(iii) The one I struggle to understand. I spent 2019 mostly trying to recover. I dated on occasion, if for no other reason than to shake the rust off. Most of the dates I had were due to friends of friends; the *Stacie, I think you’d like this person, so I’m sending them your way* sort of dates. They were fun and lighthearted, but not longstanding by any means. I came out to my family on April 7th, 2019. In a way, it felt like a second birthday. It was a relief in a lot of ways. I took a girl on a date to the movies. We saw *Pet Sematary*. Not that it matters, but you can skip it. I wasn’t remotely scared. She was, on the other hand, terrified. She seemed annoyed that I wasn’t more moved by it. She ghosted me a few days later. Maybe for that reason. Maybe because of other reasons. I have no way of knowing, but I wasn’t upset about it, looking back. A little later in the year, I met up with a girl who seemed cool. We had a date at a local arcade. We didn’t have too much in common, but she seemed interesting. Our conversations were easy-going and she talked about herself openly. We agreed to meet up for a second date to get barbecue. We had a nice meal. She asked if I wanted to meet up again and I agreed; she had never been to a baseball game and there was one coming up that she asked me about. She ghosted me after I bought the tickets. I was slightly upset, but only because I spent $40 on tickets to a baseball game that I’d have to attend alone. (I ended up giving the tickets to my sister and brother-in-law.) Toward the end of the year, right around the end of October, I met a girl at the market around the corner from my then-employer. I saw here there often and we exchanged pleasantries. Sometimes, we ate together if I had time. I asked if she’d be open to having lunch and she agreed. She seemed nice, at least at first. She was rude to our server, though, and it killed any attraction I could have potentially felt. Somehow, we ended up ghosting each other, something I’m thankful for. After that, I took a pause again. I determined that I wasn’t quite ready for the fickleness of others, at least not then. I spent the remainder of 2019 alone, fifth-wheeling and continuing to mend the parts of myself that I felt needed it the most. I dabbled on dating apps, but strictly to find friends. I talked to a lot of interesting people; I kept conversations high-level, though. It seemed to work well for me. I found I wasn’t looking at other women romantically for the most part. Every now and then, I would see a pretty lady and feel some level of attraction, but it wasn’t quite the same. There were times I wondered if I’d ever get back to where I’d been before. 2020 quickly approached. The winter is my least favorite of all the seasons, thought it wasn’t particularly harsh this year. Valentine’s Day is never something I look forward to, mostly because I haven’t ever had a reason. This year was no different. No cheesy cards or “I love you’s” for me. Still, it’s nice to see love have a day of its own. I did my best to practice optimism and practice self-love. I made a list of all the things I like about myself and kept it handy with me throughout the day. I read it at different points in the day. It helped raise my spirits a bit. Right around this time, I started a new workout regiment. There was a bike-a-thon that was set to take place in the summer that I wanted to participate in. I had planned on honoring my grandpa and a former coworker who both lost their lives to cancer. The ride itself was a bit grueling, and it required a lot of stamina. It took up a lot of my time, and frankly, helped my self-esteem quite a bit. Shortly after, I began feeling ill quite a bit of the time. I figured maybe I had been working myself too hard; I had gotten a promotion, started a new workout regiment, and started eyeing school all in a short timeframe. It was a lot to handle. I had to drop something from my plate at some point. School had to wait a bit longer, I figured. I never deleted my dating apps. They stayed inactive, buried on the back-pages of my home screen. Occasionally, I would get a notification, but I rarely checked up on it. I felt I was in a good place mentally, and the thought of getting hurt again was daunting for me. In all honesty, as I look back, I had been wrestling with unresolved feelings. I didn’t want to pass that pain on to someone else. Around March, my employer began furloughing workers. I expected to be one of them, but I’m pleased to say I wasn’t. A few of my friends were affected, though. (Don’t worry - they all found work.) I had two options: To continue working in the office, or to work from home. Mostly everyone exercised the option of working from home. I wasn’t particularly excited about it. I am a textbook introvert in the sense that I simply need my own space to recharge. The thought of not being around people is not something I’ve handled well. I found I was in the minority with those feelings. I moved my entire office space into the guest bedroom of my parents’ house. I had a new office buddy: My cat - now my parents’ cat - Porschia. She could often be seen on my Zoom calls, even with clients. They thought it was charming, thankfully. Still, I missed the interaction I previously had with others. I headed back to the dating apps to see if I could find new pen pals. As it turned out, a lot of people had the same intention, so it wasn’t hard. It didn’t necessarily make conversation easier. People are people, and that includes people being shallow. I will admit I’m an average-looking person. Brown hair, blue eyes, short, a little chubby. I’ve been told a time or two I have a nice smile. Nothing about me necessarily stands out; any form of interaction I get on dating apps, I assume, is because of my personality. Still, I did my best to be confident. I struck up a conversation with a girl who lived about an hour south of me. We didn’t have a ton in common, but we had the same sense of humor. We shared similar political views, too. She considered herself strictly a cat person, which was disappointing when I told her I wanted to one day own a farm of Golden Retrievers. It was something she said she could overlook. She had a nice smile, which I liked. I will be honest - I didn’t feel an immediate spark when I talked to her, but at the very least, we could have easily been friends. We talked for a couple of days and exchanged numbers. She asked me almost immediately what it was I was looking for. And, in my typical fashion, I was honest: I had no clue. I didn’t explain to her anything involving my dating history. It seemed a bit premature for that discussion. I felt it was best not to lead us both to something where our hopes would be dashed if feelings weren’t mutual. She had a similar answer. It was a relief. We both quarantined for a few weeks. Because I lived with my parents, I didn’t have to worry about leaving the house much. I would, on occasion, leave to get groceries, but I never left for long. I’ve always been a stickler for washing my hands anyway, so I didn’t have a huge concern about getting sick. Still, I was careful. She had a similar situation. It was because of our caution that we agreed to a socially distanced meet-up just a few weeks in. We used the masks. We did the six-foot thing, at least I think it was six feet. We walked through the park and chatted. We ate lunch with our windows open in our own cars. We talked about music. I discovered, disappointingly, she didn’t know many of the songs I played. They were new to her, but I didn’t mind showing her if she would be interested. We didn’t agree to another meet-up at the conclusion of our first one. It was new for me, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up or pressure myself into something I may have not been ready for, either. Instead, we continued chatting. She brought it up eventually and asked if I’d be open to it. I had to think about it for a bit, but I eventually agreed. The meet-up was in similar fashion, and we spent most of the time just chatting and getting to know each other. Most of our communication was virtual for the first couple of months. We FaceTimed quite a bit. We talked on the phone often. She started getting into the habit of calling me on my lunch break. She let “babe” slip more than once. I have no problem with pet names; I just prefer there be *some* talk of relationship status. I felt awkward having to tell her, but she seemed understanding of that request. A day or so later, she told me she liked me. I wasn’t expecting it. The comment came out of left field. We had been talking about something completely unrelated, in fact. She interrupted my thought to tell me. “Hey, shut up for a second,” she said. That...sort of surprised me. “I like you.” I nodded. “OK,” I replied. I waited for something else. It seemed like there could have been something else, but there wasn’t. I didn’t know how I felt. I found I wasn’t prepared for the conversation to take place this way. I settled on more neutral phrasing. “I think you’re cool,” I said. She noted my hesitation to say too much. “It’s okay if you’re not ready,” she added. “Just tell me when you are.” Maybe I don’t know women, but she seemed to take it better than I expected. Things began to blossom from there, albeit slowly. We had virtual date nights. She began asking me more about myself, and I slowly began to open up. I told her whatever I felt comfortable sharing. Though I don’t find myself to be much of an interesting person, I took it in pieces. I wanted to know more about her, too, so I asked questions as they came up. She began getting a little bolder with her questions. She asked about my dating history on more than one occasion. I glossed over the subject. It didn’t seem fair to her to discuss that sort of thing, even if she did ask. I simply chalked it up to not being completely inexperienced, but also not having a great deal of experience. She told me she had been in love with her last girlfriend and they had only been broken up a few months. It seemed soon to me, but everyone dials at different speeds. It was only fair to her to let her determine how ready she was to move on, so I didn’t question it. Eventually, we decided to meet for a non-socially distanced date. We took abundant precautions beforehand. We agreed I would go to her place the first time. She lived alone during the time. She sounded really excited to be able to cook dinner for me, and there was a lot of effort on her end to make sure I liked what she made. This was...normal, I thought. You know, minus the global pandemic. I arrived on a Friday evening. I decided that a dress shirt, tie, khakis, and dress shoes were fitting. My hairdresser was closed, so I had to get creative with my hair. I think I managed to make it work. I knocked on her door and before I knew it, she wrapped me up in a big hug. She kissed me on the cheek and led me inside. Her house was clean and organized, about what I expected. I always have anxieties any time I’m invited to someone else’s home. As kids, my parents always made sure that my sister and I were exceedingly polite in other people’s homes. This usually included taking shoes off at the door, offering to help set the table if food was served, and helping around the kitchen. But it was all done for me this time. I felt slightly awkward. She must have been able to tell - she asked more than once if I was okay. We sat down to a candlelit dinner. There was wine. I’m not much of a wine drinker, or a drinker period. I powered through it, though the thought of drinking on a first date, for whatever reason, makes me uncomfortable. She had prepared homemade bread, chicken fettucine alfredo, and a salad. We chatted over dinner and watched some of the wildlife that surrounded her house. We eventually cleaned up and headed to the living room. An intense game of Jenga awaited us. Turns out, I’m not that great at Jenga, either. I swear a lot more when unstable wooden blocks are involved. Thankfully, she found this funny. She slid close to me and kissed my cheek. I felt myself get a little nervous. *Gotta be the wine talking,* I thought. She mumbled something a little saucy in my ear; I immediately suggested watching a television show. My nerves were a little jumbled. Some prime comedy television was surely in order. We watched about an hour of *Parks and Rec* before, out of nowhere, she sat up and grabbed me by the face. She kissed me. Hard. It took me a few moments to relax into it, but I did. I eventually pried myself from her and smiled. I wasn’t sure what else to do. My hands stayed glued at my sides. She guided my hand to the strap of her shirt and slid it down her shoulder. “Oh, boy,” I remember saying. I thought I left it as internal dialogue, but judging by her laugh, that was not the case. She started kissing my neck, somewhat more aggressively. Not that it matters to anyone that might be reading this but...not an area of focus, at least for me. I backed away. “Can we, like, not do this right now?” I asked. She seemed slightly offended. “Don’t you want to?” She was genuinely confused. