Quite some time ago... when the world was still fresh and new, there lived a massive black ox whose name was Burden. Horns of iron and ash, skin tougher than railroad tracks, his coarse wooly fur a shade of black so dark that he looked like a hole in the Earth. Burden was born fully grown with a massive saddle bag strapped across his hulking back. His sole purpose was to carry the weight of our worries and troubles and fears, carry them right to the edge of the world and do away with them. The load was always incredibly heavy but Burden was the strongest Ox in this galaxy and the next, and Burden did his duty without so much as a word or a grumbling. And so, the weight of our worries would drift away and the world was a much happier place because of it. Burden would travel from village to village with his pack and the villagers would come throw every bad bone they could pick inside. Once his bag was full he would start his journey to the ends of the world. Through fire, through brimstone, through the deepest darkest, over towering mountains, and into the abyss. Burden would carry his bag of bones to the very last patch of dirt and ashen rock, right to the edge of the globe. He would empty them out and every bone and bad dream the people had bestowed upon him would fall into the great wide nothing and fade into patches of the night sky. He never asked why, he never complained. Burden knew it was his purpose and he kept his head low as if he was perpetually bowing to Mother Earth. In the beginning, the people of Earth were grateful. They would bring him baskets of lush greens to eat and fresh water to drink and thank him for his cumbersome sacrifice. However, as time went on the people became so accustomed to Burden’s service that it was no longer celebrated and lauded, it was expected and greatly unappreciated. They did not bring him food or water, they no longer gave thanks, they did not await his arrival with bated breath. Now they were impatient and listless. They unloaded their bones into his bag with disdain, as if it were a chore. Some even yelled at him to “Hurry up!” Still, Burden never batted an eye. He kept his head low and carried out his commitment without a second thought as he really didn’t have many thoughts at all. He did what he was made to do and nothing more. Nothing less. The way he always had, the way he always would. Or rather, he would have, if it were not for one particularly mettlesome crow. **CHAOS.** Chaos the crow lived high in the trees and ruled over the sky. Chaos was rather large for a bird, sleek and black... so much so that it almost looked as if he was always moving, even when sitting completely still. Chaos has existed since Burden began to walk the Earth, though they are both quite the opposite. Chaos is loud and obnoxious, unpredictable and seemingly everywhere at once (which allowed him to stick his beak in all the places that it did not belong.) Chaos always watched Burden carefully, he was jealous of his uniformity and consistency. He didn’t understand his mission or why he was obligated to help the humans that he served, the humans Chaos so detested. So every year, he would try and thwart Burden’s journey. He would come up with new and inventive ways to try and stop the ox but Burden never gave way, he carried right along moving the weight of the world on his shoulders. Year after year he tried, and every year Chaos failed. Not to be undone, Chaos had a spirit just as indomitable as the beast and after a while he began to admire and gain a great deal of respect for his immovable adversary. But when Chaos saw how those he served had begun to treat Burden, he became enraged. He could not begin to fathom how or why these mortals could take such a magnificent deity for granted. Chaos landed in the town square and started squawking madly at the villagers, “This magnificent ox is a creature of the Gods as am I and we shall be exalted as such! You fools should be groveling at his feet! Yet you dare to slight him? You dare gaze upon this gift from the heavens begrudgingly? For shame!” Chaos flapped his wings and thunderous black clouds unfurled out from under them and into the sky. Thunder rumbled as he took in heaving breaths, eyes darting from face to face of the crowd that had started to gather. And then, the people simply dispersed. They shrugged their shoulders, they rolled their eyes, they couldn’t be bothered to care. Chaos spent days and nights trying to think of a plan to make the humans see the error in their ways and pay Burden the respect he was due. The villagers knew Chaos was a thief and a trickster, he couldn’t talk to them himself. He knew there was no talking to the ox, let alone stopping him, it would be like preaching caution to a speeding boulder rolling down a mountain. Fruitless. Hopeless. “What to do, what to do!” He cawed frantically as he hopped back and forth on his perch and plucked at his own feathers, “I haven’t a clue, what one could possibly do... I’m shedding, I’m molting, I’m out of my head... I haven’t a clue, I’m losing the... thread!” Chaos stood absolutely still for possibly the first time in his entire existence. His black eyes gleamed with cunning and pride. “That’s it. One little thread. It’s all that I need.” **BONES.** And so, with his ever watchful and incredibly accurate eye, Chaos waited and watched until he finally spotted what he wanted. One tiny strand of thread dangling from the bottom of Burden’s bag. Chaos smirked to himself and waited some more. He waited until every last bone had been thrown apathetically into Burdens bag, he waited until Burden was well out of town and deep into the forest. There, Chaos plopped down only about a foot behind the meandering missionary and hopped along keeping perfect pace. Every couple of feet, he would pull at the strand with his beak. Little by little... a small tear began to unravel at the bottom of the bag. More and more until the tear became a hole. Chaos poked at the hole with his beak, carefully so as not to disturb the beast but with just the right amount of force to make the hole just big enough for the little nit picky bones of the villagers to tumble out, one by one. And as each bone fell Chaos picked up each and every one and flew them back to the village, carefully making little nests of bones and dread, right outside the homes of each of their respective owners. As each nest appeared, all the fear and worry and terror came rushing back to the world. It was a very new and very strange, terrible feeling for the people. Chaos was brimming with glee when he saw the woe on their faces, a look he thought to himself that was beyond well deserved. He saw the expression on every single one and drank it in like a fine wine. What Chaos did not see however, was what happened to his ill-fated adversary. As each bone had dropped from Burden’s bounty, his load became lighter and lighter. Burden was not used to having such little weight to carry at this part in his journey and so he thought surely he still had a ways to go, and yet he was three steps from the end of the Earth... in four steps, Burden was gone. Burden fell to the stars, returned to the sky, and was dispersed in tiny morsels back to the humans who in turn digested their pain and now carried the weight of their own personal burden... and Chaos reigned forever more.


When I first signed up to join the group of contestants on their mission to mars, I could only hope that I would make it. After about a year I heard back and was picked. I have a degree in computer science which honestly really doesn’t help with much but because I have been working with UNIX for 10 years and the fact that I am very technical they decided it would aid the mission. Apparently most of the systems they use on the ships and in the housing modules all run Linux imagine that. Anyway here I am strapped to this chair shaking like no tomorrow as we enter the atmosphere of Mars. So far there are 5 other people that have landed in the last 24 hours. From what I’ve seen while on approach things are going OK. There seems to be mostly one person doing the talking and reporting a guy named Davis. He is one of the doctors on the trip I met him a few times in training and he seemed cool, I guess he is a psychiatrist. The last report had them all hooked up and starting to deploy the green house gear for building. Everything is automated; I don’t have to do a thing as we land. I radio in and let Davis know that I have landed and will be engaging the rover capabilities of the module to start my advance and eventual connection to the other modules. He seems nonplused about the whole thing, I’m not sure if that is a good sign or a bad sign. We did just get here you would think people would be overly excited. The landing wasn’t too bad, a little bit of a bump at the end. I have to give it to the development team they really did a good job with the ships and modules. The trip here was a long year but there was plenty of entertainment along the way, I’m excited to finally get out and see other people face to face though. After following the navigation screen to where the other modules are I come over a slight hill and can see them. It’s getting dark it should be night soon, the sun is slowly working its way to the horizon. It is beautiful and completely alien here, so much rock and the sky has an odd blue tint to it as the sun sets. Gravity doesn’t seem too bad it takes a little getting used to but I definitely feel lighter. As I pull up to the last pod in the row I can see Davis, none of the others though which is strange. No one is working outside at all, which I would have expected. Connecting to the module went without issue, and I’m excited to start my new life here on Mars. I open the door to greet Davis and what I see is horror. The walls are covered in smeared blood, there are a couple bodies in the corner cut up into pieces. One woman is still alive it looks like but is just silently opening and closing her mouth. As I stand there in shock Davis comes from the side and says “Welcome to Mars!” I’m too slow and in too much shock to move as he hits me full force with a large pipe wrench to the face. I fall back into my module and my head lands on the console facing out towards the sunset. I feel a sharp stabbing repeatedly into my back and stomach area then a slight tugging as some instrument gets stuck. My final thoughts as my life drains from me are, I’m glad I got to see the sunset, it is so beautiful.


