They say variety is the spice of life. If that’s true, then my life was as flavorful as a bag of stale flour. Keyword- was. I used to live my life from day to day. I’d wake up, go to work, only to go home and use that money on delivery orders while my eyes gloss over too many episodes of The Office. God, how time went by, days blurring into days, weeks blurring into weeks, henceforth and so on. But I’m not that kind of person anymore. All it took was a meeting with Jenny from HR. My coworkers were worried about me. She mentioned the word apathy. It stuck in my brain like a half chewed gummy bear sticks in the gaps of your teeth. And no matter how much you scrape, you still feel like you have some left. I gave her a half smile, told her I’d work on it, took a ground-scraping rise from my chair and left the room. Looking back, she probably wanted to have a grander discussion, and possibly about how it’s affecting my work in the company, but I wasn’t in the mood. I had too much apathy to do that. Apathy. Apathy, apathy, apathy. The entire bus ride home, that word was louder than the cold air whistling through the seams in the windows. I mean, I wasn’t mad, because she’s right. Lately I haven’t been motivated or interested in anything except whether Dwight and Angela work out their problems. Apathy. I wish I could say I changed that night, but it took me a couple weeks before the word got too loud, before the gummy bear in my mouth got too sour. I had to do something different. Then, one night I changed. Instead of spending more money on my double-stuffed pizza, or chicken and rice burritos, I stopped at the grocery store in an instant sting of inspiration. I was going to cook . But I didn’t cook that night, no no. I created . Coming home with a bag full of ingredients, I followed the recipe I had set in my mind. Hallowing the peppers, I felt my blood rush in a way I hadn’t felt before. My hands seemed to be moving on their own as they dashed in spices and ingredients the recipe hadn’t even called for. Inspiration carried my hands as I stuffed the peppers and towed them into the oven. Together, Inspiration and I created . My head felt a little dizzy as I plated my masterpiece. That night, I lived for the first time in a long time. I stopped at the grocery store the night after, set out to live my new life as a cook; a foodie, the one who knew exactly what flavors went with what, the one people raved about their home parties because “ their homemade frittatas are just oh-so-good”. I wanted to venture into the meat department. Maybe I’d cook up a seasoned steak, a simple burger, anything that revived that spark I felt the night before. Nothing did. I ended up making a cheeseburger. Burnt patty, unflavored bun, cheese burger. I thought I was ready, I set out all the ingredients on my counter, I took in that big breathful of air, allowing that flow of passion to enter my soul and guide my hands through my cooking. But the air I breathed felt stuffy, and everything inside me plummeted as I scraped old ketchup onto the buns. My masterpiece. Voila . What did happen however, was miraculous. I still had some veggies left from the night before, from that one passionate night. I eyed my blender, still fresh in it’s cardboard box on the corner of my counter. The passion flew back into me and I felt my blood rush with excitement. Smoothies! Of course! I can be a master mixologist. I started that new passion, and for the next week I made a variety of smoothies, milkshakes, juices. I went even further - cocktails, crafted beers, and (after extensive research) began the process of creating moonshine. I felt like an inventor of liquids. Call me Poseidon. But once again, the shimmer and glimmer in my eyes died as I looked at my blender and the fifteen different fruits I had ripening in a bowl. Dear God, what am I doing? Was I going insane? I packed the blender back up and shoved it aside. I needed my next high, my next flurry of excitement as I found a new hobby to pursue. And listen, I’m self-aware. I began to realize what I was doing, never sticking to a newfound passion. But at the time I was too busy carving ducks out of soap, painting and sketching and drawing and coloring, registering for metalworking and glass blowing classes. I practiced singing, piano, guitar, drums (well- bongos). I took up Spanish, French, Japanese, German, learning the pleases and thank yous before venturing onto my next craft. None of these ventures lasted longer than I week, I presume. The longest I kept up with was playing manicurist- something I found I had a peculiar knack in. And it was after I put down the nail file for the last time that I realized. I had probably gone through fifty plus different tasks all within the span of three months. I wasn’t sticking to anything. That word apathy sprung forward out of the shadows like a fox jumping on a rabbit. I’ll never find anything. I have no place in life. That night was restless and the morning after, looking in the mirror, rinsing cold water on my face, I gained a sort of defiance. You know what, who cares? Screw you Jenny. So what if I can’t find something I like. I liked finding new things to like. I enjoy switching hobbies. I guess.... It hit me. My hobby. My joy in life. What I knew would relieve that accursed ‘A’ word from my brain forever. My hobby was finding new hobbies. I broke out in a smile, which let the harsh laugh creeping up my throat find it’s escape. My hobby is finding hobbies! Hobbies are my hobbies! That Saturday, I began working on my hobby, my one true hobby. I scoured the internet. Pinterest and Wikipedia became my best friends that day. I worked on a list. I called it my ‘Flour Recipe’. I was going to craft up the most flavorful, spice-induced life I could imagine. My ‘flour recipe’ consisted of anything you could imagine- from potting flowers to sailing waters to voodoo making to beetle fighting. Those years were marvelous. I guess you’d call them the glory years... Or is it golden years? Either way, I had the most fun I’ve ever had. I would start my days off looking at my list, finding something new that called to me when the last activity died its final spark. Sometimes I’d go in order of the list, sometimes I’d roll a pair of dice, and heck, sometimes I chose whichever was closest to a coffee stain. That list was my life, and my life was in that list. But as the years passed, and as my skin began spotting its signs of age, my list dwindled. After learning and living and exploring, from hiking mountains to stone skipping at frozen lakes, I was finding less and less things to do. I was down to the wires, left with the procrastinated hobbies. I could feel my blood run colder and colder every time I looked to see another check on the list, another task already done and passed, it’s momentum gone forever. I tried repeating old tasks. I went back to cooking- the venture that started this all. But once the spark left my eyes it could never return. I finished off my glorious escapades with tree shaping, lollypop tasting, even something called extreme ironing (Seriously, look it up). As my list fell to the last few, I looked towards the one hobby I had saved for last. Fire starting. I watched the video and learned the techniques, bought the proper materials, and started fires from scratch. I started small, little bonfires in my driveway, and worked my way up. Once I felt confident, I went camping (a hobby I had surpassed years ago) at one of my favorite destination spots (a spot where I did my rock collecting, rebuilt some of my chakras, and took up bird watching) and lit a fire. It was a beautiful fire, and all the passion I had built up for this hobby went into it. I knew as the flames died down, so would my love for fire-building, but at this time the flames were lively and grand. I took my famed list in my hands, the fire twinkled and illuminated my glossy eyes, and threw the list in. I watched as the flames tore at its corners, blackened them at the same time as it blackened my heart. I was watching my entire life burn away in the fire. Everything I had lived for and done in the last few years, now over. On fire. Turned to ashes. Gone. I had no idea what was to come of my life next. Just as the last of my flour recipe was turning into an ‘ash recipe’, an unexpected wind blew through the trees. I had been so busy watching my life burn up, I didn’t even notice the flames now growing nearly the height I stood at. The wind blew flickering remnants over as it graced the arm of some nearby shrubbery. I tried grabbing some blankets, some of the water bottles I packed away with me, but the fire kept dancing it’s groove into the dark green pines. It danced the tango and climbed up, soon cheating on the bush with a spindly, towering spruce tree. The fire climbed and climbed, burned away at the tall tree. I stared up at it, mostly in shock at what I had just destroyed. But also, a little in awe at what I had just created . There, as I stood, petrified and frozen, my silhouette now darkened by the tall tree housed in flames, I laughed. I laughed because the damndest thought had just dropped on my brain, as if one of the floating embers carried an idea and singed its way through my mind. There are more hobbies out there. That’s it. That’s it! I hadn’t done everything, only the normal hobbies, the sane hobbies. There were more, and it started with pyromancy. As that tree flew into fire, I knew I could create more. I started small fires around neighborhoods, usually in open public trash cans. Once I lit a mailbox on fire. Then, a house. It was abandoned, on the corner of an empty street. Nobody would get hurt, and I figured it’d be a great way to say goodbye to this new hobby. And hello to the next. I went to the store the next day to begin. I picked up small, cheap items- and stealthily stored them in my pockets before leaving. I worked my way through aisles, shoplifting more and more expensive things. I almost got caught once or twice, but with all the cameras, I realized hardly anyone attempts to pick things off shelves anymore. Nobody knows that nobody watches those cameras though. Shoplifting soon turned to pickpocketing, which soon turned into muggings (not my proudest, I’ll be honest), which evolved into robberies. I should stop for a second. You have to understand. My intention wasn’t to hurt anyone. I didn’t find joy out of being a criminal, and it wasn’t like an F YOU! To the system. It was simply my continuation of living. Hobbies were the only thing that I found worthwhile in my life. When I ran through them all, I genuinely thought my life was over. Genuinely. As in, I didn’t buy groceries that week- genuine. So when I found something I could grasp onto, something new, another light to fill my eyes with life before it vanishes, I had to grab onto it. And that’s what led into last night. I had gone through my run of, let’s say “spicier” hobbies. From home invasions to underground pokerships, I was once again running out of things on my ‘list’. My... paprika list. So when it came down to closing time, I had made my decision. I was ready for the ultimate “hobby”, the spiciest fleck out of the whole spice jar. The ‘M’ word. I guess you could argue that’s not really a hobby, but in my mind anything could turn into a hobby. And for some people, some few socio/psychopathic individuals, it was technically a hobby. Again, at this point I’m so far down the spice jar I can no longer see light. It was hard to breath and I was desperate for my next venture. So I finally settled on the person. I made sure it was someone, erhm, I didn’t verify as redeemable. Someone I met in the pokerships, someone who told us in private terrible things he did (he was threatening us to fold, but unlike his hand, I know the things he was telling us weren’t lies. If he was bluffing he would begin dry swallowing- his tell). This was someone who founds hobbies in things I would never allow myself to reach. No matter how far down the spice jar I fell, I’d rather suffocate than stoop to his levels. Plus, he had no friends nor family, no one to miss him. I knew where he lived and what he had done, so he was an easy target. So, detective, as I sit across from you while you read this letter, one that I hope I was brave enough to walk through those doors and hand you- I wish to make this my confession. I was the individual who enacted whatever horrors you found through those doors last night, and I am the one to blame for. I write this letter in hopes of explaining why I did what I had done. What sort of dark, desperate path my life took to lead me to the tainted ‘M’ word. I don’t think you’ll understand, and I wish I knew what kind of face I’ll be reading from you as your eyes near the end of this letter. But that is why I did it, and I’m ready to plead guilty to all crimes. I confess. And if I may add one last thing to this note, detective. I'm excited to see what new hobbies imprisonment will bring me.


