I was dreaming about something, something that I didn’t know. Something far, far bigger than myself. Or maybe I wasn’t dreaming of anything at all. No, no. That’s not right at all. I was definitely, or at the very least, likely, dreaming of something. But then, maybe nothing is, in fact, far bigger than myself. Bigger than any of us, really. In that sense it is entirely likely that I was dreaming of nothing. But not nothing as in nothing. Nothing as in a vast space of darkness. I suppose darkness is some type of something then, even if it is entirely empty. I know I was sleeping, or at least not conscious by any means, when I began to hear a voice. It was less like a voice than what we know a voice as, such as words from a human mouth, and more like the voice of a calling of fate. Fate speaks in tongues. There I was, floating, if floating is what you do in nothingness, at least I was doing something similar to floating, when I started to hear it. I turned my head in one direction, then the other. There was nothing around me. But in a sense everything was around me at the same time. I managed to turn my entire body. But it wasn’t turning anywhere. It was like my eyes were able to see in every direction at once. I could hear the voice but it wasn’t coming from any direction in particular, it was just there. Like when you talk to yourself in your head. Is that where I was? In my head? Had I managed to implode into myself? If I imploded into myself, then I would be nowhere at all. Was it my own voice I was hearing? I tried to call out. “Hello?” No sound escaped me. I was entirely silent. Everything was entirely silent, not even ringing in my ears. Except for the indistinct voice calling me. Possibly my voice. It sounded as if I were under water and somebody from the surface was yelling for me. But not yelling, more like talking. Yes. It was like I was on the floor of the ocean and somebody was having a conversation on the surface. I opened my mouth to yell out again, and again no sound escaped me. I almost expected water to fill my lungs. It didn’t. I looked around me again, my eyes seemingly the only part of me that could move. Around and around they went but there was nothing for them to see. Suddenly, as if an earthquake had hit me, not around me but actually hit my body, I felt something around my arm. It was warm, soft, and gentle. But the feeling of it was like my body went entirely through an earthquake. Almost as if I was the earth. As if I were crust, mantle, and the outer and inner cores. I sat with it, only for a minute, that thing wrapped around my arm. Or maybe it was two seconds. Or an eon. A decade. Or five thousand years. It was a hand, that warm, soft, gentle thing wrapped around my arm. I tried to hold it, to grab it, to place my hand on top of it. I was frozen. I felt my eyes open and I was weightless. I saw the universe flash before my eyes. Every inch of it, and I was flying through it. I was on the sidewalk and a woman, gentle and kind, was holding onto my arm. She was knelt down next to me, brown hair pushed behind her ears. I looked at her. Not in a weird way, but in a way that somebody looks at something interesting. I watched people pass by, cars drive, birds fly, and this woman mouth something to somebody. I couldn’t hear a thing. Was there somebody else there? I tracked her eyes as she mouthed something. Yes. Yes, there had to be somebody else there. Her eyes were looking behind me. I moved my eyes to look behind me, and it felt odd to not be in the nothingness I was just in. I had to use muscles to move my eyes now. It was a man. A short man with gray hair, or at least gray enough. He had a clean face, not a single piece of stubble on it. The two were talking, and I could start to hear that voice again. The one that sounded like fate. Like I was moving through a tube of gelatinous liquid, I pulled my eyes back to the woman that was mouthing something to the man behind me. Her eyes caught mine and she mouthed something to me. I felt more pressure from her hand, as if she were squeezing it. Squeezing it. As if surfacing from the bottom of the ocean I could hear the words she was saying. That woman. “Are you hungry?” Me. Nothing. That woman. “Can you hear me?” Me. Nothing. Her voice trailed off again to something else. As though if she weren’t talking directly to me, I couldn’t hear her. But her voice, her voice was as gentle as her hand. I hadn’t realized it, but I was lying down. I felt my back stiff and hard against the pavement. But was I lying down? I had just been floating. Or at least the equivalence of floating. I was back under the water, words filtered through the thick waves. I couldn’t hear anything. Nothing. The only senses I had were touch and site. I felt the sidewalk underneath me. It was warm, hot almost. It was grainy, as if I were lying on the black and white static of an old television. One that had lost connection. Slowly, like a small stream flowing into the river, then into the vast ocean, my ears filled with the static noise of an ancient television. Not ancient in the way the beginning of the world is ancient. But old. Yes, not an ancient television but an old television. I opened my eyes again and this is not where I had remembered being. Even before I had imploded into myself into absolute nothingness, I was somewhere else completely before. Where, I do not currently know. Maybe I do. Yes. I was at home. At least a place I called my home. I was on a couch and there was a cat, an orange one, lying, purring on my chest. I was petting it, stroking it from its head down its back and to its tail. I remember it loving the way I did that. Was it my mother’s house? My house? Or was it a shelter. I’ve been in a few of those. It definitely wasn’t here. Where is here? Here is nothing. Here is nowhere. Now here. I could hear again. As if I had never lost my hearing. I could hear everything around me. The cars, the people, the birds, the wind, the grass. Everything was as if nothing had ever changed. Me. “No.” The man behind me. “Do you know where you are?” Me. “Yes.” Him. “Where are you?” Me. “I’m on the sidewalk.” The woman. “Do you know your name?” My name. My name. What was my name. Who was I? Was I anybody? Did I have a name? I reflected on that. Put a mirror in front of my soul and reflected on who I was. It was hideous, my soul was. Disgusting and putrid and rotten. I don’t know how it got that way, but that’s how it was. Me. “Robert.” The woman. “Robert, what’s your last name?” The questions. All of these questions. They were starting to piss me off. I felt myself getting angry. I wasn’t angry at her for asking them, but at the questions themselves. As if they were alive, living and breathing, questions. Like they had a face and a name and a history. These questions. Rage. Rage. Rage. Me. “Somewhere.” Was I still dreaming? I could be. I could not be. There probably isn’t that much of a difference. Not really. Not between the human experience and a dream. The woman. “Do you know what happened to you?” Me. “Nothing happened to me.” Was that right? No. Yes. Yes, something had happened to me. What was it? Me. “Something happened to me.” I had only just realized that the man and the woman were paramedics, that they had on blue uniforms with badges and they were wearing latex gloves. I got up, all the way up onto my feet and I was extremely dizzy. I managed to catch myself, to find balance. Or at least something similar to balance. The man. “Hold steady now.” He let me place a hand on his shoulder. He was shorter than me. Not by much, but by a little. Enough. The woman started talking into a radio that was clipped to her lapel. I didn’t hear what she said. The woman. “You tried to kill yourself last night.” Me. “Kill myself?” That would mean I was something. I had to be something. You can’t kill nothing. Nothing has never existed. But it has. I’ve seen it. Nothing is absolutely everything. Now here. The man. “You remember that?” Me. “No.” The woman. Why were they always switching? “Will you go to the hospital with us?” Me. “I don’t want to kill myself.” The woman. “What happened last night?” If I knew, I would tell her. She seemed nice enough. If I had any way of replaying the previous night, I would tell her all about it. The entire thing. I would tell her my entire life story if she had time to listen. Explain to her every single thing that I knew. But there was nothing for me to tell. My name wasn’t Robert. It was something else entirely. It wasn’t Justin or Zach. Not Theodore or Alabaster. It ran and hid from me. My name did. Leapt through the forest and hid in the shadows. I could not catch it, could not catch anything like a breath. My breath. Long, raspy, and heavy as it was. I focused on it and it was difficult, trying. I was still leaning on the man. I now expected him to hold me the way we expect floors to not collapse beneath us. The way we expect misery to follow grief. Me. “I don’t want to go to the hospital.” The woman. “Do you know today’s date?” The date. The date. If I guessed the date, I would have an infinite number of guesses. Monday January 19, 1280. Friday September 2, 1934. Wednesday April 39, 0000. 0000. As if it existed. Me. “I don’t want to kill myself.” The woman. “Do you know today’s date?” I forgot that I never answered her, only myself. Me. “It’s Monday.” The two people looked at each other, confusion in their eyes. Not confusion, concern. Yes. They were concerned. For me? The woman. “Do you know where you are?” I was still leaning on the man. He didn’t seem to mind. Like he was doing a duty for me. Now here. Me. “In Kentucky.” Her. “Do you know which city?” It was frustrating me that they never told me if I was right or not with my answers. I couldn’t ask if I was right because then it would seem like I was guessing. Me. “Lexington.” I had lived there before. Ten years ago. Again, the two paramedics looked at each other. If I had thought about it, I would have looked at the badges on their uniforms before. Atlanta Emergency Squad. Atlanta? There wasn’t much difference between Atlanta and Lexington. Not much at all. Other than geographic location. I was in Atlanta. The night before I could have been in Lexington like I could have been in San Francisco. Or like how I could have been on Neptune, or Pluto, or some other galaxy all together. Now here. Me. “Atlanta, Georgia.” Me. “It’s Wednesday.” Me. “I don’t want to go to the hospital.” Me. “I don’t want to kill myself.” Me. “I was in Lexington. I came here to visit my sister. She doesn’t live far from here.” I had no sister. The woman. “We can’t force you, but if you would sign here indicating you are refusing medical assistance, then we can be out of your way. Are you sure you don’t need anything? I have a granola bar in the truck.” I signed her papers, it was on a clipboard. I signed them with no clear letters, just a line of loopty loops. My name. What was my name. It wasn’t anything. I had no name. No past. No future. No present. But I had to have a name. Somebody had to name me. I had to be somewhere. Atlanta, Georgia is where I was, but I don’t mean somewhere in that sense. I mean somewhere in the sense of existence. They left, the man and the woman. I was left alone, all alone. Entirely alone. I laid back down on the sidewalk, hoping to be transported back into the nothingness that I remembered. But nothing happened. I felt the hard concrete underneath me. I was back to life and could never go back to the dark nothing. But what did that mean. I didn’t know. I wanted to sleep. Yes, sleep. A long, deep sleep. Not death. I did not want to die. That was, is, the truth. I stood up again, stared directly at the sun for a few seconds, and when I couldn’t see anything because of big, flashing blobs of black circles, I began to walk nowhere in particular. Nowhere. Now here. Repeating. Repeating. Repeating. Now here. Now here. Now here. Nowhere. Nowhere. Nowhere. Did I want to kill myself? To stop. To cease. To end. It is possible, but not entirely. Not completely possible. My pockets were empty. I walked into the nearest gas station, asked to use a phone, dialed a number that I had memorized. It could have been centuries old. The first phone number ever invented. The voice. “Hello?” Me. “Can you pick me up? I’m in Atlanta.” The voice. “Who is this?” My name escaped me. I was alone. Completely, entirely, alone. Me. “It’s me.”


