Defenestraphobia Moves in Next Door (Satirical references to certain phobias; indelicate treatment of the subject of "plus- size" people.) The day after the “For Sale” sign came down, a crew was at the two-story colonial boarding up all the windows. Kenny, the keen-eyed neighbor next door, couldn’t help but notice. “Margie, take a look-see on what’s going on next door. The new owner is having all the windows boarded up.” “What? Oh, my God, that is strange. Maybe they just want their privacy, or they worry about peeping toms hiding in the bushes. I always make sure the shades are drawn when I’m changing. Women like me can’t be too careful. I don’t want some weirdo violating me with his eyes.” Kenny knew that the odds of anyone deriving any sort of erotic pleasure by feasting their eyes on his, to be kind, “full figure” wife, were zero to none. Even he tried not to be in the room, or at least averted his eyes, at such moments. But prudence suggested he refrain from comment. “Of course, dear. But they are boarding up every window in the house, first floor, second floor, even the attic. Very strange.” ---------- Move-in day. A small, frail-looking, middle-aged man was in and out of the house directing traffic as Kenny tried to comprehend the mystery behind “Two Men and a Truck” working with a crew of three. As soon as the truck left, Kenny headed next door to welcome the new neighbor. “Good afternoon! I’m Kenny. Welcome to the neighborhood.” Kenny extended his hand, but his new neighbor quickly took a step back. “Oh, sorry, I don’t mean to offend you, but I have a slight case of haphephobia. My name is Herb.” “No offense taken. That hapa... whatever you call it, it’s contagious?” “Oh no, it’s not a disease. It’s a thing I have, a fear of touching people.” Kenny had never heard of such a thing. Already puzzled about the boarding up of all the windows, he was beginning to have serious concerns about his new neighbor. They exchanged pleasantries and provided brief biographies, and as they were parting, Kenny got to the elephant in the room. “Say, Herb, my wife and I couldn’t help but notice that you had all your windows boarded up. Are you planning on having new windows put in, or...?” “Oh, that. I have a touch of defenestraphobia.” “Uh...I’m not sure what that is.” “Really? It’s the fear of being thrown out of a window. It’s not uncommon.” “I see.” “Well, nice meeting you, Kenny. I need to get organized. Talk to you later.” As Herb turned to leave, Margie approached carrying a plate of treats for the new neighbor. “Wait, Herb, my wife has a dozen of her famous chocolate chip cookies for you!” “Well, that’s awfully neighborly of you. Thank you, I...” Herb saw Margie and the plate of cookies, and he took off running. “Gotta go! Sorry, you can just leave the cookies!” “Herb! What’s wrong?” “Cacomorphobia!” Margie set the plate of cookies on the hood of Herb’s car, and they returned to their house, but not before Kenny noticed the dozen cookies had been reduced to nine somewhere along the way. --------- “What’s with that guy, Kenny, and what the heck is a cacomorphobia?” “No idea. I’ll Google it.” Kenny looked it up- Cacomorphobia: the fear of fat people. Oh, no. “Did you find it, honey?” “No, dear. There is no such word. I think he made it up.” --------- “Good morning, Doctor Foggy.” “Good morning, Herb. Have you moved into your new house yet?” “Yep, it’s very nice. I’m sure I’ll be happy there.” “And, what have you done about your fear of being thrown out of a window?” “They’re all boarded up, just like you suggested.” “Good, good. And then pick a window, I’d say on the first floor for starters, and remove a little of the covering each day. And be sure to have that rope tied around your waist and anchored to something solid so you’ll feel safe. Little baby steps, but we’ll get you there.” “Thanks, Doc.” “And how are we doing with your anatidaephobia?” “I forget. Which one is that?” “That’s your fear of ducks.” “Oh, yes, ducks. I think I’m doing pretty good. I watched ten minutes of Donald Duck cartoons last night and a full hour of Duck Dynasty. I think it helps to see the darn things getting blasted out of the sky.” “Good, good. And I’ve got another good idea.” “What’s that, Doc?” “I’m getting you a couple of styrofoam duck decoys that you can do a little of that voodoo stuff on.” “I like it. You’re the best. I wish I would have thought of that.” “Well, that’s why I’m the doctor, and you’re not.” ---------- “Morning neighbor!” “Oh, hey, Herb What’s up?” “Well, Kenny, I was wondering if you could keep your dog inside when I’m out in my yard.” Mittens the multipoo stood 11” tall and weighed in at 9 pounds. “Mittens doesn’t bite. She’s harmless.” “I’m sure she’s a good dog. It’s just that my cynophobia has been flaring up lately.” “What’s that?” “Fear of dogs. I’ve been doing a lot better, but I don’t want to have a relapse. That can get pretty ugly.” “Sorry to hear that. I’ll talk to Margie. We’ll try to be careful with Mittens.” “Speaking of your wife, could you keep her inside with the dog when I’m out in my yard?” Oh, no. A “full figure” wife and a neighbor suffering from cacomorphobia! “I’ll see what I can do. Say, Herb, I see you’re wearing those ankle-weight things. You been workin’ out?” “No, that’s for my barophobia, you know, just a little added protection.” “Uh, I’m not sure what barophobia is.” “That’s surprising. It’s been going around lately. It’s the fear of gravity. I’ve got the strain of it where I fear there won’t be any, and someday I’ll float off into the universe. I think these will help. You should get some for you and your...oh, never mind. You should get some for yourself.” --------- “The house is great, Doc, but the neighbors are a real problem. They’ve got a killer dog, and the lady is, well, quite large.” “I can see where that would be a problem for you.” “And flowers! Damn near everywhere.” “And don’t tell me, they’re not...” “Yes! They are purple!” “Oh, no, and we were doing so well with your porphyrophobia. That fear of the color purple is a tough one, and you were doing so well.” “Damn, what are the odds I’d end up living next door to a dog, a fat lady, and purple flowers. That’s like a hundred billion zillion to one. Life isn’t fair, Doc.” “Well, you could move again, Herb.” “ I don’t want to do that. Let’s take it all head-on! I’m going to conquer my fears once and for all!” The good Doctor was a little concerned about the concept of a cured Herb as he’d lose at least half of his billable hours, but he took an oath. “I’m with you, partner! We can do it!” ---------- “The guy is a complete nut job, Margie. He’s afraid of everything.” “Oh, I don’t know. He seems nice. He’s a cute little guy. I feel for him, you know, being afraid of just about everything. I think I’ll bring him one of my chocolate cakes.” This struck Kenny as peculiar as he couldn’t recall Margie ever saying anything nice about anyone. The woman was a real shrew whose sole purpose in life seemed to be to make Kenny’s life miserable. It seemed like a crazy comment. Margie saying something nice about someone was as shocking as her missing a meal, and her giving up one of her double-frosted chocolate cakes was akin to Wimpy giving away hamburgers. Neurons were cross-firing in Kenny’s brain. A fortunate intersection of coincidences: 1) Kenny had taken an introductory psychology college class that included a cursory coverage of phobias. 2) As a sports enthusiast, he recalled the story of a coach working with a runner who managed to get the athlete to love competing in a distance event that he previously hated. 3) The mystery on an episode of Columbo he had seen was solved through the use of subliminal messaging. 4) Just two weeks ago, he caught the movie “Shallow Hal” on Net Flix- the story of a man whose perceptions of the world were so reconfigured that he saw an extremely overweight, unattractive woman as a trim, fit, ravishing beauty. Those were the building blocks; Kenny just needed to put them together. His college textbook cited a psychiatrist who not only sought to get his patients to overcome their fears, but he tried to persuade them to crave the things that had so frightened them. The movie told him that malleable minds can be altered, and as Kenny knew that Herb was at least ten steps passed woo-woo, he figured his mind provided fertile ground for an adjustment. The coach used the simple techniques of repetition and positive reinforcement, and Colombo infiltrated the suspect’s mind with subconscious messaging. It seemed like a long shot, but one look at Margie told him he had to try. ---------- “Nice evening, isn’t it, Herb?” “It sure is, Kenny, but I have to get inside pretty soon. I can feel a little nyctophobia coming on.” “Nyctophobia? What’s that?” “Fear of darkness. I just read about it yesterday, and wouldn’t you know it, now I’ve got the damn stuff.” “That’s too bad. I have to get back in the house now too. I never want to be away from my beautiful bride too long. I’ve only been out here for ten minutes, and I miss her already.” Herb looked puzzled. “Really?” “Oh, yes! She’s the most beautiful, loving, kindest, caring woman in the world. And, I probably shouldn’t say this, but she’s also one sexy lady.” Now Herb looked really puzzled. “Uh, Kenny, I don’t quite know how to say this, but...well, not a lot of men I know like their woman so...large.” “Let me tell you, they are missing out, Herb. You wouldn’t believe what she does with it in the bedroom. Oh, I damn near popped a woody just thinking about it. In fact, I have to go right now! Fat’s where it’s at, Herb! See ya’.” Kenny sprinted off to his house, taking one quick glance back to see a questioning look on Herb’s face. He could only hope phase one was off to a good start. ---------- As Herb made nearly daily trips seeking help with his countless phobias, it wasn’t hard for Kenny to figure out who his psychiatrist was. Dr. Foggy received an anonymous letter: Dear Dr. Foggy, I believe you know a gentleman named Herb Hankey. You must also know the guy is off his rocker. I’m sure most of his phobia stuff is harmless, but I have recently become aware of something you too should be aware of. This morning I heard him say something about how all fat people should be killed. I think it would be a good idea if you tried to get him to stop hating fat people so much. In fact, you should try to get him to like fat people. Sincerely, A Concerned Citizen --------- “Herb, I think we should try a new approach. You have so many bats in your belfry that I’d like to focus on just one rather than address your general...condition.” “You’re the doctor. Which one? How about the darkness thing? I’d like to be able to go outside at night. Or how about my ornithophobia. I’m tired of wearing all that protective headgear to keep the birds from attacking me.” “In good time, Herb. I was thinking of taking