As Cycle 1 of Serial Saturday here on r/shortstories comes to a close, it's high time we get some spotlights posted. This spotlight has been a long time coming, but not for lack of enthusiasm or support for this next story. It’s been such a treat to watch people evolve their flash fiction serials with us and bring arcs to a close that for some have been with us for quite a while. For a good handful of writers on Serial Saturday, their stories are continuations of serials started on r/writingprompts Theme Thursday weekly threads. One such story comes from /u/Xacktar. Here at r/ShortStories we thoroughly enjoyed Xacktar's engaging tale of the victims of the Gray, and the journey they took to put things right. There's a reason why Xacktar's episodes won the fan favorite and challenge sash so many times week after week, and it's because of a story that continued to keep us wanting . But don't take my word for it! Here's a small teaser from /u/Xacktar: Some don’t even know they’re dead. Not until the Plague Keeper comes. The Gray is a disease like none other. It kills the body, yet the soul remains trapped in the dead flesh. No beating heart, no breathing lungs, yet the body still moves, the mind still thinks. So those struck by the Gray know what it means when the Keepers come. They know that it means being trapped alive within the fire while you wither crumble into ash. Lista knows this better than most. She watched in horror as her entire life burned away under the Keeper’s glare. She won’t let it happen to her. No matter what, she will find a way to live... ...even in undeath. For our first run of Serial Saturday at r/shortstories it was important for us to get author impressions of how their experience went with us, and give readers a peek at the "behind the scenes" of creating a flash fiction serial. Here's /u/Xacktar’s take on that: I never planned on the Gray being an actual serial. It was just a world that I could throw interesting characters into and have fun with for /r/WritingPrompts and Theme Thursdays. Then /u/ALiteralDumpsterFire unveiled this new amazing thing and I knew I wanted to be a part of it. I jumped into the Gray with no plan, no ideas, and just a vague idea of a world where zombies were a little less ‘Grrrr’ and ‘Arghh’ and a little more ‘Oh no. Why me?’ The amazing thing is how SerSat made it grow. It began as a loosely connected set of stories, but with each week I had more and more ideas about what this world was about, who the characters were, and what would happen in the end. Coupled with the amazing group here and all the excellent feedback and praise they gave out, I soon found myself excited for each week. Not only just to write my own stuff, but to see what others had written. We had everything from Mouse Noir to Lovecraftian Magic, to a group of oddballs on an adventure to save the world from evil bunny rabbits. I had a lot of fun here and I’m looking forward to even more next season! With the tale of The Gray Plague at an end there is only one thing left to do: show off this newly finished story for obligatory bragging rights here on r/shortstories. Let the bragging begin! /u/Xacktar’s personal sub is and I highly recommend checking out their author notes and other stories written for r/writingprompts. Without further ado, here's /u/Xacktar’s Table of Contents. | The | Gray | Plague | |:--:|:--:|:--:| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | You can check out more of /u/Xacktar's work by going to their subreddit, /r/TheWordsOfXacktar/. Congrats on finishing your serial, /u/Xacktar, and we can’t wait to see what you do next. <3 from the team at r/ShortStories, r/WritingPrompts, and Serial Saturday. For more information on the Serial Saturday program feel free to check out our Getting Started Guide. Come join us in the discord server chat. We have members from all around the world and who have all kinds of schedules, so there’s usually someone awake to talk to. We also have scheduled readings, oration critiques, spur-of-the-moment story time, or even just random hangouts over voice chat.


"Strike!" yelled the unpire. "That's okay, Timmy. Your pitch is coming next." It is another great day for baseball and the local little leagures are playing against their long time rival from just down the road. As Timmy is waiting for his next pitch we find the South Hinton Tigers leading our North Hinton Cubs 5-4. The pitch finally is delivered and Timmy swings. Thwak! It is a long hit over the right fielder's head. Two runs score and Timmy ends up on third base. "Way to go, Timmy. I knew you could do it," I yell. Timmy looks at me with the biggest grin I have ever seen on that boy. The last inning finds North Hinton still leading. South Hinton starts the inning drawing two straight walks. I have to make a visit to the mound. "You okay, Jamie?" "Yeah, coach. I thought they were strikes but that umpire wouldn't call them." "Don't worry about them. Just bear down and get the batter." "Okay, coach." And Jamie does just that. Next batter gets three straight strikes for the first out. The second batter hits a weak grounder to third where we get a force for the second out. The next batter swings on the first pitch and hits a pop up to the shortstop who makes an easy catch. We win. The North Hinton fans cheer. The team crowds around me, their coach. "Way to go, guys. I knew you could do it. That was probably the toughest team we will play." Timmy's mother walks over to the team bringing the drinks. "Our next game is Saturday so we will have practice Tuesday and Thursday. That okay with everyone?" Timmy's mother speaks up, "Thursday is Timmy's birthday. Would it be okay to have a short party after practice?" The team cheers. "Guess that means it will be fine." The team cheers again and crowds around Timmy, each player trying to pat him on the back. "Okay, boys. Two o'clock on Tuesday right here. And again, great game." The parents approach then to collect their all-stars. David Shaw approaches me. "Coach?" "What is it, David?" "Can you give me a ride home. Dad's out of town and Mom is working." I could never say no to anyone who ever asked me for help. "Sure, David. Help gather the bats and make sure all the trash is picked up." David starts picking up bats. "Great game by the way. Knew you had that last pop-up all the way." "Routine, coach. Routine." It only takes a few minutes to get all the bats and make sure the field is free of trash. I would have had to pass David's street on my way home anyway so it was not out of my way. After dropping David at his house I decided I did not want to do any cooking for my dinner so I opted for a stop at Golden Corral. There I can get all the 'good for you' foods and some not so good for you foods with no dishes to clean and put away; no left overs to store in the fridge; totally no trouble. After leaving the Corral I was looking foreward to a peaceful evening with some sixties music and the Stephen King book I an reading. As I pull into my driveway I cannot help but notice a strange car parked across the street. The Johnsons must have company. After parking in my garage, closing the garage door to seal me in, I enter my house. I toss my keys on the counter, tune the radio to the local oldies station before heading to the shower. I seem to work up a lot of sweat just standing there watching my team play. Since my room-mate has gone to Florida for the week I am looking foreward to some just me time. The shower feels great, totally relaxing. Better not stay long or it will turn me into a prune. As I am dressing I hear what sounds like a feeble knock on the front door. Looking through the peep hole I wee someone standing there their back is turned so I cannot tell who it might be. They do not look to be dangerous so I opt to open the door and find out what they are selling. Opening the door I ask, "May I help you?" When the person turns to face me I am stunned. It is a face I had not seen for years and not sure I really wanted to see it now. "Dad! What are you doing here?" "Good to see you too, son." Silence as we stand looking at each other. "You gonna make an old man stand out here in this heat?" "Nothing wrong with the heat. I was just getting ready to sit on the back porch for a bit. But then that is in the heat. Feel free to join me if you like." "Thanks," and my old man comes into the house. "Stlii listening to that damn roch and roll I hear." "My house, my music. You can't take away my music here and yes, it's that good old rock and roll. Maybe a glass of sweet tea will cool you off." Dad sits on one of the porch chairs and I get us both some sweet tea. I make no effort to turn down the music. "Here you go, dad," and I hand him his glass. "So what brings you all this way? Kathy not home? Paul not home so you have to settle for me?" "No, son. Your mother and I thought that after your time in the Army you would come back home. We kind of wondered why you did not." "No offense but I have more friends here than I ever had at home." "But we are your family. Isn't family supposed to be close? You know, blood is thicker than water." "I don't remember it ever being close. You were always in your office and if you came out and it was not for a meal it was to administer a whipping to someone and that someone was usually me." Tears seem to be forming in his eyes, probably from the heat. I had never seen him cry, not even at Granny Blake's funeral. "Sorry, son. You did not come with an instruction manuel so your mother and I made most of our mistakes on you I guess." "That's really comforting to know. You sure seemed to take time with Kathy and Paul." He takes a big gulp of his tea. Silence. "You never liked my music. You never liked the books I read. You never liked the teams I rooted for and I don't ever remember hearing 'good job' or 'I'm proud of you'. You seemed to have saved all that for Paul and Kathy." "But we were proud of you." "What was so hard about telling me that twenty-five years ago?" Again he opts for a big gulp of tea. "When I wanted to play baseball you were nowhere to be found. I had to get help from Mister Delvin across the street. And the only year I got to play was because Mister Delvin paid my entry fee. You never came to a game. For me my home life was miserable. Why would I want to return to that?" "I'm sorry, son. I promised your mother I would pay you a visit and try to patch things up." "So it wasn't even your idea to visit me. There is no quick fix for misery." I regretted saying that as soon as it was out of my mouth even though it was exactly how I felt. Dad put his glass down and stood. "Thanks for the tea. Guess I'll go get a room at Motel 6 and head back home tomorrow." That was fine with me but I had to at least make him an offer. "No, dad. Stay here. I have always had an extra room for you and mom to use if you ever visited me. So stay." "Are your sure?" Oh, no. He is going to accept my offer. Too late to back out. "Yes, dad. I'm sure." "Guess I better get my overnight bag from the car then." While he went to the car, I put in a tape of all the great instrumental songs of the past years, sort of a compromise I guess. With that my me time was out for the night. But mending the fince with my dad seemed to be the right thing to do. I just hope he does not expect me to pack up and move back anytime soon. I am happy here and they will just have to accept that.