“With a mouth like yours, you better learn how to fight or run away,” is probably the second-best piece of advice I’ve ever received. I was given it by a big oaf that also happened to be my classmate. Can’t remember his name, but it starts with an A. Adam, Alex, Asshole? Yeah, that last one. He taught it to me while he was smashing my face in, his buddies cheering him on and watching out for teachers somewhere behind him. I couldn’t see them. Couldn’t see anything except the concrete towers stretching up to blot out the only sunlight this little slice of nature in the middle of the city got, and then even that was blocked out by the bottom of his boot. Then I stopped seeing much of anything for a while. I think that was the sum of my experience back then. Family packs up to move to the city and drags me along because I was too young to screw off somewhere elsewhere. And too old to fit in. Too many other things too. Didn’t know how to leave well enough alone, so I’d respond to insults about my family and where I was from in kind. Might’ve been tall, but I was too scrawny to fight back when I actually struck a nerve, and my gangly limbs couldn’t propel me anywhere at a considerable speed except into the ground, which I preferred to make people like Asshole waste their time doing for me. Another mark against me - apparently I had a chip on my shoulder. Whatever the hell that meant. As much as the principal, and my teachers, and even my parents and once in a while my siblings like to say that to me, nobody wanted to stop and ask why I was always ready to get my ass whooped. My fuse was so short because it was always burning. Sensory overload, I guess. The neon lights, the constant noise, everybody with a word to get in last and a laundry list of shit to get done for the day. Back in the rural town we came from, people would say there was so much to do in the city. But they never said there was so much going on. I guess most people would figure those to be the same, but it never really clicked for me until I was there. So I was always on edge, feeling like I was being bombarded because I was, and then Asshole comes along and calls me a sister-fucker because I’m from Virginia. So yeah, maybe I should’ve let it go instead of making some rude gestures...and maybe insinuating some incestuous happenings in his own family tree, given his general appearance which I would then go onto describe as- “The wrong end of a diseased cow.” That was when he punched me. He threw in some kicks, a kidney shot I really didn’t appreciate, and finally stomped me in the head and I blacked out. When I came to, I was still laid out in the grass of the city park. It was darker than I remembered it being when I was getting my ass kicked, though the time of day wasn’t my focus. I also wasn’t alone. “You look like shit,” that person said. Wasn’t Asshole or his goons, that much was clear since I wasn’t being kicked. Didn’t recognize the voice, must be some guy who found me afterward. “Feel worse,” I croaked. Jesus, was that my voice? Sounded like I was on my deathbed. “Yeah, I bet,” they chuckled. “Need a hand up?” “Need a doctor...but I’ll take what I can get.” I reached up, and they moved into my field of view. Yup, didn’t recognize them. He looked a little older than me, college-age, but like things were going much better in his life. He had a boyishly handsome face, dark eyes, and was dressed...I don’t know, athletically might be the word? Loose tee, shorts that were easy to move in, had a backpack on. His hands, though. That’s what really caught my attention. There were rough, callused, and covered in tiny scratches. Like if you slapped your hand against asphalt. Not enough to skin your palms or feel anything but a slight sting and leave a red mark. Later, when he took me back to his place to clean up so I didn’t have to go home looking like I was mugged, which I kinda was, I’d discover where those were from. Much, much later, this would be the man to give me the first-best piece of advice I’d ever receive. Max is what he went by. What he did was free-run. Also parkour, but he was quick to differentiate the two. “Art, man. If parkour’s a textbook, freerunning is like writing poetry.” I figured that was a pompous way to say he liked to do dangerous stunts in places he shouldn’t be. And, yeah, that was kinda true, if reductive. But when that was what he’d been coming back from doing when he found me in a heap in the park, and decided to stick around to make sure I wasn’t dead and nobody did anything to me, I couldn’t complain too much. No denying he was an odd duck, though. City-born and raised, so you know something wasn’t quite right in his head. The kind of thing that made him think running around and doing backflips off of twenty-story buildings was fun and not the sort of thing to make you shit yourself. But at least he was good at it, or must’ve been to make it this far without dying. Or to think it was something other people should do. When I told him about what happened, mentioning what Asshole said, he’d laughed. Then, when he was done enjoying my misery, he suggested I learn how to do parkour. It was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard. But nobody pegged me as being smart. I was hooked the first time I jumped from the top of a building. Oh, I was terrible at it. I didn’t know how to bend my legs right, I nearly faceplanted, and I scratched up my hands so bad I thought I might need to go to the hospital. But it was exhilarating. The sense of having nothing below you as you sail through the air, briefly wondering if you’re going to make it or if this is where the falling begins... Max helped me up and he knew too that I was in. It was written all over my face in the stupid way I was grinning. It was only a matter of course from there. I stopped spending so much time at home and lied to my parents the few times they asked what I was doing, though I had to wonder if they’d even tried to stop me if they knew. School sucked same as always, that wasn’t going to magically change, but it’s incredible what having some release for your stress will do. I didn’t care that it was bad anymore. What I cared about was getting out as soon as I could and running over to Max’s. Should go without saying I wasn’t taking the normal route, either. That was part of my practice. He was a good teacher, too. A week in and I stopped shaking before a jump. A month in and I could take a decent fall without too much trouble. Later we’d start getting into the freerunning aspects and focus less on the parkour. He was right - it was poetry, or like music in motion. Parkour had been about getting from point A to point B, swift as possible. But this was new. It was the death of the ego that was me and the birth of something new that could only be expressed through fluid movement above the city. Far below everything continued on as normal, but it couldn’t reach up here. The noise was muted, the lights dim, the awkwardness I once felt in my own body moved to a world far away. Instead it was just Max and me, and the thuds of our footsteps, and the whistling air as we twisted, turned, rolled, pirouetted. It would rain and the concrete would become slick and dark, but we’d still run once I became better at it. The thrill of it was intoxicating, knowing that death could be so close and the only thing keeping it away was a steady sense of balance. A year passed. I hardly paid Asshole any mind when the new semester started, and didn’t have an issue in keeping away when he sought me out. My parents couldn’t care less I was never home because the school stopped calling them to complain. Things were going great between Max and me. We’d moved past being teacher and student, and were now more like partners as we leaped and bounded from the rooftops and slid down railings. But here’s where reality has to come back in, and I had to learn the best piece of advice I ever would...or at least it was the one I’d never forget, no matter how much I tried since. “Sometimes you need to let go.” Yeah, ironic. And I don’t think he meant it to be prophetic. ‘Course not, how could he? But that’s what Max told me the last day I’d ever see him. We met up same as usual and went out to eat some lunch before going on a run. I’d complained a bit about school - sure, things were going better, but nothing was perfect, and I wanted to vent about one of my teachers. Nothing was perfect. Right. Yeah. Should’ve been a normal day and a normal run. Done the path more times than I can count. Were we cocky? Nah, Max made sure I learned that lesson. Had something changed? Maybe. Maybe the ledge was worn a little too thin, didn’t offer enough traction. If I’d gone after him, it might’ve been me. But I landed and rolled forward, and he landed a moment after me and slipped backward. Then he was gone. He fell from our heaven above the city into the hell below. I didn’t really know what to do about it except look down and watch. Then when the cops and the ambulance showed up, I ran. Then I stopped running. Never started back up. I’m not really sure if it was out of fear or...or if it was my way of mourning, but I never did it again. Things moved on. Nobody knew I was connected to Max or that I’d been there, though I had the irrational fear the cops would show up to ask questions about what we’d been doing up there for a few weeks after. Nobody showed up. I just numbly shuffled through life for a while until the numbness faded. Went to college. Got a job and the city stopped feeling like this weird place I was trapped in until I worked up the courage to move on. Then I met a nice guy, fell in love. We married, then adopted. My youth started to feel like it happened to someone else, but that’s time’s trickery for you. Life continued as though nothing happened, but I carried the memory of Max with me. “Funny how things work out like that,” I said to myself. “Not even sure why I came back here today.” That wasn’t true, actually. I came back to say goodbye. There wasn’t anything to mark the spot where he had fallen, but why would there be? It’d happened over a decade ago. “I’m leaving, finally. We bought a quaint place out in the middle of nowhere.” “Wish we could’ve spent more time together.” “I’m sorry.” “I don’t know what else I can say.” “...” I started and stopped a dozen times, searching for the right words. Something to close this chapter of my life that I’d spent in this city, some way I could wrap a neat bow over it all. But there wasn’t any way I could do that. There was no closure to be found, only what I made for myself. And while it would never be sufficient, I had to make do. “Thank you,” I finally said and looked up the sky. “You taught me a lot more than how not to bust my ass, and I appreciate it.” For what it’s worth.