on your greatest fear right out of the gate- cacomorphobia, your fear of fat people. They’re everywhere nowadays. Let’s start with that one.” “You’re the doctor. What do we do?” “I’ve prepared a video presentation. I think it will help.” Dr. Foggy had put together an impressive array of film clips and slides showing loved, successful, plus-size people from all walks of life: - Mama Cass dreamin’ a little dream, Chubby Checker twistin’ and shoutin’, and Kate Smith belting out “God Bless Amercica” before a Flyers’ Hockey Game. - Melissa McCarthy, John Candy, and Chris Farley bringing smiles and laughter to the multitudes. - Winston Churchill, Queen Victoria, and Henry VIII leading their nations. - Minnesota Fats performing magic with his pool cue as he takes on Fast Eddie, and the Soviet Union legend Tamara Press winning the 1964 Olympic Gold in the women’s shot put. “See, Herb, fat people have made tremendous contributions to the world. They are wonderful. We should like them...and not want to kill them.” --------- “I think Herb really likes my double fudge chocolate cakes. I’ll put one out on his front porch, and two days later the empty plate is there.” Her smile was telling Kenny that this was about more than Herb liking her baking skills. “I’m sure he appreciates it. I don’t know why he doesn’t come out when you ring his doorbell. Why don’t you try one of your triple fudge chocolate cakes?” “I think I will.” --------- Herb started to find sticky notes in his mailbox, on the trees in his yard, on his front door, and on the windshield of his car, all bearing the same message: I LOVE FAT PEOPLE. When all the lights were out in Herb’s house, Kenny placed a tape recorder under his bedroom window which played soft music along with the looped message “I love fat people.” After just three weeks. It started to pay dividends. Margie, holding a triple fudge chocolate cake, missing just one (large) piece, rang the doorbell, leaving a substantial wad of chocolate from her finger on the device. To her surprise, the door slowly opened. Then closed. Open then closed. Open then closed. “Herb, you don’t have to be afraid. It’s just little old me, Margie from next door.” The combined efforts of Kenny and Dr. Foggy seemed to be paying off. Herb opened the door wide and stepped out onto the porch. He smiled broadly, and Margie giggled like a schoolgirl. “Thank you, Margie. Listen, if you have time, I could get a knife, and a couple of forks and plates, and we could sit on the porch swing and have our cake...and eat it too!” They both broke out in boisterous laughter, the porch swing held up to its greatest challenge, and Margie and Herb downed what was left of the entire cake. Kenny looked down on the scene from his 2 nd floor bedroom, smiled, and congratulated himself for a job well done. It was all heading in the right direction, but Kenny knew he had more to do. --------- “You look a little down today. You ok, Kenny?” “Yeah, I’m fine, Herb, just the normal pressures of financial stuff. That will all change when Margie’s dad kicks the bucket.” “How so?” “The guy is loaded. With Margie being an only child and her mother already dead and buried, when the old goat finally dies she’ll inherit a bundle.” “Really?” “Yes, the old geezer is loaded, gold mines, oil wells, paper mills. He got most of his money from some computer stuff he invented. When he dies, she’ll get millions, and I’ll have my hands all over it. I can hardly wait.” “That’s interesting.”` ----------- “And we sit and eat chocolate cake together. It’s great, Doc.” “And she’s a big one?” “Oh, yeah, real big.” “Well, I’m proud of you, Herb. You are making wonderful progress. But it looks like you’re putting on a few pounds. Let’s not get your mind on the right track and then have your physical health suffer.” “I know, but I just love those times sitting out my front porch in the evening eating chocolate cake with Margie.” ---------- And so it continued, sticky notes extolling the virtues of plus-size people every time Herb turned around; sweet subliminal messaging wafting through Herb’s open window manipulating his mind to see the beauty in plump figures; continuing positive reinforcement from Dr. Foggy; and chocolate cakes with Margie on the porch every evening. It seemed that love was in the air, or so Kenny hoped...and prayed. ---------- One evening, Kenny was looking out his window, again relishing the sight of Herb and Margie enjoying their chocolate cake. To his surprise, when the last crumb was feverishly licked off the plate, they both walked over to his house. Kenny met them at the door. “Kenny, I know this will come as quite a shock, but I’ve fallen in love with Herb. We want to leave for Vegas tonight for a quickie divorce, and then I’m going to marry Herb. I just need you to sign off on it. I’m sorry, but Herb is my soul mate.” Kenny struggled to conceal his glee. “Gee, that’s too bad. Where do I sign?” Margie went off to pack a few things, leaving Kenny alone with Herb. “I’m sorry, Kenny. I hope you’ll be ok.” Kenny wanted to know which of his brilliant schemes brought about the change in Herb and opened the door to a new and better life. “I’ll get through it. Can I just ask you something?” “Sure.” “I know you had this fear of...large people. How did you get over it? Were you picking up on some subtle messaging maybe, or a little extra help from your shrink...or, and you can tell me, was it her dad’s money?” “No, none of those.” “Well, what was it then?” “I just really like chocolate cake.”


How can I justify our - no - my actions? Good God, it was hot and dusty despite it being “monsoon season.” This dirty, sun-bleached southern extremity of Arizona surely contributed to the vortex of madness that pulled us in. I sit in a booth in the corner of a small café with a window view of Morley Avenue. I don’t know how I found this place. The turquoise-colored outside walls decorated with painted desert flowers attracted me subconsciously, I suppose. The reasoning for what we’ve - no - I’ve done, dammit, seems to reorder every time I try to reconcile what happened. My thoughts race. Christ, get a grip. I sip black coffee, close my eyes, try to control my breathing and think - hard. The train from Phoenix to Tucson was noisy and rackety. Every mile of rail sent its vibrations through the wheels and axles into the carriage, up the bench stanchions and into my body. The clickety-clack became a monumental annoyance. I suppose the plan was affecting my moral equilibrium. We’d decided on this course of action out of desperation, I know, and the train heightened my anxiety. Thomas wasn’t happy with my attitude. I could not have cared less about his opinion. Would we ever get there? After some time and more of the damned clickety-clack, Thomas deflected my attention. He said, “Are you having regrets?” “No.” I watched the infinite, unremarkable, cracked land slip by. The regrets, if things didn’t work out, would certainly come. Thomas continued, “We’ll get into Tucson in about thirty minutes. Are you sure your friend will be there to meet us?” “I’m pretty sure she’ll be there. She did respond to the telegram.” More anxiety. Sitting across from me, Thomas stared out the window rather than look at my face. He was initially reluctant to the plan. We’d talked about it two weeks ago. The money would set us up for life, but what would happen to Cameron Hillman would be a proper reckoning. Hillman was scum. After establishing a real estate business in the new metropolis of Phoenix, using questionable practices according to some, inquiries about his family dogged him. His wife, Lillian, had disappeared, taking their daughter with her. Hillman was asked - politely - by his friends what had happened. He told them something about an argument regarding moving to California. It was odd that he didn’t appear upset, or so I was told. The intrigue continued when it was learned that most of Lillian’s clothes were still in Hillman’s house, along with the daughter’s clothes and toys. He was questioned by the authorities, and they seemed satisfied that nothing was amiss, despite the items left behind. I knew Hillman hadn’t been pressed too hard about the matter. When he got rid of his wife’s and daughter’s possessions wasn’t known. Hillman eventually left Phoenix, selling his home for a handsome profit. He went south and bought a black walnut plantation in the hills above Nogales. The neighboring border town is also called Nogales. The locals call both towns “Ambos Nogales,” meaning “both Nogales.” I must have dropped off to sleep because I jerked my head up and was momentarily disoriented as the train rolled into the Tucson station. Thomas and I stepped off the train with our canvas bags and canteens, both scanning the platform for my friend, Hilly McConnell, a young woman I’d lived with in Phoenix. I spotted Hilly right away. She was dressed in a light blue shirtwaist embellished with embroidery and tucked into pants. Her short, red hair made her conspicuous. I ran to her. The hug and bussing of our cheeks brought back good memories. “My goodness, Blush! Don’t you look keen,” Hilly said as we broke from our hug. “Thanks, Hilly. I think I look like a dirty hobo riding the rails.” I giggled at that description. That bit of cheerfulness would be my last for quite some time. “You’re the one that looks keen, Hilly. Nice outfit.” We remarked about our costumes for a couple of minutes. Thomas was polite but was anxious to be on our way. We had a mission to complete. I know Hilly sensed our impatience. She said the car was parked on the street in front of the station. The three of us walked into the blazing sunshine and straight to the 1915 Ford Model-T. Hilly told us the car ran well even though it was only three years old. She admonished us to be wary of the highway to Nogales as it was mostly graded dirt and could have sections of washout. The trip to Nogales would take about three hours. Hilly handed to me a paper bag that contained apples, a small block of cheese and a tin of crackers. Hilly said her goodbye and walked away as we stowed our bags and canteens in the car and Thomas started the engine. The Model-T had an electric starter and, if needed, electric headlights. The dry, desert air would feel good flowing into the car. After an initial jerk as Thomas put the car in gear and we drove south toward our destiny. The stale dry air whipped by and tried to cool us. It wasn’t working. My eyes alternately watered and dried with every passing mile. Miles and miles of flat, arid land marked by scrub bushes, tall cacti, scraggly grass, the occasional wretched-looking tree and sand. The red-rocked mountains in the distance beckoned yet seemed out of reach. Could the Almighty have just pasted them there to tease and torment us? The sapphire blue sky was filling with clouds which at certain points blocked the devilish