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to. I had serious doubts that she was completely sure herself. I slid her strap back on her shoulder and gave it a gentle (nervous) pat. “I was hoping maybe we could just cuddle and watch something on TV,” I remember saying. The topic of physical closeness had yet to be discussed by this point. She seemed deflated. This was new to me. I hadn’t ever rejected a woman’s (physical) advances before, but I hadn’t had a reason to. She eventually conceded to the idea of a blanket and television, although I could tell she wanted more. We talked for a little bit longer. She took the opportunity to tell me of her physical needs at some point during the conversation. I either struggle with being direct or I’m *too* direct; there is rarely any sort of balance for me. This time, it was the former. I didn’t want to tell her I wasn’t quite ready. She eventually took the hint and didn’t bring it up for the remainder of the evening. We made our way to bed at some point. She snuggled in beside me and rested my arm over her. I didn’t end up sleeping for most of the night; she snored like a freight train going 70 in a 30. Still, it was nice to be close to someone. Her cat decided I made a good pillow, or at least my legs did. I found myself sleeping next to a gal who was sawing logs in her sleep with a cat who may or may have not been trying to slowly immobilize me. Still, I can’t say it was the weirdest experience I’ve ever had. I woke up the next morning to a hand being pushed through my hair. I’ve never been a morning person; I don’t necessarily have any problems with sleeping in past 10:00 AM. “What time is it?” I mumbled. She shooed her cat off the bed and rolled me on my back. She straddled me and took her shirt off. She was really not good at being subtle at this point. I swallowed hard. She kissed my neck again. Too tired to protest, I sort of...let it happen. She whispered more saucy things into my ear, and I found myself mostly not responsive. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care. She was sober now, so it seemed she really *did* want to follow through with it. Me, on the other hand? I was still unsure. She took me hands and guided them where she wanted them. I found myself struggling to maintain eye contact nearly the whole time. The experience isn’t what I’d call unhinged; uncontrolled, arrhythmic, maybe. Again, not that it matters, but it didn’t align with my style. It didn’t last too long. She got up and showered immediately after. I lay in her bed realizing that a woman had invited me to her house for dinner and Netflix. I partially blamed myself. What was I expecting to happen? I got dressed and headed to her kitchen. I thought I’d forget about the previous encounter, or try to, by making breakfast. I was used to cooking for one by this point, and it looked like she was, too. She would have to live with my waffles, eggs, and turkey bacon. I decided to surprise her when she got out of the shower. I arranged a breakfast tray and delivered it to her room where she was getting finished preparing herself for the day. She thanked me with a kiss on the cheek. We didn’t talk much about the morning’s events. I found myself changing the subject whenever she brought it up. It was a beautiful day that day; I suggested a picnic in the park and maybe a small hike. She was only interested in one of those things, which I was able to live with. We spent most of the day together before I had to leave. It was *mostly* uneventful, and barring certain encounters, would have been a great day. Despite this, we continued to see each other. I signed my lease for my apartment in early May. I began boxing most of my life away. Thankfully, I didn’t have many personal items. It was mostly clothes, books, a television, and some new household items. She helped me pack and seemed interested in my high school life. We looked at some of my yearbooks. During those years, I wore my hair long. I didn’t wear my glasses regularly - I was stubborn in that way. I was a shy, quiet teenager, which surprised her. I’m not sure why. I eventually moved into my apartment, which is small. But it worked perfectly for me. She seemed surprised by that fact; I felt the judgment, but only a little bit. She helped me unpack and we looked at more photo albums. But something was different on move-in day. She was unusually snappy with me. I asked if she wanted to eat pizza with me while I unpacked. She seemed annoyed by that. “You didn’t plan a meal?” I remember her asking. It didn’t seem totally crazy to have pizza after moving my life into a new apartment. I assumed the question was rhetorical. “I guess we can. But you invited me over. I thought you may have had something special planned,” she said. I felt a little bad. After all, she did cook dinner for me when I went to her house. “Next week?” I asked. “When I get everything unpacked and get to the grocery store. I can make spaghetti and meatballs or something.” That seemed to placate her. The truth is, I hadn’t been feeling completely well or like myself. I was more tired than usual. A little sore, even. But I didn’t find it significant enough to share with her. My job was terribly stressful at the time. I had just moved out on my own. I figured I was also maybe feeling a bit depressed or homesick. It was hard to pin down my emotions. I didn’t want to unload them on her; she had stuff of her own to deal with, too. She asked if she could stay all night, and I agreed it would be fine. I woke up the next day to a hot bath drawn for me and McDonald’s breakfast. I hadn’t even heard her leave that morning, though I am sometimes a bit of a hard sleeper. “What’s this for?” I asked. “You don’t have food here,” she said immediately. It felt a little passive-aggressive. I felt bad again. I tried to gloss over it with a joke. “Yeah, I guess I should probably go to the store,” I said. She seemed annoyed again. “Guess you have to be an adult sometime,” she said. That comment sort of stung. I asked if everything was okay. This specific behavior was a little new to me, but it felt like she was looking for reasons to be upset. “I’m fine,” she said eventually. “Just tired.” I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. She left a little later that day after helping me unpack some more. She called later that night to talk about her parents. I put her on speaker phone and puttered around the house. Nothing seemed out of place on my end, besides her previous bad mood. I had to know why she was in such a crap mood, but the other part of me told me not to dig. She hit me with an unexpected question. “Do you think you could ever see yourself falling for me?” It was a loaded question, as well as unexpected. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to answer it. It wasn’t totally improbable that I could fall for her. Though, as I write this now, I realize I knew the answer all along. “It’s definitely a possibility,” I said. It seemed like a safe answer. There was a long pause. “Good,” she said. It was a bizarre ending to our conversation. “I have to get going. Talk to you later.” We exchanged “goodnights” before she hung up. I went to bed wondering if I had just walked into some sort of weird trap. My anxiety wasn’t in overdrive, so I went with that. I slept in a little later than normal the following day. My whole body was sore. I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. I also had to report to work in my new apartment/office, something I wasn’t looking forward to much. I got up, gave a little stretch, took a hot shower, contemplated my life choices, ate some toast. You know, the usual. I hadn’t checked my phone that morning, something that was a little odd for me. I shuffled into my office space and started my day. Judging by the way my client called and yelled at me for ten minutes straight, I could tell it was going to be a weird day. I played some music to get the juices going. The Eagles are always a prime choice, and my neighbors probably now know how much I like the song “Hotel California.” They probably also know I’m a shit singer. Frankly, I’m okay with both. During my lunch break, I decided to check my phone. Six texts from my girlfriend. T*hat’s gotta be bad*, I thought. I opened them, expecting something, but not a breakup. Not after our last conversation. Among other things, she mentioned I needed therapy. This comment was particularly hurtful; I had finally opened up to her and told her I had been to therapy off and on during my late-teen years. She seemed understanding at the time. I never expected for her to use it against me. She told me I was a bad kisser. That one didn’t hurt quite so bad, but I was rusty when we met. If I was ever bad with anyone else, they had enough tact not to tell me. And finally - perhaps the most confusing statement - she called me desperate and needy. I was shocked. And hurt. If I’m being honest, I still am. The thought of getting close to another human daunted me for a while. It stopped me from pursuing anything remotely resembling a relationship, for the most part. I hadn’t shared that with her, though. Maybe she could tell, maybe it was just a lucky guess. In a way, it felt like she looked for ways to hurt me. I tried calling. Straight to voicemail. I asked if we could meet up. She was “busy.” She only wanted to talk by text. I spent most of the afternoon in tears. I guess, looking back, I should have seen it coming. It wouldn’t be the first time I missed completely obvious signs. Sometime before I met her, though, I realized not every experience would look the same. At least that’s what I told myself. This felt hauntingly familiar in some ways; the biggest difference was that it felt like she meant to hurt me. I can’t say the same for those that were before her. I eventually worked up the courage to ask if I’d done something wrong. She didn’t answer with a response to my question. Instead, she suggested we talk later that evening. It was mostly just rehashing her texts. She wanted a break for a while and I gave it to her. I found myself more hurt by the circumstances of the breakup more than the breakup itself. It was a little new to me. I was angry with her. I still am, at least in some ways. I don’t get angry often. It’s a useful emotion sometimes, though. It offers clarity under certain circumstances. We haven’t talked much in the past few months. I have written unsent letters to her that I’ve erased. The words struggle to come to mind. It’s probably because I didn’t love her. I don’t think I could. Completely improbable? I suppose not. Something was just...missing. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but the warmth that I need wasn’t there. She was genuine in a lot of ways, but completely unsure of herself in others. There was a bit of an age difference between us, but not extraordinary. I came with a bit more life experience; we struggled to relate on backgrounds and shared experiences. Looking back, the holes were probably too big to fill. The story is still somewhat fresh. It feels I could write new pages every day. I have contemplated reaching out to her more than once, but I’ve struggled to follow through. A person I spent a lot of time talking to, sharing mundane details of my life with, is practically a stranger. She texts me occasionally. She’s shown up uninvited to my house. She’s sent me birthday greetings. But it all feels very superficial. She told me she feels guilty for what she did. I’m not a perfect person. I can admit that maybe I want her to feel a little guilty. She knows I didn’t deserve for it to end the way it did. But on the other hand, I’m a flawed person myself. I recognize that sometimes, people do things they think might be best and act in ways that don’t always align with their character. Love teaches a lot of lessons. But then again, so do things that might resemble love. Things that might have potential to be love but never quite make it. Things that turn into love but never get the space they need to grow. I genuinely have no clue what this experience was meant for me to learn. I do my best to be a positive person. In some way, I hope, I’ll have the lesson figured out soon enough.