Brandon looked out over the floor - with its winding counter and Plexiglas shield segregating hundreds of staff from a legion of customers, with its myriad stanchions webbed together by criss-crossing tape that formed Möbius lines, with its three lazy fans that did little more than shuffle the stale sweat air from armpit to nostril, with its never-ending symphony of phone-rings and baby-shrieks and tired-grumbles accented by improvised solos of the irate, with its Byzantine maze of signs and symbols and arrows hanging from the ceiling, with its vague jaundiced grey hue that covered everything in a sticky film of neglect - and gasped. “Well, hello ,” sang a woman, startling Brandon all over again. She was a head shorter than him, wore a frizzy lilac sweater - hand knit - and held a clipboard. Her pink lipstick smeared a bit at the corners of her mouth, and her nametag said, Pamela Rosen, (Acting) Junior Shift Manager III . “You must be the new hire!” she continued. She glanced down at her clipboard and then up again, her eyes gleeful wide. “Bradley!” Brandon glanced at the writhing mass of human misery, doing its best to stay within the ever-shifting lines, and swallowed hard. “Um, it’s Brandon, Ma'am.” She clicked her tongue and wagged her finger. “No Ma’ams here, Bradley . That’ll be (Acting) Junior Shift Manager Pamela, if you please. Although,” she giggled, “my friends call me Junior Shift Manager Pam. Play your cards right, and you can too.” She unclipped a nametag from her clipboard. “Now, onto business. Your nametag,” she said, affixing it to his shirt, “says Bradley . And gosh golly gee, it would be pretty silly if a nametag was wrong, wouldn’t it?” “Um...” “And we do so love team players here, Bradley . You are a team player, right, Bradley? ” “Um... yes Ma-(Acting) Junior Shift Manager Pamela.” He swallowed again. “I’m a team player. I really need this job.” He could feel his rent run a bony finger down his spine, and the prospect of unexpected medical bills whispered sweet everythings into his ear. Her grin spread as wide as her eyes narrowed. “Good.” She glanced down at her clipboard again. “All right, it says here you completed the classroom training with a grade of ‘Yes’, so why don’t we head over to your station?” It wasn’t really a question. Pam walked down the winding line of stations, each filled with a bloodshot-eyed co-worker, their monotone drone a pleasant backdrop to the lamentations of the customers. After what felt like an hour of walking they finally came to an empty desk. Nothing there but a worn plastic chair, a forty year old computer, a little sign that could be toggled between a green Open , a red Closed , and a yellow Notice , two stamps ( Denied and Approved ) and a three-inch ring binder chained to the desk, labeled Manual of Procedures . “Please sit, Bradley,” Pam said. “And toggle your station to Open . It’s time to serve our customers.” “But,” he felt a lump in his throat as he opened the heavy manual. “In class we only had a three page pamphlet, and we only covered one case, and we didn’t even-” “Shh shh shh,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “There there, it’ll be all right. You’re a trainee . We don’t expect you to be an expert out of the gate. You’ll learn on the job, and that’s what I’m here to help you with.” “You are?” “Oh yes, of course. Stick with me, kid, and you’ll go far. Now, you just smile, open your station, and we’ll go through the manual together. Relax, Bradley. Customers are very understanding of new hires.” Bradley toggled his sign to open, and a gaunt woman with wide-eyes stepped forward. “Hello, Ma’am,” Brandon said. Pam tutted and tapped the manual with her finger. “Please look at your script.” Greet the customer with, “Hello (Sir/Madam).” “Oh, sorry.” He turned to the customer again. “Hello Madam.” The woman didn’t reply. She only placed her forms on the counter with a shaking hand. Pam tapped the manual again, and the next step said to confirm her identification. “Do you have any ID, Ma’am-er-Madam?” The woman dug out a driver’s licence. Next Pam walked him through validating the customer’s forms, which required flipping back and forth through the manual, which frequently told him to reference things on different pages. With each form, the customer’s eyes grew wider. At one point, she stopped blinking. At another, she stopped breathing. But finally, after nearly two hours, Brandon stamped the last of her forms Approved and the woman finally gasped for air. “Congratulations, Madam! It looks like your application is app-” Pam tutted, and tapped the manual again. The final step was validating the customer’s personal details. Brandon went through the steps on page 334, and when he got to the month-of-birth section, he scanned down to March, which told him to go to page 998. The customer is declined. Please inform them to try again at a later date. “Oh,” Brandon said, crestfallen. “I’m so sorry, Madam, it looks like, um, you’re actually declined.” The woman wailed soundlessly and crumpled to the floor, and Pam tapped the desk, beside the second stamp. Brandon picked it up, unsure of what he should stamp, since all her forms were already Approved . Pam tapped the woman’s licence. “But, that’s her driver’s-” “-It doesn’t matter, sweetie,” Pam said. Brandon stamped Declined over her photo and slid all the customer’s materials back to her. “NEXT!” Pam shouted. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Bradley. I should have let you do that, but I just love that part.” The next customer was ultimately declined because he didn’t fill out the optional section of form 114-D-21. The one after that, because she misspelled October on form 56-F as Oct . The one after that, because the approval process took more than thirty minutes - which Brandon apologized for profusely, but it didn’t make a difference. The one after that, because it was 3:12 PM. And so it went, always ending up on page 998. By the time Brandon went home that evening he hadn’t helped a single customer, but Pam didn’t seem worried. Indeed, she had told him he was doing just fine and would be a great addition to the team. He wasn’t so sure, but he hoped so. The money was a welcome thing. The rest of the week went much the same. Pam was more and more hands off, and he got a little faster at flipping through the manual, but every customer still resulted in a Declined for one reason or another. By Friday he had declined fifty-seven customers. Some nodded stoically, expecting no less. Others broke down and wept, or screamed at him, or argued, or threw things. He didn’t even realize when it happened, but he had taken up smoking again, and he knew he had to say something to Pam. She came to him for a Friday-end-of-day check-in. “How did you find your first week, Bradley?” “(Acting) Junior Shift Manager Pamela,” he said. “Honestly, I don’t think it’s going well. I keep declining everyone. And these people, these poor people, I swear some of them have been waiting in line for days! It just breaks my heart. Surely there’s got to be some wiggle room?” “Aw,” she said. “Your concern for the customers’ wellbeing is commendable. We put our customers’ satisfaction above everything, after all. But no, no wiggling. Just follow the manual. Trust the process.” “Yeah, right,” he said, “but here’s the thing. I was reading the manual during my spare time-” “- Ooh! You go-getter you,” she grinned, fanning herself. “Er, right. Well, so I just came up with a bunch of hypothetical situations, and no matter what I do, I end up at page 998.” “If that’s what the manual says.” She shrugged. Brandon leaned in closer and whispered, “(Acting) Junior Shift Manager Pamela, I think there might be a problem. I’ve talked with some of the other staff too. I think maybe all roads lead to page 998. Like, there’s no way for a customer to be approved.” Her smile strained, and her blinks sharpened. “What an... interesting observation, Bradley. Tell you what. How about I bring this to the attention of my manager.” “Thank you,” Brandon said, feeling relief surge through his muscles. “And how about you spend the weekend thinking about what this might mean, with a particular focus on how it might affect your continued employment.” Brandon’s muscles cramped again. He didn’t sleep over the weekend, and Monday rolled up much too quickly for his liking. Had that been a threat? Did he misread how nice Pamela had been? Well, at least how not-overtly-hostile she had been? When he got into the office on Monday morning, he found her already waiting by his desk, standing there with a wide grin and her clipboard. “Good morning ,” she sang. “Good morning, (Acting) Junior Shift Manager Pamela.” She giggled. “Oh, I have some great news for you, Bradley.” He gulped. She unclipped a piece of paper from her board and handed it to him. “Ta-da!” Brandon frowned at the sheet, labeled Front-line Memo #88992-DR-231-09 . It was written in 6 point Comic Sans, even though the bottom third was all whitespace. “What’s this?” “Management was impressed by your finding, and it turns out: you’re right! It’s basically a widespread typo, a terrible mistake. We should never have been sending people to page 998 in all of those circumstances.” “Oh, that’s fantastic!” Brandon said. He felt himself smiling, and actually looking forward to the work day. Maybe he misjudged this job, and Pam, entirely. Maybe he could make a difference. “The memo just goes to say that we basically spent the whole weekend printing off a new manual for everyone, where all the places we redirected people to page 998 should now go to page 753.” Brandon flipped to page 753. The customer is approved. Please congratulate them, and thank them for their business. Ask them if they would like to fill out a satisfaction survey, and either way, pat yourself on the back - you did well today! His grin widened and he actually chuckled. Oh yes, this week was going to be much better. He took his seat and prepared for the morning rush. Pam set down a pen and a jar of correctional fluid on the counter. “What’s this?” Brandon said. “There’s a second memo this morning,” she said, and then unclipped it and passed it to Brandon. Attention: all front line staff. Please remove pages 998 and 753 from your manual. Then apply the correctional fluid to each page number, and once it dries, re-page page 998 as page 753, and re-page page 753 as 998, and replace the pages in your manual. Brandon’s jaw dropped. “This doesn’t change anything!” “What do you mean? Nobody will be sent to page 998 anymore. Isn’t that what you wanted?” “No! Yes! I mean-people will still keep getting rejected! I wanted to start approving people!” Pam’s face softened. “Oh, Bradley. Approving people costs money. If we spend money on approving people, we won’t have it to spend on employee wages. You do like earning money, don’t you?” “I-” Brandon’s words tripped him up. “I do, but not like this.” “What if I told you, you get a bonus for every one thousand declines? Think about it. You already know the secret of the manual. You could fast-track each customer to page 753. Accumulate those bonuses. Afford your own nifty hand knit sweaters. Heck, afford to dream of retirement one day. But, you know, just dream.” “A bonus?” he asked. “What, uh, what kind of bonus are we talking?” Pam leaned in and whispered lustily, “A ten dollar gift card to Starbucks, and access to the leftovers from Management’s Thursday pizza lunch.” Brandon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He grit his teeth. He weighed his needs against his morals, his rent against everything his parents taught him. “No.” He opened his eyes. “Sorry, (Acting) Junior Shift Manager Pamela. I can’t in good conscience do that.” “I see.” She drew away from him, straightened her back. “Then you know what this means?” “Yes, I think I do. I’m resigning.” “That’s a shame, Bradley. I thought you had a lot of promise. I thought you were one of the good ones.” She unclipped a sheet from her board and handed it to him. “Please fill out form 114-D-21, Notice of Two-Weeks’ Notice , and get in line.” Brandon took his form and lined up.


