I am Julie, I am useful, I am cattle. The three pills I take every night before I lay in my bed and remain restless for hours. I am Julie; the nourishment pill, it's the sugary sweet green pill that quickly becomes bland and leaves a foul taste in my mouth. It reminds me of the memories I still have of a life. This is my life... Was my life. I am useful; the light blue pill, it pops with an explosion of sweet juice and gives me all the required energy to live. It reminds me that I am needed, needed alive. I am cattle; the preparation pill, a really big awful tasting red pill that prepares my organs to be harvested, it reminds me of my only use, I hate that damn pill... Why do I think this? As a reminder, a reminder of what I am. An awful thing to think but the only thing that works for me now. When I was young I was told that I was very special, I was smart, really smart. I passed all my classes as well as classes three grades ahead of me. I was turning sixteen when I found out I was going to go to university. Three days in and I started having problems. First started the stress. Normal for a college student especially in my position, but soon after I started not being able to sleep at night, it was as though nothing could calm my mind, thinking thinking thinking, repeat repeat repeat, never getting tired, never falling asleep, mulling over the same thoughts, again again and again, such a useless thing, never got things done, just thinking. Some nights I could though, happening near three in the morning I could pass out and have nightmares. The depression was worse, hitting me like a giant blanket, slowly descending upon me but once it hit I was completely pinned. I would sit there and not be able to function, trying to think of how to be happy, was I happy in the moment? No. Then how could I be happy in the future? You would think I would be tired all the time but I wasn't, sometimes I would have all the energy in the world, the next it would be gone and I would curl up into a ball and want nothing more than death. Grades started to fail. I couldn't focus on any sort of work. My family had planned a trip to get a much needed break. I thought “good a vacation to lighten up the mood and relax.” Three days in and I found myself crying on my bed in the room, unable to sleep, unable to stop thinking yet I could never hold onto a single thought. The only thing I could do was to be occupied, play a game, write, anything that kept my attention and occupied me enough so that I could make the long hours of night pass quicker, but I had few of those outlets there so all I could do was think. Mostly about happiness, I will be moving through life soon and I have no idea what makes me happy and what doesn't, I could work to see what made me happy, but how am I supposed to when it is never the same. After the trip was over I thought again that I might have a moment to breath, but I was only thrown into more and more problems, staying up all night thinking about things that made no difference. Acting like a child, I would think that someone didn't like me because they did respond to me right away, fearing the worst, that they did not like me anymore. The most childish things I obsessed over for hours, unable to change the topic in my mind, always afraid. I would bounce between a few different moods, depression, hyperactive mania, a feeling that nothing mattered at all, and a balanced peace, in which I could just be happy in the moment. This one was rare but my favorite. After midterms I hit an all time low, everything hitting me at once I could not sleep at night yet once I finally was able to sleep I would oversleep, after getting me several Fs. My mom took me to a doctor, I was diagnosed with Bipolar depression and an extreme anxiety disorder. My mother and I both froze in out spots. She tried to say something, but all she did was choke on her words before falling silent again, I think she fell in other ways too. This world I am in is very different from how it has been in the past. The world in 2067 witnessed the rise of an empire that threatened to wipe out all that oppose it. The empire was more than capable of doing it too. To defeat them the rest of the world all had to unite as one, and all perform at military efficiency. Anything without a use was destroyed, or recycled into something with one, only all working as one could they able to stop the empire. After the war that claimed a billion lives the world was left with a highly efficient new people, no one had problems like depression, or problems with the body like cerebral palsy, they were either killed, or the problems fixed. People were born into what they would stay in for the rest of their life, and they were good at what they did. Humanity grew ten fold, technology advanced exponentially, life spans ran 25% longer at 170% efficiency. The higher ups gave command to all the lessors, the lessors all did what they were told. No crime, no hunger, no money, no fighting. We even found a way to get nutrients and substance from things other than plants and animals, eliminating the Need to raise and kill animals. this all came at a cost though. No one could live a life with any choice, you did what you did no more, no