Trigger Warning: Children Dying Horribly ====== “The floor is lava,” Kevin said. Four children clustered on an old couch at the far end of the playroom. Beneath the couch, the floor was a seething mass of molten rock. Black veins threaded through neon orange lava. Bubbles bustled to the surface and popped, releasing sulphurous gases. Kevin was the oldest, at seven. Genievere and Malcolm were both six and Thor, Gen’s little brother, was four. Kevin’s neighbours often came over to play but now playtime was a matter of life and death. Blistering heat rose off the lava. Their mouths became parched just breathing the air and the lava almost hurt to look at, some fissures glowed so incredibly bright. “We’ve got to jump from here to the rug to escape,” Kevin said. “The rug is on the floor,” Gen said. “Yeah, but it’s not part of the floor so it’s okay.” A rainbow rug drifted atop the molten rock not far from the couch. It rippled with eddies on the surface but it looked secure enough. Between them and the rug, however, was a stretch of lava so hot it would roast the flesh from their bones in an instant and lead to an agonising death. “It’s too far!” Malcolm said, already almost in tears as the hellish light reflected back on his face. “I’ll go first to prove it’s safe,” Kevin said. Leaning out over the stewing rock, Kevin steadied himself and leapt. He landed on the rug easily but felt it bob and sway on top of the lava’s semi-liquid surface. Heat radiated through the weave and into the soles of his bare feet like he was walking on hot coals. Flames began to singe the edges of the rug. “Hurry, we don’t have a lot of time,” Kevin said. Malcolm snivelled, and Thor just looked confused. Gen steadied herself and pounced across the gap. Throwing out her arms, she balanced as she landed on the wobbling rug. Thor followed, backing up and flinging himself over the lava as if mindless of the danger. Only Malcolm hesitated. “Hurry up!” Gen said. “I’m scared!” Malcolm replied. “You’ve got to, or you’ll burn up and die,” Kevin said. Bubbles and splatters of lava erupted in the gap between them and Malcolm. The rug’s edges burned, quickly causing it to shrink. If Malcolm hesitated too long, the rug might sink into the lava and leave him trapped. Finally, Malcolm steadied himself and in an ungainly bundle of limbs he heaved himself across. Kevin and Gen caught him so he didn’t stumble. “Where now?” Gen said. “This way,” Kevin said. Only one large step away was a low, wooden table and chairs where Kevin usually did drawing and craft. Flames licked his feet as he made the jump. Fire climbed the table’s legs. Kevin knocked a plastic cup full of pencils and some sheets of paper off the tabletop. The paper immolated from the heat, disintegrating in a series of bright flashes and leaving nothing behind but black ash. The cup melted instantly and the pencils burned up as they hit the lava. “Hurry!” Kevin said. Gen picked up her little brother and passed him across the gap before making the jump herself. Lava bubbled threateningly. Malcolm hopped across as well. The chair wobbled beneath him, sinking. He joined them on the table, which became quite crowded with all four of them. Behind them, the rug burned and sank into the lava, disappearing. “Where do we go from here? We can’t make it to the doorway,” Gen said. “Up there.” Kevin pointed to a serving window that lay open between the playroom and kitchen. “That’s high,” Thor said. “We have to climb that, it’s dangerous,” Kevin said, pointing again to a play kitchen that sat under the window. “You can’t!” Malcolm said. “Watch me, follow me one at a time.” Kevin jumped the gap and landed on top of the play kitchen with a crash. Plastic cups and plates rattled inside the kitchen cupboard. Bits of the kitchen melted in the heat. A set of shelves attached to the back of the play kitchen. Kevin started to climb. Sweat plastered his shirt to his body. More sweat steamed on his arms and face. The others watched as flames climbed their table’s legs. Kevin’s efforts knocked toy food and a fake plastic toaster off the shelves. Lava consumed the toys in seconds as they hit the floor. For several terrifying moments, Kevin’s weight pulled the shelving away from the wall. He tilted above the hellish glow of the molten rock. Lava over seven hundred degrees celsius broiled below. The others gasped. Kevin threw his body weight back against the shelves and set it straight. Heart pounding, Kevin climbed the rest of the way and reached the serving window. More toys dropped into the lava and disintegrated. “Come on!” It was obvious they couldn’t stay where they were. The table was burning. The rug was gone and now the couch was on fire as well, filling the room with smoke. Breathing in the intense heat was hard enough already. Their eyeballs felt baked into their skulls. Kevin, up higher, started to cough. The others, including Malcolm, hurried to follow Kevin across the gap and into the kitchen. To one side of the serving window, one of Kevin’s mother’s plants wilted in the heat. Kevin turned and his foot slipped into the sink. From where they were sitting, the four had a temporary reprieve. Below, trash cans sank and melted into the molten rock. The refrigerator started sinking as well, very slowly. Photographs and some of Kevin’s drawings, magnetised to the lower half of the fridge, burned, ignited by the searing heat. Magnets dripped down the refrigerator’s surface. The sink and the kitchen island, however, were secure. Smoke wafted from the couch behind them. From the open bedrooms, more smoke poured into the room. Kevin’s bed, his clothing, and the curtains in his rooms were all on fire. “We can’t stay here,” Kevin said. “Why not? It’s safe,” Malcolm said. “If we stay here we’ll suffocate in the smoke,” Kevin said. Along from the sink, clipped to the wall, was a squeegee mop that sat above the lava unharmed. Kevin waddled along the edge of the sink and took it. They had a long way to go to cross the kitchen and dining room, which was all one space. The kitchen island, and then the dining room tables and chairs, his mom’s desk, and then they’d have to make it to the front hallway. The squeegee mop could come in useful. Kevin used the squeegee end to push down against the lava. Immediately the head began to warp and burn. Kevin vaulted from the sink to the kitchen island. A bowl of fruit was knocked flying, cooking instantly as it hit the lava and then disappearing from view. Kevin passed the squeegee mop back. Gen and Thor used it to vault across. Malcolm, however, lagged behind and rejected the mop. Below, the last of the trashcans disappeared in a bubbling pool that released a stink of burning metal and garbage. The refrigerator continued to sink as well. “I can’t make it!” Malcolm said. “You got to!” Kevin covered his mouth as smoke got thick in the air. Malcolm went to jump but hesitated, stumbled, and fell forward. His arms stretched out as he fell. Hands just caught the edge of the kitchen island and held him there. Malcolm’s body formed a bridge, hands gripping the bench and feet still against the sink. The six-year-old looked straight down into the bubbling lava. The glow painted his face orange. “Help me! Help!” Malcolm said. Kevin scrambled around the others to help Malcolm. He grabbed Malcolm by the wrists but couldn’t pull him up. The position he’d landed in was too awkward. “Help!” Malcolm’s feet slipped and he fell, feet and lower legs landing in the lava up to his shins. His pants instantly ignited. Malcolm screamed in pain and fear. They smelled roasting meat. Kevin and Gen both tried to pull Malcolm out of the lava. His legs came free. Below the knees, the flesh ran like candle wax and peeled away. All that was left of his shin bones were blackened snarls, burnt and twisted into new shapes by the heat. His feet were gone. Kevin and Gen tried to pull Malcolm up but he kicked and thrashed too hard. His arms slipped free and he dropped back into the lava with a scream. As soon as he hit the molten rock, Malcolm’s clothes and hair and skin combusted. Flesh roasted, and everything that touched the lava turned black before sinking below. Eyeballs boiled and popped before Malcolm’s charred skull burst and its scattered pieces dissolved. “He’s dead,” Gen said seriously. “We have to keep moving,” Kevin said. The remaining trio moved to the other end of the bench. Malcolm’s horrifying death was a stark reminder of what was in store for them if they made a single misstep. They didn’t have a choice though, smoke continued to fill the room. Fortunately, Kevin had earlier laid out some of the dining room chairs like a little chain of islands. The legs of the chairs, however, started to warp and bend in the heat. “I’ll go first again,” Kevin said. Kevin leapt from the bench to the first of the chairs. Legs bowed beneath him. He jumped from there to the next chair, and the next, and then onto the dining table itself. Gen and Thor followed. The top of the dining