WRATH OF EARTH “RUN , RUN ,RUN , RUN OTHERWISE WE WILL BE IN DANGER”. Do not stress your mind by reading these lines because these lines are now familiar to our ears. We live in a world where nothing is normal . Now do not confuse your mind by thinking that we are aliens having superpowers . We are normal humans but not living in a normal World. We are living on a earth but not on a peaceful earth. It is an earth which you can not imagine in your wildest dreams. In our solar system earth was considered as the most appropriate planet for humans to live but now this is not the case . Now earth is considered as the most inappropriate planet to dwell on .We are the reason of this disaster. So let’s start the story that apprise you about the pathetic condition of earth. I am a nature lover so I decided to explore a nearby forest with my friends. We all saw beautiful flowers, inimitable birds and beauty of nature. We all were enjoying but suddenly we heard a roar of thunder and in a blink of an eye there was fire all around. By God’s grace we escaped safely from there and we thought that it was just a incident but that was the beginning. After that there was Chaos all over in the world. There was forest fires, climate changes, floods , melting of glaciers and many more things which you can not imagine. Now nothing is normal. Nothing is simple. Everyday we struggle for our lives. Now we do not go to school. On regular basis we experience heavy rainfall like similar to flood and so government closed all the schools. Now we attend our classes online. I really miss my friends , my teachers and school environment. Educated citizens are the integral part in nation’s growth but now because these climate change is a hindrance in the growth of a nation. Food is such an integral part of us but now we don’t get farm’s fresh food like earlier. Extreme weather events and more frequent droughts affect crop production. Earlier we used to eat many vegetables and fruits but now we only get artificial food . Soil has become infertile and they are incapable of growing crops so our scientists now prepare food in laboratory. This food can fill your empty stomach but not your heart. These laboratory food are very costly so it is impossible for poor people to buy it. It is like a condition of rent. Tress give us oxygen but now they are being destroyed in forest fires and maximum of tress were already destroyed by people for their own selfish needs. People are displaced from their homes because of serve weather events and this results in social instability and conflict when these people move to new place. Now global warming is at its high peak. And it is reducing the capacity of ocean to absorb oxygen. Geoscientists have found that anaerobic microbes would have thrived in these conditions and produced vast amount of hydrogen sulfide gas which is very toxic causing extinction of both plant and animal on land as well as in water. In news we see that one or other pandemic outbreak is going in the world . This is because of rising temperature gives a suitable condition for development of harmful viruses . Now economically poor people are dependent on meat based diet, which rises the risk of outbreak of diseases which can be very dangerous to humans. The combination of humidity and heat can impair the human body’s ability to cool itself, leading to hyperthermia, a potentially life threatening condition. In some or another part of the country glaciers are melting because of global warming. The harmful greenhouse gases have destroyed our ozone layer , which is leading to many incurable diseases . From all above activities happening in our world can give you a clear Idea that it is a climate apocalypse . Yes it is a climate apocalypse. We daily experience earthquakes , condition of flood and drought. Now we cannot go to parks or sit under the trees to experience the idyllic happiness. We cannot go to forests ,zoo and to malls instead we can only see the dreadful condition of our earth from our homes in our television . People in past have destroyed our environment. They did deforestation for their needs without supporting afforestation. They used plastics and threw them away in Oceans . They used vehicles , industries which released harmful gases . They did everything for their pleasure without thinking about their next generation . It is truly said that your past deeds affect your future. In this condition we can do nothing but just kindle the light of hope in ourselves. Though everywhere there are clouds of darkness but I believe that Every cloud has a silver lining. It is not a piece of cake to survive in this era. This climate apocalypse involve the global collapse of human civilization and potential human extinction as either a direct or indirect result of anthropogenic climate change. Earth is now rendered uninhabitable as a result of extreme temperatures, severe weather events ,an inability to grow crops and an altered composition of the earth’s atmosphere. Now it is impossible for us to live with this environment and we are just hoping for best. Our scientists also working very diligently day and night for some solution. They were finding solutions from many years . They were also going in space to find a solution and now finally they found a solution . They found a planet which is suitable for humans to live . After such travail they did it . It is truly said “ Obstacles are the cost of greatness”. Now today is the day when we are going on other planet to establish human civilization once again with peace. We are feeling sad but there is no other option. I hope for best. I hope that now people will take a lesson from this and from now onwards they will not take nature for granted . If you want to save yourself then save your environment.


I never imagined that I’d be a widow at 27 and six months pregnant to boot, but here I am at my husband’s visitation, sitting in the front row, literally crying on my mother’s shoulder. Her arm tightens around me. “Hey, I was also a single mom and I managed. You’ll manage, too. And of course, I’m always here to help.” “But that was different. You were a teenager. Luke and I were married and in love. It was like we were born for each other. And he didn’t run off on me; he died.” I know I’m bordering on histrionic, but a mere week ago Luke was here, massaging my sore feet and rubbing my protruding belly. Now he’s lying lifeless in the casket several feet from me, the victim of a drunk driver. I’d like to have the perspective to say that he’s now reunited with his mother - who died 5 years previous - but the wound is still too fresh. Luke’s father, on the other hand, is very much alive, and very much not here. As though she’s read my mind, my mother asks, “Didn’t you say his father was coming?” I wipe away a tear with the back of my hand. “He called me to say he was, but I wouldn’t count on it, 'cause it's been years since he and Luke spoke. I mean, he didn’t even show up to our wedding. But now that Luke’s gone, I’ll probably never get to see his face now.” I sniffle. “Which suits me just fine; he was never there for Luke anyway.” My mother hands me a tissue. “Rat bastard.” When visitation hours are over and our fellow mourners have filed out (after offering hugs and condolences) my mother and I slowly take our leave, stopping short when we see a man standing in the foyer of the funeral home, shoulders hunched and hands in his pockets. “Can I help you?” I ask. The man looks up at me: eyes tinted pink, face sagging with remorse. Awkwardly, he extends a hand. “I’m um, Luke’s father. I’ve been standing out here for 20 minutes, deciding whether I should come in...” Just when a bitter retort rises up in my throat like bile, my mother pales. “Wait a minute...Jeffrey?” Luke’s father’s wet eyes focus on my mother. “A-Anita?” Now his glance is darting back and forth between my mother and I. “Oh my God, is this...” My mother releases a choked sob, collapsing to her knees on the carpeted floor. “No...” As Luke’s father clutches at his hair, the realization of their discovery hits me like a freight train. And that’s when I feel the baby kick for the first time.