less. Either one of those brought you only death. It's a perfectly functioning closed system, but humans are not gears to be just used then replaced and thrown away, at least we use to not be. Soon after the war they found a way to reuse useless people too, anyone dysfunctional would be harvested for parts. Kidneys for people who needed them, blood, liver, hearts... Even the brain was thrown into new age AIs. Those who were old enough were immediately taken to be harvested, youth were taken to be raised until ready. They use to raise them pretty well, giving them plenty of time to play and have fun, but that was seen as both inefficient and useless, so now we are given little rooms with small beds to live in, fed only what is needed to keep us healthy, and only go outside to get vitamin D. It's cheaper to get it from the sun than pill form. As one of the dysfunctional I was taken away from my family and thrown into a room to be raised until I was ready to be harvested. There are others here, some as close as a concrete wall away from me, but I have never had an interaction with any of them, the most human interaction I've had since I was taken was with the guard that drove me and escorted me to this place. I know of only about twenty of others, but the facility from the outside looked much bigger. Most of the dysfunctional people were taken twenty years ago when they first started to harvest. Most of this place is probably for the actual act of harvesting itself. Is this really the pinnacle of human society, we are the most advanced we have ever been, but that's like saying I am the oldest right now that I have ever been. We perform as a machine, at one point we put pleasure before all else, eating not for nutrients but for the pleasure of it, we did things like play games, we had useless talents such as ping pong. Years and years before that and you have to fight to survive, we didn't have time for fun, we had to survive. Fast forward centuries and you get what we have now, neither. No fun, no trying to survive. This is all different, not natural. This Is not natural. The first week here is the worst, having the pain of being up all night, and nothing to look forward to during the day it feels infinite, infinite time, infinite pain. After two weeks it starts to not matter anymore, you accept the fact that this is how it is and nothing will change. It's depressing but it makes you feel better, not caring is better than pain. Even in life I had to accept this fact, I constantly looked forward to what I wanted in the future, the problem was I felt just as bad when I got to those points as I did before. I just need to make it till our next vacation I told myself. Halfway through the vacation and I wanted only to be back home. Back home and the pressure of school came back. I had to Learn that what ever situation I was in I had to make the best of it. And in the end nothing matters. I open my eyes to look up at the ceiling, it's the same color white, and the same texture as the walls. Unable to sleep I just lay there, afraid. Afraid of what will happen, afraid of how I will do in the future. I remind myself I need to remain in the moment. Suddenly I have an idea. I walk over to my door, a movable piece of glass in a entire wall of glass. I peer out to see if there are any guards near me. None, I look down find the paper bag that my pills arrived in, I also grab the old pen I found a year ago from under my bed and I start to write. I use to write because I was assigned to do so but this was not for anyone else's purpose but my own. I write about what is happening, how I feel, the past. It helps, gives me something to do, and makes me somewhat tired, I'm actually able to fall asleep at two AM. When nothing matters to you, you do not care for yourself. Not only had I stopped sleeping but I also stopped caring that I wasn't sleeping, I didn't care about what it was doing to me. At the end of the day my mom would ask me If I had eaten, my answers shocked me, most days the answer would be no, or one meal. It's not even that I denied myself food it was that I completely forgot I needed to eat, I didn't get the sensation that I was hungry. I didn't care anymore, the one thing I did care for though was other people, and to hear the fear, anger, and sadness in their voice when they said to eat, to hear that they were worried, hurt like knives being plunged into my side. The one thing I could care for was others, and to hear that I had done something to hurt others sickened me. I rarely cry anymore, I use to a lot, but even before I was put in this place I has stopped. It maybe due to desensitization, nothing matters anymore, nothing is certain, all you know are feelings. But I find myself at night crying. I don't know what for, nothing in particular is happening, I'm not thinking about something sad it just happens. It's like my body is crying for my mind, crying for what is has become what is is going through. From personal experience nothing is useless, no matter how inefficient something is it can still have a use, even if it was not intended for that use. The boy with the broken leg that can't travel very fast can still hold a few sticks at a time to bring back to his