table was glass. Heat rising from the lava was turning it black, and it started to crack under Kevin’s weight. Carefully, like moving on rotten ice, Kevin made his way to the other side. His mouth was parched, eyes dry and stinging, and his skin burnished by fire. Dehydration began to make his head swim. Both Gen and Thor weren’t looking too well either. “We jump from here to my mom’s desk,” Kevin said. “Then, I think we can use her chair like a raft to get to the front hallway.” Kevin carried the squeegee mop like a staff. The mophead was a melted square of burnt plastic. Holding it, he jumped from the table, to another chair, to his mother’s desk. The end of the mop whacked against the screen of his mom’s computer and knocked it off the desk. It hit the lava with a crack, splitting open in the heat. Electronics and the casing fried and burned into nothingness. Kevin climbed onto his mom’s desk chair. Somehow its wheeled base, splayed at the bottom, kept the chair upright in the lava. Kevin pushed away from the desk. He used the shaft of the squeegee mop to steer. The chair’s wheels sank and moved sluggishly through the lava. “I can only take one of you at a time,” Kevin said. “And it might be dangerous I think.” “I’ll go first, and then you can take Thor,” Gen said. “If it’s safe.” “I’m scared,” Thor said. “It’s okay, Kevin will be right back. Just stay here and stay away from the lava,” Gen said. Kevin pulled up beside the dining table and Gen climbed aboard his desk chair raft. It wobbled under the two of them. Kevin delved into the lava with the squeegee mop to propel them toward the front hallway. Smoke and sulphurous gases filled the air around them. Kevin awkwardly negotiated the chair into the hallway. With each move, the chair’s base wobbled and seemed to shrink a little further into the lava. Each time Kevin used the mop to steer its end became crispier, as well as shorter and shorter. A current pulled them toward the front door, molten rock moving sluggishly the length of the hall. Kevin let them drift and then pulled to a stop in front of a bookshelf near the door. Gen climbed onto the shelves. A few books and knick knacks were knocked off and turned to flame as they hit the lava. Uneasily, Gen clung to the shelving. “I’m alright, go and get Thor,” Gen said. Fighting the lava’s slow current, Kevin struggled back up the hall. His chair sank lower with every passing minute. Heat became more and more unbearable. He passed back into the smoky dining room, catching sight of Gen’s four-year-old brother. Thor watched Kevin approach with wide, serious eyes. Sitting on one of the dining room chairs, its legs warping beneath him, he drew his knees up to his chest. As Kevin returned, something bubbled in the lava behind Thor. A humanoid shape made from blackened rock and riddled with glowing veins as hot and bright as the lava itself. “Look out, behind you!” Kevin said. The lava monster was a little shorter and fatter than Kevin himself. Something like Malcolm’s size and shape. It slid across the lava’s surface like it was walking on water. Thor didn’t realise the danger. Before Kevin could reach him or say any more, the lava monster grabbed Thor from behind. Its grip was so hot, Thor’s clothes burst into flame and his skin turned black where it touched him. Thor seemed too surprised to feel pain. With a fiery glow behind the lava monster’s eye holes and mouth, it gave a jack-o'-lantern grin as it looked past Thor to Kevin. The lava monster hauled Thor backward, squealing. Wrapping Thor in its burning arms, it pulled him under the lava. Molten rock swallowed the two of them instantly. Flame and steam hissed from the rippling disturbance. “Noooo!” Kevin said. Seeing no other choice, Kevin paddled back to the front hallway. His mop handle had melted so much it was almost useless. Lava currents pulled him back toward Gen on the bookshelf anyway. “Where’s Thor?” Gen asked. Kevin shook his head sadly. “Lava monster got him.” Gen’s jaw tightened. A single tear glistened in her eye and rolled down her cheek before turning to steam but she stayed strong. She’d been struggling to hold onto the shelf. As soon as the desk chair was close enough, she stepped back onto the seat. Kevin pushed them toward the front door and then tossed the remains of his mop handle away. The raft sank further into the floor as the base melted, getting hotter and hotter. Grappling with the door handle, Kevin managed to tug the door open against the flow of the lava. Their chair was pulled through the gap and picked up speed as they made it out into the smoky sunlight. Lava moved in a syrupy mass across Kevin’s porch, and made for a slow, impossibly hot waterfall as it tumbled endlessly over and over down the porch’s steps. Kevin and Gen were drawn toward the lavafall. They no longer had any way to steer, no matter how they threw their weight against the back of the chair. “We’re going to have to jump!” Kevin said. “To the railing!” The two of them poised, forced to wait until the last second before lunging toward the railing. Their makeshift raft fell over behind them, tumbling down the porch steps. Lava lapped and buried the chair, causing it to break apart and disintegrate in a cloud of noxious smoke. Kevin and Gen clung to the railing. Their feet nested on the bottom bar of the railing, with lava pouring only inches from their heels and burning the soles of their feet. “Oh, no! Lava monsters!” Gen said. Two lava monsters emerged from the open doorway of Kevin’s house. One was the same creature Kevin had seen grab Thor, the other was smaller, the size of a four-year-old. Leering with jack-o’-lantern grins, they advanced on Kevin and Gen. Reaching down, they scooped blazing balls of lava off the ground and started to chuck them at the humans. Kevin and Gen were defenceless. All they could do was continue climbing around the outside of the railing. Lava poured over the lip of the porch beneath them, into the yard. One of the lava monster’s lava balls hit the railing near Kevin’s hand. It burned through the railing, eating away at it like some kind of acid. Another hit the lava near his feet. Droplets of molten rock sprayed up and hit Kevin’s bare leg. “Ah! It burns!” Kevin said. The damage looked minor, the lava left a couple of blackened holes on Kevin’s skin no bigger than pennies. It was so hot though, it seared right through flesh and muscle, down to the level of bone, before cooling. Kevin grimaced, fighting through the pain with his teeth clenched. “Got to keep moving!” Kevin said. Kevin and Gen continued around the railing until they were within leaping distance of Kevin’s dad’s SUV, parked in the driveway. The lava monsters hung back, tossing the occasional ball of magma as if to taunt them. Gen jumped first this time, sailing into the side of the SUV and landing with her feet on the nearest tyre. She scrambled onto the hood of the car. Kevin continued along the railing, and struggled to turn. His leg pained him. Following Gen, Kevin leapt and grabbed for the side of the SUV’s hood as well. His feet caught the top of the front tyre but his bad leg gave out on him. For a terrifying moment, he fell backward. Scorching, syrupy, blazing lava flowed down the side of the SUV below, ready to burn and consume him. “No!” At the last second, Gen lunged and caught one of Kevin’s outstretched hands. The two of them froze like that, Kevin leaning out over the deadly lava and Gen struggling to hold on. Carefully, the two of them worked together to get Kevin back. He climbed up the wheel well and joined Gen on the hood. “Thanks,” Kevin said. “No problem.” Climbing the windshield, they left dirty footprints on the glass and reached the SUV’s roof. Up there, the lava monsters couldn’t reach them. Breathing hard, they took in the smoky air. Their perch on top of the SUV gave them their first chance to really look at their surroundings. The yard, the street, every piece of ground as far as they could see was covered in lava. Fires burned in many of the surrounding houses. So much smoke and gas filled the air that the sun was nothing but a hot, red dot in the sky. Balls of molten rock occasionally sailed out of nowhere, trailing smoke, causing carnage wherever they landed. Bloated, greasy fireballs billowed like mushroom clouds as car gas tanks erupted from the heat. And everywhere they looked, lava monsters capered through the blazes. Grinning, burning everything they touched, some as big as grownups. The whole world. The world was lava. “This game is going to be harder than I thought,” Kevin said. ======= For 2022, I’ve been wanting to write more ‘creature features’ and generally improve my short story writing. My partner got me a Dungeons and Dragons Monster Manual for my birthday so I came up with the idea of writing a story every week based on a different creature from that. This week’s inspiration was 'Magmin'. More in this series is on my website, accessible through my profile if you're interested.