The rounded corner of the clipboard hit the white tile first. It bounced, tilted, and repeated on the opposite corner. The back of the clipboard then slammed into the floor and audibly shook the metal bar as it landed. “I’m so sorry,” Heather blurted out as the dropped item echoed throughout the barren room. She pressed her lips together in immediate regret, but then kept talking. “And now I’ve spoken. I’m sorry for that too. And that I’m still talking.” STOP TALKING. Stop making noise. Heather inhaled through her nose. The receptionist smiled without showing her teeth. It was a kind gesture. It signaled that Heather was not the first guest at Spring Hill Retreat to break the first rule: silence. Heather had signed up for the retreat’s mini session. It was a chance to experience the feeling of complete silence, but only for two days. Attendees were given instructions on how to arrive silent and stay that way for the entire 48 hours. Each person got two t-shirts upon arrival. They had their name printed on the front and back as if they were on a sporting team. When she’d read the brochure, Heather thought it was somewhat odd to share the names. They wouldn’t be able to say them, but it would be stranger to not know anyone’s names at all. The Jersey style shirts seemed like a fair compromise. Heather retrieved the clipboard from the floor and located her name on the list. There were only seven guests so she did not have to do a deep search for her name. She added an X to the box next to her name, scribbled her signature on the line, and handed it back to the receptionist. She dropped the pen back into the cup. The clang of the tip as it hit the bottom made of metal again echoed throughout the room. Heather squeezed her eyes shut and sighed. This would be a long two days. She could feel the glare of the older man sitting against the wall. BE QUIET . The brochure had listed dozens of reasons to attend the silent weekend. Stress, drama, mental health, all the usual suspects were reasons. They were obvious choices to step away and hear your own thoughts. But in Heather’s case, she had her own list of reasons to want to get away from it all. Her job was a dead end. She had left a role that could have been a career for the start-up company. The start up finally gave her a reason for her monthly student loan payment that ate up half her salary. Heather’s relationship with Drew had come to a screeching halt when he decided that Alexis was more fun. When he announced he had met someone else, Heather felt nothing, to her surprise. After six years of dating, she didn’t shed a tear. She responded to Drew with “Okay, I think most of the suitcases are yours anyway.” Her emotional response didn’t increase as they unraveled their lives from each other. Drew and Alexis didn’t bring her happiness or unhappiness. They existed in the same world. Heather kept their apartment and transferred the deed into her name. If she had the energy to open the burgundy curtains, the view of the lake was nice, especially in the mornings. The location of the apartment gave an unobstructed view and she couldn’t see any neighbors. Most of the time, Heather left the curtains drawn. The promise that they’d never know they had neighbors from their realtor had been true. In six years, they had never heard their neighbors. No loud bass, no fights, no barking. The receptionist motioned that she would be right back after she clicked on Heather’s name on her iPad. She was going to retrieve Heather’s shirts and her welcome-please-shut-up package. All the attendees got sound-reduction items for the common areas. Slippers with soft bottoms that resembled grippy socks. Linen pants to avoid whooshing sounds. Toiletries were in silicone containers with matching silicone baskets. If you needed a specific product, advance notice was okay. The staff would fill a rubber bottle with your requested product. But the general idea was to use what you get for the two days, as appearance was not the highlight of the weekend. There were no snack wrappers, aluminum foil, or crunchy food throughout the premises. The welcome basket included soft snacks. They were in more silicone or wrapped in wax-lined linen. The only need from the eater was that they do it with their mouth completely closed. Heather hadn’t accounted for the stress of staying quiet, though. She had already failed within the first eight minutes of being on the property. She could feel the embarrassed sweat on the back of her neck. As she shifted her weight she could notice every sound that emitted from her clothes and breath. The smell of Aiden’s cologne reached Heather before he did. The emptiness of the room helped with that. She breathed in the scent of patchouli and tobacco and felt a little calmer. She felt Aiden slide next to her at the counter. “I think they made the pen cup out of metal just to mess with us,” he whispered. “When I signed in, I really tossed it in there and Mr. Gumpus over there looked like he wanted me thrown out.” He nodded in the direction of the same man who had frowned at Heather. Heather turned in surprise at the broken rule. She met Aiden’s brown eyes for the first time and felt her entire body relax. She could feel the pressure as it slid out of her chest. Her ribs felt lighter. The lump that had been in her throat for years slid away. Aiden’s face was kind but there was more to it than that. She uncontrollably grinned. “It’s cruel,” she whispered back. Aiden’s face lit up. “Do you think they do it on purpose? Like they bet each other on how awkward they can make us feel when we get here. If I didn’t feel awkward already, I wouldn’t be here in the first place.” Heather didn’t know if it was the empty room, or the excitement over feeling alive for the first time in a long time. But the words slipped out of her heart before her brain had time to stop it. “Do you want to get out of here?” Aiden’s lips revealed a hearty grin. She felt it too. He nodded. “Let’s go make some noise.”


(July 22nd, 2018) I heard a ton of loud buzzes from my phone and opened my eyes. I rolled over and checked the time 1:34 am. I had to check these texts, they must be important. Blake texted me, “I love you, I’m sorry.” I texted back and called about a million times. I can’t stop thinking my heart is racing and I call his mom and she doesn’t answer. I call his dad and he doesn’t answer either. I run out of my house, grab my bike, and speed off to Blake’s house. It’s about a 10 minute bike ride. I continue to spam all of their phones until I get to his house. I get there at 1:45, throw my bike down and run to the door. I scream as soon as I get to the door. I bang on the door as hard as I can. I think and think and finally I remembered the code to his house. 1134. I get in and his mom runs out of her room in a bathroom. “Meghan what happened why are you here right now?’ “Blake, Blake, Where is Blake?” I run to his room, he's not there. I ran to his bathroom. He isn't there either. I run to the bathroom downstairs and he isn't there either so I run to the basement where I see my lover. Hanging. Soulless. From the garage door. Dead. He’s dead. I remember it like it was yesterday. The worst day of my life. The worst birthday of my life. I thought he was my future. How can I picture my life without him? These thoughts flood my head every single day as I cry myself to sleep. His funeral was the second worst day of my life. I walked up to his casket with blurry vision from all my tears and just stared. This doesn’t even look like my Blake. He looks pale and unhappy. He died unhappy. How how does a 15 year old girl handle her boyfriend suicide. Months pass and it just doesn’t get any easier. My antidepressants just make me feel numb. I’m sick of hearing my therapist tell me things get better over and over when they just clearly don’t. Finally a year passes by. 1 whole year without my best friend/ boyfriend. My sweet 16. I was supposed to have a big party and have him wear the same color as me and we would look so cute, canceled. This was supposed to be our year, he would be turning 17 and could finally drive me around. We were so happy. Or at least I thought we were. I talk to his mom on a daily basis. The only thing I asked her for my birthday was to allow me to sleep over and stay in his room for the day. She said yes of course. I got to his house and nothing has been moved or touched since that very night. It’s almost spooky. I feel something under my back as Iie down. A journal. The front cover says “FOR MEGHAN ONLY” I start reading. (November 2nd, 2015) I asked her out. The prettiest girl in school I finally asked her out. SHE SAID YES! I can already tell it is going to be Meghan and Blake forever, or Blake and Meghan forever I can’t tell which sounds best. I’ll update you tomorrow I’m going to hold Meghan’s hand at school and give her a hug. (November 3rd, 2015) I hugged Meghan today. It was like an instant spark, a connection if you will. I think I love her already. (December 24th, 2015) Meghan came over for Christmas today and met the rest of my family. They all loved her and grandma even said she “Is as polite as a church girl and sweet as pie.” Whatever that means she loves her. Grandma’s opinion is the only one that is ever going to count when I marry someone so we are starting off amazing. (February 22nd, 2016) I kissed her. I finally did it. I have been waiting so long to kiss her. I feel amazing. (July 22nd, 2016) For our one year I took Meghan to my favorite spot at the lake. I brought a blanket and a basket and we ate dinner together. It was so romantic. I mean as romantic as peanut butter and jelly can get. Mom and Dad are out of town and I can’t cook for the life of me. (September 1st, 2016) It’s the first day of 6th grade and I think Meghan is kind of mad at me. Or she just got her first period. I can’t really tell. I don’t understand women at all. All I know is she looked gorgeous in the dress she wore today. (December 24th, 2016) Another good Christmas together. P.S grandma told me to marry Meghan so, that’s the plan. (July 22nd, 2017) 2 years together. WOOHOO. This time I took her for a real date. Dad gave me his credit card and Mom dropped us off at The Cheesecake Factory. Meghan’s favorite place. I made sure to open and shut the car door and restaurant door for her. And I let her order for herself because I know she wants women to be equal and I agree. She is so inspirational and powerful. She is going to be such a good wife and mom one day. I can’t wait. (June 14th, 2018) It’s been awhile since I wrote in this. Grandma died yesterday. I don’t know how to live without her. I am so hurt I don't want to do anything anymore. I can’t handle this. (June 16th, 2018) Meghan came to the funeral with me. I needed that. I love that she is always there for me. She has no idea how much she means to me. I look into her eyes and she gives me a reason to stay alive. (June 30th, 2018) Meghan is still on vacation with her family and I am just so upset all the time over grandma I don’t know what to do. Last night I cut my wrist and it felt kinda good. (July 14th, 2018) Meghan got back today. She noticed my wrist but I told her I fell off my bike but I don’t think she believed it. I just feel so weak I don’t know how to tell her. I feel like the only way to fix my feelings is death but I don’t want Meghan to ever feel the way I did. So I am pushing through for her. (July 20th, 2018) I tried to overdose today on Advil but it didn’t work. It just made me throw up and feel sick. I told my mom and Meghan I just have a small stomach bug. (July 21st, 2018) I can’t do this anymore. It is 11:33pm and I need to die. I want to die. I can’t control these feelings anymore, I just can’t. I’m still up and it’s 1:30 am. I found a rope in the garage. I am ending this pain now. I just texted Meghan and told her I love her. This is it goodbye. Meghan, if you're reading this I am so sorry. I hope you know I am happier now than I was. Don’t be upset please I want you to grow up and be an amazing wife and mom. I’ll be at your wedding watching your own making sure everything goes perfect. Somehow someway I will make it known to you that I am there. Until we meet again. I love you. I closed the journal with tears rolling down my face. I can’t stop thinking about those cuts. I should’ve known. If only I just didn;t go on vacation, he needed me and I wasn’t there for him when I should have been. This is all my fau- I get a call from a blocked number. “Hello” “Hello. Is this Meghan?” “Um yes this is who is asking?” “Come outside of Blake’s house right now” “UH-WHA-” They hung up. I threw the journal aside and dialled 911 just in case anything happens. I tiptoe down the stairs in hopes that nobody hears me. I quietly shut off the alarms and opened the front door. There he is. It’s Blake standing in front of me. There in the middle of the streets. Blake Woodlock. Smiling. Breathing. Alive.