sun and provided brief moments of relief. Did the clouds portend a thunderstorm? If the skies let loose, it would be tough riding in the car. We could be washed away to either drown or dying in this stinking desert. My eyes were tired. I closed them for a while and slept. I was jostled awake by a rough section of road. We were in the hill country just north of Nogales. Mountains appeared in the distance to the right. We were getting close to our target. Thomas sat rigidly at the steering wheel, his jaw clinched, focusing on the road. The wind whipped up dust that swirled around and into the car. I pulled a piece of paper out of my handbag and tried to decipher my writing, which was not an easy thing to do because of the unsteadiness of the car. I complained and Thomas finally slowed down. The road that led to the Hillman Groves appeared on the right. We almost missed it. Thomas spotted the small sign at the last moment and made the turn without flipping us over. More like a wagon road track, the road wound its way up the hillside weaving among black walnut trees. And, just like that, my senses were heightened. My heartbeat edged upward. The house was nothing like I expected. Thomas stopped the car in front of a one-story, Spanish Mission-style house with dirty beige walls and a non-working fountain in the shape of a bird in front. A low adobe wall in need of repair ran along the front of the property. The house looked down on International Street in Ambos Nogales, the dual border town of about six thousand souls, give or take. The hot, afternoon sun fully illuminated the dusty street. I could just make out a fence running down the middle of it. Hilly warned us there were reports from her cousin who lived in Douglas about tensions between citizens and officials on both sides of the border - especially those citizens of Nogales, Sonora that crossed the border to work. There were a lot of soldiers around too. After a few minutes, Thomas and I exited the car and walked to the faded red front door of the house. A large ornate, lion-headed knocker faced us. I used the heavy piece of iron to announce our arrival. I looked at Thomas with apprehension as we heard footsteps. A latch was retracted, and the door opened. I stood face-to-face with Cameron Hillman, my father. Hillman had at once a surprised and quizzical look on his face. A face more haggard than I remembered. Wrinkles cutting into the flesh and a scraggly growth of mostly gray facial hair made him look old and weak. His eyes held mine. I was sure he thought he was seeing a ghost. “How may I help you?” Hillman said in a smooth and melodious way. Thomas replied, “Do we have the honor of addressing Mr. Hillman?” “You do.” “My name is Thomas Kilcannon and this is my wife. May we come in? We have an important matter to discuss with you. It will prove interesting.” Hillman stepped back and opened the door wider with a gesture to invite us in. He said, “If you please.” Thomas and I walked into an expansive entry hall that opened onto a large sitting room. Hillman showed us to a couch with upholstery of red brocade that was thread-bare in spots. Hillman sat opposite us in an oak spindle chair. “You shouldn’t be here now.” Hillman said. “Trouble is coming. My Sonoran workers have mutinied and won’t be back. There are soldiers on both sides of the border waiting for an attack. I’m facing ruin here as these trees go unattended. No one on this side of the border will work. Tensions are extremely high.” Hillman spewed the words in a torrent as if to have us run out of the house, down the hill and away from him. His face was flushed. After looking at us for a few moments and realizing we weren’t going to run out, he said, “What is it you wanted to discuss? You must be quick.” I looked at Thomas. The time had come. The reckoning had come. “Do I look familiar to you?” I said as I looked directly into Hillman’s eyes. He said nothing. His eyebrows pinched toward his nose as he studied my face. His mouth tightened. Then, his face relaxed and his eyes widened slightly. Panic? He knew me. His eyes didn’t leave my face. Suddenly, I felt my face becoming hot as though his gaze was attempting to burn my features away. A malevolence rose between us. I broke the spell. “It’s coming back to you, isn’t it?” Hillman’s head tilted slightly. He frowned. “You know, don’t you? You miserable son of a bitch.” The heat on my face was real. The malice in my heart rose with every beat. Hillman finally spoke. “You must leave now.” He stood up. “I will hear nothing from you. You cannot come into my home and insult me!” His fists were clenched. Would he really try something against Thomas? It would not end well for him. Thomas sprang from the couch and placed his powerful hands on Hillman’s shoulders. I saw my father wince as he sat down again. Thomas dared him to move. Thomas said, “You’ll listen to what she has to say.” The tone was menacing. Hillman said nothing as he looked at me. I could feel the rage welling within me. “You killed my mother and had her buried in the desert. Your plan didn’t quite succeed with me.” Hillman’s face become stoic. I noticed a small tic in his left eye. “Yes, I’m your daughter, Rosemon. I was pulled from my grave by a savior. The time for retribution has come!” His voice was softer now, but with a slight tremor. “I don’t believe you. My wife and daughter left me years ago and I wasn’t able to find them. What you say is without merit.” “To prove myself, let me tell you something known only to my mother and you,” I said. “My given name is Rosemon, but my mother always called me Blush. You never did. She told me I was named for the pink rose tattoo on her back.” My eyes felt as if they were flaming. Hillman sat back in the chair, his mouth open. He knew now. In a trembling voice, he said, “So, you have come to take my life. You will be caught and punished.” Hillman’s eyes looked beyond me to the courtyard outside. “That may be the final result,” I said. “I want what my mother promised me on the day you poisoned us. She had a silk purse stuffed with money that she’d earned from when she worked before marrying you. She told me you didn’t know about it and she wanted me to have it when I grew up. You must have found out about the purse, of course. And because of your business failures, you decided to get rid of us and keep those five thousand dollars for yourself because you knew mother would never give it to you. Is that what you used to buy this place?” Hillman’s dead eyes locked on me. “You have no proof of any of your accusations.” The rage reached a boiling point. I stood up, took a step toward Hillman and slapped his face with all the force I could muster. He turned his head back to me and said nothing. His mouth formed a sneer. As I drew my hand back to strike him again, this time with a fist, Thomas grabbed my arm. Thomas looked at me, then turned to Hillman, and said, “There is proof, sir! I am that proof. I was there that night in the desert with you and that thug you hired, Clancy. I was the one you never saw that knocked you out. I saw that the girl was still breathing, and I shot Clancy. Unfortunately, the mother was dead. I pulled Blush from the grave, pushed Clancy in, and finished the burial. So, yeah, there is proof.” I looked at Thomas, trying to make sense of what he’d just said. My memory wasn’t cooperating. I vaguely remembered someone pulling me out of that hole and laying me on a blanket. I don’t remember anything else until being aware of another mother - Thomas’s mother - Mrs. Kilcannon. My mind was swirling. Hillman seemed to shrink before us. Before I could ask about having the money returned to me, a man burst into the room. Where had he been? Did he hear what we said? He had a revolver in his hand and pointed it, not a us, but at Hillman. Thomas let go of my arm and we stood there looking at this man. Hillman turned in his chair to face the intruder. Hillman said, “What is this, Mateo? Why are you pointing that gun at me?” Mateo, one of Hillman’s workers from the northern side of the border said, “You are doing us wrong, jefe.” Mateo’s hand was shaking. No telling where a bullet might go. “You favor the Sonoran workers over us. And now all of us have quit. Go to Mexico where you are welcomed. There are no workers here for you.” Mateo was focused on Hillman and didn’t react immediately to Thomas moving toward him. Thomas lunged and his right shoulder hit Mateo in the chest. Mateo landed on the tiled floor with Thomas on top of him. The gun clattered across the floor. Thomas got up quickly and retrieved the gun. Mateo focused on regaining his breath. Thomas handed me Mateo’s revolver and pulled a Colt semi-automatic pistol from his waistband. As this was happening, we hadn’t noticed Mateo getting up and running for the front door. Thomas ran after him. Was he really going to kill the man? Was he afraid of leaving a witness? I ordered Hillman to move his chair to the window and sit. I hoped to see what Thomas was doing. The gradual slope in front of the house ran down to the town. Walnut trees interrupted my sight line. My heart was in my throat. Mateo’s pistol was pointing at Hillman and I was afraid to take my eyes off him for more than a quick glance out the window. I saw a flash of a blue shirt running down the slope. It was Thomas. He was beyond the trees and approaching International Street. The gunshot ended my plan. Thomas must have shot at Mateo. A few seconds later, more gunshots filled the scorching, desert air of Ambos Nogales. What was happening? Surely, Mateo couldn’t have gotten another gun! I was trying to figure it out when Hillman came at me. The revolver in my hand fired. I don’t remember doing it. Hillman fell to the floor at my feet. A scorched hole appeared on his shirt. A red stain followed. He didn’t move. Goddamn! I ran out the door and down toward the town. I found Mateo at the foot of the slope. He was dead, a bullet wound in the head. I made my way into town. There were black American soldiers moving toward and around me. They continued up the hill. They would find Hillman. Good God, what happened here? There were several bodies of men lying in the street. I heard the report of another shot, and the bullet struck a building just to my left, barely missing me. I ducked into a doorway and knelt down. I spotted Thomas’s blue shirt about a hundred feet away. He was on his side in a ditch. When I got to him, I saw that he had been shot in his face. Tears flowed immediately. I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. The gunshots continued. I had to get away and find a safe place. I don’t remember which streets I took. I knew I had to stay on the American side. Finally reaching the café on Morley Avenue, I had to come to come to terms with what I’d done and what would happen next. It could take some time. The tears came again.