Who’s better than Baskin Robbins? I will let you know the answer to that question in just a few. This story is about a freaking Superhero, with the most murderous positive Superpower ever gifted to man. Dang, do not want to sound negative, but he is killing Superman. Much honor and respect to the man that is super. I viciously connect more to my Superhero and the lasting effects of his Superpower. Do not shoot me yet, check it out. There was this living carcass, a species which all humanity calls them or rather him, a villain. This certain individual name was, um. Dang, do we have to give him a name. Bad News, his name was Bad News. Key word ‘WAS’ laugh out loud. Bad News was a serious patch of sore pimples on your bottom. This guy attitude and character alone was created out of movies and horrific violent music. No seriously, his strongest influencing role models were. Frank White, Nino Brown, Scarface, Denise The Menace and Brother Lynch Hung, to name a few. Bad News being a villain, stole those characters and others, Superpowers. Which was the power of manipulation, complaining, thievery, destruction and acts of self-loveless demonstrations towards others. He hated being born into a world of monstrous behavior and poverty. Instead of fighting against it, it consumed him and made him angry and evil. Bad New always had bad news, his work sometimes made the bad news section in the newspapers. Totally ironic. Bad News was filled with every emotion possible. He was angry one second and then worried. Happy one second then depressed, furious then joyful. Explosive then wonderful to be around. Pissed off then kind, violent then an enormous guilt trip. This guy was all over the place. He would use his Superpowers on everyone including to those who cared about him. The repercussions and tax return on his deceitful acts of deliberate violence caused catastrophic injuries. Mentally, spiritually, sometimes lightly physical damage to his victims. The magical Universe than holds the planets together would use its Superpower, Krama. Bad News would unleash more of his power the more the Universe would release its power. Bad News went deep into his sorcery. His powers became more ultimately destructive and extremely powerful. He loved the fruit those powers produced. Bad News was sitting on top of the world. The Universe powers could not defeat his powers or at least that what Bad news thought. Bad News did not know that the power of Karma was only at DEFCON one. The Universe released Karma at DEFCON four. Bad New powers began to work against him. His emotions hit tremendously hard causing mental breakdown. The long beautiful bridges that lead to amazing cities and to Divine spectacular human beings burnt down. The access to those who gave him love and affection were blocked by titanium walls. The more he used his power the more Bad News suffered. Absolutely nothing suppressed his misery and pain from his cancerous powers. Karma made him see all his tax return in full and more. Bad News could not rest, could not sleep. The agony from his malfunctioned powers and Karma brought him to his knees. No longer could he experience his one minutes of happiness anymore. Death was his final thought when he woke up completely alone. On his last road to his final resting place. He notices a bridge, a skinny narrow bridge. It was a pathway to a secret new world. He smiles from the thought of using his powers once again. So, he scraped his body trying to fit through the painful thin bridge. Bad New entered this humongous beautiful new world. He is met by this tall, deep voice, intimidating Superhuman. Bad News looks at him curiously but not able to see him clearly. This Superhero has an extra electrifying superpower, his smile. This smile alone is divine. He felt something weird about this guy. By the halo alone that follows this Superhero you know he meant business. Bad News stood at attention preparing for battle. The Superhero released his God given Superpowers violently correct. Bad News fought until he was decapitated by those lighting volts of Power. Bad News was defeated by the power of truth and self-love. The high-power words of comprehensible conversation on several topics destroyed Bad News negative pride. The more the Superhero talked, the more his superpower destroyed Bad News fictional character. Viciously the vocal literature spread through the mind of Bad New dropping him to his knees. The knowledge on how to build your real character is revealed. Consumed by positive energy and a different state of mind he begins to transform. He was taught how to love himself. Forgive himself, to forgive others, take responsibility for his actions. How to control himself, discipline his action from disappointments. How to stop giving all emotions negative meanings. The Superhero release more of his power each second. Bad News was taught how to dissect each human emotion. That negative emotions are messages from the Universe to change something to be greater Superhumans. To change his perspective on things and their meaning. Or simply to change his actions, to receive a better emotion. That gives, smiles and hugs rather than violence. The Superhero superpower poured mountains of strength and knowledge in each sentence. Bad News cried as he was taught, he had the choice to be a Superhero or Villain. The truth on who superpower last a lifetime without regrets or guilt after being used. The Superhero powers were a gift from his creator. His superpower is to help others, use and find their superpower to live ‘GREATNESS’. After a day of being beat up by the vocabulary superpower of wisdom and motivation. Bad News took of his mask off. He summitted to the ultimate Superhero, the Universe. And acquired unused Superpowers he already had within. Like the superpower to choose, love, forgiveness, kindness, fairness and understanding. And changed his name to the Great News. Coaching and understanding human nature to change our direction become our greatest selves was the Superhero superpower. So, to the question. Who’s better than Baskin Robbins? Simple, my Superhero, The Amazing TONY ROBBINS!! The End


I cry so rarely that I sometimes suspect I lack proper lachrymal ducts. Because no matter how miserable I feel, how low my heart sinks, or how far I am knocked sideways, I barely shed a tear. I didn’t cry when my dad was killed in a car accident when I was eight. Or when Matt, my husband of ten years, decided to leave with Alice, his best friend’s wife. But now I realize there is nothing physically wrong with me, and I learned restraint from my grandmother, Anneliese, because crying is not for survivors like us. “Carrying emotions on the sleeve is for the weak, kiddo," she told me at Dad’s funeral. Anneliese is as tough as a walnut and as difficult to crack. And so am I. I’ve inherited her strength, or rather, she taught me how to hide my feelings, no matter how often life has rugby-tackled me and rubbed my nose in the mud. My mother complained that I resembled Anneliese more than she did. I was proud because, aside from my grandmother's personality, I have her height, blue-grey eyes, and blond hair, whereas my mother is a chubby brunette with prosaically brown, not honey-colored, pupils. And while mom is a softie, Annelise is unbreakable, regardless of the circumstances. My eyes barely water when my mother calls one June morning to say Anneliese has passed away. I somehow manage to squeeze out three paltry tears, which plop into the milk and cornflakes as I put the bowls on the counter for Jake and Tim. "What's wrong, mom?" Jake, the older of the two by five minutes, asks. "You are making the cereal salty," grumbles Tim. With the back of my hand, I quickly dry my cheeks.. Cornflakes with salt must be yucky. "Oma's gone," I reply. "Gone where?" Unlike Tim, who is all emotions, Jake is pragmatic. His first reaction is always curiosity. "Back to where she came from. The old country," I say. I promised not to fill my sons’ heads with stories of heaven and hell, angels and devils, and God and his infinite mercy. If my children choose to believe in something--a divine presence, a superior being, or whatever name they want to call it--the moment will come. At five, they are simply not old enough. That’s another thing Anneliese and I have in common. Or should I say "had in common?" We both doubt God's existence. Anneliese would chuckle whenever the subject came up: "Doubt, but not completely deny it, God forbid." We will not attend the funeral. Mom said Anneliese would be buried the following day. The undertaker explained he could keep her refrigerated for a day or two, but the June storms raging over Miami were causing havoc with electricity, so he suggested a quick burial. Just in case. Anyway, I’d have to drive seventy miles to Salem with two small kids in an old Ford Fiesta with no air conditioning, then take a seven-hour Delta flight to Miami, where mom would have to pick me up while worrying that her dead mother was spoiling in a thawing freezer. Instead, we agreed that I would travel at the weekend when everything was over. In the meantime, I quietly mourn her here, in the comfort of my home, where my unruly twins hurl cornflakes at each other and engage in a disgusting burping competition. As always, Jake wins, leaving Tim in tears. Looooo-seeeer," Jake sings, walking off to the lounge to watch Sponge Bob on Nickelodeon, while Tim howls and begs him to switch to Disney. I think of Anneliese as I wade through heaps of washed socks, underwear, scruffy t-shirts, and shorts in the untidy kitchen, with the counter full of cornflakes, breadcrumbs, and spilled milk. I always think of her as Grandmother or Anneliese. On occasion, I use the German word oma . Never "grandma" or "granny." Perhaps because of her tough exterior: tall, painfully thin, her ash-blond hair pulled back into a severe bun. Even at eighty-five, she looked flawlessly put together and never wore pants, instead opting for straight black skirts, white blouses, and low-heeled pumps. No foolish aprons for Anneliese, even when she was cooking. She was the epitome of an Ice Maiden or a Valkyrie--a demi-goddess from Warnemünde on the Baltic coast, where she was born and never returned. Oma perpetuated the perfect image not only at home but also in the hospital, where she worked as a theater nurse. Mom, who was obviously biased, claimed that she was the best nurse in Florida. And, since she never lost her nerve, all the surgeons fought to have her assist them in complex craniotomies and thoracic aortic dissection repairs, whatever the last means. I had last seen her almost three months before she died from breast cancer, which had progressed to stage 4 and spread to her lungs. "Terminal," she said drily. "A few months to go, and then it’s curtains for me," she remarked, rolling the "r" in curtains, the sentence thick with the still discernible German accent, even after more than fifty years in Florida. I