family. Writing for anything besides recording useful information was banned a long time ago. It's not always about bringing things to a point, I am writing right here right now for me, not to tell a point or for someone else's enjoyment, but to help me. It is the silent tear shed, not for any usefulness, but just because it helps. Pain is an odd thing, meant as a signal for the body to tell the brain that something is wrong, this it is not enjoyable. I open my mouth and bite onto the side of my thumb, and count to twenty, I let go. It hurts, but it's a feeling. It reminds me that I am actually human, it's reminds me that I can feel. My brain works so much differently than everyone else's. This has always been the case, even before my diagnosis told me that my brain was wrong, I knew I thought differently from other people. Is this really wrong though, is being different such a problem? I was told many times as a kid that I was really nice, really smart. Different doesn't have to be good or bad, it's neutral until given an assessment, in many situations it's a good thing to a certain extent, to our government it's the worst thing imaginable, you need clean cut lines, conformity is key, thus I am a problem. A problem with a solution. I only have a few more months left before my time here ends. I can't say that I want to die, but I know I want this to stop, and if there is nothing afters this then maybe I do want to die. I could try to kill myself, but one it's pointless, just a waste, and two I don't think I could, security is too tight. At one point I could have said that I don't want to die for the sake of others, this was the only thing that kept me going during a difficult time. Telling myself that not only would people be sad if I were gone, but also they would be miss what I gave to their life. I always lived life thinking that no matter what struggles I go through, I could still help out others, even if it was just a small compliment that boosted someone confidence for a little while, or being there to help comfort somebody when they needed it, I lived for this and now I may die for it. All I can do in this moment to be there for others is to let myself be harvested, and hope that my blood saves someone who was in an accident, or my liver may give a recovering alcoholic a way to live and see his family again. My last gift, my body, my life. Today is the day, I'm not excited, but I am ready. The guards that escorted me to the big white room I am in now didn't seem to care about me writing, so I decided to bring it. It's a habit now, to write everything down. There are more of us here than I thought, the twenty or so that arrived with me I would assume, and just about sixty more. All the same age. Half of us seem to know exactly what is going to happen for we are solemn faced and empty, I can tell that a few have just arrived, for they are fearful, they haven't dealt with these thoughts for as long as we have, they have not given up yet. Others seem to be completely oblivious. Just looking at the new surrounding with wonder in their eyes, what's wrong with them? We were all taught about this in school, they should know what's going to happen. A big door opens revealing a long well lit hallway, we shuffle into it while the door slides closed behind us. There is another door at the end that remains closed. The hall has ceiling lights and rounded corners with a black glass like walls. Suddenly the room shifts, not very much but we can all feel the sensation of moment. An elevator? I must have said this aloud because the boy next to me look at me with a very confused look in his eye, but before I can say anything the hall stops and the door opens again to a completely white room. I can tell that the people are stepping out onto something but I can't see yet. Stepping out it opens up into a massive hangar sized room, the conveyor we are on seems to be floating in the air as we head towards the middle of the room. On the sides I can see glass walls with what seem to be nurseries inside, automated arms pick and move babies around. All of us are in shock at the sheer amount of information hitting us. Closer and closer to the center of the room the nurseries change to maternity wards, all maintained by robots. A baby is born, taken to the nursery, then the mother sent out. Oh god. Another conveyor belt intersects this one and on it are the mothers that just left the ward. A boy ahead of me screams in terror as he gets closer to our destination, I try to call to him, to tell him, but a woman stops me. “It doesn't matter, most of them were never taught a language.” The woman tells me. All I can do is fall to the ground as the scream is drowned out by the shutting of a door. “It all turns out the same, it always will, this same thing happened to my grandma, and will happen to my daughter. A whole line of a family, born, raised. Berth a child, then sent to be harvested. Are you ready to see God?” At the end there is a cylindrical tube that one person goes into at a time, it is sound proof so the screams are suddenly stopped by the closing of the door. I'm third in line. I am sitting on the ground crying in terror and all I can do is write. I am Julie, I am useful, I am cattle.