I never really believed in participating in dry January. What’s the point? You don’t drink for a month and then come February 1st you're back to your same old self and drinking almost on a daily basis. One month isn’t going to save your liver. I never felt the need to do it until Taylor. Oh Taylor. My best friend- my soulmate. She’s the kind of person that you meet and instantly know that she is going to be in your life forever. Or so I thought. When I got the phone call that she was in the hospital I didn’t expect what I saw. She was 27. I knew she drank a lot. Quite frankly we all did. Years of partying throughout college carried into adulthood where instead of drinking to socialize with your friends you're doing it at home because life is so difficult you just want to feel numb. I’ll never forget the yellow. I walked into the hospital that day, not sure of what to expect and there she was, sitting on the bed surrounded by her family and friends. It wasn’t her though. This person was yellow- not a tint like the color of a leaf dying in the fall. It was yellow like a Simpsons character had jumped off the screen and was sitting in the bed. Our past conversations jumped into my head. She said she was struggling- weren’t we all? She claimed to be an alcoholic- the same way we all did in a joking manner because we all drank more than we should. Our best memories were ones where we drank and acted silly or did something stupid. I didn’t know it was this bad. She was hooked to tubes, restricted from eating because they had to run tests on her. Her dad, who I’ve known most of my life, shared updates with me, all with a positive spin. “She needs to be at this number and she’s currently at this number. It’s not getting better but it’s not getting worse so that’s a good thing.” We sat around her, talking about TV shows and work as if this girl- this amazing, wonderful girl- wasn’t next to us the color of the sun, vomiting and hooked up to more IVs than I’ve seen in my life. Her kidneys were failing so they needed to start dialysis. Just another machine hooked up to keep her alive. She needed to fight. I saw it in her eyes though, she didn’t want to fight anymore. It’s the same look I’ve seen in the face of other alcoholics. If I can’t have the thing that makes me feel better (even though it really doesn’t), then what’s the point of living. In the middle of the night I was awakened by a phone call from her dad. “They are moving Taylor to the ICU. Her heart rate fell really low, and they needed to intubate her.” I rushed down to the hospital to wait with her family. They told me she was put into a medically induced coma. When I visited her, she was on her stomach, her mouth covered by a tube hanging out of it. A doctor in scrubs and an angry look on his face approached. “I’m sure you know that Taylor is in liver failure which is causing the rest of her organs to fail too. She needs a liver transplant but laws prohibit us from giving her one until she has been sober for six months. We are just going to keep moving forward and hope that her body will start responding to treatment.” How wrong. I get it, in your eyes she was just another alcoholic. But in my eyes she was the best person I knew. Test me, I’ll give her half my liver without waiting. She’s so young. Doesn’t she deserve a second chance? For days I sit at the hospital, working on my laptop, waiting for some sort of absolution. For days her parents hit me with the same story, “It’s improved in this way which isn’t a lot but it’s not any worse.” I believed them. You want to hold on to the thought that everything is going to work out and be okay. On the surface I had hope. But deep down, I actually didn’t. There came a moment when the doctor talked to me directly. I can’t remember what he said. I suppose it was some sort of defense mechanism to shield me from the unbearable pain. I just remember calling my friend Keisha and telling her, “It’s really bad. You need to come down here.” Somehow, we all knew. Though it had been a week of denial now there was no more ignoring the truth. This was the end. We gathered around her and sang, You are My Sunshine. Tears flowed down my face as I could barely get the words out. I found it to be ironic with the color of her skin. In actuality she was our sunshine. Within minutes of finishing, she was dead. I didn’t want to accept it. She was only 27. She was my best friend. How could my best friend be gone from my life? How could such a young woman die of liver failure? There had to be some sort of reasoning, some sort of explanation. The only real explanation is the truth. She abused alcohol for far too long and much more than anyone knew. It killed her, the way it kills so many others. As I look into dry January this year, it’s different. I do it for her. I do it because maybe if she had done more dry days she would still be here. It’s funny, alcohol is the thing I want most and least after losing her. I want to numb the pain, but I don’t want to end up like her. Is the temporary fix really worth the consequences? The booze is gone, out of my life for this dry month of cold and snow. Who knows, it might stay gone forever. All I know is that this dry January is for Taylor.


JOURNAL ENTRY FEB. 18TH, 2024 Let me just begin by saying I didn't plan on going out on Valentine’s Day, nor did I intend on dating a complete stranger. Honestly, looking back on it now, I cannot believe I was oblivious to the signs. I should have known that my paternity brothers were setting me up, but I woefully underestimated their mischievous nature. But then again, the only reason I joined Zeta Delta Mu was because they were the most intellectually and mentally mature paternity on campus. They never screamed or acted like wild, untamed brutes. Instead of blasting the speakers with rap or heavy metal, Zeta Delta Mu played calming classical and Zen music. The wildest the paternity gets is during the annual chess tournament which promptly ends at 8 PM. Even so, I chose to avoid the crowds by spending the day at the library. Point being, I had no reason to believe my brothers would have pulled such a prank, and now I’m greatly disappointed in all of them. They mocked me for my blunt and reclusive nature, which I am not ashamed of. As of now, I recall them saying how funny it would be if I went out on a date. They never stopped prodding me to find a girl, even when I batted them away like mosquitoes. My resistance only made them more eager to hook me up with any and every girl on campus. They would recite a list of names and ask which one struck my fancy; the answer was none. Determined to manipulate me to fall in love with someone, they pulled their most deviating prank on me to date. I know this to be a fact, because they confirmed my suspicions to be true once the date was over. I found out later that they took bets on how long we would last, and who would call off the date first. The paternity tricked me with a simple email to my student account. It was from Gagnesh, saying he wanted to meet me at Cafe Crubin at 12:30 PM sharp. I showed up fifteen minutes early and picked a table on the foyer instead of a table inside of the cafe. I chose to sit outside because the inside was decorated for Valentine's Day. I was offended that the staff thought a few hearts and red streamers were enough to manipulate my emotions, but I wasn’t swayed. By 12:35 I grew frustrated. Gagnesh had yet to arrive. It’s not like him to be late, plus he knows my intolerance for tardiness. Just when I was about to get up, a Miss Laura Pilliam sat down. I asked her if she had seen Gagnesh, but she did not. She said Gagnesh told her that he and I were supposed to review her paper for her Science Worldview class. It didn’t take long for me to deduce what was going on, and I informed Miss Pilliam of my conclusion. I explained how my paternity brothers were trying to force me to fall in love with someone, and that she was brought to the cafe under false pretenses. Unfortunately, by the time I finished my explanation the waiter came to take our order. He asked if we wanted to have the Lover’s Special, which forced me to clarify that me and Miss Pilliam were not lovers, not friends, just acquaintances. He apologized for his assumptions and repeated his question if we wanted anything to eat. I told him no, that we were just leaving, but Miss Pilliam ordered two coffees, one for her and one for me, and a few scones. I asked her what she was doing. She explained to me that she really had her essay, and genuinely thought Gagnesh and I would help her. I argued that she could send the paper to my student email, but she brought out a few papers from her bag and said there was no point in wasting precious time. I could not argue with such a practical explanation. I told the server that I wanted my coffee black with two, and only two, drops of milk. He repeated the order back at me and took off with haste. Suddenly, Miss Pilliam plopped her essay on the table. I told her she didn’t need to be dramatic, but she just sat there with her arms crossed and demanded I get on with reading her essay. I won’t write her paper verbatim here, but I can say that her essay’s subject was about the dangers and benefits of oil fracking. The opening paragraph was decent enough, but I started to notice glaring errors when I got into the meat of the paper. The server came with the coffee and the scones, but I was too focused on the essay to take a sip. I snatched the red pen out of my pocket, and started marking every mistake. She asked me what I was doing, but I told her to let me work. The sound of her munching on the scones or taking a sip of her coffee annoyed me to no end. It took all my strength not to strangle her with my bare hands. A violent and ghastly image I know, but that’s what was running through my mind at the time. I told her to stop, which prompted her to ask why. I told her because it broke my concentration, and I couldn’t perform with any distractions. I also added that the noisy environment of the cafe was already testing my limits. With that, she allowed me a few more minutes to work in relative peace. The more I read, the more uneasiness I felt. I’m not saying her mistakes made me ill, but that they looked awfully familiar, like I had seen them before. Then it hit me. The reason why the errors stood out was because I had seen them before