sat on the edge of her bed, holding her blue-veined hand. "Have you brought me the underpants I asked for? Every time I go to the toilet, my bum is on display because of the open-backed hospital gown. I may be dying, but I want to go out in style. I don't want George, that handsome young nurse, to see how saggy and wrinkled my ass is!" she winked mischievously. "What?!” She glared at the elderly patient in the bed beside her, who seemed to have overheard our conversation and was stunned. “I can still have some fun before I take the last walk towards the light," she threw at her neighbor, who turned her back to us despite finding it challenging to accommodate the drip. I burst out laughing. Just like Anneliese! "Yes, Oma. Three pairs, elasticated, white, no frills. They will hold up your ass, all right," I smiled and handed her the packet. Plastic rustled as she unwrapped the undies and spread them on the bed. "Jesus wept, Frances. These things are for a toothless granny ready for the grave, not for a tough cookie like me. There is still some fight left in me, for heaven's sake!" she scolded. “With these butt-huggers on, I’ll never make George fall for me," she giggled, holding up one pair like a celebratory flag and waving it at the neighbor trying to untangle the drip tube from the bed sheets. Nothing about Anneliese has ever struck me as particularly grandmotherly. When Dad died and Mom and I moved in with her, she promised to take turns dropping me off and picking me up from school, to help financially and do the occasional babysitting. But nothing else. She had a life and a job she liked, and she wasn't your typical German oma who cooked ginger lebkuchen for Christmas and knitted jumpers with reindeer. Yes, she was delighted to have us, but we all had to toughen up and assume our responsibilities. "Frances is old enough to be on her own after school, and you, Tilly, must get a job," she said, and we obeyed. Because she never asked, she just told us what to do. I frequently wondered how a toughie like Anneliese could have given birth to a weakling like my mother. Tilly is her mother's polar opposite in every way, not just physically, with her plumpness and perpetual concern about calories and how they will settle around her waist. She cries at the drop of a hat, is terrified of thunder and darkness, and nothing makes her happier than preparing krapfen , or doughnuts in German, for Jake and Tim. And if she could knit, I'm sure my kids' closets would be stuffed with sweaters with snowflakes and reindeer. When I was a kid, there was little hugging and much of what Anneliese termed "toughening up. "There is no such thing as bad weather, Liebchen , only unsuitable clothing," she quoted a German saying. True to her word, rain or sunshine, she chucked me out to play in the garden, ride my bike, or skip the rope. "A healthy mind in a healthy body, Frances," she repeated another of her favorite aphorisms. "I failed with Tilly. She’s been a wimp her whole life, even as an adult," she added, "but I’m not going to make the same mistake with you. You, Frances, are a trooper. Like me!" I beamed at the praise. She was right, of course. She was anything but gentle. She wasn't the kind of grandmother who kissed bruised knees and egos better. I was seventeen when Dave Carlson dumped me before prom night. When I told her I would most likely die from a broken heart, she said, "Nonsense, hearts are muscles. They don’t break." She made me wash my face, put makeup on, and go to the prom as if nothing had happened. I felt our closeness the most when she took out her antique teak box containing her "mementos." "The only thing left from the old country," she explained. "Real handcraft made of proper materials, not like the plastic crap they now make in Taiwan. My mother bought it in Mandalay, Burma. It’s called Myanmar nowadays." She never passed up an opportunity to teach me something. "My grandfather was a tea merchant and used to take us there on vacation," she added. The word Mandalay conjured up images of oranges and white jasmine. Of vanilla and musk. I imagined a country full of tiny, fragile, dark-complexioned girls with almond eyes who smelled of bergamot and carried boxes like Anneliese’s in their delicate hands. Finely carved from ebony and with mother-of-pearl inlays, the box was the size of a typical case, perfect for holding a set of cutlery for six. Oma kept the key to it on a long silver chain passed down from her own Oma. When she opened it, it felt like venturing into an exotic and faraway land, similar to Narnia. Apart from some old papers tied with a red ribbon, which she told me were her birth certificate and nursing diploma, the box contained just a few things, but they were so wonderful for a child! A pair of girandole earrings (she said it was pronounced "jeer-an-dou-lee") with three green stones suspended at the bottom, with the centerpiece slightly lower than the other two. Oma explained they were emeralds set in gold and let me hold them to my earlobes. But I couldn’t wear them because my ears were not pierced. There was also an exquisite Karl Moritz Grossmann nurse’s fob watch, which clips onto the pocket of uniforms or scrubs with the dial turned upside down, allowing the wearer to tell the time. It no longer worked, but Anneliese kept it as a keepsake from a doctor she admired when she was young. "He was smart and dedicated to his work. Nowadays, doctors work just for money, but he..." Her voice trailed into silence. "He worked for the sake of medicine. Of science!" My favorite was a sepia photo with serrated edges, taken in Steinhöring in 1938, a year before the Second World War started. It was where she had done her apprenticeship alongside ten other sixteen-year-olds from the nursing school in Berlin. The girls posed in front of a gray, three-story structure with large windows. "A maternity and recovery ward for young German mothers," Anneliese explained. The nurses wore black uniforms with white smocks and black caps to keep their hair in place at the back of their heads. They formed a row, with Anneliese, the slimmest and tallest of the ten, in the center. “It was wonderful to be young and pretty," she smiled at me wistfully. "Those were exciting times, Liebchen. Meaningful times." When I finally make it to Miami, the storms are still wreaking havoc on the power grid. Jake and Tim are grumpy after the long flight, refusing to go to bed because they napped on the plane. "Don't worry," Tilly says as they settle in her kitchen with a chocolate ice cream each, their hair still damp from the shower. "I’ll keep them busy. You go up to her room. I thought you’d like to have her teak box. She asked for it in the hospital, but she was unconscious when I finally took it with me. I’m sure she’d love you to have it." I tell the boys to behave, warning them that I will keep my ears open in case they fight. And no burping competitions today, I instruct. Before I reach the landing, I hear one long, disgusting belch and peals of laughter from the kids and their grandmother. The box is on Anneliese’s dressing table; the key is in the lock, the chain swinging like a silver serpent. As I lift the lid, I am overcome with the same sensation I had as a child: I am entering an exotic and slightly prohibited realm. I take the box to the bed and start taking things out one at a time. Age has tattered the edges of the folded yellow paper. The fob watch is silent, without a heart-like tick-tock. The earrings disappoint me today; the gold is covered with a patina of time, and the emeralds don’t sparkle. Their essence has vanished, along with the soul of the person who wore them. I tip the box over, and the rest of the contents spill onto the black and blue cotton coverlet. There is the sepia photo of Annelise and her nursing colleagues. In fact, there are two other photos I didn't see before, both printed on stiff paper in hues ranging from soft caramels to deep, rich browns. One portrays a tall, stylish man smiling a gap-toothed smile at the camera. He is hauntingly charismatic, proud of his well-tailored uniform--embodying authority and instilling a bit of fear. Two lightning bolts shine on the collar patches. He has a peaked cap, with a spread-winged eagle casually tilted on his head. The other image shows the same man and Annelise standing next to each other. He's wearing a white doctor's coat. She is dressed in the same nurse's uniform she wore as an apprentice in Steinhöring. He reminds me of Nibelung from Wagner’s opera. She, as always, is an elfin Valkyrie. Both impossibly beautiful. Both incredibly Arian. I can tell the photo was not taken in the maternity ward since Anneliese is older and has more careworn features. I turn the picture over. The date written at the bottom says January 1, 1945. Below, in smaller letters, Auschwitz-Lager Zwillinge Programm, which I know means the Auschwitz Camp Twins Program. I recall the man's name, or rather, what people called him after the war, from a documentary I saw a few years ago: Todesengel--the Angel of Death. A medical doctor, he used his position in the concentration camp as an opportunity to continue his research into heredity, particularly in identical twins. Another frame from the documentary comes to mind. Two little girls in striped pajamas, scarves covering their heads. They expose their thin arms with 6-digit tattooed numbers. The man and Annelise smile, smug in their belief that, as my grandmother once said, they were working for the sake of science, not for money. I feel my stomach do a virtual somersault, making it difficult to hold down my dinner. I want to escape, but there is nowhere to run to. I cannot go downstairs, where Mom is sitting with my boys. My darling twins, or meine lieblinge zwillinge , as Annelise used to call them. But I don’t want to stay here either, in the room of the woman I thought I knew. Whom I know I love. I cannot stay a moment longer in the presence of the box that holds Anneliese’s secret. Like Pandora, who opened a jar containing sickness, death, and fear, I have opened a box full of unspecified evil. And, as in Pandora's case, it’s no longer watertight. The truth is out, however ugly it may be. I finally gather crumbs of courage, stuff the papers, the photos, and the rest of Anneliese’s "mementos" back into the box, and lock it with the key, which I put in my pocket together with the chain. As I walk down, my steps are heavy, and my shoulders slump under the weight of a secret I'll never reveal. The kitchen is full of laughter. Tilly is chasing the boys, and whenever she catches one of them, she tickles him till he bursts into laughter. They look happy. Innocent in their ignorance. When she looks up at me, my mother's gaze penetrates the fabric of my soul. "Is everything all right, darling?" she inquires, her dark, round face filled with concern. I remain silent, rush towards her, put my arms around her, and sob, drenching her chest with tears.