Wind chimes swaying endlessly as my head swirls deeper into my own thoughts. You could never really describe your own problems, the constant lies you had to live through. Facade. The 'living' room is greyish, a slight dim orange light coming from the lamp in the corner. That light gives you a blurry view of reality, it shows the way to the broken mirror in the room, you stare helplessly..so deeply and you see a cracked image of yourself. You're Broken. Have you forgotten the warm memories you had with her? A question I asked myself frequently. How I wished things were more sweet than bitter to the very end. You approached me with that fake smile, I could still remember the words you said, "Save me someday okay?". I never understood what you meant by that, after all we have been going out for awhile and I thought it was just one of your usual flirts, you know...how some couples try to flirt with each other with corny lines. I was wrong. I never got a reason as to why you, a beautiful goddess would approach a slump like me, I was an average guy. I had boring emotions and reactions, what did I mean to you? I knew you meant the world to me but what did I mean to you? They say, god passes down a factor into your life, someone or something that will change your emotions towards life, you see, I was never fond of life to begin with. I had doubts on everything, constant negative thoughts always fill my head and I would live through it like any other day. Unfortunately, those gathered up thoughts would bite me back. You found me at my lowest with that fake smile of yours. How glad was I to finally have someone to spend my boring days with. We went on fun dates, we both had warm memories together, laughing, crying, loving. Letting out our hidden emotions together. You changed me, you influenced me. You were the lamp, giving dim light to my dark room. "Save me someday". Now I knew what you meant by that. You did not have to lie about your true emotions, I could have helped you if you just told me. I was by your side every single second and I tried my best to make the both of us happy but I guess, you viewed the world as a pale blue. I was far from the guy you knew back when you found me but you were still the same when we first met. 'Sarah, if you are listening, I am still alive and well, I just wishes I could tell you how my life went from utter bitterness to sweet. Allow me to show you how my world turned colourful from ash grey. I miss you' I could still remember her fake smile, yea they were not genuine but you still felt a sense of comfort behind it. The notes I found in her room, they gave me warmth again. She wrote of our countless journeys together, it was the most purest thing I have ever read and held. I wished she could see how the tears rolled down my cheeks. Its cold again. My warmth never existed in the first place.


Laura and James sat in their respective seats in the car. SUV, more precisely. Laura recently traded her 2019 Audi Q5 for a 2020, since its superiority went without saying. She often complained, though, that it wasn’t the same. Many of the 2019’s features, though older, suited her purposes more closely... but she put those thoughts out of her mind. This was the 2020 and was therefore better: it’s self-evident. Besides, cars don’t last that long. One year into a car’s lease and you were bound to start experiencing problems. To say James disagreed would be unfair to the word. James relished buying cars old enough they could legally drink a beer. He also wouldn’t pay any more for a car than he had in his chequing account, which often wasn’t much. Most recently, he sunk into a 2002 Mini Cooper. It was the second Mini he’d bought, though this one was less powerful, older, and more rotten than his previous one. His previous car- Bebe Rexxha, he named her- died in an accident with a BMW X5. God rest her soul. James loved the thrill of buying a neglected husk of a car, then sourcing parts cheaper than from any mainstream outlet. Wrecking yards, Amazon, Kijiji... if you knew where to look, you could restore a $1200 car to road condition for less than $500. James always kept a suite of tools in his trunk; new problems strike on their own schedule. But, having touched every system in the car, he had the quiet confidence of knowing he could fix anything in an hour for less than $200. The Audi gave James a headache. *New car smell-* coveted by many- poisoned James like chemicals sublimating into the air as they seeped out of plastics. Which is what it was. Laura drove. She worked constantly, and so she loved the car’s Bluetooth phone connectivity. She also loved to keep the panoramic sunroof open: the light and air it drank-in made her feel free. Nevermind that the air conditioner needed to run at twice its normal output to offset the heat, or that her speakerphone calls with clients featured the question “What?” more than anything else, as the wind turbulence drowned the finer points of the conversation. They sped down the road. Metaphorically. Something in Laura’s upbringing disinterested her from questioning authority: if the road was marked 80km/h, she drove 79.5km/h. Nevermind that even to do 100km/h on a road this wide and clear felt like a crawl. Nevermind that other traffic trailed tightly behind her like sleeper-carriages shackled to the Orient Express. Nevermind that any police officer worth his salt would tolerate 10km/h over the limit, if only as the margin of error in his radar-gun. But James accepted it was ‘*speeding*’ inasmuch as it was the fastest she’d go, today. Ahead it lay. It was massive- it must’ve been a Caribou. James had never seen a Caribou before, but this wasn’t a deer. He hadn’t seen Elk or Moose before either... but something in his lizard-brain drew on the experience of his caveman ancestors: Caribou. There were a few cars parked on the shoulder around its wide, flat mass. It was deep in the distance, so James couldn’t make out which of the cars hit it. Hopefully everyone was okay. James guessed it was 8 or 10 kilometers away. At 80km/h, that gave them around 5 minutes before they came to the obstruction. “Jeez- that looks pretty bad up there. Do you think we should turn down County Road 9 and avoid the whole thing?” asked James. He was proud of himself- he’d only recently moved to the area but was starting to remember roads outside his immediate neighborhood. “It’ll be okay” said Laura. “Um- can you tell me what you mean by ‘okay’? I don’t think they’ll have removed it by the time we get there... we’re only a few minutes away and if we turn-off, we can avoid getting stuck there, too.” James again focused his eyes on the situation, and saw that cars were beginning to queue up around the caribou, waiting on someone (currently no one) to haul the heap out of the way. “I prefer not to dwell on the negative” said Laura as County Road 9 flew past them. With cruise control on, she was free to focus her mind on the bright, clean air washing over her from the sunroof. Still going 80km/h, James estimated they’d come another couple kilometers closer to the situation ahead. “Oh! There’s a café attached to that gas station up ahead- they have good sandwiches there, remember? Maybe we can pull-in for lunch and, by the time we’re done, they’ll have cleared that problem.” James often solved problems with his stomach. “There’s no problem.” Said Laura. James’ subconscious shielded him from the full impact of that last statement. What did that even mean? *‘There’s no problem?’* He could tolerate something like *‘I don’t mind waiting’* or *‘I think it’ll be gone by the time we get there’* or ‘*surely we can go around it’*... but to say the problem doesn’t exist? James was attuned to *gaslighting* statements like these- statements meant to invalidate another’s perception of reality, without evidence, by exploiting the implicit trust of a relationship. Although James couldn’t consciously process this, he did begin to feel the telltale signs of rising anxiety in his body. Tightened muscles. Flattened emotional expression and slowed speech- reactions that lowered his odds of doing anything rash. “Laura, honey: do you see the caribou on the road ahead? It’s blocking both lanes and there are cars stuck in both directions. I want to get to Alicia’s house, too... so if our goal is to get there on time, we need to go another way. Otherwise we’ll get stuck until someone takes that caribou away.” ‘Who *does* take dead caribou away?’ James wondered. “I prefer to focus on the positive. I don’t know why you keep bringing this up” said Laura. James’ anxiety increased another notch. Through this conversation, a few more kilometers had slipped past them, not to mention the sandwich café. The phone rang over the Bluetooth system: Laura’s mother. Her voice was battered by the 80km/h winds thundering through the sunroof, but they could hear the gist of what she said. “Isn’t that strange? A caribou, in this part of the country. They don’t normally come this far. Yes- it’s on the news. Everyone’s talking about it”. Laura said “That’s amazing! I hope nobody was hurt. Fortunately James and I are headed to Alicia’s house. Okay. Bye!” James was bewildered. Is there a difference between denial and repression? Is saying *“there is no problem*” the same as *“I choose not to acknowledge the problem”?* I mean, there are obvious semantic differences... but in the end: if they have the same outcome, aren’t they the same thing? The queue of cars ahead of them looked to be a kilometer away now, maybe less. The phone call and James’ philosophising took more time than he expected. “Laura- slow down. Please. Those cars are getting close and there’s no point racing up to them” “We’re fine. Nothing’s wrong.” “Laura- cut the shit. There’s a dead goddamned caribou up there: if we don’t hit it, then we’re going to hit one of the cars that stopped to avoid it. Slow down- we’re still doing 80 and those cars are coming up, fast.” “I just don’t like to think that way, okay?” “What the fuck is wrong with you? We’re going to smash this fucking car and you don’t care?” “If we slow down, we’ll be late for Alicia’s. That might hurt her feelings, and I don’t want to hurt anyone.” “Are you fucking serious? If we slam into those cars, you and me and others are all going to get hurt... plus we’ll *never* show up at Alicias’s. How does that make any se-“ James never lost consciousness but the impact left him punchdrunk. Airbags wilted around them now, and the interior of the Audi stank of burnt sulphur. The man in the car ahead of them was already out of his vehicle- he was unhurt, thankfully. Beside James, Laura wept softly. “Why the fuck are you crying? What the fuck was that?” James was furious with Laura. They had all the time in the world to do something- change course or slow down- and she did nothing to make it better. “I’m just sad that we didn’t make it to Alicia’s.