in Gagnesh’s writing! I looked up at her and asked point blank if she wrote her own paper. Any other student would refute such an accusation, but, to my surprise and horror, Miss Pilliman confirmed my suspicions. What was worse was that she was smiling about it. She showed no signs of shame of any kind. I warned her that having Gagnesh write her paper for her went against the Student Handbook, and she could get tried for academic fraud. I didn’t get very far with my warning, because she started to laugh. I demanded to know what was so funny, but she went on apologizing for her behavior. Despite her apologies, I could tell she was not taking her crime with the seriousness it deserved. Since she refused to listen, I said my farewell and got up to take my leave. She then had the audacity to beg me to stay. I demanded for her to give me one good reason to stay. She actually did. I hadn’t finished my coffee. I stood there dumbfounded with a tinge of guilt. It felt wrong to force her to pay for something I had ordered but didn’t finish. I agreed to sit back down on the condition that our interaction would end once every ounce of my coffee was gone. She found my terms acceptable. But little did I know that this was her plan from the start. As I took my first sip, she told me the truth. She revealed that she wasn’t taking the Science Worldview class. I asked her why commit fraud in a class she wasn’t a part of, and what she said next froze me to my core. She did it because she had feelings for me, affectionate ones. I nearly choked on my coffee, which was something I never experienced. I always made sure to drink at a slow, steady pace to avoid that very thing. She was insistent that I allowed her to finish before I said anything further. She admitted that she felt affection towards me since the previous semester. According to her, she wanted to ask me out for months, but she could never get my attention because I was buried in my studies. She apologized profusely for her deception, and begged for my understanding. That was just the problem, I couldn’t understand. I asked her what she could possibly see that made her fall for a guy like me. She blushed and avoided making eye contact. Apparently she found my maturity attractive. She said that I acted like an eighty year-old man in a twenty-year-old’s body. I did pride myself on controlling my mannerisms and that I did not partake in idiotic frivolities. She then went on saying how I was kind to people in need. At this point, I had no idea what she was referring to, so I asked her to provide some examples. She giggled and complimented me for being so modest, only for her to gasp seconds later when she realized I was being in earnest. Without wasting another second, she went into a few examples. She brought up the one time I gave a sophomore a few nickels so he could use the vending machine in the library. She brought up multiple occasions where I held the door for both classmates and faculty members alike. Finally, her last example was how I ran a service proofreading student papers. Once she was finished, I responded by saying that all of the things she mentioned were of no consequence to me. I gave the sophomore spare change because he gave me his word to pay me back, which he did. Next, I was taught it was a common courtesy to open the door for others. And last but not least, my editing service was far from charity, I didn’t offer my service for free after all. But none of that mattered to her. She claimed that I had a positive impact on everyone around me, and that was something to be admired. I sat there completely baffled. I never had a conversation like this before with anyone. I thanked her for her flattery before telling her that I could not pursue a relationship at the moment. I had my studies to worry about. There was no room for friendships or romance when I had tests and assignments due every week. She looked devastated, but she accepted my answer with grace and understanding. She offered me her phone number, just in case I got second thoughts, but I refused. I said there was no need since I could send an email or look up her number in the student directory. In a way, I felt sorry for her as she wiped a tear from her eye, but there was nothing more to say. I thanked her for the coffee, wished her luck and left, not even taking a moment to give her a second glance. I’m writing all this down now because I’ve started to experience something I’ve never felt before. For some reason my mind keeps going back to that cafe, and I’m noticing things about her I didn’t pick up during the initial encounter. The first thing I remember clearly was her giggle, how it was short and soft, unlike the loud and obnoxious variety that poured out of the mouths of the airheaded girls that wander the college’s grounds. Second, even though her plan failed, I appreciated how intricate it was and how much courage she had to have in order to pull it off. Finally, I respected her attempt to show a side of myself I didn’t think possible. I guess from a certain point of view, I was actually a helping hand by showing kindness to strangers. No one has made me aware of this, and no one has since. I could go on, but those were the three that stood out to me. I know I might sound paranoid, but I think I’ve grown quite fond of her. I’m tempted to contact her and see if these feelings are real or just in my head. But for now I must get back to my studies. Perhaps I’ll contact her once I’m not so busy. We’ll see. END JOURNAL ENTRY


Scarlett started flipping through the album when she took a long pause. She looked up at her mother and pointed to a picture of a man. “Is that him?” she asked. Her mother’s face turned from calm to an immediate nervousness. She almost didn’t want to acknowledge the picture. “That’s him.” She finally responded with a haunted tone. Her mother couldn’t tolerate to be in the same room while that picture was present, so she scurried off into the kitchen. “I have to start getting dinner ready.” Scarlett did not look up, she was too fixated on the picture of the man who had contributed to her existence. He had green eyes just like Scarlett and although the picture was faded and distorted, she could tell by the freckles on his face that he was the reason for her ginger-colored hair. This was the man whom she could’ve someday called father. This was also the man whose name was not allowed to be spoken in her household, not that she could ever break such a rule considering that her mother seemed to be the only one who knew his name. Her mother spent Scarlett’s entire life dedicated to ensuring she never learned his name. He looked like a Fred, but he easily could’ve been a David or a Mathew. Scarlett picked Mathew because it sounded gentle and welcoming. She wanted to imagine her father had some type of humanistic trait in him because according to her mother, he was far from it. In the photo, he had a crooked smile as he was looking down at Scarlett only a year old sitting in her highchair. She had little swirls of red hair on her head coming in, and her big green eyes mirrored Mathew’s. She was smiling with spaghetti sauce as red as her hair all over her mouth and naked chest. The bowl was on the floor from where she had tipped it over the tray on her highchair and Mathew was laughing at Scarlett with the spoon still in his hand. He looked human to her. They looked happy together. She even thought that her mother who was capturing the moment at the time was also happy. Part of Scarlett had wished she could remember the memory, but she knew that it was for the best that she didn’t. She flipped the photo over to find it dated October 5 th 1975, with her mother’s handwriting: Scarlett and Christopher at lunch time. ** It was December 22 nd , 1976 when Scarlett’s mother received the most unimaginable news. There was a man dressed in black slacks and a long black peacoat over his grey collared shirt. He knocked and then spoke through the door. “Mrs. Callaway? This is detective Miles, I’d like to speak with you.” Detective? Her heartbeat began to quicken its pace. A series of questions filtered through her mind. What on earth was a detective doing requesting to speak with her in the middle of the day? Did that pesky old Mrs. Collins call social services on her and her husband again? She had no idea what to expect. She opened the door looking at the detective and the street behind him then focused her eyes back at him. “Mrs. Callaway?” the detective repeated. She nodded. “This is Josephine Callaway. How can I help you detective?” “Mrs. Callaway, I have something I need to share with you. May I come in?” “My baby is asleep-” “It’s crucial you hear what I have to say.” He interrupted. Without a further exchange of words, she moved to one side and let him in. She led him into the common area so that she could keep an ear out for Scarlett who was in the living room napping inside her playpen. They sat down across from each other on a set of brown leather couches. “Can I get you something to drink detective?” “I’m alright.” He responded. He sounded rugged and kept gripping at his chin. “Mrs. Callaway,” he started “are you up to date with the news?” The news? Josephine looked at detective Miles puzzled. “I suppose,” she replied, still unsure of why that was relevant to her. “Then I am sure you are well aware of the several young women that have been missing for the last year.” Josephine was now really confused. She had heard of the women he was talking about. In fact, one of them, Jane Carmichael lived a few blocks down. Poor girl had been missing all summer. Josephine remembered sending her family a dish of green bean casserole a few weeks after she was declared missing. “I’m aware detective. What does that have to do with why you’re here?” “We found them Mrs. Callaway.” “That’s wonderful!” she said sounding relieved. Detective Miles was not celebrating with her. “We found their bodies, Mrs. Callaway. Including the one of your neighbor, Jane.” Josephine’s smile dropped. “Their bodies? Meaning?” “Yes, Mrs. Callaway. All four women were found dead. We were able to identify them this morning.” Josephine’s stomach churned in knots. She lived in a small town, so to picture those poor girls found lifeless somewhere made her fear for Scarlett. She couldn’t understand what would drive someone to hurt others, especially in her quiet