I should have said no: That would have been the end of it, but I needed the dough, and it seemed like such a simple job. If I knew then what would come to pass, I would have declined that job the second it left those pretty lips. She came to my office one dreary afternoon. She couldn’t have been more than a few years over twenty. She was a classy dame in a fine dress, with her hair piled on top of her head. When she smiled it was like a bit of spring... ...Suffice to say, she was out of place in my dingy office. I actually half expected her to ask for directions: no idea what she wanted with a bitter old detective like myself. “Can I help you miss?” I asked, looking up from my bills. She gently walked into my office, her purse in front of her. “I certainly hope so.” I gestured to the seat across my desk and she delicately sat herself down, her purse in her lap. I poured myself a glass of apple juice. Yes, apple juice: it was too early in the day - and in the case - to drink the strong stuff. “Want a glass?” I offered. She shook her head. “No.” I could tell she was going to need some coaxing to get her to tell me why she was here. I cleared my throat. “What is it I can do for you?” Her dainty hand went to a gold chain around her neck, fingering the locket that hung there. “Well detective, my name is Alicia Soul, and for nearly my entire life I have been a ward of the state.” I tilted my head. This fact surprised me: Most from such troubled backgrounds didn’t seem as well put together as she was. Stereotypes, I know. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said politely. She held up a hand and shook her head. “Don’t be. I’ve come to terms with my situation. What I haven’t come to terms with is where I come from.” I steepled my fingers. “Where did you come from then?” “That’s just it: I don’t know. I have been an orphan for as long as I can remember, though I do have fuzzy memories of being somewhere else... I was found on the steps of a church in Applegate when I was three. I remember wandering there, cold and alone. Before that I remember being held, warm, and happy. But something must have happened.” Applegate . Why did that name strike a chord with me? It was a distant memory, clawing at my recollection. She looked distant as I leaned back, waiting for the shoe to drop. “I just don’t know. Who am I? Who am I really ? I know my given name, but my actual surname? Who my parents are? Why I was alone? I don’t know any of that.” I waited until she finished and took a sip of my apple juice. “You think I can uncover your past?” Her eyes lit up as she leaned forward. “Yes! I heard you’ve helped solve a few cold cases. So yes I think you can help, at least, you can point me in the right direction: I’ll take whatever bread crumbs I can at this point.” I considered things and took another sip of apple juice. “It’s quite possible that I won’t be able to find anything. I mention it because this case is very... personal to you.” “I am prepared for disappointment.” Those words would certainly come back to haunt me. “Alright,” I said getting out a billing slip from a dusty desk drawer. “I’ll take your case. This ain’t going to be cheap - and I’m not promising you anything - but I’ll see what I can dig up. I need anything pertinent from you: Records, memories, anything and everything.” A small smile. “Yes of course! I don’t have too much, but I’ll share what I have.” she clasped her hands together. “Ooh, this is exciting! Just like the movies.” I chuckled drily. “Things are rarely like the movies, kid.” Alicia giggled at that. We went over some more details, I shook her hand, and she left my office, still smiling: hopeful that I’d find out everything about her. There admittedly wasn’t too much to go off of but I’d worked with less, school records, court records. Alicia had done a fine job of preserving things. Most intriguing was an old photo in her locket: a grainy image of a child and mother, focusing on their faces. The days went on as I carried out my investigation. Alicia’s checks were good. Apparently her personality and good looks had landed her a steady modeling career. Most investigative work is duller than people think: making calls, checking records, downing coffee, whiskey, and apple juice. Slowly, I began to uncover a few facts. I was able to verify Alicia’s enrollment in Applegate Kindergarten. Finding info from the church was harder - they didn’t exactly keep records of orphans turning up on their doorsteps, and many clergy had come and gone since Alicia alighted upon them. I kept Alicia updated on significant progress and every time she would sound elated and would keep encouraging me, no matter how trifling the information. Truly, I’d never had such a peppy client! Oh sure, I’ve seen glee - but it’s usually the glee of revenge coming to pass: Spouses seeing evidence of a cheating partner, or some such thing. She was a remarkable young woman to stay so positive despite everything that had happened to her, I did suspect though that it was partially a front. All of us have traumas and all of us have a side we keep hidden. Then, on a Friday about a month after I’d gotten the job - I always remember Fridays, that’s when the liquor store would get their shipments in - I found something I wish I hadn’t. I came back from the store, using my back to close my office door, when immediately my phone started ringing. I hurriedly put all my new stock onto my leather sofa, jumped over a few boxes of notes, and grabbed the phone. “Hello, Detective, Father Calen here,” I gasped, the church Alicia had been found at. “Yes, thank you for getting back to me. I was told you had left some time ago.” “I had, but now I find myself visiting and hearing someone is calling about the night Alicia came to us.” I adjusted my hat and sat down at my desk. “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I said into the receiver as I grabbed a pen and notepad. “All right, yes - go ahead.” “I remember that night well. It was a bad night for the town, and an end to a very bad year for the whole state.” I wasn’t sure of the timeline but I didn’t want to slow the flow of information: What year wasn’t a bad year? “Yes, yes, go ahead.” “Poor girl showed up on our doorstep. With but a necklace, and a dress covered in soot and blood. Yet she asked us so politely for shelter and food. I’ll never forget that angelic smile.” “She’s a sweet girl. What happened next?” “Well we took her in, got her fed. Made some calls to the authorities, they were a bit busy with everything that was transpiring then you see.” It occurred to me I wasn’t a local but he talked as if I should know what exactly was happening then. I cleared my throat and adjusted my coat that I had forgotten to take off from my restocking trip. “Excuse me father, can you remind me exactly what was happening at the time?” A pause. “You don’t? I’m a bit surprised. It was the last night of the Skullcracker murders. There was a fire in one of the tract houses on the edge of town - the police believe that the Skullcracker’s last victims fought back and... All three perished.” No. No, it couldn’t be. I blinked a few times. “It was the same night? Are you sure, father?” “I am old now, but tragedies lodge themselves in the head far too deep to forget. I even remember the sweater I wore that night.” “Th-thank you padre,” I said slowly. “You’ve been a lot of help.” “Bless you, and your search.” he replied. I clicked the phone down. I may not have been a local, but I knew about the Skullcracker. They used a meat tenderizer on their victims’ heads a couple decades ago, back when I was just a beat cop fresh out of the academy in Empire City. According to my recollection, the timeframe would have been close... but I had to verify. Was it a coincidence? Was it the same night? I had a hunch... ...This time I hoped I was wrong. My search continued, the local papers were plastered with articles on the notorious serial killer: how she had terrorized the whole state. Of the last victims on that fateful night: a mother and daughter, and the fire that broke out in what the police thought must have been a harrowing final confrontation. The mother and killer's charred remains were found and identified. No sign of the girl, though: It was assumed there wasn’t much to find by then. I took out my phone book and dialed. “Yes,” the old, professional voice on the other end said. “I am indeed the coroner. What exactly is it you want to know?” “I’m calling about the final night of the Skullcracker murders,” I said after identifying myself. The phone chain was very long to get there - I had to call in a few old favors and promise a few cases of my best whiskey to get to this point... I couldn’t trip up now. For the longest time the coroner didn’t reply, I even thought the line had gone dead, but then a sigh. “That night has always come back to haunt me.” I licked my lips and rubbed my left temple. “The bodies they found - a mother and the presumed killer, correct? Complete with the tenderizing hammer?” “Yes. They were found. Eventually all three of them were accounted for.” My hunch collapsed - at least at first. Admittedly, I was relieved. I sighed. “Oh?” Another long pause. “They found the remains of the girl a few years back when they finally broke ground on the new building. I had hoped they would never find her. That she had escaped.” “You’re certain it was her?” “I am. Forensics has advanced since that night. Confirmed match.” My relief at being wrong turned into disappointment... I seemed to be back at square one - but, on the other hand, the awful theory seemed to be disproven. “Thank you for your time,” I said slowly. I poured myself a glass when another thought struck me: The photo in the locket. Sciences had indeed advanced. I often forgot what tools one had available now. Facial recognition was a reality, now. Perhaps Alicia was a victim of the apartment fire, but not the Skullcracker’s final intended victim. I was close now. I could feel it. I should have left things alone. But my job was to find the truth. I called Alicia to my office, this had to be done in person. The report sat on my desk. I already had a glass at the ready. Alicia entered, all bright smiles as usual. “Did you solve it?” she asked, jogging to the usual seat on the other side of the desk. “Who am I? Where do I come from?” I nodded solemnly. “Alicia... perhaps you should leave this be. It’s the past, and it’s behind you.” I tried to sound as tender as I could. Alicia shook her head, “No. I paid you for a job. I’ve waited all my life for this.” I hung my head as I slid her the file. Alicia tore the folder contents out and stared at the file with a beaming smile. I watched it die. I saw the light leave those eyes. “It can’t be,” she whispered after a few minutes. “I’m afraid it is. You're her daughter: the Skullcracker’s daughter.” “I was there that night...” Alicia blinked the tears away as I offered her a tissue. “Alicia,” I said, offering my hand across the desk. “Our parents don’t define who we are.” She looked at me and shook her head, recoiling from my hand. “Don’t they though? Genetic disorders, defects?” “You’re not a killer!” I pleaded with her, leaning back in my chair. “What if I am? What if it’s just lying dormant? Sometimes... sometimes I think things, dark terrible things.” “Everyone does. Look, this didn’t affect you before...” Alicia shook her head as she stood, covered her face with her gloved hands and ran out of my office. “Alicia, please!” But I couldn’t catch her, couldn’t stop her. I had killed that smile. I had adhered to finding the truth, but at that moment I wished I had let the entire case go. It’s been a few years, and every now and then I turn my chair around and take a look at the little city I ended up in and think about her. I haven’t checked on her - I can’t now. I hope she’s still out there, trying her best to make a life for herself outside of her troubled past. It's honestly the most guilt I've ever felt over doing my job.