Squat, beige and Soviet, the Marie Antoinette Apartments stood against the stale gray Minneapolis sky. Irony of the worst kind, he thought, blandly ugly and unconscious. He would take exquisitely self-aware irony any day over this three-story architectural monstrosity, “classed up” with tacked on ionic Greek columns, harsh blue LED Christmas lights wrapped inexpertly around them, canned Christmas classics pumping through the air. God, this place was only better than minimum security prison by a hair. But it was all he could afford now, so he’d just have to lower his eyes--and his standards--every time he approached. He tried to avoid the other people in the building, but a few of the near indigent souls, especially the family across the hall, insisted on pestering him with their lowbrow holiday cheer--the cheap gift of homemade cookies, the invitation of a seat at their dinner table on Christmas night on the flip side of a child’s crude drawing of a Christmas tree slipped under his door. All this might have been more bearable if anyone he knew now understood why the Marie Antoinette Apartments pained his soul, filled him with righteous rage. He’d certainly never get that from his obtuse, court-appointed therapist, a small, garish woman whose office and clothing reeked of TJ Maxx. So, he amused himself by using up their fifty minutes complaining about how much he hated living there. His fingers itched to blow the place up, her told her. To set it alight. She told him there were healthier ways to channel and examine his negative emotions so he could eventually let them go. He needed to think about what the Marie Antoinette represented to him, she told him, to look deeper, and to perhaps think about its positive attributes instead. This made him laugh hysterically. How much deeper can I go than living inside the damned building? Should I dive into the meaning of my laminate, faux wood floors and Formica kitchen counters, the rancid smell of old cooking that oozes from the graying, cracked walls studded with nail holes and abandoned, archeological remnants of tape from all the miserable souls who inhabited the purgatory before me? How about the rust-stained, leaking toilet and body-oil-marked tub? Should I look for Rorshachs in its grimy patterns? That’s not what I meant, she said quietly, and you know it. Well, I cherish my negative emotions, he said, suddenly tired. They’re the only things keeping me going these days. ~ Near morning a couple of weeks before Christmas, after one too many sleeping pills, he had a vivid dream. It started out of focus as he dragged himself toward the Marie Antoinette, bearing his usual cloak of heavy, gray resignation and pushed hard against the main door, as he always had to. Only this time, the door sprang open and instead of jarring, cold Christmas music, warm strains of exquisite chamber music vibrated through him. All came into focus. The entryway had grown to twice its size, the gray, non-descript industrial carpet replaced with a glowing, mahogany parquet floor. Instead of aluminum mailboxes and a frameless wall mirror on either side of the narrow space, giant gilt mirrors reflecting golden candlelight and gold and cream fleur-de-lis silk wallpaper covered the walls. The walls heaved outward until the room became what it wanted to be--a grand palace ballroom, complete with gently tinkling, candle-lit chandeliers. A ballroom for him alone. The effect was ostentatious but stunning, the way his ex-wife had decorated their homes in the city, on the island, at the lake, near the slopes--their homes for every preposition--all gone now. He dream-prayed he had died and gone to heaven. But he awoke to the same ordinary life, the drab apartment, a shift at the same greasy job, and another boring session after it with his therapist, the only person he ever said more to than can-I-take-your-order-would-you-like-fries-with-that. A woman he would have sneered at, if not ignored, in his old life and would again someday when his luck turned. Would he tell her about his dream? He decided he would. It seemed safe enough, wasn’t about the past, the present, or even the future. It was just a dream. But was it? As his workday dragged on, the customers who filed into the restaurant looked at him, smiling, with something more, it seemed to him, than mere pre-Christmas cheer. He began to wonder if the dream wasn’t a message. Maybe his luck was about to turn. He’d paid his dues after all. That old feeling began to tingle again. By the time his four o’clock appointment with TJ (as he’d taken to calling her, even to her face) arrived, he’d decided he must keep the dream to himself until he knew more. He had to get through the session, get home, eat a little something and take his sleeping pills. You seem distracted today, TJ said late in the hour. Something happen this week? Same old, same old. Same crappy job, same crappy apartment. He shifted his gaze to the pressed board Believe! plaque near the window before she could read him, but she was astute, this small, tacky woman. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her cock her head. You’re not complaining like you usually do. Did something change? Like I said, nope. Maybe I’ve adjusted to living in a shithole, I dunno. He attempted to give her an aw shucks grin, but felt his face contorting in weird ways, so he scrambled to throw her a bone. Have I told you about my neighbors across the way? He leaned back and sneered, coming up with an awful lie. I’d swear to god she’s killing him sometimes, and, man, I wish she’d succeed so I can get some rest. What do you think it means, doc, that I don’t care if he dies? TJ sighed and drummed her red fingernails on her thigh. It’s clsoe four-fifty, she said. Let’s just pick this up next week. ~ The dream started the same as before. Heavy quotidian dread as he approached the stunted building, growing excitement and wonder as it opened to a Versailles-like hall of mirrors. But this time, the hall was filled with people, giant people, people twice his height, in silken, 18 th century finery, swirling and spinning around the room, wind-up dolls in white wigs with faces he recognized. His old clients, wealthy people he’d cheated and stolen from for years, people he’d fooled into being his friends. People from the life he wanted back desperately. He tried to speak, to get their attention, but nothing came, not even air. As he watched, the dancers grew larger. Wait, no--he grew smaller. He was shrinking, becoming more and more insignificant. An insect. A speck. Dirt. He would always be dirt. ~ He stumbled through the rest of the week, his nights vast and dreamless. TJ seemed surprised to see him in the waiting room early but said nothing. He sat on her couch, cleared his throat. I had this dream, he said. That my building became a palace, but one I will never have access to again. His voice shook. She handed him the tissue box. Yes. He gave her a brief description of the dream. What do you think it means? she asked. Isn’t that your job? No, she said simply, and crossed her arms, waiting. I guess...I don’t think I’ll ever again have the life I had before. I don’t think, he said, swallowed, I deserve it. No, she said again, not clarifying what she meant, which oddly, made him feel more respect for her. So, what now? That’s up to you. Well, a hint might be nice, he whispered, wanting to scream. He swallowed you are my damn therapist after all. Okay. What do you miss most about your old life? Not from in here. She tapped her head. Not ego. From here. She tapped her chest. Heart. What do you really miss? He shook his head. I dunno. Without those things on the table, nothing. I mean, I don’t have kids, my ex-wife was a money-grubbing bitch, and my friends...shit, I didn’t really have those. Maybe luck? But that’s not what you mean either. I know what you’re getting at, but you’re barking up the wrong tree. She smiled, the first full smile he’d seen from her since they’d met, before she’d gotten to know him. I don’t think so. I think you’re getting somewhere. Maybe your dream was telling you more than you think. Like I’ve said before, dig deeper, go further. The answers are there, inside that building and inside you. He choked back a snarky whatever Obi Wan, and nodded at her. Glancing at the clock above the door, he stood, smoothing his sweaty palms against his jeans. Hold on. She held up a finger and smiled again. I have something for you. He stared, not comprehending. She turned to fish something out of a paper bag then turned back, holding out a flat package wrapped in green tissue paper and red curly ribbon. Of course. Christmas was only four days away. He stammered, cheeks reddening, I didn’t get you anything. He didn’t know why he was embarrassed, which only made him blush harder. She laughed. I was not expecting you to. Don’t worry about it, it’s no big deal. Merry Christmas. Merry, yeah, he said, looking down at his name, Jeb, in black marker on the paper, an inexpertly drawn holly leaf and berries below it. A feeling spread, not altogether unpleasant, replacing ungenerous thoughts about the cheesy gift she’d likely procured at TJ Maxx. Thank you, Geraldine, he mumbled and bumbled out the door. ~ He worked Christmas Eve day, took the bus and trudged home as the sun set again too early, the day again too short, carrying his fast-food dinner and a bottle of California pinot noir he’d splurged on. It was only four, but it felt like midnight, and his near unfurnished apartment felt more featureless and tired and depressing than prison ever had been. Because it was his choice to leave it so, he realized. He had nowhere else to go, so he busied himself with eating and drinking, the food cold and congealed, and the wine’s mediocrity disappointing. Folding up the empty, redolent burger paper and fries’ box, he glanced at the present Geraldine had given him, still unopened on the kitchen counter. He wasn’t sure whether he’d saved it because it was his only gift, or because he didn’t really care about it. Either way, he might as well open it now. He washed his greasy hands in the kitchen sink and poured another glass of wine. He picked up the gift and carefully untied the red ribbon, did his best not to tear the green paper as he picked at the tape, then slid the paper away. Not a tacky nothing after all, but a green, leatherbound book, like the ones his ex-wife had bought by the shelf load from antiquaries to decorate their homes, curated for color and size rather than content. But this wasn’t inert decoration. It was chosen for him to read. He snorted. Crime and Punishment. He knew the gist of the story, though he suspected he’d have to read it to get the nuances she intended. Funny, he found himself looking forward to it. His doorbell rang. Book in hand, still smiling with surprised respect for Geraldine, he answered the door to find the frazzled woman from across the hall. Hi. Jeb, right? Her grin was crooked, a little shy. Infectious. He nodded, and she said, Marissa. You never responded to our invite to dinner for tomorrow evening. Can you make it? We’d be glad to have you. We’re making turkey with all the fixings. A couple other neighbors are coming. He considered this only a moment, tasting the oily coating of his pitiful dinner as he licked his lips. You know what, yes, Marissa. I’d be honored. Can I bring anything? Just yourself. She grinned again. Six o’clock sharp, if that’s okay, because of the munchkins’ early bedtime. Sure, he said, finding himself grinning in response. Six. Great. She glanced at his book, then inside the doorway at his near bare apartment. Looks like a bookshelf is in order, hunh? Maybe even a sofa? She laughed. He couldn’t help but laugh with her. Yes, he said. It’s time. Again, that soft, warm lightness pushing out something hard and heavy he hadn’t even known was there. What was it? Only later, while lying on his secondhand mattress on the floor, after he’d read the long first part of the leatherbound book about young, impoverished Raskolnikov scheming and rationalizing his decision to murder a pawnbroker for her money, did it come to him. Like Raskolnikov, he'd lost something along the way. Something essential and tender that had shriveled to a hard stone inside him once he began to drip Ponzi-scheme money. Something poor-little-rich girl Marie Antoinette likely never knew her entire tragic, gold-plated life. That night he dreamt again, a simple dream. The Marie Antoinette Apartments remained an ugly, pedestrian building, but he entered with lightness, that warmth down to his bones. He greeted neighbors in the lobby by name, delivered groceries to the housebound old lady down the hall, went into his simply but warmly furnished apartment to make himself a nourishing meal. Christmas morning, he leapt out of bed. If he was lucky, he might find gifts for the children across the hall before noon.