little town. Josephine couldn’t help but still wonder how any of this led to a detective seeking to speak with her. Perhaps there was a target against young women on the rise and he would soon discuss the option of a witness protection program so that Scarlett could grow up in a safe community. She was willing to be open to anything that would keep her daughter safe. “The bodies were found in an abandoned house underneath the basement along with some tools that to belong to your husband.” He paused. “Evidence shows he used them to dismember the bodies.” The seconds appeared to have gone by in slow motion. Her husband? How? This had to have been some sort of mistake. Before she could get a word in, detective Miles continued with his story. “Josephine,” his voiced echoed “the DNA samples that we found matched with your husbands. We have placed him under arrest.” Josephine’s breathing became difficult and there was a somber sound in her ears like bells ringing. Scarlett began to cry in the next room making Josephine feel even more overwhelmed. She stood up quickly to tend to the baby but knocked over a small porcelain elephant siting on the coffee table. It was a Christmas present from Christopher the night he had proposed to her. Detective Miles stood up attempting to help her, but she swatted his arms out of the way. Her life was under attack and she could not grasp on to the reality that her husband was a murderer-a monster. Josephine kneeled next to the playpen starting at Scarlett crying through the netted wall and like an infant, she began to cry with her. ** Scarlett was twenty-five years old sitting on a plastic hard black chair staring into a glass that had a telephone line on each side of it. She was moments away from meeting Christopher Callaway, the infamous cold-blooded killer of Jacksonville, Oregon. She sat there, holding the picture she had found in her mother’s photo album when she was eight years old. She stared at it wondering what her father now looked like. She was aware of his crimes and wanted to meet him before his final moment alive. He was scheduled to be electrocuted at noon and was granted one last conversation with his daughter. She was nervous and excited to finally meet him. She wasn’t proud of what he had done, but she had to do this. Then, from across the glass, a tall and slender man in an orange jumpsuit and reddish grey hair, sat down in front of her with his hands resting in handcuffs. No tattoos, no large muscles, just an older man with terrible life choices sitting in front of her. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Instead, they glanced at each other as if they were attempting to read the other’s mind. It was like looking in a time capsule, their green eyes were like magnets locking them into deep thought. After several minutes, Christopher finally spoke. “You have your mother’s nose”. He smiled the same crooked smile. Scarlett had so many thoughts in her head with limited time. She didn’t know what to say, so she asked him the first thing that came out of her mouth. “Why’d you do it?” Their eyes never looked away from each other. His crooked smile was gone. She wished she could’ve taken it back, but it was already too late. In one breath, Christopher responded in the most truthful way. “Because I wanted to, babe.” A single strand of tears escaped Scarlett’s eyes. She slid the photo through a small opening and stood up. “Goodbye dad.” ** It was eleven forty-five and Christopher was walking down a dark and cold hallway accompanied by two prison guards and a priest. He was taken into a room with a bright light and unwelcoming walls, his electric throne awaiting him. He sat in his chair like a king being coronated. He sat there with his infamous crooked smile and the photo of him and Scarlett in his hand. He looked up and glanced through the glass wall in front of him to find a row of chairs, all but one, empty. Scarlett stood before him, once again locking eyes with her father. They stared at each other for the last two minutes transferring each other’s pain, memories, and perhaps even apologies. Christopher held on to the photo tightly in his right hand, never looking away from Scarlett. At last, it was noon and the king wore his crown with pride until the very end, the last piece of evidence of him and Scarlett, burned in his hands. She did not take her eyes off him until they took him away. After a few moments had gone by, Scarlett stood up and was escorted out of the building by a guard and that time she made sure not to ever look back.


Look at me! ***This story contains some sensitive topics which include mental health & suicide mentioned. Tabitha had always loved to be the center of attention. Oftentimes, she’d fake illness or injury in order to get people to talk to her. She loved it when people would stare at her. She didn’t care if it was because of being proud of her, pity or even shock. If people were giving her undivided attention, she would say and do anything. So, naturally, she enjoyed gossip. True or not, she’d spread things around much like a forest fire spreads. If Tabitha knew something, everybody knew it. At one time, Tabitha made up a rumor about Chase Wheeler. Chase was already very depressed for someone of his age. He was a junior, halfway through the year. All the students were just coming back to school from holiday vacation. After about 3 days of being back, Tabitha realized she was becoming a bore. Nobody cared about anything she had to say, because she had nothing new to say. A while back she had heard (and spread) a rumor that Chase Wheeler was in counseling for an essay that he submitted to his language arts teacher. Of course, that little tidbit of information wasn’t interesting enough for Tabitha to get that look of sudden shock. So, she added a little bit of “in-between the line” information. She wasn’t sure if it was the reason behind why he was in counseling or not, but she told people he’d written an account about how he would commit suicide. Unfortunately for Chase, this was half true. He had written a short story about a character who killed himself. It wasn’t a plan for his suicide, but the story was enough to make his teacher raise his eyebrows and wonder about Chase’s mental wellbeing. Next thing he knew, Chase was supposed to see the school counselor once a week. Because of how close Tabitha’s rumor was to the truth, nobody would hang around Chase anymore. They were all afraid they’d say something to cause him to end his life & nobody wanted to be the guilty party. He was lonelier now than he’d ever been. This only encouraged suicidal ideations to grow, much like cancer. He had imagined just about every way to end his life. His mom’s oxy mixed with some vodka resting in a dusty bottle on the back of his fridge, a straight razor that he’d slice horizontally down his arm, sitting in the garage with the door closed and the car on, & even just climbing underneath his bed & using his dad’s beretta. Every day, it was harder and harder for Chase to get up and face the day. After a few weeks, people began to warm back up to Chase and he was a little happier. Still depressed, but not as far gone as he was. Tabitha had already spun just about every story she could. Nobody really told her anything before the holidays, because everybody knew she couldn’t keep anything to herself. People still talked to her, but she didn’t get that look of interest anymore. Nobody stopped what they were doing to look at her with their mouths slightly ajar and their eyes a little bit wider. That satisfying look of somebody hanging onto your every word, just because they need to know what happened next. Tabitha decided to take matters into her own hands & made the decision to spread a complete lie. She had crafted it ever so perfectly. “School shooting”, she thought to herself. She was filled with a warm feeling, knowing this was the best rumor to spread. People would absolutely believe her, because who wouldn’t believe someone was threatening to shoot a school up in America? And who would be the bloodthirsty maniac preparing to wield a gun up and down the hallways & shoot everybody who he blamed for his problems? Why, Chase Wheeler. Who else could fit such a perfect storyline? In Tabitha’s mind, Chase was already depressed, so it wouldn’t be a big twist to say that he was planning to shoot the school up. “I mean, it’s not like we don’t know if he is going to shoot up the school. For all we know, he could have a plan to do it anyway.” Tabitha justified her reasoning to herself. It was settled, she was going to tell people that Chase Wheeler was planning to shoot the school up. She’ll say she saw him scribble down the date in his notebook during her class with him, which was language arts. It was already Wednesday, so she’d decided to wait until Monday to initiate her plan. The week had come to an end & Tabitha’s exhilaration grew as Monday came closer. Monday was finally there. Tabitha decided to tell people right after first period. She was going to tell people he had planned to come into the school on Thursday, prepared to shoot their classmates. After first period, which was her class with Chase, she walked up to a group of people filled with 2 girls & 3 guys. She walked into the group as they were buzzing about the spring formal & who they were going to go with. “Oh my God” Tabitha uttered, with a petrified look on her face. The group silenced their discussion & looked straight at Tabitha. “What is it?” Some of them muttered, a little bit afraid to hear the answer. The last rumor they had heard from her was about Chase being suicidal. So, they were all prepared to believe whatever she threw at them. “I just came out of class with Chase & I’m not sure if I should tell the counselor or not.” The students stared at her, expectingly, wanting her to spill the beans. She took a breath and sputtered out, “Chase wrote that he is going to bring a gun to school on Thursday and shoot people.”