I grew up in the 1970's in Northern Virginia, my Dad commuted into DC every day for work. My Mom, Dad, bro and sis and I lived in a little apartment. Since then I've been all over the US and traveled to more than 40 countries - I would never stoop to say we were poor. We had a home, a car, Christmas happened, some years we got to go to the beach for a few days. For sure there were kids at school who had more toys, better clothes, more exciting vacations and parent's with cooler cars. But we got by and we managed to have fun. My Mom did most (all) of the cooking. When my Dad was cooking it was something weird - breakfast for dinner, or frozen turkey TV dinners, he was a good Dad, loved by many but not known for his meal prep skills. But - the man could bake. He baked bread (basic white loaf bread) and he was famous for his made from scratch lemon meringue pie. My Mom almost did most (all) of the grocery shopping. Once my Mom sent him to the store twice in one day - both times he couldn't remember what he was supposed to get. So, he bought a flour sifter. As one does. He was no dummy - his mind was just always full of things like navigation in space, women as priests in the Catholic Church (he was for it), and all of the books every written by George Eliot. Every now and then, when my Mom went to do the weekly grocery shopping (she also kept the budget and knew when we could spend a little extra) , she would find some kind of treat. And, every now and then one of those treats turned out to be a box of Duncan Hines Blueberry Muffin Mix!!! I remember her taking out of the bag and showing it to my Dad. The next Saturday morning somehow we would all be in kitchen early - making muffins! Well, not all of us I suspect some of the muffin making parties were designed so that she could sleep in on a weekend morning. My sister was the oldest and was certain she knew everything. So she was in charge of reading the directions, opening the package, mixing, turning on the oven and telling everyone else what to do. My Dad told her she had to let my brother and I help. He got the job of opening the can of blueberries. I was just baffled by the whole thing. Especially the can. It was just a can, about the size of a cat food can or a tuna can (both of which made me uncomfortable) and it had no label, no markings, just a can. And inside it was this thick gloopy dark purple stuff - I had seen real blueberries and this made no sense to me. No idea, it probably takes 20 minutes to make those muffins, but it seemed like a major undertaking. Eventually though the time would ding! The kitchen smelled like the most amazing bakery in Paris (pretty sure I had no idea where Paris was at the time - but somehow I just knew that). My Dad would put on the oven gloves and pull the trays and out dump the muffins onto the counter. And we'd grab them burning our fingers, rip off the papers and - this is the best part of this whole story - but huge globs of room-temperature butter on them! That weird purple goop had magically transformed into blueberries and the muffins were perfect - I questioned if my sister might really know everything (turns out she doesn't but I love her!). I haven't thought about those stupid muffins in 40 years. They probably aren't very good. Not sure they even sell them anymore, seems like you can buy muffins anywhere these days and they look bigger and nicer and better than those old 1970's muffins. My Dad passed away a couple years ago, right in the middle of Covid. He had been suffering from Parkinson's for several years and was deteriorating. When the time came, the only comfort we had was that he in a better place an no longer suffering. Covid just made it difficult to hold a real funeral, and a proper send-off. I think that's weighed on all of our minds. I try to keep that in mind, but I miss him and get sad sometimes. This morning, like any random Tuesday. I got in my truck and drove downtown to my office. Like any random Tuesday I stopped at the Starbucks in the lobby of my building to pick up a coffee to get me through the morning of online meetings. It was crowded and the line was long. Someone had ordered a muffin and they could not be located. The Starbucks girl was holding it up and yelling "Blueberry Muffin! Who's got a Blueberry Muffin??" I felt like I was hit by a spaceship traveling at the speed of light and was transported back to that little kitchen in Virginia. And we were making blueberry muffins! It was all there in front of me, the smells, the butter, the cat running towards the sound of the can opener as it opened that magic can. I didn't break down, I didn't cry. But when it was my turn and the girl at the counter asked how I was, I said "Oh just allergies, haha!." It was a hard moment - I'm a 50 year old man, we don't do "feelings". But as I walked to my office, it occurred to me - this is one of the first times I've thought about him since he left us - that wasn't just sad. It was bittersweet. But it was happy. Those few seconds were the highlight of my day. It was fun. It was us. It was how we used to be in what seemed like a much simpler time (though I'm sure it wasn't as simple for my folks as it was for us). You can read stuff about grieving, people can tell you stuff. But all you can do is go through it in your own way. It's taken me a few years, but I think/hope/feel I can forget about the Parkinson's and all of that, forget the hospitals. None of that matters. Fuck Parkinson's. I'm going to eat a lot more blueberry muffins.