Whoa! whoa! There! I shouted to my horse to stop. His nose flared and the hot steam coming from his mouth was a clear indication that we had been going very fast. I pulled at the reins and he came to a standstill, just in time too. We were at the brink of a cliff, one minute more and I shuddered to think what could have happened. I dismounted and tiptoed gingerly to the edge of the cliff, still holding tightly to the reins of my horse. I looked down and caught my breath as I imagined what would have happened, had we taken one more step. The ravine below was filled with sharp pointed rocks and doubtless would have made mincemeat of our bodies. I should be more careful, I thought still trembling with the horrible thoughts of what could have happened. I patted my horse and led him away from the edge and whispered,” Good job, White Lightening! I had given him that name because not only was he fast but his mane was as white as the drifting clouds overhead. He was very gentle and was always surprising me with his magical behavior. This was not the first time we were in danger and he had come through with flying colors. Magical, I say, because that was what it was, my adventures with White Lightening. I lived with my mother, sister and stepdad in a townhouse in the Northeast area of Scotland. We had just moved there from Japan and we were trying to settle down to life in the U.K. I was struggling to fit in at school and my whole family was experiencing what I called culture shock. There was so much to get used to, the food, the accent, the neighbors and the transportation to mention a few.I felt cut off from everything I knew and would wake up in the middle of the night hoping this was a bad dream only to open my eyes and realize that this was no dream. We had actually left my grandparents my friends and cousins, packed our favorite toys and belongings, boarded a plane and landed in Scotland . This house was our second habitat in a year, my parents had to change jobs and my sister and I had to change schools. So here we were in another new house ’settling down’ . So you can imagine my delight and utter amazement when I discovered this portal in my house. Our house was situated on the bottom of a hill with my room facing the hill. I opened the French doors one day and realized that I was in a magical portal. I found White Lightening waiting for me and as I climbed on his smooth back, I was immediately freed from my world and could ride to my heart’s content. Riding White Lightening was the joy of my life and I was surprised we had bonded so well. Even though I had ridden horses before on my school’s field excursions, I did not own one and so my delight was doubled at the thought of having this beautiful horse to myself! When I had ridden to my heart’s content, I would reenter the portal and was back in my room. This went on for awhile until my sister became suspicious. One day as I reentered the portal, I found her waiting for me in my room. ’ Where were you ? she asked. I was calling you to show you my latest creation’. My sister loved to draw and she was always surprising me with her artwork. Her manga drawings were incredible and she had created her own website where she posted her creations for others to view.’ Uh, uh, I was in the bathroom’, I lied feeling guilty, and surprised at how fast I had come up with a response. I loved my younger sister, and we were always together. She was two and a half years younger than me and we had shared many adventures together, except for this one.I was so enamored with my secret portal that I didn’t feel like sharing,. At least, not yet. She had her way of escape, and I had found mine. I needed this outlet. I thought justifying my behavior.Sharing it with someone would only spoil it for me. Besides she might feel strongly about sharing it with our parents. I felt this would destroy the magic, and I would be caught up in the world of reality, feeling trapped in this new world with no way of escape. I would tell her one day, but for now, it’s my secret and I wasn’t ready to share. My sister seemed satisfied with my answer, and so I was relieved for the moment. Still feeling guilty about keeping secrets from her, I devoted my entire attention to her drawings which was no hard task, since she was very good at what she did. Then I began to think about my experience that day, What if I hadn’t stopped in time? What then? I would be lost forever without anyone knowing what had happened to me. Oh! the pain that would bring to my family. I was old enough to know the pain that would ensue from such a demise. My family would be forced to suffer for the rest of their lives not knowing what had become of me. The Law enforcement agencies would be suspicious and baffled and might even hold my parents accountable for my disappearance.I could just see my mother distraught with worry and bewilderment. What would they tell my grandparents? I know they would be heartbroken. I could see the sad looks on their faces. Could I put them through this suffering? Did I have the heart to let them spend the rest of their lives not knowing? Did they deserve this? They were kind and loving and provided for me and my sister the best they could. I felt ashamed of myself and even though I was just imagining these events I was left with a sick feeling in my stomach. I knew then and there I couldn’t do this to them. I would have to tell them about the secret portal. I probably would have to take them through it and let them meet White Lightening, if they didn’t believe me. So I made up my mind and went to the spot where the portal was thinking this was my last adventure. I approached it with fear and sadness, thinking how I would miss having this escape. I waited at the spot where I usually stood and expected the magic portal to open, but nothing happened. Surprised, I put my hand up searching for the entrance and expecting the portal to open, but nothing happened. Frantically searching for the portal to open, I didn’t realize my mother had entered the room and was looking at me with a puzzled look on her face. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked. “Oh, nothing”, I replied, thinking how foolish I must have seemed to any onlooker. After reminding me it was going to be her birthday the next day and we were going horse back riding at the local stables, she left the room after checking to see if I had picked out the clothes I would wear. Well, needless to say, I was never able to find the portal again and was left only with the memories I had had. I surely missed White Lightening. Knowing that no one would believe me, I said nothing and told no one about my secret portal. The next day, we went to the local stables . Guess what? I saw a horse that looked just like White Lightening. I asked the attendants if I could ride him. To my delight, I approached him and called him White lightening. The attendant was surprised, “How did you know his name?” she asked. ‘He looks like White Lightening,” I said smiling. I patted his back and smiled knowing I could get to ride White Lightening any time I visited the stables.


At first, I ignored the dripping sound. Figured it was just raining but the drip, drip, drip, just wouldn’t stop. No matter where I go, it’s there. I’ve searched the whole house by now for the source, but no matter where I stand it seems to be coming from just over my head. Called a plumber. They should be here between ten and two. I’m really hoping for ten. This sound is driving me crazy. I try to distract myself with music, but no matter how far I turn the stereo up, the dripping is still there, insistent and just loud enough to form a backbeat. Drip, drip, drip. The plumber shows up. His eyes are red, like he hasn’t been sleeping. I explain the problem and he goes to look. “I’ve been hearing dripping sounds for several days now,” the plumber says from under the sink. The leak clearly isn’t there, but I don’t say anything about it. He’s the plumber; it says so on his nametag along with his name, which I’m certain he told me, but I have forgotten. The plumber keeps talking. “I’m starting to think is some form of tinnitus because the dripping just follows me around.” “This drip does that,” I admit. “I can’t seem to narrow down where it is.” “Well, it isn’t here,” the plumber says, coming out from under the sink. His eyes look even redder now. “I got a few more places to check.” I follow him around the house. He’s weaving a bit drunkenly, and I start to wonder if that is why his eyes are so red. Just my luck to get a plumber who can’t find the drip because he’s been hitting a bottle of scotch! “Been getting a lot of these calls,” the plumber slurs. “You’re lucky we could get you in... seems like everyone has a leak they can’t find these days.” “Just find it,” I say. The tapping, dripping, dropping, clacking sound makes it hard to be patient or kind. Perhaps that is why the first thing I think when the plumber drops to the floor is, “I’m supposed to be thankful for this alcoholic showing up?” My second reaction is better as it clicks with me that something is seriously wrong with the plumber. I sink the floor beside him and reach out. I call his name, which I only know because it is on the nameplate on his chest. I’ve forgotten his name even as I say it. He doesn’t respond. A little pool of blood is spreading on the floor from his nose. The next bit happens in a whirl. I call 911 and paramedics show up. One of them has bloodshot eyes, and I find myself staring at that rather than at the corpse on my floor--because by then I know the plumber is dead. He hasn’t so much as blinked since he fell to the floor. They take the body away and leave me with a little pool of blood slowly congealing on the tiles in my kitchen. When I head to get some towels to clean up, I pass the bathroom mirror. My eyes look a little bloodshot too. It is probably the dripping... makes it hard to sleep at night. Though maybe it’s time to pick up a bottle of scotch. I’m not usually a heavy drinker, but something to help me relax sounds good. The next day I’m sitting in my living room with the tv blaring, in a doomed attempt to drown out the drip, drip, drip. A report comes on the news that catches my attention, mainly because I recognize the plumber’s face. The familiar plumber’s snapshot is alongside a few others on a split screen. The details of the report are hard to concentrate on. Drip, drip, drip, seems to wind in among the calmly states facts from the news reporter. But even with that, I manage to get the basics. The people on the screen, including my plumber, are all dead. That part makes sense, the rest doesn’t seem to compute properly, even with my limited knowledge of biology and how the body works, the findings in these deaths don’t seem right. When they brought my plumber to the hospital and examined him, there was no brain in his head. His entire skull was filled with blood. He was the first--lucky me to have the first die in my kitchen and leave a pool of blood. The others are the victims that have come in since his death. All dead now, according to the newscaster, with her perfect lipstick and wide blue eyes. The CDC has been called in, and the newscaster gives a list of warning signs of this new disease. I barely hear most of it, because it sounds more like a practical joke than a real thing. The only sign I really pick up on is the dripping sound. The dripping in my own head wouldn’t let me tune that factoid out. Apparently, all of the victims heard a dripping sound which the doctors and scientists are positing was the sound of blood dripping into their empty skulls, filling the place where their brain was supposed to be. I turn off the tv and head upstairs