. Everybody stared at her with giant eyes, their faces filled with terror. “We need to tell someone. Now” Said one of the boys in the group, Billy Colton. And with that, Billy was headed to the direction of the counselor’s office. Tabitha chewed her nails, a little bit afraid she’d be found out. Her plan was foolproof though; nobody could prove that he wasn’t planning to shoot up the school. The other students in the group were petrified and began to talk amongst themselves about how scary the whole situation was. The bell rang for second period & everybody scattered off to their next class. The fire had started. By the end of the day, everybody in the school knew about the fake school shooting supposedly happening on Thursday. Everybody had heard the rumors, except for Chase. He usually sat slumped in the back of his classes, headphones on & shutting the world out. The whole school kept a six-foot radius away from Chase, just in case he would pull out a gun and shoot them earlier than scheduled. The only thing in Chase’s bag was a water bottle filled up a fourth of the way, the room temperature liquid sloshing around as he moved from class to class. He went home that day none the wiser. The rumor had marinated overnight & all the students came in on Tuesday morning determined to shed light on Chase’s plan to kill them all. Half of the students were lined up at the counselor’s office & the other half were having discussions with the teachers about their fears. Tabitha walked in, the only one aware that her rumor wasn’t the actual truth. She looked down at the floor as she walked past all the chattering and headed to the bathroom. She was prepared to sit in a stall until the first period bell rang. As she waited for the bell to ring, she read all of the chicken scratches and graffiti plastered all over the insides of the stall. There were boy’s names with hearts next to them, phone numbers & gum wrappers glued to the wall by chewed gum. Finally, the bell rang and Tabitha all but sprinted to first period. As she sat down in her seat, the class filed into the room. Chase was the last one to come in. As he came in, all the people in the classroom stared at him with a feeling of fear, even the teacher. They all believed he was secretly planning to take them all down. He didn’t even notice the extra attention he was getting as he plopped down in his seat and put his headphones in. “Coming Down” by Five Finger Death Punch blared in his ears as he read the assignments written on the white board. As he opened his language arts book, preparing to do his work for that day, the teacher tapped on his desk and motioned for him to pull out his headphones. “They’re calling you to the counselor’s office”, Mr. Riley said to him with a half-smile, secretly hoping that Chase wasn’t putting his name on the list of people he was going to shoot. Chase smiled back at Mr. Riley, packed up his bag & headed to the counselor’s office. “Maybe I can be done with counseling”, Chase hoped to himself. Tabitha chewed the end of her pencil and tapped her foot repeatedly on the floor, nervous about what they were going to say to Chase in the counselor’s office. She waited and waited for Chase to come back to class, so she could get some kind of idea what was said, but he didn’t come back. She spent the whole day grazing her eyes up and down the hallways and all around the cafeteria just hoping she’d catch a glance of him. She never saw him. When Chase arrived at Mrs. Porter’s office, her door was open and she was sitting behind her desk, kindly waving him in to come sit on the couch that he sat on once a week, across from her desk. “Hello, Chase. How is your day going?” She spoke to him. He shrugged his shoulders and replied, “Eh, it’s alright, I guess. I thought I was only supposed to come on Friday morning?” “Yes, usually just Friday morning is fine. But it’s come to my attention that you may be planning something.” Chase looked puzzled; he hadn’t had any kind of specific suicidal plan in weeks. He had no idea what Mrs. Porter was talking about. “What are you talking about?”, he asked her. Mrs. Porter looked disappointed & said “Chase, someone in your first period caught you writing that you were planning to shoot students, here in our school.” Chase was outraged. Who would say something like that?! He hadn’t even written a suicidal story since the day he was forced to start seeing the counselor. He didn’t take a risk writing down his suicidal ideations. Why in the world would he write out a plan to kill other people if he wasn’t even willing to write down his own suicidal thoughts?! “I never wrote anything like that. Who said that?! I swear I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Chase almost shouted, furiously. “Calm down, Chase. It was just something that came to our attention. I think maybe it’s best if you take the rest of the year and just do home study rather than here at the school.” Mrs. Porter calmly stated. “Are you serious?! I’m being punished because of a lie some lonely loser made up?!” Chase voiced, angrily. “It’s not really a punishment, Chase. It’s just what’s best for everybody, even you. I think it’ll be good for you to have more time at home. You would have more time to pursue your interests and you wouldn’t have to come deal with everybody here at the school every day.” she said, encouragingly. Chase rolled his eyes and calmly said, “Alright, whatever. Can you at least tell me who said I wrote that down?” Mrs. Porter smiled at him, grateful he had calmed down, and responded, “I’m not sure. Someone who sits behind you.” Instantly, Chase knew exactly who she was referring to. Tabitha. That bitch was the reason everybody knew why he was in counseling in the first place. Chase wasn’t one to blame others for his issues, but Tabitha was one reason nobody spoke to him much. And now she was responsible for him getting kicked out of school. Nobody even asked him if it was true and he was sure if Mrs. Porter had heard about him writing such nonsense, everybody knew about it. Chase was filled with that familiar feeling of never-ending dreadful numbness. He shoved his headphones back into his ears and swung his backpack over his shoulder. He walked out of the office, prepared to walk home. As he walked home, he was just filled with more and more sadness. He didn’t care anymore. All that progress he had made in counseling just didn’t matter. Nobody would believe the truth about the situation. Not with just his words. Nobody even cared enough about him to ask him if was okay when those rumors were being spread. Why did anything matter anymore? His social life would never get better. He wasn’t even allowed to go to school anymore. Unwillingly put into a home study program, he just didn’t understand how he was supposed to make anything better if he were stuck at home. He thought about the situation all the way home. As he walked up his driveway, he started brainstorming a plan. Tabitha went home after a long day at school, afraid that people would figure out she was lying. Anytime anyone had pulled her aside to speak with her about the rumor she started, she felt a prickling of anxiety. She was terrified someone would call her out and tell her they knew she was lying about the whole thing. Fortunately for her, nobody called her out. They all 100% believed that Chase Wheeler was planning an attack on the school. Tabitha was exhausted from all the worrying that day and attempted to go to sleep. She tossed and turned all night, wondering about what people would say tomorrow. Wednesday morning came & Tabitha headed to school. Everybody was whispering to themselves as Tabitha walked down the hallway. “Hey”, Ashley Green blurted out, tapping Tabitha on the shoulder. Tabitha turned around & looked at Ashley. “Chase got kicked out of school. He’s not allowed back this year. It’s a relief you found out what he was planning.” Ashley admitted to Tabitha. “Oh good. I’m so glad we won’t have to wonder and worry about him hurting any of us while we’re at school”, she responded. Ashley nodded & continued to her class as did Tabitha. As she walked through the threshold of the door of her class, she felt a pat on her shoulder and noticed someone in a black hoody practically sprinting past her. She looked at her shoulder and realized that there was a note taped to her. She pulled the note off her shoulder as she made her way to her seat. She opened it up as she sat down & read the note. “I know what you did. Meet me in the gym 10 minutes before the end of first period. Or else you’ll regret it.” Tabitha swallowed hard and felt the prickly sensation of terror and shame come over her. She raised her hand and told Mr. Riley she needed to go to the bathroom & he dismissed her. Tabitha headed to the gym. When Tabitha got to the gym, she noticed someone standing in the middle with a hood over their head. She suspected the person who wanted to see her was Chase & as the person shook the hoody off his head, she realized she was right. She stared at Chase, ready to race in the other direction. Chase had his hands behind his back and there was red liquid dripping onto the floor behind him. “Is that blood?!” Tabitha thought to herself, afraid. Chase brought one of his hands from behind his back and revealed a spray can dripping red paint. “I know what you did, and I need people to know the truth.” He blatantly stated to Tabitha and then pointed directly behind her. Tabitha turned around and looked at what he was pointing at. Above her, on the wall above the door, read the words, “Tabitha is a LIAR. All she wants is ATTENTION. I never had a plan to hurt anyone at this school. Nobody even cared enough about me to know that it was a lie. -Chase W.” Tabitha turned back around to Chase, who now was holding a gun in his hands. He raised the gun up slowly & Tabitha took a sharp breath and began to curl up into a ball on the floor. He was going to shoot her! Tabitha waited for the loud BANG of the gun to go off, and decided to open her eyes to see what was taking him so long to shoot her. When she opened her eyes, she looked in horror as his finger squeezed the trigger. BANG The gun dropped to the floor & so did Chase. Tabitha stared in horror as all the blood puddled under chase and seeped into the old wooden floors. Then, the bell for second period rang. As the bell rang, Tabitha let out a bloodcurdling scream. Terrified and feeling guilty because of what she had just seen, she backed herself into the corner of the gym. As she sat in the corner, sobbing, students and teachers filed into the gym and instantly realized what had happened. The people in the gym stared daggers into Tabitha with looks of nothing but disgust. Tabitha regretted everything & for once in her life, she wished nobody could see her.


