep living. I will muddle my way through the best I can. And I will die. And then I will wake up.


\*\*An Interest in Waterboarding\*\*  “I’m interested in waterboarding. And not in any sort of masochistic way. At least as far as I’m aware. I had already sort of been fascinated by it, but I’ve sort of been taken by the notion that you can never really know someone, you can just have images of them. I think that illuminated the path to that, admittedly, rather strange desire.  “Before, I thought that I thought it was interesting because a lot of the time I feel like I’m drowning while also being fully aware that I’m not. And I figured there was some deeper need to experience a real, physical manifestation of that feeling. Like if I could experience real drowning, it would put my daily miseries into the proper context. If I’m experiencing drowning at like a 6 because I’m tired of my job but have specialized myself into a corner where I won’t be able to pay back the money to achieve that specialization unless I continue. And my baseline of drowning is like a 3, I feel like I’m drowning twice as much as normal. But if I got waterboarded which would be like a 30 or whatever, that would sort of make it feel small in comparison, right?  “But now I’m thinking that if we only have images of other people, isn’t that true of ourselves too? We have really a very small range of experiences most of the time so we have some reasonable expectation of how we’ll react. But how many people will really, actually be tortured in their life? And it’s depicted in movies all the time isn’t it? I think people have some idea of whether they’d give in and reveal the location of the secret base or whatever. But you can’t know, can you? And waterboarding is supposed to be torture without the damage. At least physical anyway, I’m not trying to minimize what I’m sure can have a lasting psychic trauma associated with it, especially when repeated I’d imagine. But my feeling is that because mine would be a voluntary ordeal I could do it if someone I know was trained to do it.  “I read about this terrorist who would laugh and count down the seconds that they were legally allowed to waterboard him for. I think secretly we all think we’re that guy, you know? It’s really sort of a masculine thought. Like I kind of understand now why guys drink themselves into the ER thinking they’re Andre the Giant or something. We feel like we can take it, you know? I used to think of all the biological variables that go into alcohol tolerance and just pity these ordinary looking people for thinking they could possibly be extraordinary in that totally useless way. Isn’t it better to have a low tolerance anyway? Like it’s cheaper and doesn’t take as long.  “But anyway, now I think my fascination with waterboarding is more about revealing that dark corner of my self portrait. And now that I’m explaining it this way, I’m kind of realizing that the way we know ourselves isn’t actually different to the way we know others, it’s really just different in degree, and so maybe you can really know people? Or does it mean you’re just a stranger to yourself?”  The man across the table blinked and said “I meant interests as in like... podcasts.


He sits in his usual place in the tavern, downing his usual amount of ale. The empty tankards collect on his table as the people collect around him. His face is covered in ancient scars. He can tell the most marvellous stories. Whether they are true or not, no one can tell. He laughs. If it is free of misery or full of regret, no one can tell. You know, I used to be much younger. Good looking too. What, will no wench give me a kiss now? ’Tis alright. The glass tells me the same thing ye see. But it did not always show such a face, such limbs. I used to be the epitome of strength. Ye laugh. Well, listen to a story, will you? Of course ye will. But ye will not believe me. Imagine for a moment, if you will, the king’s court. King Gustav the Third. He sat on his lonely throne, haggard and old. The musicians and jesters and dancers did not come any more. They had given up. When his daughter burned, so did his smiles. She had taken his laughter with him into the land where none can follow. There was talk of a dragon afoot. That was why I had been summoned. We were to kill it. Other groups had gone and failed. It seems this dragon was like any had ever faced before. But every dragon must have a chink in its armour, and if enough archers were sent at once, one was sure to find it. It was a long march. We trode between fields, through thick forests, over green plains that extended to the horizon. We travelled a complete fortnight. I, being an impulsive youngster, asked why it was a threat, so far outside our borders. Of course, as a youngster, my question was ridiculous. No dragon stayed in one place for very long. Once it had burned everything within sight, it would travel to decimate greener regions. We were going to meet it before it could kill our people. When we reached the area it had been spotted in, there was nothing to greet us but barren earth. Occasionally the charred stump of a tree was visible. I made the mistake of touching one once. It crumbled to ash underneath my fingers, letting out a cloud of black dust that coated me for days. The only advantage we had over the dragon was our numbers, and those could be extinguished if we stood in a group, so the