TW: bullying, slurs Two years had passed since the extinction of the virus. Yet here I was. In the principal’s office. Captive so as to narrate the events of the previous Sunday night. “You Chinese f-ck,”. All windows were sealed shut, yet a wind of bewilderment managed to blow me straight in the face. All the remarks I had heard till now; all the “go back to China”s’ in the bathroom stalls and all the hostile leers I would constantly receive in cafes and supermarkets; they had never succeeded at bringing about my incredulity. Having grown up as a “ching chong ” little boy during the pandemic , I was more than aware of the cruelty uneducated human beings have the potential of letting loose into the air along with each and every breath they release.Yet coming out of the principal’s mouth? These words suddenly seemed to transform into heart-burning flames, firing through an opened and fervent furnace. “You should have known better than to attend that party. Didn’t it seem suspicious to you that you were the only .. wide-eyed there?” The latter even stinged. My eyes must have froze somewhere in between his shirt’s two huge blue collar buttons, resulting in his uncomfortable back and forth movement. “ Mr. Douglas, are you really suggesting this is my fault? When it was them who actually organized this so.. ill minded prank?”. My heart was pounding immensely, like it was warning me of an overflow of emotion that was soon to come. I gulped, in hopes that along with my saliva I would also swallow the tears and pain. He must have realized that, for his sturdy voice softened: “ I didn’t say it was your fault.. I’m just saying you could have avoided all of this by not going to the party and staying in your dorm. There are ,after all ,guidelines for students of your kind . In any case, don’t worry. The rest of your classmates will be forced to undertake community work for the whole following week. You can rest assur..” Suddenly, his voice started to sound clogged; as if I had just taken a deep dive and my ears had become plugged with water. Anything else that he might have said I didn’t hear. My mind lurched away from the reality and revisited the events of the previous night in the lake. I remember thinking for a moment that acceptance was finally being conferred on me. When handing me the invitation, Lisa had seemed so sincere. Her teasing had generally ceased to be as far reaching as it was during the pandemic.Moreover, we had begun engaging ourselves in inconsequential chatter in between our shared English Lit. lectures. Hence, when she greeted me upon my arrival at that party, I truly believed that a genuine friendship was quivering on the horizon. She handed me one of those cherry red beer glasses and piloted me to a table surrounded by a swirl of people. The vitality radiating from the youth was so immense that the whole lake seem to ring full of it. We played beer pong for about an hour and even though I sucked at it, as it was a game till then unknown for me, I was genuinely enjoying myself. And I was simultaneously feeling a heart warming relation to the sun; despite my origins making me so different and distinct, I was ultimately fitting in. So it figures that when I heard Lisa’s shrill voice vocalizing her desire of me joining her to a helping of some smorgasbords at the lavish buffet across, I jovially accepted it. At that moment I was a little tipsy; I didn’t notice the innumerable pair of eyes that were falling on us as we sauntered across;I didn’t notice them even though they must have fell upon us like the lens of a projector lighting up a theater stage. Nor did I notice the leers, nor the sneers of their playful eyes. I did however wonder a bit for the sudden convocation that was forming around me. I was nevertheless too pure. Too naive to understand. And I was unaware of the urgency of my understanding; I raised a small sandwich at the height of my lips and let it slip onto my mouth. Not a second later than a crunchy sound was made, did everyone burst into laughter. I spat the sandwich at the florid tissue that I had picked up along with it, startled by its gruesome taste; and I at last realized that the inside of the sandwich consisted of crickets and grasser-hopers. Are you aware of the conjecture concerning the reason behind people‘s inability to remember their younger years? It is said to be because of the embarrassment they feel while adjusting to life. Well, for me the same thing must have applied for that cold and horrendous night. Because the rest of it is a complete blur. The sharp and peremptory scream of the old fashioned telephone sitting at the principal’s desk lurched me back into reality. Dazzled by the extent of my absent-mindedness, I forced my brain to return to my seated body. “Good afternoon Mrs. Morris. Yes, yes of course, I’ll be right there” uttered the principal in his ordinary and formal manner. He clumsily put the telephone back in its place and simultaneously buoyed up as a balloon. “Well, kid, I’m glad we got this sorted out and that there will be no further trouble. No need to perplex your parents in such a childish matter. I need to go now, so you can see yourself out. Im certain that after our discussion you’ll try not to stray too far away from your comfort and you’ll keep out of trouble.” I stood up and headed for the door. I saw myself out of the office and was ready to seal the door closed, when the air slipped outside of the office and carried some last words the principal had to say: “Oh, and don’t forget to see the university’s psychologist.” My dorm wasn’t that far away from that frivolous office. I only had to hurry through two flights of stairs and walk five feet to find myself back in my so comforting ,yet so desolate, dorm. I was almost there when i saw Lisa dressed in athletic attire exiting her own dorm, just two doors over mine. She saw me. I tried to speak to her, but she wouldn’t even look me in the eyes. She trotted to the staircase with such a hurry that the sound of her footsteps reminded of the heavy rain falling outside in the ground. Languid, i uttered a fading sigh and entered my solacing shelter. I had left the window open and found some of the rain lying upon the wooden floor. I hastily approached it with the intention of sealing it shut. I really wanted to avoid the further unrest of mopping on such an already strenuous day . But the nearer I came to the window, the harder it became for me to close it off. I soon found myself riding the window shelf. The rain was so heavy that it clutched on my leggings as if it was solid matter. And it started to alarmingly weigh me down towards nothingness. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to escape the imminent threat of death. Then my beloved mother came into my mind. And suddenly, any suicidal thought that I might have had until then, vanished completely; I could never do that to her.. I decisively raised my leg up to the level of the small panoramic windowpane in order to bring it back into were it belonged. I decided that I wouldn’t let anyone dictate the worth of my existence. But it didn’t matter what I had decided. For all it mattered, the little hook on the pipe outside the window had already decided my fate. I remember looking at my bed stand and then straight up at the sky.


Olive perked awake as she realized the music had begun. The vibrations had almost slid her off her corner ledge behind the barrels.  Her whiskers twitched in a satisfied hum as her heart adjusted to the comfortable rhythm. This nightly ritual made the long months of hiding, scurrying away scraps, and swaying of the earth worth it.  She ran the well-worn path up the wooden beams, bouncing back and forth to stick to the darkness between flame-lit lamps, and squeezed into her gap up to the open deck. It was an especially cold, moonless night, and she crept up the mast to perch on a poorly-laid plank that had been retro-fitted to keep rusted nails from crumbling out. This was the best view.  Olive squeaked as she took in the scene. The deck had been laid out with branches from pine trees and open candles. Glasses were filled with a dark red liquid instead of the usual clear and the air hung thick with smells of cinnamon and oranges. The whole crew was on deck, wrapped in scarves and stomping boots in time to the steady beat.  As the sailors moved from one song to the next, Olive looked at her paw. She concentrated hard and tapped just her front right foot in time. It barely made a sound.  She wrapped herself up into a ball, tucking her tail under for warmth, and let the music work its way through her bones. Today’s set was elaborate and joyful. Olive wondered if this meant they were close to home - the humans always seemed to like that. She didn’t understand why they kept sailing away when all they seemed to want was to return. But she was grateful for the music, and it was best not to dwell. *A curious mouse is a dead mouse*, her father always said.  The song ended and the crew raised their glasses with a shout. As everyone downed their cups, several of the smaller men brought up and unpacked a large chest. They placed four wooden barrels - but smaller, with more tones of brown, and some shiny bits Olive didn’t recognize - and a boxy thing with a vertical stack of white bars among the singers.  Olive shivered in the sea breeze and debated climbing back down towards a candle in the back corner. It would be warmer, but the sound was much clearer up here. And who knows how long it would be before she’d hear this new set again. She decided to stay.  One of the singers picked up the box and began strumming his fingers up and down the white bars. It exuded sounds, haunting and beautiful and perfectly harmonic. Olive closed her eyes and swayed as the others joined in with complimentary voices.  Finally, they began to tapping on the barrels, creating a sound as deep and rich as the luscious white-rinded cheese she’d stumbled on in the kitchen a few days prior. She forgot the cold and the sea-sawing of the ship and the weariness. Sometimes, Olive felt she could live on just sounds, strung together all lovely like this. She felt whole.  Olive relaxed into the melody, sinking down onto the plank with satisfaction.  Until the ground disappeared from under her feet. Her eyes darted open to a blur. The wind bit into her as she fell, and fell, and fell, and landed in water.  Olive panicked, paddling around in all sorts of directions as she realized it was too dark, too thick, too sweet to be seawater - she’d landed in an open barrel of red drink. She stopped scrambling for a moment and found herself floating to the top, head bobbing back in the night air.  The song had ended but the humans remained distracted with their chats, so Olive swam to the edge of the barrel and hopped over. The chill set in harder into her soaked fur as it clumped together.  But there would be time to dry up later. Now, she had to find a spot to finish listening to the set.  Olive scurried over to the candle in the back corner of the deck. The sailors here were mostly asleep or distracted by the challenge of standing on two legs. The flame’s heat enveloped Olive’s back like a blanket.  She shook her head repeatedly to stay awake as she waited for the next song. The fall had really knocked the energy out of her. *No matter, though, once the song starts,* she thought as her heart raced.  Several minutes passed and still they had not resumed. Olive scurried up the side of the deck for a better view.  The singers were tapping the odd barrels and moving their mouths. But there was no sound.  *No sound.*  Olive listened for the familiar hum of the wind. For the clanking of the kitchens. For the low voices of men gossiping.  She heard nothing.  Olive panicked, looking around. Groups of men around the deck all moved their mouths, chatting. The singers slammed their boots upon the deck more vigorously and the rest of the crew joined in. But it was all silence to her now.  She bounced down to the deck and towards the singers. Her ears were just clogged from the fall. She just needed to get closer.  A sharp pain launched up her tail as she turned and found a boot on it. The man turned to look down as she darted into a gap to the kitchens below.  The kitchen was always the loudest, busiest part of the ship, but silence was all that remained for Olive. She leaped through shortcuts to her bed behind the barrels. Olive climbed onto the ledge and curled up into a ball, panting. As her breathing slowed, exhaustion hit, quieting her racing thoughts. She fell asleep.  --  The ledge vibrated Olive awake with the familiar clang of a fallen pot. She yawned and twitched her whiskers, memory slowly filling in as knots clenched her stomach.  She scurried out behind the barrels and into the neighboring room, where the sailors often sat around exchanging colorful cards and cheering. There were a dozen men there now.  But Olive did not hear their familiar low voices. As one group raised their fists in unison, she did not hear the accompanying shout. As a sailor brought in a stew, she did not hear the background pots clanging.  Olive was deaf.  She sat up on her hind legs, like the humans did, and sniffed around. The tang of alcohol filled the air, with wafts of rosemary and orange drifting in from the kitchen. She licked the plank she stood on and felt the familiar flavors of salt and bitterness. She could still see, and smell, and feel, and taste.  But she couldn’t hear. And that was really all that mattered.  Yet Olive did not despair. She felt a strange resistance in her mind, a disbelief.  She scurried back to her bed, deciding that sleep was the best cure. If she just went to sleep, her hearing would return, heal itself. If she just went to sleep, this would all be a dream.  --  Olive awoke for moments, to gather scraps of bread and stew, and returned to bed. Once, twice, half a dozen times. She lost count. You couldn’t see the sun from below deck, so you couldn’t track the days. That was okay. Days didn’t matter to Olive, anyway.  --  Olive perked awake as vibrations almost slid her off her corner ledge behind the barrels.  The ledge shook in a rhythm Olive knew well. She couldn’t hear it, but she knew this was one of her favorite songs.  She scurried up the well-worn path through her gap to the open deck and climbed up to her place on the mast. The pine trees were gone, but the entire crew was gathered again, each holding a candle. The flickering cast pretty shadows on the sideboards. The singers moved their mouths and hit their odd barrels, the men stomped, and she could hear nothing.  Olive felt like she was falling all over again. She’d left her family, her wax bed that curved just right for her back, the bakery bread scraps with toasted seeds, and all her other comforts behind because she’d been entranced on the docks by the sounds of this ship. She’d been sailing for eight months on uneven ground, eating nothing but stale crumbs and gray stew, and circling the same few rooms among the same low voices, all alone. It had all been worth it for the music.  She watched the singers moving their mouths and suddenly wanted to be anywhere else in the world. Olive scurried down the mast towards her gap in the deck just as the stomping chorus began.  She had to stop to let a sleepy sailor pass. On the deck, she felt the vibrations heightening in a familiar rhythm. She still heard the words in her head, still remembered the tune well. Olive closed her eyes and pretended the sounds in her head were also in her ears.  As she focused on the rhythm, she felt a new texture to the vibrations. They didn’t just stomp. They had layers. She’d never noticed before. There was a dominant beat of boots. A middle layer of barrel taps. And a soft topcoat, the light vibrato of air from the sailors’ voices.  Olive swayed, eyes closed. Her heart slowly gave in and beat to the middle layer rhythm. Her paw tapped to the boots. Her whiskers twitched to the top coat. Her whole body became one with the vibrations.  The song ended and Olive opened her eyes. The crew milled around, chatting and drinking and cheering. The cold night breezed again. Candles flickered. And if Olive paid attention, she could feel a faint vibration for each of these.  They were not the rich, deep envelope of a good melody. But they had nuance. The vibrations persisted through everyone and everything. She wondered if, perhaps, mice had a vibration. If her family had one. If *she* had one.  Olive scurried down the side of the ship, hugging the lip of the deck. The sailors had gathered in the center, taking the light with them, as they stepped in rhythm to the next song. It struck her that she’d never been this far up the ship - she’d kept her distance so as to better appreciate the sounds. But now, the closer she got, the more layered the vibrations became.  She found a new spot at the very top of the ship, where the long sides came together in a point. The wooden floorboards curved up so that Olive was level with the knees of the singers further down the boat.  The planks hummed a melody for her. She listened with her paws, her tail, and her whiskers.  Olive sighed a heavy sigh as she recognized the beat again, the melody playing in her head. She didn’t know this one as well, and so there were pieces missing, like a skipped record.  Still, she let herself sink into the rhythm, paying attention to new layers as the beats enveloped her. She felt the quick jitter of a small man’s solo, the unsteady clinks of glasses, and the low rumble of the waves.  Perhaps she would be whole again.