Whether or not he would ultimately end up being caught was of little to no consequence to Ralph at that moment. At that moment, he was more disappointedly fascinated by the agonizingly decrepit condition of his shoes. The shoes he had worked so hard to buy were covered in tragedy. Deep layers of mud concealed the traces of bloody evidence. The fresh rubber and lace odor had been vanquished within twenty-four hours. The howling of searching sirens and screeching tires chasing shadowy suspects down alleyways felt like a distant memory already. In fact, it had been a couple of days since he’d even internally shrieked at the sight of a cop car. Now, though, he was in an entirely different state. He wondered if Indiana would be as vigilant in their hunt for him as Kentucky had been. The state border had felt like a finish line. Do they chase across state borders? He wondered. #ThingsYoureNotTaughtInSchool. The truth was, he didn’t even know how it played out in his absence-- or, perhaps more accurately, his fleeing. Madison’s survival was still in question. It was only in the arm, but a gunshot wound is a gunshot wound. Run first; dodge questions later seemed like the only logical thing to do at the time. Now five hundred miles from the original altercation, Ralph still couldn’t be sure if he should slow his pace and come out of the shadows just yet. Stalks of fallen, dried wheat crunched under his newly unrecognizable sneakers. The amber rays of the Sun rose over the golden field he was aimlessly navigating. Figuring the farmers would be out cruising plots on their tractors any minute, Ralph thought it might be wiser to find a more inconspicuous path to travel. But where? He could only see a long-distance when he reached a peak in the landscape, and the last time he did, it was farmland as far as the eye could possibly see: combines and corn mostly. It might be a half day’s walk until actual civilization could be reached. Presently, he couldn’t wander in the fields much longer for fear of a farmer phoning the police for his trespassing. He couldn’t really walk along the edge of the road either. If a local blue-blood pegged his description, he’d be in cuffs on his way back to Kentucky in a squad car faster than a frog can snatch a fly. Despite being ‘on the run,’ Ralph’s pace had slowed considerably. The adrenaline of the circumstantial events had almost all but relinquished power of his muscles to the deep fatigue which began to plague him with each increasingly small step. The sound of distant, rustling, farm-equipment engines began to drown out the songs of the morning birds as the Sun rose higher into the morning sky. Ralph thought it to be ironic how the Sun could shine so beautifully during such dark circumstances. It was as if Mother Earth had no idea how much trouble he was in. He pulled off his ball cap to wipe the day’s first bead of sweat from his brow. There would be much more to come. The brim was grasped loosely by the tired, filthy fingers of the alleged fugitive. Ralph’s brown eyes glared into the etched logo on the front. Tossing it on the ground, he realized, but if not before that moment, he was in the clothes of a possible murderer-- a murderer wearing a hat and Nikes. The hat, the shirt, the hoodie, underwear, jeans-- the shoes. He pictured them in a basement locker of some precinct, in a plastic bag marked as evidence. What had been a collection of random choices that fateful morning was now the ensemble of a violent criminal. At least, that’s what Ralph thought the journalists would write if he were later convicted of murder. Though his legs and feet felt the weight of the thousands of steps he’d walked in the past forty-eight hours, Ralph knew he couldn’t stop for even a blink of sleep until he changed his clothes. Ralph took a moment to check his wallet. There was an array of gift cards with a few bucks left on each and a little over one hundred dollars in cash. Normally, there would be nothing but a Subway punch card to speak of in the billfold, but his birthday had passed mere days before the incident. The same birthday during which he was presented with a gun from his step-father. The same birthday Madison had missed. I had to. Right? Thought Ralph for a moment. She would’ve died if I hadn’t shot her. Right? Can someone really be convicted of murder for trying to save someone’s life? The teenage boy, wrought with guilt by the images left in his mind, fell to his knees and began to weep. Some of the tears that ran down his dirty, dried-sweaty cheeks were out of guilt, some of sadness, others of hurt, and many just from emotional exhaustion. Their salty wetness reminded him of the intolerable thirst and hunger he felt. Food or clothing first? He questioned. “What the--” spoke a voice from the field. In the gasps of his sobs, Ralph hadn’t heard the stranger approach. “Jesus, kid. You scared the wits out of me. What the hell you doin’ wandrin’ ‘round my field?” “Huh?” Ralph meekly responded. He was too tired and hungry to be excitedly startled, though he was obviously, deeply concerned. “What you mean, huh ? You look half-dead. You ain’t on drugs are ya? I ain’t gon’ fool with no druggie-kid dying on my property.” The man, only discernible as a hazy form among the surrounding stalks with the sunlight backlighting his silhouette, waited for Ralph’s response. Ralph squinted his tear-soaked, dirty eyes, trying to pull the figure into focus. Finally, he wiped his face on his sleeve. It only added to the filth and merely pulled away a tiny fraction of the dirt from his cheeks, but his eyes had cleared enough to see the man in more detail. The man was a farmer. He appeared to be in his 50s or so from what Ralph could tell. He had a speckled white and brown beard, a hat with no insignia on it, overalls, and work boots. His hands were already dirty to start his day and looked like he had pulled on ropes every day of his life. “Well?” He bellowed in a deep, yet concerned voice. “Well, what?” Ralph murmured, still confused. “You on drugs or ain’t ya? I don’t much like to start my mornings with ass whoopins, but it wouldn’t be the first time.” “Drugs?” Ralph thought of Madison. “God, damnit. Tell me what’s got you crying like a baby in my field, lookin’ like death or I’m gonna beat your druggie-butt till it can’t take a needle in it no more. I’ve seen your kind before.” “No, sir. Please. I’m not on drugs.” Ralph’s wits began to return to him. “Then what in the good Lord’s name are you doing, son? You in some kind of trouble?” For the first time, Ralph looked into the farmer’s eyes. They sparkled green and didn’t have a hint of meanness in them. He doubted that the man would have ever laid hands on him, even if he had had the urge. Sometimes you can look into a person’s eyes and just know they wouldn't hurt you. “Trouble?” Ralph wasn’t at all sure of what he should reveal to the stranger before him. “I honestly don’t know.” His chin dropped to his chest and his eyes took blurry aim at the man’s boots. The farmer probably spent every day in that field, but his shoes were cleaner. Once again, tears began to stream down Ralph’s cheeks, leaving behind channels of carved-out sorrow. “Aw, hell. I ain’t even got time for this.” The farmer looked to the sky as if to ask God a question. He pulled his hat off, revealing a mostly bald head that’s remaining hair patches were buzzed down almost to the skull. As he scratched his head, he took a heavy, burdened sigh. It was hard for him not to feel pity at the sight of the crumbling shell of a teenager in distress. Against his own desired judgment to get to work, he questioned the boy some more. “You got someplace you can go? Family or a friend you can call or something? Surely you got some kind of fancy phone on you? All kids your age do nowadays. Right?” Ralph recalled the lake he had thrown his phone into the night before after a helicopter had flown by. “No, sir. No phone. No friends.” “No phone?! What the hell kind of kid are you? You Amish? You don’t look like no Amish. And you ain’t got no friends? What kinna kid ain’t got no friends. I bet you got one or two.” Again, the farmer stared at Ralph’s raggedy hair as he shook his head ‘no’, his face still buried in his own chest. An answer was not presenting itself. With a regretful sigh, the farmer continued, “For Pete’s sake. Quit your cryin’ and pick your darn self off the ground, boy. No man ought to sit in his own tears in the mud.” The pregnant pause went on for longer than either cared to withstand. Ralph let his mind wander into a pit of self-loathing and despair while the stranger, deeply confused, contemplated his next move. The farmer scratched his beard and shook his head and jostled himself to attention. “Okay. Not kiddin’ now. Get your butt up and follow me.” “Wait-- are you going to turn me in?” “Turn you in? To who? Something I need to know?” He looked hard at Ralph who finally managed eye contact. The two kept their gaze as Ralph pulled himself to his feet. “No, sir. I just want to know where we’re going.” “Work. You put me behind already, and I could use a hand today anyhow. Rain’s gon’ and created a whole mess of work. Unless there’s somebody you’d like me to call for ya. We’d have to go back in the house though. I don’t carry one of them fancy phones neither.” “No, sir. I’ll help you. Just one thing.” “Yea? What’s that?” “You got anything to eat?” “That depends. You got a name?” “Yessir. Ralph is my name.” “Okay, Ralph. Jeremiah James Johnson.” He stuck out his meat hook of a hand to shake. Ralph grasped it with what strength he could muster. It was like shaking the giant palm of a gorilla holding sandpaper. “My friends call me Jerry. Family calls me Jimmy. Wife calls me JJ. Pick one. Don’t much care. Let’s get workin’ Ralphy. And we got to work on that handshake. That jus’ won’t do.” * * * * Ralph had no idea what time it was. As the shower water swallowed his body, he didn’t care either. He firmly ran his hands all over his body and face, looking down to see the brown mudwater pouring down the drain. He thought of when he had smeared it all over himself by the lake in an effort to camouflage. It had been pointless. The cop cars didn’t stop just as the helicopter hadn’t tracked him either. It dawned on Ralph that he may have not been chased much at all. After a time, the water began to run clear down the drain. After stepping out of the shower, Ralph began dressing in the clothes that Jerry had pulled out of a drawer for him. Ralph had never seen a barn quite like Jerry’s. It had a decent room with a bed, dresser, table, and a couple of chairs. It also had a full bathroom and a window with a nice view of Jerry’s fields. The water didn’t get all that hot, and the pressure was weak, but it was clean. Jerry had given Ralph a plain white shirt, a pair of jeans, a pair of thick, white socks, and some underwear. Finally, sitting on top of it all was a set of work boots similar to the ones he had seen Jerry wearing earlier that day. As he exited the bathroom, he found Jerry sitting at the small table with two plates of food. “I went in the house and got us some supper. Grab a seat.” “You know, you really didn’t have to do all of this.” “I needed the help.” He held the slightest smile. “Still. Thanks.” “Eat.” The two of them sat together for several minutes, the only sound to be heard was mostly the clinking of silverware to plates and two very tall glasses of lemonade being picked up and put down on the wooden table. When they were finished, Jerry wiped his mouth with a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. “I got rid of your clothes. The Mrs. wouldn’t even let me bring ‘em through the house to get washed without hosing ‘em down. From the shape they were in, I jus’ as soon figured you could use a few new stitches of clothing on you. Hope that’s alright.” “Sure.” The evidence . Ralph thought. “What did you do with them?” “They’s burnin’ in that woodfire we set out back ‘while ago.” Before Ralph could entertain the idea that he could get away with murder, he wondered if he thought he should. “Listen.” Jerry began as he gathered the dishes. “You ain’t a terrible worker. If you’d like to sleep on that there bed, you can. I’ll be by at sunrise. If you ain’t around when I come knockin’, well I’ll jus’ get to work by myself as usual then.” Jerry’s work boots thunked on the floor as he headed for the door. He stopped in the door frame. “And, Ralphy,” Jerry said with a sigh. “I don’t know if it ain’t for nothin’, but I’ll tell you this. I don’t know who you were or what you done. There’s a whole mess of a world who don’t know you a lick either. Alls I know is, you ain’t terrible help, and you seem like an okay fella. Whatever it was you may or may not have gotten mixed up in, maybe it’s best to just let it go. I don’t know your life before today... and today was an okay day.” * * * * Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. Fall clearing season came and went. Winter was upon them with Christmas only a few days away. In all their time in fields, the two men had barely spoken. With some people, bonds aren’t about words. Ralph found himself oddly at peace in the field with Jerry. After the first month or so, Ralph guessed that either he couldn’t be found, or for whatever reason, no one was looking for him anymore. He pondered various aspects of his old life. He thought about whether his stepdad cared at all where he was, concluding that it was unlikely. His father, a prisoner of the state of Kentucky, surely did not. With a dead mom and functionally no friends, Ralph figured he wasn’t missed by anyone in Kentucky. Over the passing months, he knew one of two things was true. Either Madison survived the gunshot or she didn’t. If she didn’t, he finally came to realize, it wasn’t truly his fault. She would have died if he hadn’t shown up. What’s the difference if she died because he had? Ralph had been in his room reading a book that Jerry had given him: The Alchemist . He was on his back on the bed reading with the book in the air when there was a knock at the door and Jerry entered. “I’m glad you cracked it open,” said Jerry, noticing the book. Ralph hadn’t initially taken Jerry for a learned man but had since come to understand how wise he really was. “Fate and destiny. I love books like that. Did you get to the part with the glass shop? Funny how sometimes an old guy and a young guy get pushed together by the universe, huh?” Ralph smiled. “Listen, the Mrs. wanted me to give you something.” “Oh, yea? What’s that? You really don’t need to give me anything, Jerry.” “Oh, I know that, but the woman ain’t been wrong a day in her life. Stand up so I can give it to ya.” Not wanting to be rude for even a moment, Ralph swung his feet to the ground, standing up next to the same boots that Jerry had given him the day they met. “Well, what is it?” Ralph’s curiosity had been fully piqued. “This.” Jerry reached his arms out and pulled Ralph into the tightest bear hug he had ever felt. The warmth and strength of the embrace caused Ralph to fall weak. The men stood in their embrace, not speaking a word. The coming winter’s wind sang against the barn wood structure. Gentle creaks comforted the silence around them. Finally, the air left Ralph’s body with the exasperated sigh of a lifetime of pain, and he began to cry. Sometimes you don’t know you’ve been holding your breath until you let it out. Jerry continued to hold Ralph’s weight in his arms. After a time, Ralph collected his body and breath and calmly pulled away. He wiped the tears from his face and sniffed hard, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “Jerry-” Ralph practically snorted out, not even sure of what he wanted to say. “Yea, kid?” There was a long pause as Ralph searched inside himself for something kind to say. “Merry Christmas.” “Merry Christmas, Ralphy.” He smiled and began leaving, and like he had done many times before, he stopped in the doorway for one last word with the kid. “Ralphy-” he choked, his green eyes glowing with impending tears. “Yea?” “Call me Jimmy.”