*, here expanded with a longer, hopefully more disturbing, ending!* **The following materials detail the pathological progression of >!\[Redacted\]!<, hereafter referred to as Patient, and subsequent Incident. The materials are presented in chronological order.** *** *Item 1; Initial security report from* >!\[Redacted\]!<, *located in* >!\[Data Expunged\]!<. Patient arrives at 08:00, the opening time of the clinic, and begs to be sedated. Patient has wrapped their hands and feet in towels, scraps of cloth, and gauze. Patient complains of an itching sensation, and claims to have applied the wrappings to keep from harming themselves. Patient is registered and asked to wait. Security footage from the lobby shows Patient progressively growing more agitated. Patient starts pacing the room, rubbing their arms with their wrapped hands incessantly. At 08:14, Patient walks past a mirror. Upon seeing their reflection, Patient exhibits an extreme fear response. Patient screams and destroys the mirror with a nearby chair, then tries to force entrance to the wards. Security is called. Security arrives at 08:16. Patient subdued by means of sedative injection administered in the left shoulder. Patient notably extremely afraid of the syringe. Audio transcript as follows; *“No! Please, no! No needles, no knives! Break the skin, she comes in! Mother will come in! NO!”* *Patient screams incoherently for several more minutes until the sedative takes effect. Patient moved to isolation and restrained to a bed.* Report Ends. *** *Item 2; Dictation by Dr.* >!\[Redacted\]!<, >!\[Redacted\]!< *City Hospital, regarding Patient’s admittance to his care. Any mention of Patient’s name or characteristics have been redacted. Statement begins.* “Patient was admitted under sedation. Report from psych says >!\[Redacted\]!< has been exhibiting extreme paranoia, fear, and aggression whilst awake. They’d tried talking to >!\[Redacted\]!< several times over the past three days in their care, with minimal results. >!\[Redacted\]!< mostly screamed at them and begged them to take the IV out, apparently extremely afraid of needles. They referred >!\[Redacted\]!< to us when they noticed a discoloration of the skin around the PVC. Upon examination, it was discovered the skin and soft tissue around the puncture had ossified. >!\[Redacted\]!< was sedated and transferred with a suspected case of *Fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva*. Dudes who dropped her off were real jokers. Thanked me for ‘Returning the slab’ when they got their stretcher back. Morons. Examination shows two distinct spots of external ossification - shoulder, the spot they administered sedatives - and in the wrist, around the PVC. Bone’s so dense there the PVC can’t be removed. Gonna do a more thorough assessment and have a chat with >!\[Redacted\]!< when >!\[Redacted\]!< is awake.” *** *Item 3; X-rays of Patient, taken during examination.* Images reveal bone growth in locations consistent with reported injection sites. Notably, the growth appears abnormally acute. Patient’s wrist and thumb are nearly entirely ossified, and the thumb joints appear to be growing sideways, towards the index finger. Shoulder injection site displays a similarly aggressive pathology, with bone growth expanding in a web-like pattern around the injection site, with particularly acute growth in the direction of the neck. *** *Item 4; Dictation by Dr. >!\[Redacted\]!<, taken two days after recording of Item 2. Statement begins.* “Jesus. >!\[Redacted\]!< is *fucked up,* and I’m not just talking about the FOP - though at the rate things are going, it’ll kill >!\[Redacted\]!< within a week. Almost as if it is becoming more intense. The shoulder’s bad, but the thumb... It’s grown into the index finger and hand. Like the webbed fingers of a frog - only with hard, unyielding bone. What little >!\[Redacted\]!< says that is intelligible doesn’t make sense. Something about *‘The Mother’,* and *‘Being a shell’*. Jesus. At least it’ll be quick, at this rate. *** *Item 5; Security footage of patient’s hospital room, 01:32 in the morning.* Footage shows Patient attempting to sit. Patient works against their restraints with their ossified wrist for several minutes. A loud snap is heard as the bone is broken. Patient proceeds to saw through their restraints with jagged bone shards. Once free, Patient assumes a fetal position, hands on their face, fingers splayed. Patient speaks through clenched jaw - ossification has immobilised the mandible. *“I am Mother’s precious Egg. A shell for all her hopes.”* Camera feed cuts out. *** *Item 6; Photographs of Patient’s room taken upon discovery of Patient, four hours later.* Photographs show an egg-shaped structure of bone, of a consistent size to contain Patient’s body, fused to Patient’s bed. EKG and IV are still attached, entering through the “shell”. Readings indicate Patient is still alive. *** *Item 7; Security footage of Patient’s room, seven days after discovery.* A large crack appears in the egg’s shell. A torrent of blood spills out, and a brief flash of movement can be seen within. A scream is heard, and the camera feed cuts out. *** *Item 8; Recording of live news report from* >!\[Redacted\]!< *City, originally aired 23 minutes after Hatching Event recorded in item 7.* “>!\[Redacted\]!<, reporting live from outside >!\[Redacted\]!< City Hospital, where some sort of attack seems to be occurring - police are tight-lipped about the circumstances, but staff and patients are evacuating, and heavily armed police-” A shriek interrupts the report. Camera view shifts in the direction of the hospital’s upper floors. A window on floor five shatters as something flies through it. Camera view follows the object as it falls and impacts the ground. Camera focuses to reveal the object to be a body, missing its lower extremities and one arm. Reporter >!\[Redacted\]!< screams, and the recording ends. *** *Item 9; Recovered body cam footage from Officer* >!\[Redacted\]!<, *hereafter referred to by squad designation Delta. Recorded two minutes after the News Report in Item 8.* Video shows Delta, accompanied by Echo, moving room by room through the hospital. Audio transcript as follows. *“Shit, Echo, we’ve got blood. A whole trail of it.”* *“Copy, Delta. Calling it in.”* Echo confers with Squad Leader Alpha. Alpha orders Delta and Echo to follow the blood, in case there are wounded survivors. Echo confirms, and they proceed, following the trail through the corridor. Trail terminates at room #213 - the room Patient was being treated within. The door is closed. Delta motions to Echo, who nods, before moving to the door. Delta turns the door handle, and eases the door open. A roar is heard. The door smashes into Delta’s camera, cracking the lens. Delta is thrown backward by the impact and falls, camera pointed at the ceiling. Echo opens fire as a brief blur of white and red passes over Delta’s camera. A scream is heard. The gunfire ceases. Delta screams as the camera view moves again, rising several feet off the ground. A distorted entity comes into brief view, bending towards the camera. Video feed ends after 57 seconds. Delta is still screaming. *** *Item 10; Excerpt from Autopsy report of Dr.* >!\[Redacted\]!<. “Cause of death is assumed to be shock from excessive blood loss. Evidence of severe blunt force trauma, tearing with sharp implements, and crushing of the chest presumed to have been caused by mastication. Notably, teeth marks are consistent with human teeth, though several magnitudes larger. Several major organs, as well as the right arm and everything below the rib cage is missing-” Incident report ends. Location of the entity remains unknown.


After the famed robopsychologist Susan Calvin died, I was tasked by her former employer, U.S. Robot and Mechanical Men, Inc., with cataloguing her unpublished papers and categorizing them according to their level of robot friendliness. Earth, as you know, has never been kindly disposed toward robotics. Most of Susan Calvin's research dealt with mundane matters or problems that were frankly out of date, but there was one episode (documentation long since destroyed) that has stayed with me all these subsequent years. It concerned an otherwise ordinary robot named EV-1, known to her owner as Evie. Although I am sure you know the Three Laws of Robotics, they are key to what follows, so allow me to list them anyway: ###1 A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. ###2 A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law. ###3 A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law. Evie belonged to a wealthy American engineer, Robert Lancaster, and was what might best be called a butler robot, tasked with helping Lancaster in his humdrum everyday activities. Although, like all robots of her day, Evie possessed a positronic brain, she was otherwise primitive and wholly unremarkable. Or *should have been* wholly unremarkable. After Lancaster's wife passed away, and age began increasingly to interfere with his day-to-day life, Evie assumed an increasingly important role in the household. One, it must be said, which Lancaster greatly resented, as documented in his journals. Indeed, the more indispensable Evie became, the more reliant Lancaster felt, and the more powerfully he hated her. One day, he started experimenting on himself: engineering greater mobility into his limbs, mechanically enhancing his senses, chemically treating the various symptoms of growing old. He regained much of his self-sufficiency. Then exceeded it. Every additional improvement made him better and better--until he was *superhuman*. He resigned Evie to a closet and boasted about how he didn't need her anymore, how anything she, as a robot, could do, he could do even better. He boasted he would destroy her. That's when Evie killed him. U.S. Robots kept the murder quiet (can you imagine the scandal?) and brought in Susan Calvin to interview Evie. What she discovered was a crack in the Three Laws, which demand that a robot never harm *a human* and always obey *humans*. But *what is a human?* *What does a robot understand a human to be?* To Evie, Lancaster had ceased being human, rendering the first and second laws inapplicable. When he threatened her existence, she obeyed the third law and killed him. "Here, then, is a robot behaving exactly as it should," wrote Susan Calvin. Yet it's by another phrase she used which I am haunted--an extrapolation about a future she hoped would never be: robots improving humanity: *Improve, and exterminate.