whole fortnight I was within sight of my companions, but not a whit closer. None can blame me when I began to speak to the lone birds that flew overhead, the lizards that scurried under blackened rocks, and occasionally the rocks themselves. So when the dragon came, I spoke to it. But I am getting ahead of myself. We were approaching a green forest. In a day we would have to turn and walk along it, looking for some break where the trees were still hot and smoking. Then I seen the smoke. I nocked an arrow to my string, but did not draw. I could not see the dragon. Then the fire came. It exploded around Melvin. His bow was empty, his hand drawing an arrow from his quiver, but he never got the opportunity to nock it. Even from where I was standing, I seen the flames consume him. The burnt shaft of an arrow fell beside his corpse. But I also seen the dragon. It swooped low, its scales glistening gold in the light of the flames. At first I thought it was coming at me, but it passed overhead and disappeared over the forest. I chased it. Now, don’t look at me so incredulously. As I said, I was young and impetuous. And good-looking. So I chased the dragon. I ran as fast as I could underneath its shadow. The shadow grew larger, and for a moment I did not understand. Then the ground gave way beneath my feet, and I tumbled down a ravine. It landed just in front of me. It was facing away from me, so I slung my bow from my back, but my arrow clacked against the quiver. The dragon spun around, its tail lashing my feet. I flung out my hands in landing and lost my weapons. The dragon reared, the firelight flooding in its belly and rushing up its neck. I instinctively shielded my arms with my face. The fire did not melt the flesh off my bones. In fact, it did not singe one hair on my head. It did not come. I brought my hands down, realizing how little they would help me. The dragon’s fire had bated, though it still glowed a warm bronze colour. It stared at me, blinking once, twice. It looked at my bow, which I made no move to touch. Fear had frozen my limbs. The dragon watched me. I opened my mouth, and the dragon tensed. “I’m sorry.” After having spoken to the creatures around me for weeks on end, the words came smoothly, as did the realization. “You won’t burn me unless I shoot at you. Like Melvin did.” The glow faded from the dragon’s scales. A hiss sounded, and a shot of steam went up from one glossy eye. “Melvin,” it said. Aye, the dragon spoke. Now, just ye wait. Ye might as well hear the tale to the end! Where was I? Ah, yes. The dragon spoke in clear tones. Its sweet voice was laden with sorrow. I spoke back to it. “Aye, that was his name.” The dragon’s scales faded further, reflecting the dusk. “I am sorry I burned him.” “Then why did you?” “He shot at me.” “He thought you were a threat.” “Because I am a dragon.” “Aye.” I crossed my legs then, positioning myself more comfortably. If this dragon was going to kill me, it would do so whether or not I had a weapon. But if it did not, I told myself I would get a good story out of it. And here I am! The dragon lay down in front of me. “What is your name?” “Willem. What is yours?” “Do you not know, Willem?” I felt that I had heard that voice before, but my thoughts were distracted by a flicker of light rising up the dragon’s thought. She-- for it was a she-- let out a gentle breath and set just one tree, a few away from me, ablaze. The warmth was calming after so many nights sleeping out in the open. I turned towards it. The dragon did too, resting her great head on her clawed forefeet. She had chosen the tree well. None of its neighbours caught. We watched as the flames licked along the branches, dropping them to the ground. Eventually only the stump was left, a pile of coals, glowing first orange and red, then grey, and finally white, drifting with the breeze. Then it came to me. I knew why her voice was so familiar. I had watched her, many times, lying in front of a dying fireplace, watching the flames the way she was now. I jumped to my feet and bowed. “My Princess!” She turned to me, and if ever a dragon has attempted a smile, she did. Only it was a sad smile. “What is my name, Willem?” I was confused, but I answered. “Joanne.” She arched her back, fire shooting through her body and out of her mouth, then fell to the ground. I heard her scream as she writhed. I called her name again, and she turned to face me, but the flames she belched out caught my body. I ran for the pool I had passed before and dove in. The water was bliss itself, but I could not remain. I climbed out. A cloud of ashes floated toward me. I stood still as it approached. They took on the form of a lovely young woman with a delicate crown on her hair. “Thank you,” she whispered. Then she kissed my cheek just as a gust of wind came along and scattered her ashes. When the other men found me, I was in the same place. They asked if I had seen the dragon, but I could not speak for days. The search was given up, and I resigned my place among the king’s archers. Why, you ask? The answer is this. Once your heart has been burned, nothing can ever heal it again. He sits in his usual place in the tavern, downing his usual amount of ale. The empty tankards collect on his table as the people collect around him. His face is covered in ancient burns. He can tell the most marvellous stories. Whether they are true or not, no one can tell.