Waking up that morning, everything was right in the world. The birds were chirping, sunrays shining through the wooden blinds, illuminating each and every dust particle floating in the bedroom air. It was a beautiful day, and it was a Saturday. What more could you ask for. Everything was normal. Everything always seemed normal. The distinctive smell of bacon and eggs wafted through the house, as it does every Saturday morning. Everything within my personal bubble was in its place; normal. Everything was safe. There was order to my world. I had always thought that things were the way they were for a reason. Not to say that there is definitively a god, but a higher power of consciousness, which maintained this order. I walked into the kitchen after lying in bed for about 15 minutes. I can’t start the day right when I wake up, my brain almost has to “boot up” first. I walked into the kitchen to greet my mom. “Good morning!” she exclaimed as she heartily flipped a pancake into the air with her spatula, to which I groggily replied, “...Morning” and continued to walk over to my brew my routine morning coffee. I’ve never been a morning person. I consider coffee to be essential to the impending progress and productivity of my day. I lackadaisically waddled over to the counter, still in my pajamas, and prepared myself a plate of food buffet style. I sat down at the table to begin eating, unaware of my surrounding as I am engulfed in my steaming plate. Once my initial hunger subsides, I realize that my food looks extraordinarily aesthetically pleasing. Being in the age of digital media, I decided to snap a picture to preserve this work of art on my plate before I began to lack the restraint to wait a minute longer to eat my masterpiece. I snapped a few quality angles. Suddenly, before I save it, I could feel the grasp of my phone slipping from my bacon grease ridden fingers. It was too late. In what felt like eternity, I watched my iPhone fall to its demise. I reacted out of impulse, and although I’m not proud of it in the aftermath, my immediate reaction was anger, as if the iPhone had suddenly developed a conscious and betrayed me. I responded as if this was a life-altering event. As if this inanimate object really meant anything. In the moment, I was enraged. Not at myself, for something that was clearly my fault, but at this conundrum we call life. “It just isn’t fair!” I screamed, inciting my two dogs to bark along in my frantic commotion. “I just got this phone, life isn’t fair, oh my god!” “Oh boy have you got a shock coming to you” I heard my mom mutter from the corner of the room. As I began to pick up the shards of glass from the surface of my phone, I glanced at that week’s Washington Post of September 3rd, 2015. The front-page title read, “How desperation left a 3 year-old boy washed up on a Turkish beach”. I hesitated. I read it again; “3 year-old boy washed up on a Turkish beach”. “Everything is not all right.” , I spoke faintly to myself. I set down my phone, as my attention rapidly shifted at the same moment when my realm of influence expanded tenfold. No longer was my immediate world my house, my city, my state or even country. No longer was I concerned about the useless device. For all I cared, I could have had a twig and some leaves and I could be satisfied. Anything to rid that headline out of my memory. “Only three years old” I suddenly murmured to my mom. “What?” “This young boy, a Syrian refugee, literally washing ashore.... like a piece of trash.” Even she was taken back. “Meanwhile, we live luxuriously; even too frivolously. It’s not fair.” I said. My side of the argument had switched. “We have access abundantly gross amounts of food everywhere we turn, our society is ridden with ignorance and stupidity, and we’re more concerned about the screens on our phones than the people around us and what they have to say and think.” I explained to my mom, as we began to hash out these troubles. It was in this moment when I had first began to question everything I had once considered “normal” My bubble had bursted, and my eyes shed light on the dark side of the moon. I was aware of everything I had overlooked previously. “Why is nobody concerned with this? Well I’m sure they’re concerned, but why are we doing nothing? Is there even anything we can do?” I began to question, getting more and more anxious with each query. “We are doing something, well, the government.” “So not very much” I sarcastically remarked. She laughed, “Pretty much, son. The same way we’re dealing with the gun problem, or the healthcare system, or terrorism.” “It shouldn’t be like this, I thought everything was alright” “It seems like it doesn’t it?” my mom