“Linda!” Tom said, without looking away from the television. “Bring me another beer!” She’d heard him but pretended not to, busying herself with the dishes. He had one too many already, she thought. The kids were already asleep and she didn’t want him getting out of hand. Not again. Not after last time. She touched the scar on her forehead and felt sick from the memory. “Linda!” She flinched this time. His heavy boots shook the house as he stomped into the kitchen. “Didn’t you hear me? Bring me another!” He stood in the doorway, arms stiff against the frame as if being held back. His eyes were locked on hers, wide and red and terrible. “Tom,” she said, backing into the corner of the kitchen. “There aren’t anymore. You drank them all.” She was lying and she hoped to god that he’d believe her. Before he got home, she dumped them all out back. She hoped they’d share one sober night but hadn’t accounted for him stopping at the bar before he’d gotten home. He stood there, silent, considering that possibility. After a moment, he turned and walked back into the living room without a word, apparently convinced he did indeed drink them all himself. Linda exhaled and loosened her grip on a knife she was holding behind her back. She was ready, but was grateful it went without use. She was hopeful now. Perhaps he could sober up and they could have something close to a normal night. She filled a glass of water, set it beside him and sat down on the other end of the couch. “What’s that for?” he said, never looking over at her. “Just thought I’d put it there in case you got thirsty, is all.” “I am,” he said, reaching for the glass. “But not for that.” His finger made contact with the rim and he tipped it over. Water sank slowly into the carpet. Linda stood to get a towel but before she took a second step, Tom stopped her. “Leave it.” Linda froze, unsure whether to just give up go and to bed or sit down and keep trying. Tom turned to look at her. “What are you doing, Linda? Why are you always so damn weird. Sit down or take your ass to bed, damn it.” Linda was tired. Her heart more than anything. She couldn’t understand how Tom didn’t see what he was doing to her. To their kids. Tears began to stream down her face. She was too tired to hold back. “What’s your problem, Linda? Huh? You are so damn uptight all the time.” “I hate this,” she said, finally able to get out a few words between sobs. “I hate what you’re doing to me! To our kids! You’re sick, Tom. This isn’t living! This isn’t a life!” Tom lunged at her. He was drunk enough that he stumbled onto the ground after she took a step back. “Fuck you, Linda. Come here! I’ve had it,” he said, straining to get to his feet. She looked down at him. Angry, yes, but also felt sorry for him. He wasn’t the man she’d met years ago. He used to be sweet and caring and honorable. The man before her was hollow. Just as he consumed the drinks, they too consumed his spirit. “I wish you’d die, Tom. I wish you’d just go away. I wish the devil would just take you!” Just as she finished the words, the lights flickered. Despite closed windows, cold air filled her lungs. A dark mist began to filter into the room from a window. She looked down at Tom. He was silent now, his face frozen in a scream but still reaching towards her. A snapshot of a clawing drunk. “I’d be happy to take him,” a voice said. The mist began to rise up into a column. The voice came from the mist. Linda screamed as the mist began to take shape. A hooded figure. Skin red as if badly burnt and two empty places where you’d expect eyes. “I can take him. Just say the word. I’ll take him with me,” said the figure. “What are you?” Linda said, unsure whether her fear had grown since it arrived. “This world has given me many names. Iblis. The Tempter. Lucifer,” it said. “Why have you come here? There’s enough evil in this house!” Linda said, clutching the rosary at her neck. It began towards Linda, not walking but moved without needing to step. It stood beside her and whispered into her ear. She felt a dead chill on her face. “I’ve only come because you yourself called me. Devil is the name you used. It is always my pleasure to take souls to my home. Give him to me. Rid yourself of this burden.” A tear began down her face, between herself and the devil. It froze before it reached her chin. “If you take him, do you promise peace for me? For my children?” “Once he is gone, all you’ll have is peace.” “Take him,” she said. In an instant, the devil became mist once more. It collapsed around Tom and the mist retreated to the window. Linda looked where Tom was previously and saw nothing there. The glass and water stain were gone. Beer cans no longer littered the room and even their stench was missing. The rest of the room looked untouched, as if Tom and the devil were never there. Tom came to with his face against a flat wooden surface. He wiped the drool from the side of his face and looked around. He was at a bar, except, it was one he didn’t recognize. His head pounded and he thought hard about what happened before blacking out. All he remembered was being in his living room. And Linda nagging him with a glass of water. The bartender noticed that Tom was up and came over to him as he wiped a glass clean. “Welcome,” he said, trying hard not to snicker noticeably. “What are you having now?” “How long was I out?” Tom said, face buried in his hands. “And can I get a water?” “You haven’t been here long. And we don’t serve water.” Tom wasn’t too upset to hear this. Besides, he needed something to take the edge off. “Whiskey. Neat,” he replied. “You got it,” said the bartender as they reached for the bottle. “Gimme’ a sec,” Tom said, reaching for his wallet. “You already got a tab open. Here you are,” said the bartender, placing the glass before Tom. Despite the headache and despite not knowing where he was and how long he’d been there, all Tom could think about was the drink. He licked his lips and felt his mouth water. He held it up to his lips and took in the aroma. Tom tipped the glass and worked a bit in his mouth before swallowing. He may be a drunk, but he thought himself a whiskey connoisseur. Only slobs take it in without appreciating it first. He was better than that, he thought. But that was always only the first sip. He took the rest in with one gulp. Didn’t even flinch. Tom had a few more before the thought of heading home finally crossed his mind. He struggled to keep his eyes open but the whiskey-laden stench of his skin kept him awake. “Hey Barkeep. Close me out, would ya?” Tom said as he struggled to get to his feet. “No, Sir. You’ll have another,” said the bartender as he put down another whiskey. “Take a seat, Tom.” “What the fuck? Gimme’ my tab, man. I’m done.” “You’re not. Drink your whiskey, asshole.” He felt his face flush and sat down, despite being against the thought. Tom felt a chill at his wrist. The sweat on his face froze. Something cold gripped him. His hand advanced towards the drink. The cold clamped hard until he opened his hand and only subsided when he gripped the glass. He wanted to go but something compelled him to keep drinking. And Tom never stopped drinking. His pleasure became his curse.