Lydia saw the car pull up in the driveway, she watched as her fiance stepped out of the car but she couldn't find the motivation to cheer herself up or run to welcome him like she normally did; it had been a rough couple of weeks and it seemed like it was starting to take it's toll on her. Daniel walked into the house and was quite surprised to find her sitting by the window, legs crossed on the wooden chair, with a sullen look. Curiously, he moved towards her but she didn't even move from where she sat or glance his way. "Babe,' he called and she looked up at him teary eyed, 'hey, what's wrong?" "My manuscript got rejected again." She said "Oh that, sorry to hear." He replied but she noticed the sudden lack of interest in his tone. "You don't sound sorry at all." She said and he sighed. "I have to go shower, I stink." He said as he turned to leave. "If there is something you want to say, say it Dan." She prompted. He stopped and faced her as he contemplated if he should really be honest with her. "Say it Dan!" She urged "It's just that... this is like the 100th time your work had been rejected since we left College three years ago. You spend so much time writing, researching and everytime it gets rejected..." "Why are you saying it like its my fault?" "I'm not saying its your fault. I'm saying that maybe it's time for you to forget about this writing stuff and focus on something real like getting a job." "Writing stuff? Writing is real to me, it is what I do. I love writing and you know that Dan!" "But it hasn't been working out for you so far, has it?" He asked "I can't believe you are saying this to me." "Maybe it is time you used your certificate and find a realistic job to help out financially." "I don't help out financially? That's it?" "No. You are a certified botanist, you can get a job Lydia." "I didn't graduate first class like you did Dan! I will barely get a job as a third class graduate in this economy. My best shot is getting my manuscripts approved for publication. I am a good writer, I know it." She argued "Well you are the only one that seems to think that you are." He said and immediately regretted it. Lydia stopped and gaped at him for a second as her brain processed that. "You don't think I'm good enough?" she asked and he let out a sigh. "Lydia..." He began subtly "I think I need to go for a walk." she cut in, walked past him, out of the three bedroom apartment they had bought two years ago, into the quiet street of the Lagos estate they occupied, to clear her head. The evening breeze gladly welcomed her. She tried to process everything ... she needed to or else she might just explode. She loved Dan a lot, he had been her high school sweetheart and not once did he stop believing in her or in her dream to become a renowned writer someday, that was why it really hurt to hear him say all that to her. They had been through so much together, survived four years long distance relationship all through college and when he had gotten a job as a senior programmer in a prominent company, she had relocated across the continent to join him. Unlike him though, she had done very poorly in the course her father had forced her to study in college. Being an only child of a domineering father, he had predestined every detail of her life - from her college to his dream job for her, down to a perfect suitor for her ( which most certainly wasn't Daniel) - and where her efforts weren't enough, the money had spoken for her, that was how she had been able to graduate college despite her grades. It wasn't like she was not smart or something like that, she had just wanted to write but her father hated the very idea of it, he believed it was a waste of time. He preferred she become a botanist like him and take over his research company eventually so he had gone to great lengths to stop her from writing but like they say, you can force a horse to the stream but you can't force it to drink, right? She continued writing which had pissed him off greatly and after College they had barely been on speaking terms. Her moving in with Daniel when he suggested it had been the last straw of her madness for her father; he swore never to have anything to do with her ever again. But she was stubborn like him that way. Daniel and her had spent the last two years having all the fun they had missed in the years apart. Daniel was a good person, smart and they were in love, that much she knew and just two months ago he had proposed. However, with her inability to a get a job or a breakthrough in her writing, things have been quite rough between them these last couple of weeks. Although she baked some snacks for sale once in a while, he was the sole provider and she felt hurt that he thought she was just being lazy. The truth was, she always felt like she needed to prove to her father that writing wasn't a waste, that he had been wrong to stop her from pursuing her dreams, probably that was why she had clung onto that dream despite the negative feedbacks but when your last motivator has given up on you, wasn't it a cue for you to just give up too? What if she really wasn't that good? Every manuscript she had submitted, she had been told it wasn't what they needed... well not all the manuscripts, some were yet to be reviewed. She had even tried writing contests but failed many times and it hurt so badly. Maybe Daniel was right, maybe it was time to bring her head out of the clouds and face reality but then she had been pampered all her life, she couldn't think of any other skill except writing - she was so confused at that moment that it all seemed very devastating. It was already dark outside when she returned home after a long walk that left her still confused. Daniel was in the sitting room and as soon as she walked in, he stood up with an apologetic look. "Lydia, let's talk please." He said as she made to walk past him "You already said what you wanted... " "No,' he cut in as he held her arm, gently pulled her back to face him, 'I'm sorry about earlier. You are good enough, believe me. Any writing establishment would be lucky to have someone as dedicated and talented as you are..." "You don't need to butter me up Dan..." "I'm not, trust me. What i was trying to say was perhaps you should get a side job or start up something while looking for other writing options, I don't know why I didn't just say that earlier, I was an ass. I think all the negative comments are making you depressed, I mean I haven't seen you smile or laugh genuinely in weeks, I miss that. You are an amazing writer but you just need a break from it all, love." He said then placed one hand on her cheek and caressed it gently. It felt comforting to hear all that but possibly he was just saying that to avoid a fight. "I believe you." She replied regardless "I love you." He said as he looked into her eyes intently. A smile spread across her face and she kissed him on the lips, he kissed her back and shortly afterwards their clothes were flying off their bodies as they fell on the couch and made passionate love. * * * Dan helped her get a job as a cook in a restaurant just a stone throw from the company he worked in - Maggie's kitchen. It was a new restaurant in the urban part of town, not all that fancy but decent enough for those in the middle class. There were three cooks ( Mr Bibo, a huge man in his early forties who seemed experienced in all areas of life, Hassan a nineteen year old high school dropout and then there was Lydia). The pay wasn't much but at least she wasn't sitting idly at home anticipating calls from editors. Also, she had a chance to catch a glimpse of Dan everyday during his lunch break as he frequented the place. Not to mention the fact that she got to make new friends, being such a free spirit, she immediately bonded with her boss, Maggie - a divorced woman in her late fifties, Mr Bibo and Hassan who had a really good sense of humor. She was basically a sweetheart and she loved the feeling that came with being busy. Weeks later though , while at work, she got a mail from a publishing company informing her that her story had won a monthly writing contest she had applied for. What excited her wasn't just the $700 cash prize, it was the news that her book would be published and she would have a free online platform to post her works. The news was too great for her to contain so took permission from Maggie and raced down to Dan's office. "I won $700 and my book will be published." She yelled in hysteria as she ran into his arms the second she laid eyes on him. "What? Wow... that's mind blowing,' he replied really surprised, ' I am so proud of you babe. We need to celebrate." "What are you thinking?" She asked with a broad grin "Our favorite restaurant. You and me. Tonight. How does that sound?" "Amazing. I will try to get off early from work." she said. When she went back, she informed Maggie she needed to leave earlier than usual and being an understanding woman, she agreed. She went about her remaining hours there with joy bubbling in her heart, preparing every recipe wholeheartedly as it seemed like her dreams were finally coming true. It was minutes later when Lydia smelt it before she heard Hassan shout, 'fire!', she turned and saw that the microwave had caught fire. In a panic, Hassan grabbed a bucket of water and threw it at the microwave before anyone could stop him. The flames rose higher immediately and the fire made its way towards the gas cylinder. "Turn off the fuse box!" Mr Bibo yelled and in that moment, Lydia who was standing by the door literally froze in fear as she watched the tragedy unfolding before her eyes. Seconds later the sound of an explosion rocked the air, adding to the chaos of the busy afternoon hustles. Daniel was on his way out of his office when he heard the explosion. Almost immediately, he heard screams and his coworkers began hurrying outside. "What's going on?" He inquired "Maggie's kitchen is on fire!" one of them shouted. "Lydia." He said then dashed towards the entrance, joining the group of people curious to view the incident. He literally raced all the way to the restaurant where people were already gathered outside - some were customers who had managed to escape, mildly injured and pretty spoken up, others were just curious bystanders. Maggie was sprawled on the ground, wailing, a cut on her forehead. He saw the ambulance and the fire service truck approaching and he glanced around anxiously for Lydia. "Lydia! Lydia!" He shouted as he looked around but there was no sign of her. He glanced at the burning building and panic built up inside of him as he wondered if she was still inside. She had mentioned getting off early right? He was about to call her cellphone when he heard someone yelling to the paramedics that had just arrived at the scene. "The cooks are still inside!" "Lydia!" He exclaimed and impulsively he dashed into the burning building. "Sir, come back!" He heard someone yell but the thought of Lydia in there alone and helpless was just too agonizing. Once inside, he unintentionally inhaled