responded, as I prepared for her daily dose of motherly teaching. “ “We overlook these problems because of the same way how we consider everything to be alright in this country. We have become accustomed to the chaos. We are desensitized to that which is routine. To that which is “normal” I nodded in agreement, unable to find the words to respond. “We consider atrocity routine in countries like Syria, or the middle east. And we blindly turn the other cheek, pretending our luxurious and lavish, for lack of a better work; greedy lifestyle is something to be praised like the invention of sliced bread.” “Will we ever see change? “I hesitantly asked, somewhat preparing myself for the answer I already know.” “Keep your ear to the ground, John. Good things will come.” “But how do you know?” I asked? “I don’t, none of us do, but that’s the definition of faith. Believing in something when all other evidence says the contrary, when all else is lost. It is up to people like you John.” “People like what?” I responded. “People who care.


A rugged man marches through a dark, foggy, forest evening in spring. About 4’9”, covered in scars, with an assortment of weapons carried on his back. He scratches his chin, disturbing his beard, long and velvet red, tied in a braid. The black markings on his forehead represent respect, honour, dignity and strength. A sign to the rest of his tribe and his enemies alike of just who exactly he is. He marches, anger in his eyes, determined. Killer intent in his eyes, eyes that have seen hurt, pain, regret, and love. It was a bit hard, with all the heavy metal plating on his body, but it would be well worth it. He must make it deeper into the forest. There is going to be a great battle there. A battle that will determine not only the fate of this mans home, but possibly, the fate of the entire nation. But where? Where is the rest of them? His troops? Surely, he cannot be alone in a battle as great as this, can he? \* AWOOOOOOOOOO \* He pauses, just for a minute. A dog-like silhouette can be seen in the distance, just 10 meters away. You can hear the footsteps of the shadow in the distance. The foot steps grow in volume, yet, the shadow seems too far away for it to be this loud. Wait... it’s not alone. The warrior turns his head slightly, just to see at least three more figures. He turns is head the other way... five? No, seven! Suddenly, he was surrounded by dozens and dozens of these creatures, almost hundreds! Snarling and barking ensues. He was completely surrounded by wolves, just yapping at him, and occasionally, each other. They were getting closer, and if you were there, you could swear you feel there warm breath, as if they were only 3 inches from tearing off that noes of yours. They were getting ready to attack. What does our warrior do? Nothing. He just waits. But... for what? \* RARF, ARF! \* Suddenly, they backed off, but only just a bit. Two wolves, noticeably bigger than the rest, step up from the crowd, they MUST be the alphas. One black, one white, they commanded the rest of the pack. The black one had stopped, while the white had continued walking towards the scarred man. She barked at him once, commandingly, with a muzzle that was just as scarred as the man was. “... Ah, Shut up, ya cow! I raised WOLVES, not wee muffies! If yer gonna threaten me, do it properly, Mia...” The ragged man joked, in his very thick Scottish accent. There was a very distinguishable scent to this man, and the wolves knew it well. They had recognized him as the alpha of the pack. She jumped on him to show affection, soon followed by the black male. “Oof! William, ya fat oaf! Warn me next time before ya do that, haha!” They were really happy to see the alpha who had saved them as puppies from a hunter. Those humans will pay for what they did to the rest of their pack, only tens strong then. Fortunately, they both had the same enemies. The clan that the warrior needed to battle, was the same group of humans that had almost killed the Yin-Yang Dogs. That pack owes everything to that man, and on more than one occasion, wolf and warrior have fought side by side. They knew who he was, and had a pretty good idea as to why he was here. “Aright, then. Follow. We’re hunting, tonight, boys.” The wolves understood immediately what he meant by that. They were going to fight someone, and they needed all the support they could get. The wolves walked with him, beside him, in front, behind, everywhere. The white stayed to his right, the black to his left. A soldier shouldn’t go into battle alone. Not in a battle as big as this, anyway. The man howled, and his army howled with him, filling the forest with a cry of menace. Never underestimate the wolf...