to bed despite it still being the middle of the day. People can’t live without brains. Even I know that. Despite being unreasonably exhausted, trying to sleep is hard with the dripping sound. I can’t escape the repetitive noise. I shut my blinds trying to blood out the sunshine outside and climb back under my coverlet. And I find myself mulling over the tv report. It can’t be real. How would they even know that the people had empty skulls prior to the dripping? Were people coming in to report this to them before dying? And who would ever have thought to look for such a thing? Outside my window the sound of a siren screeches by, fading into a keening sound in the distance. By the time I finally drift off to sleep, I’ve convinced myself I imagined the entire report. I dream that I’m trying to find a leak in an old basement that smells of mold and copper. I find blood dripping down the walls instead and realize I’m standing in a puddle of it. By the time I get back to the basement stairs it is up to my knees. Morning comes and the dripping sound seems louder, more like a plop of water into a full bathtub than droplets hitting the porcelain. Like my brain is filling up. Except that thought comes directly from the news report that I must have dreamed of. I go downstairs and turn on the tv again as I make breakfast. There is a dried pool of blood on my kitchen floor. I should clean that up. I’m gearing up to do that as I eat some dry toast for breakfast, but the news comes on and distracts me. Pictures of the local hospital and a new set of faces fill the screen. I see a number, but I can’t recall the death total a moment later. It must be hard to remember things without a brain, I tell myself. I don’t listen to the newscaster’s report this time. Instead, I pick up my smartphone and do my own research. The report I heard was real, or at least, the report really happened. Lots of people are calling the disease out as made up, or falsified. But I notice that everyone from where I live is scared. There are more reports of death, wives telling what happened to their husbands, children saying what happened to their parents... and every story starts with a drip that no one else could hear. I do some research on the doctors who are putting out the insane claims. They were all respectable before this. And their reports now chill me in a way I didn’t expect because all of them are saying exactly what I thought. This shouldn’t be possible. People can’t live without brains, but they are. That makes me study the reports carefully, searching for the underlying facts, even if those facts contradict logic. The body count is up in the hundreds now. Didn’t take long, the disease seems like it takes about four to five days in total. Now I’m sure of what the sound in my head is. It’s a drip, slow and steady, of blood into my empty skull, filling the space left vacant. Drip, drip, drip. No matter how much I study the reports, there’s no explanation for this phenomenon, nor why the person dies when the empty space is full. But they do and by inference, that means I will too, unless I can figure a way around the looming fate. I clean up the dried blood from my kitchen floor, overflow from the plumber’s brain. He should have drained it beforehand and bought himself some time. How full is my skull? I’m three days into this awful dripping. I go out to my car and consider driving away but the dripping would just follow me. When I go back inside, I’m thankful I didn’t try to leave. The tv tells me that the borders to the city have been closed. We are in full quarantine from the rest of the world. Another fact sneaks out to frighten me: over a thousand are dead. And that’s just the ones who have been reported and tallied. There are only two things the city is doing now, dripping and dropping dead. That strikes me as funny, and I laugh. I can see my reflection in the kitchen window as night falls. My eyes are a horrid shade of red. I wouldn’t mind some scotch, but I’m pretty sure that even if there are places open out there, they wouldn’t serve me. No one seems to know if this is contagious, but no one is taking a chance. We don’t know what causes this plague, but the quarantine has people thinking that if it can be contained, that means that we are spreading it somehow. No scotch in the house. I lock all my doors and bar the windows as the night deepens. There are bodies in the street. I can’t find a death toll online anymore. No one is doing anything akin to scientific recording. I find several places where people outside the city are discussing what’s happening. I try to leave comments, but my fingers don’t seem to want to type anything sane. I can locate a few like me typing similar comments. All we talk about is the dripping. Drip, drip, drip. But it has started to sound like a ticking sound to me. After all, that drip is my life ticking down to zero. In the middle of the night, I hear a gunshot fired. Then another. Someone runs by outside my house, and I’m pleased that they don’t fall down and die. There are enough corpses outside my house. If... no, *when*, I survive this, I don’t want those bodies to be my responsibility. No one out there is going to help me. Not those talking about this disease from their safe unaffected cities, and certainly not the dwindling people of the city around me. I stare at my kitchen floor and think about the plumber. Ending up just like him is hardly appealing. So I won’t. His problem, I decided, was that he didn’t have the information I do. He didn’t know what was happening to him, so he couldn’t address it. He didn’t know that he didn’t have a brain and his skull was slowly filling up. My leg up is that I do know those things. I wonder how we lost our brains and if we can get them back. But those are facts that I don’t have. The people who come after me may have them, but I have to make do with what I know. And what I know is that when my skull fills up with blood, I’ll die. A smile spreads across my face. I feel it stretching unused muscles. All I have to do in order not to die is to not let my skull fill up. I head into my garage and dig around in the tools there. I find my drill and bring it inside. Safety first. I wash and sanitize the drill bit. Then I leave my sink faucet on. I figure I can wash and rinse things as I go if it becomes necessary. Good thing I know my sink doesn’t leak. I giggle a little. I’m getting silly. It is all the dripping, I tell myself. It is hard to focus with the dripping. And maybe, just maybe, it is hard to think clearly with no brain. The best place to go in, I decide, is dead center of my skull. I don’t need to worry about hitting my brain, after all. I plug the drill in, put the bit back where it belongs, and picture the blood coming out of the plumber’s nose. Obviously, that doesn’t work as a drain before death, but I am smart enough to create my own drain. My head would never fill up. Nope. I’ll just let that pesky dripping blood drain out the front. The back might have been a better choice, not to mess up my face, but I can’t properly reach back there. Forehead it is. I turn the drill on and press it to my forehead. You’d think it would hurt a great deal to drill a hole into your head. But the truth is it doesn’t hurt all that much at all. After the first surprise jolt, it is more like a toothache--nasty but localized and the knowledge it would be over soon keeps me going. The drill bit pops through on the other side of my skull, I feel it because the resistance is gone and the drill just slides forward. I pull it out and tipped my head over the sink letting the blood drain out and get washed away by the flow of water. I wonder who else had thought of this as I clean up bone fragments and blood from myself and my kitchen. Then I wander into my living room. I don’t turn on the tv. Can’t hear it over the dripping anyhow. People are screaming outside. I feel sorry for them. I figured it out, I’m safe, but they are still out there in the worst of it. I go to the window to look out, peeling back the curtain. The world is fresh and new, vital. It looks redder than it did before. It’s actually a little hard to see. Oh. I should have thought of this. The blood is draining into my eyes. No dripping now, but there is a lot of red, more than a tiny drip should account for. I can’t see anything through the blood drip, drip, dripping over my eyes.


Trigger warning: this story depicts rape. I read somewhere that every cell in the human body is replaced every seven years - which isn’t entirely accurate. Some cells take upwards of ten to fifteen years to replace themselves. Some cells, like the ones in the eye, never replace themselves. But, it’s still a nice thought. It’s comforting to imagine that every seven years, the human body erases like an Etch-a-Sketch, leaving behind a clean slate that hasn’t been touched. I was raped seven years ago. I went to a New Year’s Eve party with two of my girlfriends after they expressed that I had spent a “morbid” amount of time holed up in my room post-breakup. They said I couldn’t hide away forever. They said I was being dramatic, because everyone goes through a bad breakup in college. They said my ex-boyfriend wasn’t hiding - he was out partying and spamming the world with social media updates. They said I wasn’t coping; I was deflecting. They sat in my room, listing off the reasons I should attend the party that night, and, by the end of it, I was so exhausted from their speech that I agreed to go just to shut them up. Except, I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to find an outfit or spend time getting ready. I didn’t want to go to a party full of complete strangers and pretend to have a good time. I didn’t want to pose for their pictures or make forced conversations with whomever was near me while they danced and romped with boys to ring in the New Year. I wanted to stay home, under my blanket, un-showered, and binge eat Oreos until I felt sick. I was hiding, and I liked it that way. The breakup had left me feeling vulnerable and exposed, like a body butterflied on a surgical table. I imagined there was a gallery of people, including my friends, watching behind the glass as the pieces of me were pulled out and examined in an attempt to find whatever had been broken. The night went as I had expected. My friends drank heavily and toasted “new beginnings” while sloshing cheap champagne on the floor. I found a corner and made it my home for the night, avoiding small talk by pretending to be deaf from the loud music. My ex-boyfriend showed up briefly, which sent me into the bathroom where I stayed while people banged on the door trying to come inside. When I got the text saying, “all clear,” I stumbled out and held my stomach as though I had been throwing up to alleviate the angry mob that had formed outside. I helped them call a cab and watched as they tumbled over their high heels and climbed into the backseat, cheering and laughing the whole way. I had walked to the party since it was only a few blocks away from my apartment, so I zipped up my jacket and carefully clutched my keys between my fingers as a makeshift weapon. It was a relatively quiet area, but with all the parties being held, I didn’t want to take any chances. I had made it almost a full block when a boy approached me, tripping out of a driveway holding a half-empty bottle in one hand and a beer in the other. He was younger, maybe my age, with shaggy blonde hair that fell over his eyes and a big, toothy smile. First, he asked me if I needed a ride home, which I politely declined without missing a step. He kept following me, however, asking if I wanted to be “escorted” back to my place. Though I tried to shake him