The Ugly Secret by Lester Patterson  Favoritism is a bad practice when raising one’s children, but guilt sometimes makes it necessary. When Daria and Evelina were little girls, they were carried away from their mother country, Russia, by their loving parents. The hope was to leave the cold of Novosibirsk for the opportunities of the United States.  Their father, Mark, was an auto mechanic. Their mother, Kira, was a biomedical research scientist at the Novosibirsk Research Institute. It was not her idea to leave Russia, but her husband insisted. Mark had a cousin who had emigrated to the U.S. and settled in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. The cousin had become the very successful owner of a taxi company. It was that cousin who invited the family to come and live in New York City.  When they arrived in New York Daria was seven, and her younger sister, Evelina, was only four. The first four years in their new country went well, but Kira was becoming increasingly unhappy. The able scientist was now a housewife spending her days raising the couples two daughters while her husband, Mark, found himself not only repairing his cousin's taxis, but he also began driving them to make ends meet. Thus, he was never at home.  Eventually, Kira had enough. She planned a trip back to Russia to visit her ailing mother, and she never returned. Mark was humiliated and dejected. So much so that he began drinking vodka as though it were water. It was the only thing that relieved the pain of his broken heart. There were many nights where the alcohol and the devil made Mark say and do things outside of his gentle character. Including somethings so horrible that he could never forgive himself. But he was determined to keep his American dream alive, and he did.  That was ten years ago. Today the girls, Daria and Evelina, are all grown up. Daria is now 21 and Evelina 18 years old. Mark never remarried, but he did hire a series of babysitters to watch his girls while he continued to work very hard to give them a comfortable life. Ultimately, he began his own taxi garage and did very nicely for himself especially since he didn’t need to employ a mechanic to repair his cars.  Most importantly the single father put away the bottle and replaced it with the fountain of hope, which he found in the local Russian Orthodox Church. The girls grew up under the guidance of the church. Something which likely would not have happened had their mother, Kira, remained in the picture. A woman of science, Kira was also a staunch atheist.  The two sisters born three years apart were entirely different in many ways. Daria, the older one was a beautiful 5’ 10” blond-headed extrovert although she barely graduated high school. Daria’s only goal in life was to break into New York’s glamorous modeling industry.  The younger sister, Evelina, is a shorter homelier version of Daria. Although she too is a natural blond, she is not nearly as attractive as her big sister. However, like her mother, Evelina is exceptionally bright. She graduated early and was accepted on a full academic scholarship to the University of Pennsylvania in the coming year. What she lacks in beauty she more than makes up for with brains.  The two sisters have envied one another to the point of hatred for many years. To compound the situation their father, Mark, favors the pretty wholesome one, Daria, and has done so forever according to Evelina. He gives her whatever she asks for, and only she knows why.  What’s worse is that Daria regularly beats her smaller, younger, and less attractive sister mercilessly. She has always enjoyed slapping, kicking, jumping on, and throwing solid objects at her scrawny sibling. Daria is as vicious as she is beautiful. Today is no different.  “Daria please help me straighten up the living room.” Evelina requested of her older sister,” I have company coming.”  “You have a visitor - who’s that?” says Daria with an air of disbelief.  “It’s a boy.”  “You have a boy coming into our father’s house when he’s not at home. Are you nuts?”  “You’re such a hypocrite Daria. You think I don’t know the parade of guys you’ve had in here. Everyone in the neighborhood knows that you’re a nymphomaniac slut. I just hope papa doesn’t find out.”  That was enough to initiate yet another beat down by the “blond beauty” on the “nerdy little professor.” But today Evelina was saved by the sound of the doorbell, ding-dong.  Evelina picked herself up from the carpet and ran to answer the door. In walked Artem, Evelina’s guest. Artem greeted Evelina with a warm hug, as though they were intimately familiar. At which Daria thought to herself “What is this about?” Artem was a handsome young man. He looked like a Greek god. In Daria’s opinion, he was way too cute to be with her nerdy, unattractive sister whom she had mutual contempt for.  “Artem this is my sister Daria. She was just leaving.”  Daria extended her hand to welcome Artem, but she made sure to do it suggestively and seductively. The young Greek-American man with wavy black hair looked into the blond Russian-American woman’s beautiful face and just grinned back at her with a naughty grin as he imagined what she was suggesting.  Seeing their interaction, Evelina began shouting and screaming at Artem “That’s it. I want you to leave now Artem.”  “What did I do?” Artem asked as Evelina began shoving him toward the door until finally, he was out on the street.  Evelina then turned to face her sister and shouted at her “You no good bitch.”  Daria laughed and unleashed a barrage of blows on Evelina’s oversized head which seemed to have connected with significant effect. Evelina fled into her bedroom and locked the door. Daria stood outside screaming at her in Russian to open the door so that she could continue with her beating.  The front door was not locked when Mark turned the doorknob to enter the house. Returning home earlier than expected, he heard the commotion and said out loud “These girls will kill each other one day.”  On seeing her father walk into the house, Daria taunted her sister in a way meant to really get under her skin. “ You may be smart but you know I’m daddy’s favorite.” With those words, Mark shook his head and whispered: “Don’t talk like that to your sister.”  Mark was just about to say something to his youngest daughter when she swung open her bedroom door expecting to encounter her sister’s flawless face. As if possessed by an evil spirit Evelina shouted at the top of her lungs with pure rage “This is for you. You father fucking whore.” As she hurled the contents of a glass jar filled with disfiguring concentrated sulfuric acid unintentionally into her father's face. Mark screamed in agonizing pain as his face melted into his skull, but he knew he had earned this pain for ruining his oldest daughter when she was just 13.