Samantha knew that the only way she’d ever produce an interesting article about the city for the editor of the newspaper she’d finally gotten an interview with was to force herself to concentrate. To avoid any and all distractions, to keep herself behind her desk for as long as it took to find the strong premise for such an article. She had been desperate. Not only for the money, but for a start on the career she wanted. After all, that was why she’d enrolled in all those journalism classes after her divorce. The alimony she received just didn’t stretch far enough, though she’d agreed to it thinking she just needed something to tide herself over for a while. After all, Paul had paid for all those courses she’d taken, and never had complained about how much time those classes and her various volunteer positions (political, tutoring, fundraising) ate up. He’d had dinner alone, then often fell asleep in his recliner watching TV until she finally arrived home. The divorce had been amiable, just a matter of drifting apart, and Paul wanting more companionship, family life. Oh she wanted children--eventually. She was only thirty two, there was plenty of time. “Damn it,” she said aloud to barren little room in her new ridiculously tiny apartment that she’d set up so she wouldn’t be distracted. A desk, comfortable office chair, a small coffee maker so no excuse to drift out of the room. She made herself use the bathroom before entering, not bring her cell phone in with her, put up a small still life she’d owned since she was eighteen so nothing to discover there. She’d even put up heavy curtains to stop her from gazing out the window. And if it were hot, there was a window airconditioner, if cold, two sweater of different weights on a hook she’d put on the far wall. (Ha! Far wall a joke the room, all of 7 X 11, which she’d painted in beige and the carpet was beige as well.) Now what she had to do, clearly, was shut off her wandering brain--focus, focus, on the computer screen facing her. She remembered that one of the articles she’d read on how to be a productive writer had said to simply put her fingers on the keyboard and type. It was okay the author wrote, “If all you typed was gibberish, the fingers would begin to take over.” An hour later, looking at the gibberish she’d produced, she left the room. Dejected, she decided she would treat herself to a latte at the corner Starbucks. It was surprisingly deserted, at fifteen to ten in the morning, everyone at work she guessed. The Baristas were standing around, chatting. Once one of them broke away and made her drink, she had become curious about their chatting, so she took a table close to them. They were talking about their college days. Her brain started churning. College days, and working at Starbucks. She listened closely, then one said, “Yeah, who’s hiring philosophy majors. My brother dropped out his first year and now owns a nice house, has a wife, and two kids. And my parents are ashamed to admit he’s a garbage man--well, sanitation worker. I am their pride and joy--the philosopher, magna cum laude from a university, and look where I’m working.” The group laughed. And the exceptionally pretty girl I’d noticed, proclaimed, “And look at me--the artist. Not smart enough to land a job in a gallery or museum. Or good enough with my oils to sell anything. I even tried hanging a couple of my paintings on the fence in the park, and gee, sold one to a guy who was trying to get me to go out with him for ten bucks.” The conversation continued a few minutes longer, then one of them said, let’s get ready, it’s almost coffee break time for the techies across the street. A mad rush ensued and I left, knowing I had to lock myself in my “office” again. And so I repeated the same preparations I’d done earlier. Now fingers on keyboard, I cleared my mind and started letting my fingers take over. After ten minutes, I allowed myself to look down. The first words were gibberish, but then bits of sentences, unfinished clusters of words. But garbage man was in each cluster. I violated my rules and turned on Google and typed in “garbage man”. Eighteen pages of entries. I looked up what the salary was for garbage man in New York City: The average salary for garbage collectors in New York is around $76450 per year. Salaries typically start from $36330 and go up to $82090. Moreover they are unionized, have pension plans, and health insurance. But respect. Not really. In fact, lots of jokes about them are easy to find. But playing around some more, I found an article entitled, “Garbage Man - Overlooked and Under Appreciated.” I was fascinated. It began with this paragraph: “We spend a lot of time in our society recognizing people for the jobs they do. It is great that we do this. But sometimes, there are those who fall through the cracks. We see a Police Officer, a teacher, a fireman, and of course a soldier and we are quick (and rightfully so) to extend warm greetings, a smile and gesture of thanks. It is the norm now in public to see a senior citizen wearing a military ball cap so we stop and ask about their service and thank them. We see the cop in the restaurant we do the same. Indeed, they are deserving.” "But the garbage man, no. We ignore him. We don’t stop to think what our cities would be like if they didn’t exist." My God. I had my story. I would examine the workers we don’t know. From the men who go to the Hunt’s Point Market to fill their carts with the attractive fruits and vegetables, nicer and cheaper than those at the supermarket to the women who clean our offices overnight, to...I didn’t know. I called the editor after emailing him what I’d written so far and saying I’d call later. A couple of hours later my phone rang and I picked it up without checking whose number showed on caller ID, something I rarely do. “Hey Samantha, Joel from Huffington News. I like it. Send me a list of the type of person you plan to interview. If it makes sense, I’ll sign you up for a series.” I took a deep and said, “That’s wonderful. How about the fruit cart men, the office cleaners who work in offices overnight...” “Yes. Exactly. And don’t forget the workers who stock the shelves overnight. Can you interview some people for each category?” “Of course,” I said, wondering how to do it. I didn’t know those people. But I did know one. For the first, I could go to my local 24-hour supermarket. I’d shopped at it at two pm a couple of nights ago after I discovering an email from an old college friend saying she’d stop by early the next morning if I was available. Something about a flight delay. I knew she would like cranberry juice and muffins, after all, she’d had them every morning when I'd meet her in the school cafeteria. When I got to the market, the cranberry juice was easy, but no muffins? I stopped a man shelving some eggs and asked him if there were any muffins waiting to be put out. He said, he’d check, and I said, hopeful, cranberry. He didn’t return right away, but when he did, he had someone with him. He introduced me to Carl, who delivered the baked goods for his company. I’d thanked him and explained what I wanted. He said, to my amusement, “Mini, Medium, or large.” I’d examined the choices available and choose medium. I remembered his smile when I said, “Carl, you are a lifesaver.” And so, that night, I returned to the market at the same time and stopped to look at the various trucks double-parked outside the market. I was amused to see them, because I'd never noticed them before. I walked along them looking for Carl. When I spotted him, I said, “Carl, could you give me a few minutes of your time?” “You remembered my name?” he asked. “Yup. By the way, I’m Samantha Nelson. I’m a reporter, and I want to do a story about the people who keep things running in this city. The unknown and underappreciated workers.” “Then you also want to interview Boris. I’ll get him.” I left with two fascinating stories for my first article. Boris, the badly scared Vietnam vet; and Carl, earning the money for college tuition. Boris felt he didn’t have much of a choice other than night work and was grateful to be employed. Carl doing it to find a less invisible future. The paper bought the story, and signed me on as “The New York Night Columnist.” I was a reporter. But I vowed never to forget the qualm I’d felt when I’d introduced myself as one to Carl. He'd made me visible.


Mary Louise sat by herself on the train car waiting for her train to go. She had been on this train for about an hour. She had already changed trains twice to get to her favorite place. Mary Louise had to get away from her house. It wasn't her home. Her parents wouldn’t stop pestering her about going to grad school and becoming a doctor. They compared her to her older brother, Landon, who had become a surgeon. An old man stumbled on board. His skin was like a brown paper bag. It was wrinkled and thin like rice paper. The old man wore a beige crumpled suit, a yellow button down shirt, and a deep purple tie. He wore white tinted sunglasses. The old man smiled at Mary Louise weakly, then collapsed on a seat on the opposite side of the train. Before Mary Louise realized it, the old man fell asleep. A few minutes later, a young couple came aboard cuddling a baby. The baby started to cry. The mother whispered to it, “It’s okay, my darling. We’re here.” The father smiled. The family shuffled to the other side of the train and sat down. A middle aged lady came in next. She wore a cherry red crop top and denim shorts. Her black hair was pulled back into a high ponytail revealing five pierces per ear. She sat in a seat a few rows back from Mary Louise. Next, came in a dad who looked plain exhausted. He herded a boy and a girl aboard who were obviously twins. They both had sandy blonde hair and green eyes. They were arguing about something, but Mary Louise couldn’t make it out. Mary Louise put on her headphones and hit play on her iPod. She listened to music as more and more people came onto the train. A man in a cowboy hat, western boots, jeans, and a flannel shirt came in. A woman with sunglasses, a designer dress, and high-heels came in next. Soon enough, the train car was filled with people. The last song on Mary Louise’s playlist finished just as a young man rushed on board. He looked about thirty, maybe a little younger. He had chocolate brown hair and ice blue eyes. He wore khaki slacks and a royal blue button down shirt. Because there weren’t any more seats, he sat across from Mary Louise. The young man smiled, then said, “Hi! I’m Levi Anderson, but you can call me Levi. What’s your name?” Mary Louise took off her headphones. “I’m Mary Louise.” She quickly looked down at the iPod in her hand. “Are you okay? We’ve got a long train ride until the next stop. We might as well talk.” “It’s just... I’m a senior in college, and my parents are pressuring me to go to medical school like my brother. It’s not what I want.” The train pulled out of the station. Levi sighed. “What do you want?” “A house that actually feels like home.” Mary Louise answered quickly. Levi simply smiled. “What is a home, Miss Mary Louise?” She thought about it, then said, “A home is the place where you grow up.” “That’s where you’re wrong.” “What do you mean?” “Take me for example. I grew up on a corn farm in Iowa until I was twenty four. Now I work in New York City. The Big Apple is more of a home to me than Iowa ever was.” “I don’t get it.” “Home is where it feels like home. Home is when you feel like you belong. Everyone’s home is different. No one's home is the same. Look at all these different people. One of their homes might be on a farm. Others’ might be in a city. Another’s might be on the ballfield. Some might be on a runway. Where is your home?” Mary Louise didn’t know what to say. The train slowed. “Well, this is my stop. I hope you find out where your home is, Mary Louise.” Levi Anderson stood up and walked out of the train car. Mary Louise leaned back in her seat as the train started up again. I don’t know where my home is, Mary Louise thought. Levi’s words rang in her head. Home is where it feels like home. Home is when you feel like you belong. Everyone’s home is different. No one's home is the same. The train kept on rolling. With each stop, Mary Louise started to understand what Levi had meant just a little bit more. Finally, the train halted at Mary Louise’s stop. She stood up. Mary Louise hadn’t realized how many people had left. The young couple and their baby were gone along with the cowboy man and the woman in the crop top. The old man was still asleep on a seat. The dad had taken a brave move and had sat in between his arguing kids who were hitting each other over his lap. The woman in the designer dress was trying to dodge things the twins threw at each other. Mary Louise quickly shouldered her backpack and walked off of the train. The sky was clear and Mary Louise couldn’t see a cloud in any direction. The sun was directly above her, but Mary Louise didn’t feel too warm in her denim shorts and paint-splattered white blouse. She walked out of the station and towards the nearest hiking trail. As she hiked, she passed several runners, a dirt biker, and a few people dressed in boots, hiking sticks, and backpacks. After a few minutes of hiking up the green mountain, Mary Louise reached a crossroad. The path on the left had clearly been used a lot. The ground was packed down revealing footprints of all kinds. The path on the right was overgrown. The only way Mary Louise even knew the path was there was because she had been here multitudinous times. She didn’t hesitate on which path to take. Mary Louise started making her way through the overgrown trail. The trees around her became really dense. Mary Louise emerged from the path into a clearing lined with wildflowers. A small wooden bridge stretched over a grassy chasm with a river running through it at the bottom. The river came from a waterfall facing the bridge. Mary Louise strolled towards the center of the bridge where she pulled a sketchbook and colored pencils out of her backpack. She held a sky blue colored pencil over a blank page, but she couldn’t bring herself to draw. Mary Louise wanted to draw her home. She thought it was right here, in the spot she escaped to. Mary Louise’s home was... She started to draw. Mary Louise drew the world. She drew her parents, Levi Anderson, everyone who was on the train, and even her brother, Landon. The world was her home. The world was a Diverse City. Her home was in Diverse City.