off, he refused to back down. At some point, he dropped the bottle and the beer because I felt his hands creep around my shoulders. He asked where I went to school as I shrugged him off of me, but I didn’t answer. I kept my head down with my knuckles turning white around my keys. We rounded another block, and he kept talking and asking questions that I wouldn’t answer. Finally, in a moment of frustration mixed with an edge of panic, I stopped and faced him and told him to leave me alone. Judging by the look of shock on his face, he wasn’t the type of boy who had been turned down a lot in his life. He stood there, dumbfounded, as I turned and kept walking. I thought I had finally gotten rid of him when I rounded the corner just a few yards away from my apartment complex. I didn’t look behind me, but I didn’t hear him talking, which I took as a good sign. I relaxed my shoulders and loosened the grip on my keys. He came up behind me swiftly, placed a hand over my mouth, and told me not to scream. I tried to grab my keys, but he took his other hand and grabbed my arm, twisting it around my back painfully. I felt paralyzed by the overwhelming urge to scream while simultaneously trying to wager my best chances for survival. I wanted to fight, but I also wanted to live. In that moment, when I was rendered powerless, I didn’t care what happened to me as long as I came out on the other-side. It was a brutal forty-five minutes, which felt like an eternity. I knew how long I was there because his watch kept flashing in my face as he fumbled with his belt and jeans. Once he had pulled me into the parking garage of the complex and found the stairwell, he started talking about how much he wanted me. He repeated over and over, “This is going to be so good.” I stood there, too scared to scream or run, while he undid his pants and pulled them down, clutching himself proudly. In that moment, I thought about the women who fight back. I pictured them in my head, in my situation, running for the stairs or attacking him head-on, punching and kicking and biting until he gave up. I thought about the women who walk away beaten and bruised, with pieces of skin under their nails because they dug in so hard. I wasn’t one of those women. I was submissive by nature. I hated confrontation. I agonized over the thought of arguing with someone, even in a classroom setting. If a teacher told me I was wrong, I didn’t defend my opinion in front of the class with my shield raised - I quietly accepted defeat. In conflicts with previous boyfriends, I would shrivel down like a kicked dog and apologize - even I was right, even if I didn’t mean it. I looked at the boy in front of me, lit up by the fluorescent lights, and I knew he could easily overpower me. He already had. I knew he could probably knock me out with one punch. I knew I wasn’t quick enough to outrun him. With all of those factors at the forefront of my mind, I stood there sobbing and anticipating while he prepared himself. I didn’t fight back. He had been drinking heavily, so he was having a hard time “getting it up.” He demanded that I undress while he watched me, stroking his limp, lifeless member. He asked me to perform oral sex, which didn’t seem to help. He told me to press myself against the wall, and he came up behind me, fumbling and breathing heavily into my ear. Then, he asked me to say, “No.” I tried to bite my tongue, but he wrapped his fingers in my hair and pulled back, yelling at me to refuse him, so I did. He seemed to like it when I told him “no,” and I repeated the word in a flat monotone while he thrusted into me, moaning and telling me how good it felt. He pulled out and ejaculated onto my underwear victoriously. I kept myself pressed against the cold, stone wall while he got himself dressed. I didn’t want to look at him. Then, he said, “I’m so sorry.” I felt a disgusting pit form in my belly when he apologized. It twisted and pulled until I thought I was going to puke. I heard the door to the stairwell close, and I quickly put on my clothes - balling up the soiled underwear and putting in my pocket - before racing out of the garage. He was already gone. I ran back to my apartment in a full sprint after a sudden rush of adrenaline kicked in. Once inside, I sat down on the bed and tried to weigh out my options. I didn’t know who to call - everyone was either drunk or asleep by that time. I stared at the floor, counting the threads on my carpet, before finally deciding to drive myself to the police station. The scene kept replaying in my head, and I took mental notes each time, trying to make a detailed report. I wanted to be prepared for any questions that might be thrown my way. The aftermath was arguably worse than the rape itself. There are two crime scenes in a rape case - the area where it happened and the body of the victim. A few officers were dispatched to the complex, and I was rushed to the emergency room to have a rape kit made. If I had felt butterflied and exposed before, it was nothing compared to the feeling of having every square inch of my body inspected and documented right in front of me. They took my clothes and gave me sweat pants, clean underwear, a sports bra, and a long-sleeved t-shirt. They took pictures of everything, any small cut or bruise that would indicate the severity of the assault. They swabbed my mouth and my vagina in an attempt to find any DNA that might have been left behind. I was put under a microscope, literally. My description, though thorough, wasn’t enough to identify the boy who had raped me. Months went by, and I was assured that the police were doing everything in their power to track him down. It didn’t feel like enough. It didn’t feel like they were looking hard enough or taking my case seriously. It was never solved. There wasn’t enough DNA left behind to matter, and the samples they found at the scene were tainted. The leftover semen on my panties was helpful, but it didn’t generate anything in the system. My detailed story didn’t paint enough of a picture, and, with the holiday, so many people had traveled to town and left - presumably, my rapist was one of them. I told my friends, who were shocked and wracked with guilt for leaving me to walk alone. I told my parents, and they tried to convince me to come back home for a while. I couldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he had completely uprooted my life, so I stayed. Months turned into years, and the case went cold. My friends stopped tip-toeing around me. My parents stopped calling me every day to “check-in.” Everyone’s life went back to normal, except mine. About three years after the rape, one of my friends mustered the courage to ask the question that no one else could - why didn’t I fight back? I didn’t know how to answer. I tried to describe the feeling of powerlessness, of fear, of not wanting to die, but she didn’t seem to understand. She, like me, had heard all the stories about the women who take down their rapists, and she didn’t understand why I had just stood there like a willing participant. The counselor I had seen after the attack told me that while it’s true many women to “fight,” a lot of women react the same way I did - in submission. They’re scared of what might happen. They’re passive and agreeable during the rape to, hopefully, make it end quicker. They don’t fight because they know they’ll lose. It was comforting to hear, but I couldn’t make anyone else understand that feeling. No one wanted to say it to my face, but I knew they all saw my submission as permission. Rape is a power-play, and rapists are profiled based on their “style.” In my case, the boy who raped me got off on the idea of taking me by force. He wanted me to say, “no,” because when I did and he didn’t listen, he felt like he had won. The act of raping a woman is meant to demean her, to strip her of her authority over her body. My rapist was characterized as a “power-assertive rapist.” He wanted to exercise his perceived dominance over me. Maybe he hated his mother. Maybe he wanted to compensate for his own inadequacies. He wanted to conquer me, but I was probably just a physical manifestation of something else he was battling internally. I knew all of this by heart. I wrote out detailed notes almost daily afterwards, reminding myself that I was the victim. I researched my rapist’s profile, trying to get as much information about him as possible because we were suddenly connected. None of it made me feel any better. I abstained from sex for four years after the rape. I didn’t want anyone to touch me, and I didn’t want to feel aroused - it made me queasy. I went on dates, and I even liked some of the boys I went out with, but I couldn’t let them touch me. Anything beyond a kiss would send me back to that moment in the stairwell. My rapist had taken so much from me, and he was still taking from me years later. I couldn’t shake him. I didn’t even celebrate New Year’s afterwards. It was as though he became a part of me, like an unsightly mole or an extra toe - something I kept hidden and desperately wanted removed, but something that had also grown into me. It’s been seven years since he raped me, but the rape didn’t stop until I let it. Until the moment I stopped letting it consume me, I was still the girl in the stairwell politely indulging the requests of the boy who ravaged me - I couldn’t leave. It was like being stuck in neutral. I shrank. In the years after the rape, I kept getting smaller and smaller, trimming away pieces of myself until I was just the girl who had been raped. My personality revolved around the memory. By the time I finally let it go and left the stairwell I had created in my mind, I didn’t know who I was. I had been stripped of my identity, and I couldn’t figure out how to get the “old me” back - the “me” who hadn’t been raped. There was a shift. Instead of grappling with the memory of the rape and the tangible scars it left on me, I was battling with the idea that I had to get back the girl I was before it happened. I wanted to be her again. I didn’t realize until very recently that I was trying to dig up a grave. The girl I was before the rape was gone, buried underneath years of grief and tragedy and heartache. She was snuffed out, and I was trying to summon the dead. So, I decided to mourn her instead of resurrecting her. New Year’s, a holiday that had brought me so much misery, would be the day I put up her headstone. I spent the last six years hiding in the shadows after Christmas, scared to even look outside. This year, instead of clanking glasses with my friends or watching the ball drop on TV, I’m going to step into the shower, wash off the body he touched, and let it run down the drain. This year, I’m going to put her to rest and cultivate the girl I became after the rape - the girl I’ve been too scared to get to know. I know it isn’t literal. My cells haven’t rejuvenated. I know I’m not going to shed my skin like a snake, leaving behind a body covered in fingerprints and memories. I know the shower won’t be magical, suddenly transforming me into a girl who hasn’t been raped. I know I’ll be the same, just a little cleaner. But, it feels different. I’ve waited all year for this moment. I spent the last month buying a new shower head with five settings. I picked out a special body wash for the occasion. I put candles around the bathtub. I even bought a new towel set. I’ve been mentally preparing myself for the moment the water will hit me, turned to the hottest setting I can stand to ensure every piece he touched will melt. It will be ritualistic, maybe even a little cathartic. This year I won’t hide in my room with the door locked, reliving those moments. This year I’ll celebrate.