It began with an old friend. A message on social media out of the blue, then a meet up. He seemed well. A good job and girlfriend; a house just outside the city in a new housing development aimed at solving the housing crisis. Can’t recall its name. I remember however that as soon as he mentioned it, I could picture it in my head. Well-tended gardens and uniform white houses. A blue sky up above, always blue. At the time this meant nothing. He invited me over, I accepted. We met at the train station in town, travelled there together. Lots of catching up on the train, old in-jokes and mannerisms manifesting once again. He was reserved, and I was always the first to fill the silence, and so I steered the conversation towards his life. My existence is not particularly eventful, and though I am not embarrassed by this I did not really want to talk about it. We spent the day sitting in his kitchen, a spacious and sparsely decorated room looking out into a well-tended garden. He insisted on keeping the lights off and the curtains drawn, and though the room was a little dark I didn’t complain. At one point his girlfriend appeared, but he barely registered her presence. I could not help but notice that she seemed scared. Of him, perhaps, or of something else. She did her best to avoid him and was soon gone. When the day came to an end, he walked me back to the station. Little was said on that walk back, though I am mainly at fault for that. As we walked through the development, submerged in the deep shadows of that autumn evening, he became more cheerful and talkative than earlier, while the sun was still up. He tried his best to elicit conversation, but I was tired; quickly losing interested in what I saw as a strained relationship. Childhood friendship doesn’t necessarily carry over into adulthood. We waited quietly at the train station. We smoked. When the train arrived, I was somewhat glad to be gone, and quickly made my way to the closest carriage. As I stepped onto the train, I had the sudden urge to turn and look back at him. He was standing there alone on the platform, looking directly at me, and his eyes bore into me like black suns. He said something then, but as the train doors were closing, I struggled to hear them. My work requires a lot of travel, lots of driving across bland countryside. In and out of identical cities, past fields of crops or livestock. I tend to zone out, to run on autopilot across those long empty hours. The whole world bleeds into one long road, deserted apart from me, with no destination. I find comfort in this. It was some weeks after my visit that I found out that my old friend and his girlfriend had died. Murder-suicide. Shot her and then himself; neighbours heard the noise. His death, coupled with resurfaced memories of that development, awoke something in me. A strange alertness, an inability to simply shut off. I began to leave the light off all day, inexplicably comforted by shadow. I avoided going outside when I could, for it was a warm spring, and the clear cloudless sky unnerved me. Sleep became a struggle, and in my dreams, I saw rows and rows of a white houses, freshly mown lawns, and a big blue sky. Yet, I still had to travel. Work seemed to take the edge off, to distract me what I can only call my everyday horror. However, the restless nights took their toll, and more and more often I needed to stop and nap. Coffee would not help, and soon my tired mind began to wonder from the road in front of me and towards those final unheard words my friend has spoken that night, standing alone on the platform. I could not help but feel they were significant, somehow related to his suicide. Was he warning me of something? Is this what happened to him? I began to see them just off the motorway. Empty countryside sprung up with new developments, malign uniformity manifested as if directly from my dreams. Possessed with a desire I could not define, I sometimes stopped to look. One I found had no road leading into it, and once I broke through by foot, I found it consisted of endless cul-de-sacs. Colourful cars and friendly faces ensnared in a maze-like nightmare. Days later, a mile on from the maze of cul-de-sacs, I found a development that seemed indistinct and however much I looked at it from the hard shoulder of the motorway, I could not focus on it. I tried getting to it, and I must have walked for hours but I never came close to that hazy line of houses stamped upon the horizon. Yet another appeared completely populated with marionettes; marionettes sitting in front of televisions. Marionettes watering well-tended plants, standing on freshly mown lawns. Forever trapped in this oneiric motion, their strings