Trigger warning: This story deals with themes of mental health, suicide, and substance abuse. There's a secret stage of grief at which you accept something so bitterly that you dare the universe to make a fool out of you with a miracle. It's a stage that's diametrically opposed to bargaining. Imagine that anger and acceptance had a kid and that kid went off and beat bargaining up on the playground. But it's not reverse psychology. It's not muttering, "I wish I didn't have a million dollars right now" as a kindergartener because you're realizing that the powers-that-be always seem to give you the opposite of what you want. It's not pretending you aren't watching the pot to see if it will boil faster. It's turning off the lights, skipping town without even bothering to lock the door, and letting the stupid pot boil until the power company cuts the gas. "He could still wake up," my sister insists hollowly as she shifts her weight on the unyielding plastic seat. "If he makes it, I'll eat my hat," I retort. I refuse to acknowledge the pallid glow of the lights above and the way my insolent inner child won't give up the hope that one of them is an angel. Hospitals exist because angels and miracles don't. But they keep a chapel open for those who still need to pretend. Speaking of which, I need to talk to my mother and see if she found his keys. The last time any of us spoke to him, he said that he was going to look for them at work on his next shift -- today -- but he never showed up. My mother was supposed to stop by, but I get the feeling she isn't going to leave her knees anytime soon. The truth is, I've mourned Jack a thousand times before this moment. Every time I've talked him off the ledge, he's been fine, but I haven't. I've lived on that ledge for decades, from his first attempt at age fourteen to his last overdose (until now) two years ago. Once you hit your thirties, if you're lucky enough to make it that far, your body isn't as resilient as it used to be. That's what he told me last time, when he said that he'd found what he was looking for and didn't need to chase it anymore. I always took that with a grain of salt, and even as months and years passed, I never let myself fully believe him. Like I said, I don't buy into miracles, and I've spent enough time bargaining for them. I don't need his keys -- I don't need to open the door into his final moments -- but I know that over time, his home will become its own kind of chapel for those who still find solace in supplication. So I'll bring his keys to my mother and my sister, and then I'll find something else to do while we wait for the inevitable. The streets are warm despite the hour, and this afternoon's rain is still returning to the sky. I feel like I'm rolling over expanses of glass that could break open at any moment, and yet there's a strange sense of serenity in this glittering minefield. The bar where Jack worked is on the other side of town, and I don't mind when the lights turn red or the car in front of me makes a turn at a snail's pace. It's just nice to be on the way there. I've only met one of his coworkers, Brian, who isn't on shift today. As far as Jack told me, the place should only be open for another fifteen minutes -- they close at 3am on Saturdays -- but it's surprisingly packed inside. No, not packed, and not crowded, either. More like cozy. Everyone looks unbearably comfortable, like they've always been here and they don't ever plan on leaving. None of the staff are making moves to hurry them up or kick them out. It's a bit of a wonder to me that Jack worked here for two and a half years, since he always seemed to have sought disquiet whenever pleasantness was an option, and was never anything less than desperate to avoid delaying "the next thing." I find an open seat at the end of the bar, and one of the two men behind the counter offers me a disarming smile. Before he can ask, I tell him, "I'm not here to drink. I'm just looking for my brother's keys." He cocks his head, and I add, "My brother is Jack Baker. He works--worked here." The man nods. His smile doesn't change, but seems to land on me differently. "Yes, he does," he murmurs, and he beckons me toward a dark violet door to the left of the bar. "There are a few things here of his," he tells me. "I really just need the keys," I say. And then it strikes me that I know something. That I asked Jack if he was going to be able to watch my dog today, back when I had some silly, now-forgotten plans, and he'd said no, that he was going to be at work. That was his plan up until today, as far as any of us know. But this guy doesn't seem at all curious about why Jack isn't here. "Did my brother tell you he wasn't going to make it in today?" I blurt out, embarrassed at the way my voice tumbles up to a higher pitch. "Yes, we knew," the man replies, and since he's leading me down a hallway now, I can't see his face. I feel suddenly dizzy and focus on the back of his neck, where the clasps of a gold chain cling tightly to each other. Jack knew he wasn't going to be here today. It wasn't an accident. It seemed so much like one ... and I feel foolish. I'm the one who always says I don't believe in miracles, and that includes accidents. "Here is Jack's room." The man has stopped in front of another door in this hallway that seems to stretch onward forever. I feel so out of sorts that I almost don't even think to ask, "Wait -- room?" Wordlessly, the man opens the door and ushers me in. The first thing I notice is that there is no bed. Instead, there's a wide wooden platform in the center of the room, like the stump of an ancient tree, and scattered on top of it are several items, some familiar, some not. A ladle, a rocks glass, a bottle of rum. A cast-iron pot, a baby's sock, a jar of red jelly. An herb I don't recognize (and I'm a professional chef), the limp tail of a rodent, a glistening stone of indeterminate color. My eyes sweep the walls, which are lined with hooks and ledges and shelves upon which rest all manner of at once delicious- and poisonous-looking things. In the corner -- no, the room is round -- at the furthest point from me there is a woven basket full of clothes that I know don't belong to Jack. I see the frilly sleeves of a dress, and hanging from a hook behind the basket I see a smaller scrap of the same fabric, though it appears to be wet and dripping from one edge with a dark, viscous substance. No, it is becoming the substance, I intuitively understand. I whirl around to face the man who brought me here. There are so many questions that I don't even know which one to ask first. "Did Jack live here?" I demand, my voice still quivering. "Jack is more alive here than anywhere else, I imagine." Does he mean to be patronizing? "Jesus Christ," I mutter. "Some people convince themselves so, but no," the man responds, to a question I didn't ask. "What?" "When people see miracles, he's the first person they think of," he explains (if you can call it explaining), "but there are all kinds of miracle workers in the world. Too many to count. In fact, almost everyone becomes one eventually, if they allow themselves to." I stare at him. "Like me. Hale. Or like your brother, Jack." This is truly too much for me to take. "The only miracle Jack ever worked was staying alive as long as he did, despite his own best fucking efforts," I spit. Hale laughs. "That wasn't a miracle," he says, "that was just luck." "Well, if anyone can be a miracle worker, how is a miracle any different from the random tragedies and strokes of good luck that happen every day?" I hate that I'm even entertaining this line of thinking. "No wonder you rarely encounter a 'miracle' that makes any difference," I add sarcastically, and yes, it does make me feel better. "He came here, broken, with the last bit of luck he had, and I myself helped him to find what he was looking for. More than good fortune, I helped him find a resting place. Has anything ever made a bigger difference in his life, or in yours?" The man's words chill me. They remind me of Jack's own words two years ago, just a few months after he'd begun working here and supposedly stopped chasing whatever he'd always been after. "You helped him ... end his life?" I'm struggling to get the words out. Okay, maybe I didn't entirely bypass the denial stage. Hale doesn't answer, but instead makes his way over to the little cauldron and, seemingly without a match or a lighter, starts a fire beneath it. Somewhere to my right, I suddenly become aware of the incessant thrum of dance music. I suppose it's been going on this whole time. The bar is right next to a nightclub, I vaguely recall seeing when I parked down the street. He takes the frilly fabric off its hook on the wall and tosses it into the pot with a few herbs, the rat's tail, and the entire bottle of rum. "What the fuck are you doing?" I ask him. "Just finishing up something Jack was working on," he answers casually, as if I know exactly what he's talking about. The pot bubbles seemingly in slow motion, the solution inside lazily oscillating between the deep violet of the door we first came through and a brooding but idyllic green. Hale abruptly extinguishes the flame and ladles the mixture, which doesn't appear to be hot, into the rocks glass. Still silent, he moves toward the door and opens it. On the other side is the man who was working with him behind the bar when I came in. "For Sylvia," Hale says, and the other man smiles, nods, and departs. Hale shuts the door again. "What happens if I drink this?" I ask, gesturing to the leftovers in the cauldron. For some reason, when I look at it, I feel like a child with her face pressed up against the window of a candy store. Hale chuckles. "Nothing. It's powerless on you, to help or to harm." I frown. "To help?" "That's what we do." "For Jack." A defeated question is still a question. "For Jack, yes. And he did it for many others." He turns abruptly and pulls a book down from one of the shelves. When he opens the book, I feel my blood rush through me like wind. No, I feel the wind penetrate my blood, even though there are no windows. The pages flutter to a halt, and I am faced with a familiarity that I refuse to comprehend. "Jack?" "This is what he was looking for," Hale says, "and what he created. These are recipes. Those who need healing bring items of personal significance -- a daughter's wedding gown; baby shoes, never worn; you get the idea -- and a recipe appears for then. We mix the items into a cocktail and with a little magic, they find what they're looking for, too." He pauses as if to allow me to ask a question, but I remain silent. "After we did it for Jack," he continues, "he knew he had to become a healer himself. But the thing is ... each recipe is unique -- both to the healer and the person being healed. And they are complicated; some have as many as a dozen steps, none of them easy. Jack could only help so many individual people himself, but he had the desire, and the intuition, to help countless others. So he created one final cocktail for himself. The last two ingredients were his body -- its act of drinking the brew -- and this book. Now his soul is bound to these pages the way it once was bound to his body. He surrendered himself to something greater so that others could more easily find what he did. And in that way, he found himself." He hands me something: Jack's keys. Then he tucks the book under his arm, leads me out of the room before I can protest, and starts down the hallway toward the door. I turn back and grasp at the cool, leathery handle, which to my surprise feels more like skin than metal. I just want to see his room one more time, to get one last glimpse at the place where he thought he found peace. It won't budge. I know there is no key to the one place I actually want to go. A fleeting, agonizing distress passes over me, through me, and is gone. The handle lets go of me. I storm back down the hallway, which seems to only take me a few steps, whip my baseball cap off my head, and slam it onto the bar. I gaze around briefly; everyone from before is still here, and no one looks up at the noise. Outside the window, it looks like the moon has emerged from the clouds. I look back at my hat, at Hale standing before me, and feel like I'm breathing air for the first time after being trapped under ice. He gives me an inquiring look. I slide my hat closer to him and I ask, "Can you make me something with this?" He smiles, picks it up, and lays the book down on the bar. It opens automatically without a touch -- again, no one around me seems to notice -- but I don't wait to see what it says on my page. When Hale turns around to grab a bottle of gin from the shelf behind him, I slip off my seat and out the door. No one watches me go.