He stared at the circulating propellors that rotated opposite to the ticking clock prepared to awaken him from his trance. “I don’t want to get up,” he grumbles as he turns to view a beam pinpointing the very reason he desired to stay in bed. He smiles as his mind takes snapshots of the auburn angel sharing his realm. A constant gentle breeze was heard proceeding from her nostrils as the securely wrapped covering portrayed her impeccable anatomy. Her lips remained unlocked and arched in a position that enticed the gentleman to connect his lips to awaken his sleeping beauty. Her eyelids unfastened slowly to reveal their secrets behind the curtain. “Good morning babe,” her sweet-sounding audio coming from her mouth penetrated the man's soul and caused him to shiver. “You are so beautiful,” he says. “I don’t know why God blessed me with such an angel.” His words made her smile increase as she sits up, causing her covering to disengage so the gentleman could engage. “Aww. I love you too Ben.” Ben's days over the past few years had become routine. He would wake up, view his gorgeous wife, kiss her luscious lips, take a shower, put on a suit, go downstairs, admire his wife and her sheer lace gown, and then eat her breakfast. “You smell so delicious. I just want you on a plate.” Ben said as he wrapped his arm around her waist. “I am pretty sure you already had that for breakfast. So this is brunch,” she giggles as she pushes Ben. “Stop before your son comes downstairs.” Ben smiles and heads to the table to check his emails on his phone. The sound of small feet is heard approaching quickly. “Here comes your mini-me,” Ben’s wife says as she places a plate on the table. “I gotta hide,” Ben says as he runs behind the couch. “Good morning baby.” “Morning Mommy!” A light voice is heard in the kitchen. “Is daddy playing?” “Yes, baby. Go find him.” “Yay!” The pattering recommences as the mini detective searches the room. Ben contains his laughter as he crouches behind the couch. It isn’t long before his future linebacker targets him and takes him to the ground. “Oomph,” Ben grunts as the young human hops on him. “I found you, daddy! I win!” “You sure did buddy,” Ben says laughing as he clutches his son. “You win a free delicious breakfast!” “Yay!” Ben places his son down and watches him sprint back to the kitchen. “Breakfast is delicious like always,” Ben says as he places his plate in the sink. “Yes, mommy. It’s amazing!” Ben’s son adds as syrup attaches to the perimeter of his mouth. “Only the best for my men,” his wife replies as she joins Ben at the sink. “So is there time for dessert?” Ben says as he gently lays kisses upon her neck which causes confusion in her knees. “Stop,” she whispers and giggles. “You will be late for work. Plus you already got dessert.” “I have a sweet tooth,” Ben says as his weakened wife turns to face him. “Go to work, and we’ll see about a full spread tonight.” She kisses his lips to transfer the weakness back in order to push Ben away. “I’ll build up an appetite.” “Are we going to a buffet,” his son asks as he enters the vicinity. His parents laugh. “No. Your daddy is just playing. Go wash up,” the boy's mother says as she ushers him upstairs while Ben washes the dishes. They smile at each other as they part. “Don’t forget you have the dental procedure this evening. I will be there after work since you can’t drive. Probably about 4:45 pm. Hopefully, they will be releasing you then so I don’t have to wait.” “Yeah,” Ben replies as he grabs his backpack. “I really don’t want to go. You know I hate being put to sleep.” A bronze goddess's hand gently touches his cheek for reassurance. “It will be ok. And just know I will be there when you wake up.” The two kiss. “That’s something I always look forward to.” The couple kisses again as a young soul becomes disgusted. “Eww! That’s how you get cooties!” “Yes, little man. Remember that.” The mother shakes her head. “We have to let daddy go. So hug him before he leaves.” Ben holds his arms out and braces for impact to his abdomen. And within a few seconds, he was not disappointed. “I’ll see you later little man. Ok?” “Ok, daddy. Have fun at the doctor.” Ben smiles and walks out the door. The light stares at Ben as he waits for the procedure to commence. “Alright Mr. Williams, are you ready?” the dentist says as her nurse starts to place instruments on the table beside his chair. Ben takes a deep breath knowing that he was about to lie. “Yes ma'am.” The assistant stands over Ben with a clear mask. “You have beautiful eyes,” he says out loud. She smiles. “Thank you. Now please count backward from 10.” “10...9...8...” “Higher daddy!” Ben visualizes a playground with his son. He pushes him higher. “Not too high,” a sweet voice says beside him. “Just a little bit higher.” He pushes his son on the swing one more time. “Yay!” When the swing returns, it is empty. “Ben?” He turns to look at his wife whose face has shifted into sheer terror. “Ben!” He peeks through his eyelids to see the light continuing to stare brightly at him. The windows to his soul start to shutter multiple times as he attempts to awaken. He glances around the room where he discovers a figure sitting in a chair. The figure spots his gaze and steps toward the bed. “Ben!” His drowsiness doesn’t allow him to decipher who the figure was, but he was sure it must be his wife. He then gives up the fight and closes his eyes to return to the darkness. “Doctor, he is waking up.” In the darkness, he visualizes his wife greeting him as she did every morning. She stares with her gorgeous brown eyes and leans over to kiss him. “Wake up,” she whispers as the clock ticks. “Wake up Ben!” She says louder as the clock's ticks turn into a beep. She smiles as the light in the room increasingly cracks the surrounding darkness. “Wake up,” she says one more time as the beeping grows louder and more uniform. She mouths ‘I love you’ right before the darkness shatters to the light. As Ben begins his return to reality, he notices the nurse standing beside his bed, this time removing the clear mask. His face was numb, but he was able to smile at her while she returned one back. “Ben! You are awake!” He turns toward a familiar-sounding voice. As he looks, he notices someone he hasn’t seen in a long time. He determines that the medicine is still in his system because he was hallucinating. “Mom?” “Yes baby, I am here.” The woman says with tears in her eyes. “I have so much to say to you. I miss you,” he says with tears starting to flow from his eyes also. “It’s ok, baby. I’m here now.” “I love you, mom. I wish I would have said that before you left us.” “I’m here now though baby. Mommy’s here,” the figure says as Ben’s tears start to saturate the pillow. “I wish my wife and son would have met you. They would have loved you.“ The lady then grabs Ben’s hand. “Shhh. Shh. Mommy’s here.” The sensation of a real hand startled the drowsy Ben. “Am I dying?” “No you are not dying Mr. Williams,” the doctor says as she enters the room. “Hello Doc,” Ben says as he looks at the doctor before returning his eyes to the figure of his mother. “This medicine is strong because I can see my deceased mom.” “I’m here baby,” the figure says again. “Yes, Mr. Williams it’s okay. We are all here.” The doctor’s statement sent a nerve-racking shock through Ben’s mind. He instantly sits up, where he finds himself entangled in more cords than when he went to sleep. His heart pulsates at a perilous rate as a machine emulates the beat. “What is going on?” “Calm down Mr. Williams. I need you to calm down,” the doctor says as the nurse steps back. “Baby, it’s ok. Just breathe.” Ben jerks his hand away from what seems to be his mother. “No way. You died. I miss you but I know you are dead.” “Baby no. I am here. I have been here.” “Mr. Williams. Just breathe. You have been in a coma for 6 years. There was an accident.” Ben starts to rip off cords as every machine starts to scream. “Shut up! I just came in for a dental check this morning.” “Listen Mr. Williams. Please stop before they have to restrain you.” “Shut up!” Ben says as he stands up. “Where is my wife? Where is my wife at!” “Baby. You are not married.” “You are a ghost,” Ben says as he turns to look at the figure formed like his mother. “Better yet, you are a demon!” “Please sit down,” the doctor says again as two security guards enter the room. “Please sir, please sit down.” They step forward cautiously as Ben's breathing increases. “What is...What is going...” The darkness returned. This time without his son, without his wife, but with only silence. When it cracked open, the characters of the previous nightmare remained with an added item on his hands. “Please let me go,” he pleads with tears in his eyes. “Baby it will be ok.” “I’m in hell, aren’t I? Just tell me I’m in hell.” “No, you are not.” “Where is my wife?” “You have never been married baby?” “Shut up! Where are they!” The figure turns away in tears. “Mr. Williams. Calm down. I know this is a shock. But this is real life. 6 years ago you had an accident, and you have been in a coma ever since. Your mom should have unplugged you, but she begged us to keep you going. And she has been here every day.” Ben then looks over at the motherly figure to see her crying in the chair. “That is a lie. 6 years ago there was a car accident, but only my mom was involved. And she died! And then I got married 5 years ago to the most beautiful woman on the planet and had the most amazing son with her.” “Ok, Mr. Williams. Tell me her name.” “Her name is...” Ben searches his blurry mind for the name of the love of his life, but was unsuccessful. “It’s...” “Mr. Williams, we believe during a coma some patients experience vivid dreams. They are so vivid that you cannot separate reality from fiction.” Tears flow like a waterfall from Ben’s face due to the uncertainty if they were telling the truth. “I love my wife. I know I have been married for 5 years.” His mother returns and grabs his hand. “It’s ok. I know this is scary, but it’s real. And I’m here for you no matter what.” “If your alive, where is dad.” She looks at the doctor, who telepathically understands what her mother needs as she and the nurse walk out the door. “I’m sorry, but your dad died last year from a...” “Blood clot?” Ben says to complete his mother's sentence. “How did you know?” “Because it happened in what you and these doctors are claiming was just a dream. I went to Dad’s funeral. You weren’t there because you already died years before.” “I did tell you about it. Maybe you implemented it in your dream. But you were in a coma baby.” “Can I go outside? Please? I need some air.” “Let me ask the doctor.” Ben walks outside to inhale what fresh air he could find in the big city in order to decipher the confusion. Nothing made sense. Was he sleeping for 6 years? Was his mom alive? Or is he actually in a coma now? Did something go wrong? Are his wife and son waiting on him in another reality? What is the truth? “Are you ok?” His mom, or what he perceived as his mom asked. “I’m not. But can you drive me to a certain place?” “I don’t know if we can yet.” “It won’t be long. I promise. And I will return to this place if I’m wrong.” “I don’t know.” “If I may,” the doctor says as she walks closer to the duo. “I think it’s a good idea. This way you can confirm what’s real and what’s