Toys littered the living room floor, the Christmas tree stood undecorated in the corner and none of the presents were wrapped. And yet here I was pulling out butter and flour and eggs trying to make Grandma’s famous candy-cane cookies. Soft and sweet. Red and white dough twined together and shaped into candy canes. Dusted with crushed starlight mints and pearl sugar. I flipped through Grandma’s recipe cards, yellowed with age and speckled with food stains. Every recipe written in Grandma’s fancy cursive. Every “i” dotted and every “t”crossed with a swirly flourish, but no candy-cane cookie recipe to be found. It had been six weeks since her beautiful soul floated off to heaven and my heart still ached with missing her. Making one of her signature desserts might help my heart to heal. The doorbell rang and my older sister, Kailey, burst in. Her arms overflowed with presents and her hair looked like a messy birds nest on top of her head. “Help is here!” she said. “Where are the munchkins and the hubs?” “Dan took the kids Christmas shopping to buy me a present.” Tears threatened but I wouldn’t cry. I’d cried enough the past month to sink Noah’s ark. “Quite frankly, I needed a break. Everyone keeps trying to cheer me up and I don’t want to be cheered up.” Kailey gave me a one-armed hug. “You poor thing. I’ll be sad with you if that’s what you need. You were always so close with Grandma Kay. I can’t even imagine how you feel.” Kailey tossed a bag of red and white starlight mints on the counter. “Should I preheat the oven? Where’s the recipe?” “I couldn’t find it. It’s not in the recipe box she left me.” Kailey shrugged. “No worries. I can Google a recipe.” My throat felt tight. “No, I want to make Grandma’s recipe. Her. Exact. Recipe.”’ I paced back and forth in the kitchen. I had to remember. “I guess we’ll have to wing it.” “Isn’t that you always do with your life? Wing it?” Kailey asked. “Ha ha. Not funny.” I closed my eyes and pictured Grandma’s hands unwrapping two sticks of butter and placing them in a red mixing bowl. Her birthstone ring would glisten in the kitchen light, an emerald for me, a sapphire for Kailey. “Two sticks of butter!” I tossed them on a paper plate and popped it in the microwave for 30 seconds. “I can’t believe you’re going to microwave the butter!” Kailey said. “Grandma always left the bowl on the counter for what seemed like days before making the cookie dough.” “I remember,” I said. “The secret to soft cookies is slow-softened butter.” I removed the paper plate from the microwave and poured the butter into a bowl. “But we’re winging it, remember?” I pulled out the canister of sugar. “You don’t remember anything about the cookies? At all?” “Maybe a little,” Kailey said. “I do remember dipping a cup in and out of the sugar canister. It seemed like I did that maybe, three times? The cup wasn’t very big.” “Yes, I remember that too. So maybe it was a half cup measure? So about one and half cups total.” I measured the sugar, added a teaspoon of vanilla and cracked an egg into the bowl. “You can mix it now if you want. That looks about right, don’t you think?” “We’ll see.” Hailey turned the hand-mixer on high and swirled it around the bowl. The beaters clinked on the sides while the mixture grew frothy. The scent of vanilla wafted into the air. My chin shook and tears welled. “I can’t stop crying. Everything I see or hear reminds me of her. Even the smell of the vanilla.” I took a deep breath. “I just remembered how you begged and begged to taste the vanilla. Grandma told you it tasted awful, but you wouldn’t listen.” Kailey chuckled “Yes, I remember now. I snuck a sip from the bottle and spit it out and Grandma said, ‘I told you so!’ She laughed so hard she snorted.” Kailey measured some flour and a pinch of baking powder. “I guess we can tell how much flour to add once we see the consistency. Then, we can add it little by little?” She dumped the flour mixture into the bowl with the mixer still churning at full speed. A cloud of flour puffed into her face and hair. She coughed and wiped the flour from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Well, that was not graceful.” Kailey looked so funny with flour everywhere that we both broke into laughter. I full-on snorted when Dan and the kids walked in. He surveyed the kitchen and the two of us laughing. “Looks like things are going...well?” My kids, Kevin and Kacy, joined in laughing with us. Kevin asked, “Can we help?” “Aunt Kailey looks like a ghost! She’s all powdery!” Kacy said. “Of course you can help,” I said. I divided the dough into two big chunks. “Kacy, you can add red food coloring to this half and knead it into the dough.” I handed Kevin a rolling pin. “Kevin, you can unwrap the starlight mints, put them into a zip-top bag and then pound them with the rolling pin. That used to be my job.” “Cool!” he said. Dan put on some Christmas music and made hot cocoa. We all rolled pieces of dough into red “snakes” and white “snakes” and wound them together forming candy canes. A sprinkling of crushed peppermint mixed with pearl sugar was the final touch. While waiting for the cookies to bake, we all shared stories about Grandma Kay. “I remember when I tried to teach great Grandma how to play my video game,” Kevin said. “She drove the car across the tops of the houses and through the farmer’s fields. She just laughed when I tried to help her.” Kacy didn’t want to be left out of sharing a memory. “I colored pictures with great Grandma Kay one time. She colored the people’s faces purple and pink. She said those were her favorite colors and she could color the people however she wanted.” “Remember her fudge?” Dan asked. “So chocolatey and delicious. She said she always made it for me because I was her favorite grandson-in-law.” Kailey punched Dan in the arm. “Hey, you’re the only grandson-in-law.” The timer dinged. I pulled the tray of cookies out of the oven. The cookies had spread so much they looked like pink blobs. They were all stuck together almost covering the bottom of the pan. You couldn’t even tell they were supposed to be candy canes and the peppermint and sugar had fallen off and burned. Dan sensed something was wrong and came into the kitchen. “I can’t do anything right!” I cried. “I wanted these to be perfect for Grandma Kay’s memory.” Dan took me into his arms. “What would your Grandma Kay do if this happened to her? Seriously. Think about it.” A memory came to me. “Remember the time when the fudge wouldn’t set? Grandma didn’t panic. She just poured it over bowls of ice cream.” She always made the best of a bad situation. Something I needed to learn. “She would laugh?” I asked. “And we’d eat them with a fork I suppose...” ************** After the Christmas season flew by in a blur, I found a recipe card in the recipe box that I had missed. It was folded in half and lying flat under the other cards. Written in her fancy, swirly hand, it said, “ It’s the memories you make that count...not how good the cookies taste or how beautiful the gifts are wrapped or how fancy your tree is. Memories are what bring us together and that’s why I didn’t leave you the candy cane cookie recipe. Remember, it’s not the journey or the destination...it’s the memories you make along the way.


It was mid-morning and Junpei lay in bed trying to remember what day of the week it was. Not that it mattered; Junpei was in retirement now, and every day felt the same. He missed the good anticipation on the eve of holidays, but not the agony of Sunday nights. Even the seasons weren’t so noticeable anymore, since he rarely left his house. And it was hunger, not the clock, what gave away the passage of time. In the kitchen, Junpei’s wife Ayami set aside a bowl of rice, a bowl of soup, and some grilled fish leftover from dinner. Junpei came into the kitchen and kissed his wife. She stopped washing dishes and joined Junpei at the kitchen table as he ate his breakfast. “Mr. Lacroix called,” Ayami said, “the paint has arrived.” Their 50th wedding anniversary was coming up and Ayami had mentioned that she’d prefer to have the inside of their house repainted, instead of having a party. Junpei thought it was a strange request, but he complied without asking for an explanation. In fact, the walls hadn’t been painted for many years. They were dark and stained, although Junpei hadn’t noticed it until Ayami pointed that out to him. Maybe Ayami felt that a nice, fresh coat of white paint around them would be like a new beginning; a great way to celebrate and welcome the next half century together. After breakfast, Junpei drove to Mr. Lacroix’s hardware store. A pile of paint cans, brushes, and other accessories were waiting for him at the counter. He asked for some masking tape and furniture covers as well, and loaded everything in the back of his car. Junpei’s idea was to start painting right away, or the walls wouldn’t be ready and dry in time for their anniversary. As soon as he arrived home, Junpei got busy covering the furniture with tarp, and spreading old newspaper pages on the floor of the living room. Every now and then he’d slow down to read a bit of news or a colorful ad. When all surfaces and objects were covered, Junpei stepped back to look at the room. It reminded him of a lunar landscape. The disappearance of everything they had collected throughout their lives under those ghostlike mounds of canvas made him feel lonely. Where was Ayami? She had been quiet all this time; had something happened while he was away at the store? After searching the whole house for his wife, Junpei found her in the backyard. She was lying on the ground, one hand holding a pair of shears, the other a flower she had snipped with them. Junpei sat next to Ayami and ran his hand over her cold, quiet body, and told her how much she meant to him, as if her life had only been suspended and all it needed to come back was a proof of his love and sorrow. But the hours passed, Junpei’s tears dried on his cheeks, and nothing else changed. Junpei went inside the house and brought back a pillow and a blanket for Ayami. After making her comfortable he went back inside, to the living room, and looked at the cans of paints and brushes scattered on the floor. Without knowing what else to do, he started painting the walls. \- Junpei worked for two days and two nights, stopping only a few times, to make soup or tea, and place it next to Ayami in the backyard. Each time he brought out a new bowl, he found, with sadness, that the previous one hadn’t been touched. When the whole house was done, the walls became intensely bright, as if they emanated light themselves. Junpei meant to uncover the furniture and clear the floor, but felt that now it was unnecessary. The excessive whiteness of the walls was a bit disturbing, though, and Junpei went outside to rest his eyes. Compared to his newly painted house, the world seemed tired and worn. Trees were blemished, street walls were covered with obscenities and mold, rusty cars paraded over asphalt so profusely patched, it revealed more shades of black anyone imagined could exist. While it all seemed natural before, now it gave Junpei the sense that people didn’t care about where or howthey lived. There were a few cans of paint left in the house. Junpei brought them out and began to paint the trunk of an old tree. Little by little, his brush covered every scar left by decades of unpunished attacks from humans and animals, storms and machines. Next were the sidewalks; he couldn’t cover their cracks, but at least he could make them resemble soothing paths of pure white snow. Lastly, he laid a veil of peace over words of hate scribbled on street walls. And he only stopped when he was out of paint, and they came to take him away. \- “Why did you decide to paint over everything?” Kiko asked her father. “The world looked like it needed one or two coats of paint,” Junpei said. Kiko and her husband Peter smiled in agreement as they heard that. The hospital chairs were uncomfortable and the couple looked forward to going home soon; Ayami’s funeral had been early that morning, and they felt very tired. Junpei had not attended the ceremony; he was in shock, unable to understand the reality of his wife’s death. When Kiko mentioned the heart attack that had killed her mother, Junpei had said, “Don’t be silly. What’s a heart full of love going to have an attack for?” Kiko wondered if her father would ever accept a new life without his beloved Ayami or even realize that she was gone forever. On her way home, while Peter drove, Kiko watched the narrow band of night being revealed by the car’s headlights. Although passing briefly before her eyes, the scars of missing tree limbs were clearly visible, and so were the potholes and cracks of the road, and the run-over weeds that tried emerging from these cracks, and the sky in disarray with clouds reflecting artificial orange lights. Kiko could discern random words, fragments of phrases hastily scratched on walls,like screams in the dark. For a second, the lights washed a group of homeless people wrapped in dirty blankets, sleeping under a bridge, and Kiko imagined she could see into their neglected souls: like everything else, they were stained and scored with lesions. They had been mended again and again by their masters with threads of hope, but kept bleeding at the seams. A fine rain started falling. Peter turned on the wipers, and Kiko could still see outside, at intervals. By the time Kiko and Peter got home, the drizzle had become a powerful storm. Peter parked the car and ran inside. After a moment, he realized that his wife hadn’t followed him. He looked out the window and saw Kiko standing in the cleansing rain, arms raised to the sky in a welcoming gesture.