the smoke and coughed violently, he brought out a handkerchief, covered his nose but that didn't help much as the smoke that had formed a dark fog, stung his eyes making it almost impossible for him to see a thing. As he made his way further into the building, burning woods from the ceiling fell to the ground, some on the plastic chairs and tables which in turn rapidly caught fire. The good thing was that he had visited the place so often that he was certain he could grope his way to the kitchen. "Lydia." He called as he made his way further into the building. Another bolt of cough seized him and he coughed violently for seconds, his chest was starting to ache badly. He walked a few more metres then his eyes fell on a figure passed out on the ground, just close to the counter. He hurried forward and was relieved to see that it was Lydia. The heat from the kitchen greeted him as he got closer so he quickly picked her up and made his way back to the entrance door which turned out to be a more difficult task than expected considering Lydia's weight, his lungs killing him and the fact that he was trying to avoid the burning woods falling in his part. When he eventually managed to get to the door, hands dragged him out, somebody took Lydia from him as he broke into a coughing fit. Paramedics surrounded him and an oxygen mask was placed on his nose. "She isn't breathing." was all he kept saying as they tried to get him to sit down. "Sir, you need to relax." A young man said but he couldn't. He insisted on going with her when they put her in an ambulance. Fortunately the burns on her skin weren't major but she had inhaled too much of the toxic gases. He was so scared that he barely sat at a place all through the hours that the doctors monitored her condition. It was in the early hours of the morning that she regained consciousness but the doctors administered so many painkillers that she dozed off minutes later. He sat by her side all through, praying silently. Later that day her eyes fluttered opened, he was so glad when she looked up at him with that familiar twinkle in her eyes. "Hey." he called as he leaned in towards her from where he sat "Hey... So, I heard you were the fool who ran into a burning building to save a girl." She said and he grinned. "Well, I am a fool for you Lydia. Always." He said, he was most glad that she was in a joking mood, she needed to be happy before hearing about the condition of the other cooks - Hassan was in critical condition, the doctors were not sure if he would make it, Mr Bibo who had suffered first degree burns was still in a coma. It was almost a miracle that she had gotten out of that kitchen in time but Lydia had always been a strong girl, no doubt about that. "Thank you." she said "Wait until you see who made today's paper." "I made the news?" she asked with glee in her eyes "We made the news. I know, right? MOST HEROIC DEED EVER: MAN RUNS INTO A BURNING BUILDING TO SAVE FIANNCEE. They captured all my good sides." He said with a dramatic gesture that made Lydia burst into laughter and in that moment she knew she was just blessed to have someone like him in her life. Despite the fights and their differences, Dan loved her and he would always try to be there for her, that she was most certain of.


Red is the color of war, of pain, of cruelty. Since the first violent conflict in human history, when men slept in caves and fire was an incomprehensible, magical thing, and communication was shallow grunts and vague motions, red has been understood. Since before humanity looked at the sky and wondered what force, what being, placed them on the earth. Before we hunted, gathered, built, wrote, sang, played or spoke, we understood red. The Greeks had many gods, gods of dance, of archery, of navigation and wine, but the only god that has ever truly mattered-or existed-is the god of war. No, the god of war is not a being which resides at the top of Mount Olympus, but he does exist. The god of war is a whisper in man’s ear, encouraging man to conquer, to glorify and be glorified, to enslave and plunder and ravage. And this god of war is always cloaked in red. As I stood on the battlefield that day, red was all I saw. I looked at the men who wore uniforms like mine, faces I recognized, contorted into a horror unknown to those who have not seen battle. Their final expression is that of pain and terror, as their bodies were cleaved and butchered like cattle. They too, now wore cloaks of red. I saw red, but I smelled death. When men are terrified, when their hearts are in their throats and in their ears, and their stomachs are in their groins, they lose all control of our bodies. When young men fight their first battle, and walk back to camp with empty eyes and black hearts, you can smell their soil and their waste. Those men who do not come back to camp, mighty warriors and veterans of many campaigns, are reduced to the same shame and embarrassment in the end. It is not dishonorable, as it happens to all men in death. But all the same, the mix of waste and blood reached my nostrils, and I thought to myself that no matter how many men I carved up, I would never get used to that smell. I had become accustomed to the red, and I had become accustomed to the screams of men in pain and in death. I no longer hesitated when my blade passed through flesh and muscle and sinew and bone. My throat no longer tightened from blood flowing down it, as men without swords often throw their knuckles into the mouths and jaws of enemies, as a last ditch attempt at survival. But the smell. The smell is the last laugh of the god of war. For the whisper of the god of war tells men they are different. They are killers, brutal men without mercy or compassion. He tells men that they can kill hundreds, thousands, millions, without regret or trauma. He pushes adrenaline through the brain and heart and arms and swords of these men, invigorating and motivating them to take as many lives as they can. Then, as man stands and admires his own handiwork, the god of war whispers to him again. After the battle, the raging wildfire of brutality, all men face another battle within themselves. The god of war tells them they are killers, and that is all they will ever be. He tells them they have taken fathers, husbands, sons, brothers, leaders, teachers, friends from innocents who will never see those men again. He tells all men that they are not human, they are something lower. The greatest trick that the god of war has ever pulled is convincing men that killing will fill them. Honor, glory, riches, women, land, can be won and lost by the sword, but a man will lose everything else. I understood this, and I think few men do. I was never a man for philosophy, or mathematics or science. I was always a man of war. My compassion, mercy, propensity to love had all been lost after my first battle. For men who live by the sword will die by it, and I knew this from the first time I had put one into my hands. It took me until my first battle to understand it, but once I had felt a man’s life leaving his body, I accepted that I would never love, would never raise children, I would only kill, and then be killed. That day, I defeated a man with a family. He was a killer as well, I know that as well as I know that he was left-handed. I knew he had a unique ability to slash backhand, and flick his sword back in the opposite direction. This meant I had to block once with my shield, and once with my sword on opposite sides of my body, or else be disemboweled by his blade. I knew he was a man of almost unnatural strength, speed, and combat intellect. I also knew he was a man of mercy, perhaps the only killer I had ever known to spare men of the final strike. He was a man of honor, and that is why I won. For he had not given himself to the god of war entirely. He had stood over many lesser men, who would stab him in the back to steal his purse, and he had heard and refused the whisper of the god of war. That is an admirable quality, but that is why he lost. As I approached him that day on the battlefield, our respective comrades all turned and faced us. The other men stood side by side with their enemies, knowing at any moment that enemy could turn and stab him. However, they stopped because they understood that songs would be sang about that which was about to occur. Yes, the battle mattered. The king whom my opponent served wanted a certain piece of fertile land that my king had, but no one much cared about that. Everyone wanted a chance to watch. He was a man of noble blood. He had grown up training for moments such as these. He had fought in and won many tournaments. He had bloodied and notched his sword many times. That sword was a thing of beauty. Truly, his sword could have been traded for all that I owned. It was ten hands long, with a two hand hilt. Not many men had the strength to wield a sword of that size. The blade was etched with the swords name, and his family crest. It had an inlay of gold and silver along the hilt, stretching up the shaft of the blade and finally coming to a graceful end when it met the etchings. It was the sword of a great man, and a great man he was. My sword was also made for a man like myself. It was longer, lighter, and had a serrated edge on the front side. It could not be sheathed, I instead wrapped it in leather to protect it from rust. The blade started straight, and about halfway to the end it curved forward then back. It was truly a brutal weapon. A man had once told me it looked like a question mark, which I had never heard of before. It was plain, other than the design. It had a leather handle and straight hand guard. It was meant for a killer, and that was what I was. The man who stood before me that day was called Lord Peter Talan. He was about my age, and a hand or two taller than me. As the men encircled us, I studied him. His eyes were narrow and focused. I knew he wanted to win, but he didn’t want to kill me. I turned to one of my comrades, and gave him my sword to hold for a moment. I had known what to do in this moment for a long time, for I had watched this man move before. I took my now free hand and loosened the straps on my shield only slightly, allowing my arm just enough freedom to accommodate that which I was going to execute. I took out of my hand a small knife, not much larger than those that nobles use to spread butter on their bread. Lord Peter Talan could not see this, for my back was turned and my shield was parallel to my body. I took my sword back and swung around to face him. Often, lesser men feel the need to threaten their enemies at times like these. I did not, nor did he. Honorable as he was, he did make me an offer. “I know you,” he said. “you are the one they call the son of Micheal, the archangel. Your name is Henry. You have no father, mother, wife or children. They say you are blessed by God to kill.” I said nothing, for I was a quiet man. I knew he had more to say. He said the same thing to all men who he fought, and so far, they all should have accepted. “Henry, son