not.” “Thank you, doctor.” “And I can drive to make sure nothing happens,” Ben’s mom and the doctor looks at each other and gives an assuring nod. Ben stares at the familiar city terrain from the backseat. “This is a dream. I have to be still under,” he says while shaking his head. “I know it's new, but you will get used to it. Mommy is here.” “That's the problem, it isn’t new! I saw this before. The buildings, the roads, the technology. If you claim it has been 6 years, something should look different. Android auto in your car should be a shock to me. I shouldn’t know the world recently shut down. And I shouldn’t know it's 2022.” The doctor and Ben’s mom look at each other again. “Well, honey. Somehow you got most of that right. Maybe because I was reading to you. But, you did miss one thing.” “Hold on. Stop the car! Let me out,” Ben says while manually unlocking the door. “Wait! Let us park and go with you!” Ben hops out of the rolling car and runs to the entrance of the apartment. He places a code in hoping the lady perceived as his mom was wrong. As the green light illuminated, he felt hopeful that finally, he would see the elegant mahogany face that would bring peace to this chaos. As the door opened, he waited with great anticipation to see his lover. But it was not his lover. “Can I help you?” The statement did come from a pretty face, but it was not the face of his queen. “Hello?” Ben stood frozen in bewilderment. “Who is this?” A man says as he joins the lady at the door. “I don’t know who he is?” “I...I...I was looking for my wife,” Ben squeaks out under pooled eyes. “Wrong house man.” “How...How long have you been here?” “A year. Maybe two,” the lady responds. The dam bursts again, creating a puddle under Ben. “Are you ok man?” “I’m sorry, he is ok. Just a little overwhelmed,” the doctor says as she and Ben’s mom appear. “Momma?” Ben says as he collapses in her arms. “It’s ok baby. Let me take you home.” After a few instructions from the doctor, Ben rides to his mother’s house. “This will be a little different. When your father passed, I couldn’t stay in that house anymore, so I was able to purchase a new house with the money he left me.” Ben looks around the nicely decorated home. “Follow me,” his mom says as she walks upstairs. Ben slowly follows. “ I was also able to recreate your room the best I could remember it,” she says at the door of the bedroom. “But feel free to change it.” “I just want to lay down.” “Well take your time. Your father left us plenty of money so there is no rush to do anything. Enjoy life. Call me when you are ready to eat or go somewhere.” “Ok, mom. And I’m sorry. I appreciate you watching over me the past few years.” Ben’s mother smiles. “That is what mothers do, right?” Over the next year, Ben stayed around the house. Sometimes, he would go with his mom to a store or the doctor. But his heart would ache and long for his dreamgirl, so he preferred to stay in. Eventually, his mom did convince him to walk with her. He discovered he loved the gentle breeze and the calmness that surrounded the pathway. They were so therapeutic that by the end of the year his walks had become his new routine. One day, their walk took them to a park. He sat down and stared at the trees blowing in the wind, the squirrels stuffing their face, and the birds demanding territory. To the side, he heard laughing from the playground filled with kids. Though it was just a dream, he did enjoy pushing his son on the swings. He still didn’t understand how it could feel so real, but at least he had accepted that they were a figment of his imagination. “Ben! There you are. Are you ready to go?” “Yes, mom. I was just reminiscing on a dream I guess.” “Do we need to up your doses? Maybe that will help.” “No mom. I know it wasn’t real, but still, I loved those memories.” Ben’s mom smiles, and the two start walking. “Maybe one day I’ll bring you some real grandkids,” Ben says as he looks at the kids playing. “Nope. But we should probably leave. It’s a bad area,” Ben’s mom says as she anxiously starts to walk faster. “Why, it's not a bad area...oomph.” Ben collapses to the ground as he feels a mini linebacker hit his abdomen. “I found you, daddy,” Ben hears as his shirt becomes instantly soaked. “What the hell?” Ben says as he looks up. “BJ?” He looks around to find that his mother had disappeared. But what he did find standing near was a figure that would bring peace to his chaos. “Angel?”


From the grandfather clock in the hall, the one technically stolen despite family lore of it having been loaned, came the first chime at the hour of three o’clock. The resonant sound, a G sharp that was supposed to be an F, echoed nicely over the oak floors downstairs despite their growing blanket of dust, spreading into the rooms in turn. The living room. The entryway. The dining room. The kitchen. The small study off the kitchen, a room full of windows that should have been full of light. An overcast day robbed the reading nook of its potential glory and offered only a dull, gray illumination to Madeleine’s perusal of the aged text. At the sounding of the bell, her lids slid coarsely over dry eyes, their pale skin wrinkled and paper thin. Ever so slightly bowed the head that had bobbed along chilled mountain streams in the time before the second world war. Gracefully parted lips that had kissed the same man, Philip, through sixty-three years of marriage, right up until that last kiss before parting at his deathbed a decade ago. Without leaving their place upon the text peacefully relaxed the hands that had held seven children, thirteen grandchildren, and four great-grandchildren. Did the light falter in that instant? Perhaps the world paused, some energy taken away or held at bay a moment, like lightning in reverse. A wink of darkness, and then a silence, every so brief. Perhaps it was a stray density of clouds moving in front of the waning winter sun. Perhaps a figure, looming and dark, graced the presence of this solitary study. Within her frail breast the diaphragm caught, paused for half a second. An unnatural moment, or you could call it the most natural moment. Not a hiccup. Not a prelude to a cough. A caesura, if you will, in the lifelong push and pull of life’s breath within waiting and eager lungs. Only her lungs were not so eager, taught and withered, a little extra ragged from that decade of smoking in her thirties. As midlife crises go, that hadn’t been so bad, but maybe the flirtations with the pool boy went too far. Again, the clock struck, the same slightly discordant G sharp, reminding again that it ought to be fixed or ought to have been fixed long ago. Fixed after being set down rather roughly, trudged up the street under the cover of night as a first anniversary present, at a time in their marriage when a box of chocolates would have been more in keeping with their finances. A very small box of chocolates. A chocolate, but a nice one, like a truffle or cordial cherry with liqueur in it. The pause in breathing lingered, just long enough to make itself known. Within her mind, Madeleine knew what this meant, felt its chill omen upon her soul. This lack of breath, a harbinger of a greater nothing. The greatest nothing. Or the next something. She never had decided on that, though Phillip had held doggedly to his Presbyterean roots through the lean years as much as through the worldly temptations of the fat years. Frankly, his faith seemed to fare a little better during the lean years, as is often the case. Thick and thin, she had remained steadfast in her indecisive agnosticism, somehow managing to win every argument about religion or at least leaving it at a draw. As suddenly as it had stopped, the pattern resumed, a short rasping breath that crept up her throat, barely having the strength to cross the threshold of her mouth. Defiant to the end, the corners of said mouth tensed into a shadow of a grin, a smile goodbye. Eyelids fluttered, an all but imperceptible twitch as she wished they were open, to read one more line or more morbidly to see the passing more clearly. She chided herself inwardly at the folly of it, to see the coming of nothing. Absurd. Ridiculous. So childish for a woman her age. How terrifying. Eyes that were dry turned damp. Tears flooded the space between the tired eyes, once sparkling blue like captured stars, now faded gray like stones in a creek, and the lids so resistant to command. The salty water did not escape, whether for lack of volume or in one final nod to a lifetime of stoic perseverance through the sordid travails of life. The child that didn’t make it. The years apart while Philip paid his dues with the company. The defiant daughter storming away, though returning many years later. The secretary. The slow fade into old age, all beneath the spectre of possible dementia. In the oak outside a crow cawed, a weak rejoinder to the sounding of the clock. A small bird huddling from the rain under star shaped leaves declared its existence, frail and black. It would be a portent if it were larger, a raven or a magpie. It would tell of things to come or not to be. Being what it was, all it could do was declare its own existence from the damp shadow of a backyard tree. The clock chimed for the third time. Coincidental to the events in the other room, the chime would be the clock’s last. A grandson’s efforts at refurbishment several years before had run their course, dust and evaporating oil leaving one critical pin locked in place, aged and miniscule gears unable to move, to turn, to fulfill its purpose. Dead. Outside a distant flash of lightning registered as a faint turn of pink upon closed eyelids, a muted vision of nature’s fury. Energy unleashed, taken back, consumed and dispersed. Though full of potential, to destroy or to move the world forward, so often the brilliant surge of electricity comes to nothing, just an exchange between heaven and earth. Seen. Noted. Allowed to pass. A searing of the air in startling white to be followed by a clap of thunder that today would go unheard. Shoulders slumped another inch, chest deflated as another breath did not come. Within that chest a heart beat, determined against the coming tide, an ebb tide, slack water receding away from the shores of the living. As determined as it had been through chasing toddlers across the park, nights of renewed passion after fights with Phillip, and against the ache of loss each time another child moved out, another friend passed away, another bit of her world faded to dust. One. Two. Three. Done. In the space of three strikes of the old clock and a little after, three measly seconds between each chime, Madeleine had gone from alive, a bundle of memories and thoughts, to not. A form without function. A discarded thing. A forgotten figure. A pile of well organized dust just waiting to return to the source. Now was the time for her to rejoin Philip, see which one of them was right. Or maybe she would slip into nothing as he had. For now the rain continued to fall outside, undeterred. The book remained open, a treasure of knowledge now inaccessible to eyes and a mind past knowing. Or off to full knowing. Or done knowing. Either way, not here. Gone. Forever gone from the fickle embrace of a world cold and exciting in turn, invigorating and depleting. The world remained; Madeleine was gone.