of Micheal, I offer you mercy. I offer you forgiveness, as the Lord commands and the pope preaches that I must offer. I offer you a chance to lay down your sword and walk away with your breath.” I again said nothing. I knew then what all men must know before they fight. They must know that they can kill and kill without hesitation. Lord Peter Talan was a great man, a great fighter, and an artistic killer. But he did not know what I knew. I neither accepted nor declined his offer. I simply pushed my helmet off with my wrist, as my hand was still filled with my sword. I knew he would do the same. Some men would rather have the protection of the helmet. I did not. Some men would rather not see the men they kill. I didn’t mind. He was a man of honor, and would not allow himself any advantage in combat. He took his helmet off for honor, I took mine off to see his face as he died. His visor had not been opened, and as he took his helmet off, I saw his face. A trimmed beard and dark eyes set upon a weathered and experienced face. His neck was thick and muscled, and stiff as his body tightened in anticipation for the fight. As we came almost within a blades reach of one another, I saw that he was even bigger than I thought. For a moment, I felt concern wash over me. Not fear, for I feared nothing. But concern, for a victorious man can still lose a limb to violence, and a killer is nothing without his hands and his feet. The concern was washed away by the whisper of the god of war. When I heard the whisper, I took a step with my left foot, feigning a slash, then attacked. He barely flinched at the feign, and parried my blow, throwing my sword wide to my right. My midsection was exposed for a moment, but I pulled my shield in front of me, blocking his successive jab. I spun around, using the momentum of the swing to power a downward slash. He brought his blade up, and we were locked in a stalemate for a moment. He threw his power behind his blade, and pushed me backwards. I stumbled for a moment, then regained my footing. In this moment, he died. He saw victory much too early. In his mind, he was at home, with his wife and children. They were eating fine food, and drinking fine wine, and his beautiful wife was beaming with pride at the victory he had won. He saw victory because he was stronger than me. He let his shield fall to the ground, and placed both hands on the gold and silver handle of his sword. Then he walked in, smashing my insufficient defense with the totality of his strength. He crumpled my shield with his first strike, and I was throwing up both my sword and my shield in desperation, trying to defend from the next earth-shattering blow. Again, he smashed my shield, and I felt and heard a pop, as my wrist dislocated. Pain shot up my arm, but still, I held on to that small knife. I managed to catch his blade in the corner of my own, where the traditional straight blade met with the curved piece. He pushed hard, and I felt my sword slipping from my grasp. This was my moment. I threw my left arm behind my body, straightening my wrist to allow my shield to slide off of my forearm. Any movement of my wrist sent a torturous message to my brain, but I was way beyond acknowledging it. As the shield came off of my arm, I was also relieved of my sword. He had pushed hard against it, and it had twisted and pulled out of my hand. For a moment, I held nothing, except that small knife. But as he pushed that sword out of my hand, his body betrayed him. Years of training had left him muscle bound and strong as an ox. He had pushed so hard against my inferior strength, that as my resistance left, his arms still pushed. They pushed against a sword that was falling to the ground, and as he extended, his body twisted. A man of Lord Talon’s caliber wore a beautiful suit of armor. Ornate, decorative, and aesthetically pleasing yes, but also, it was fully functional. When he wore his suit of armor, he had no weakness. His feet were covered in sabatons, iron pieces placed over a leather boot. His knees were covered by hinging pieces called a poleyns. Cuisses covered his thighs, where a man could sever an artery and bleed out. He wore a long sleeved chain mail shirt which came down in a tight fit past his buttocks. His midsection was covered by his breastplate, protecting his chest and heart. A blow from the strongest axe wouldn’t leave more than a dent. His arms were covered from forearm to shoulder, the armor overlapping the breastplate and leaving nothing exposed. Couters covered his elbows, a luxury only the richest could afford. There was no place to stab, cut or slash. Truly, when Lord Peter Talon was wearing his full suit of armor, he had no weakness. But he wasn’t wearing his full suit of armor. As he twisted, as my sword fell out of my hand and my shield was laying on the ground, I swung my left arm back around my body, and stabbed him in the neck. The blade pushed through his skin, his muscle, and finally stopped when it met bone. As I felt the resistance, I slashed it sideways, bleeding him like a pig. He was a great man, but he died like all men die. He fell to the ground, lifeless. I felt the pain in my wrist as my adrenaline faded and my body reverted to its normal function. I saw red, and I tasted victory, but I smelled death. And I heard the whisper of the god of war.


So I saw this prompt on writing prompts and thought it would be a fun challenge to write such a story, but keep it SFW and wholesome. The original post was apparently removed, but I felt like sharing the story somewhere else. Tim looked in the mirror one more time. "You knew you'd have to go out to the store sometime... but like this?" He reached for his jacket, but the empty coat hook reminded him what had happened. Like be could forget considering how he was "dressed" Tim instead grabbed his keys off the counter and headed for his front door. He stopped again at the hallway mirror. "This really is crazy." He said aloud. "But you can't ear cereal forever." - The first few steps to the sidewalk didn't feel particularly strange, then the realization of what he was doing hit all at once. "You're walking down your street like this. Heading to the supermarket 'dressed' like this. This surely isn't legal." It technically wasn't. However, since the event one week ago had effected everyone, even the town's police department, there wasn't much that could be done about it. You can't really go and arrest everyone for so something even the police were doing. Mr. Stevens gave a wave from his garden, which Tim returned. Everyone seemed to be living in a state of perpetual denial. Not that they didn't believe that the event had occurred, only that it was easier to act like nothing was out of the ordinary, than to make a scene every second of the day. The streets were less crowded than usual, but there was still foot traffic. Tim stood waiting for the signal to change along with Mrs. Nichols and her daughter Sarah. They exchanged pleasantries about the weather and how lucky it was they had such a nice week of warm weather. Sarah said she was happy school was canceled for the week, but her mother assured her it would be starting again tomorrow as the announcement had said on the news. As the light changed, the crowd continued on their way as they normally would. The sound of bare feet padding on the pavement as everyone went on their way. - Tim reached the supermarket, shivering from the sudden blast of air conditioning as the automatic doors slid open. Mrs. Nichols was placing her daughter into a cart and making her way into the pharmacy aisles while other patrons milled about collecting their weekly supplies. Alex was mopping a spill in a nearby aisle, but was missing his usual "junior sales associate" apron, but that was to be expected considering the circumstances. Tim made his way through the maze of aisles, tossing in whatever he thought he needed. His trip to the freezer section was much less crowded than he was used to and another blast of cold air gave him an idea as to why. "Ah Tim! I haven't seen you since ah... a week ago." John rolled his cart alongside Tim's. They hadn't seen eachother since last week at work, when the workday was cut short and everyone was given the option to work from home. "Crazy isn't it? Everyone's just..." he gestured vaguely at the air around him. Tim scanned the aisles again. "Yeah its definitely different. Only took a week for everyone to just go back to living huh?," John chuckled "well, the only options are hide in your house or try to keep some semblance of normalcy." "This isn't exactly normal John." John shrugged bashfully, "well no. It's not, but what else can we do?" He had a point. To be fair Tim was proving his point right now by having left his house for the market. "I know, I know. Just never imagined I'd be standing in Mary's like, well, like this." Tim said, vaguely gesturing as John had. "Yeah yeah... well, listen, Erica sent out that email about how we could go back in to work if we were, uh up to it. You can work from home if you want still, but I was thinking of, well going in and was wondering if you were..." Tim suddenly felt like he was running complex math equations in his head. "I... I could come in tomorrow. Getting a pit stir crazy I guess just working in my house." John smiled, "ah, well then I'll see you tomorrow!" And with that he rolled his squeaky cart toward the checkout. Tim made a few more laps of the aisles collecting the last of his groceries and joined the queue for the checkout. Mary sat behind the register, scanning each item as it came, making polite conversation all the while. Her usual store apron hung on a rung behind the counter. "Haven't seen you in for awhile Tim." "Ah yeah, well, you know." She let out a quick laugh, "No need to explain dear. I think its obvious why." Tim laughed as well, "yeah. Guess you're seeing that a lot this week." "We're all seeing things differently these days dear" she said, typing away at the register. "Alright, there's your total dear" she said, turning the display. Tim reached for his back pocket to grab his wallet, but froze. "Erm... Mary. You won't believe this, but-" "Forgot it in your pair at home?" She said, with a wry smile. "Uh, something like that." He said, embarrassed. "I can leave this all with you and run home and get-" "You're not the first one today dear, and probably not the last. Just bring the receipt back tomorrow and we'll get it taken care of" "You're the best Mary!" Tim said, as he collected his bags. "I know dear. It's why I'm still working at my age." - Tim took a longer route home. He passed through the park, where the usual activities were taking place, despite the changes. A frisbee flew by with a dog in fast pursuit. He heard laughter from the playground's direction and a few people were lounging in the grass enjoying the summer weather. He could almost feel himself being disappointed if the change suddenly stopped tomorrow. It is definitely that, a change, but it's something he could see himself getting used to this.