stretching up into the clear blue sky. One morning, after yet another night of fitful sleep, I awoke to rain and a cloudy sky. My relief was palpable, and I positively rushed to my car to return to the featureless comfort of before. The motorways were quiet, the fields empty of life. On my return, however, I noticed something. Just off the hard shoulder to my left was a field much like the rest, but though the tall unkempt grass and weeds that swayed in the faint wind were odd shapes. I pulled over, and after vaulting the barrier rushed into the field. What I found before me, framed by the tall grass, was a small clearing that consisted of card-board cut outs. Cut outs of houses, of lawns, of cars and people. All were roughly coloured in as though borne from the hands and mind of a child. Above them all, held up by rickety stilts, was a light blue cardboard sky devoid of clouds. I simply stared at the scene before me. Who had done this, I wondered? Did they know something? But I think I knew the answer already, must have already suspected. I did not notice the clouds dissipate, and barely felt the sharp rays of the sun upon my pallid skin, for I could only watch in stunned silence as the truth unfolded before me The card-board cut outs began to swell, to grow into definition. The faint blotches of white became windows glinting with the glare of the sun. The tendrils of green became lawns. The stickmen became marionettes, going about their days in a somnambulistic stiffness. The light blue card-board sky stretched out above me, worming its way into the clouds and dissolving them until nothing was left but that uniform blue. I turned and fled - and it was only later, as the familiar hum of the motorway once again rushed over me, that I understood that it all transpired in complete silence. I drove home, oblivious to the world around me. Now the echo of those soundless words reverberates through my mind, my friend’s final words, and I know their meaning. I look through the drawn curtains from my dark room upon the marionettes whose strings glisten in the summer sun. I shirk away from the glare of that star, from its cloak of malevolent blue, and know that the earth will never wake up from this dream, and that whatever is left will consist of rows of white houses, of well-tended lawns, and of a wide clear cardboard sky.


I chuckled at the thought, because the photo had actually made me think of her. I turned to walk out of my room. But was greeted by my bedroom door it was open. I walked over to the door which was about half open. I pulled the door, and was now facing the rest of my apartment. It was small, and I hadn't bothered to fill it with meaningless material. All that it filled was the bare essentials. Fridge, oven, sink, and a desk in the corner. Which i never used do to me always being at the library, do to my work. I was the Liberian at my university or at least one of them. It was something I held with great glee. Because I spent most of my shift reading, it felt like I was devouring the library in its entirety some days. I would finish four to five books most days, and with that people started to take notice with my habits, and had started to call me nietzsche, thou not my real name I grew to enjoy it. They had been using me as an encyclopedia for there studies for about two months now. Just the other day a small women about 25 had walked to the front desk. I was in the process of memorizing the entirety of crime and punishment tell she quietly said my name slowly nie-tzsch-e. I looked up and saw her, she was a small skinny woman with a bright pink jacket that had what appeared glitter all over it. She was looking at a slip of paper very confused. She said my name again, and asked if it was me I told her yes it was. She looked relieved, and had asked me for help finding this dumb book, but she didn't know the name. I asked her what she could remember, but was little help. She just kept saying A, and B side. It was a real challenge, because A, and B could have meant anything. But I came to the conclusion that she was referring to kierkegaard. I asked, but she started to look more confused. I got up from my desk, and walked over to the shelf labeled Librarian's picks, and pulled a small book out called Either or. Her face had exploded with happiness she had started to ramble compliments towards me. I walked the book over to desk, and checked it out for her. But it had bothered me she had looked at the books as dumb pieces of paper. I pushed it behind me, and went about my day. I walked to the empty space i call my living room, and took a sit at my deck. I pull one of the desk drawers, and began to sift through the paper, I pulled out a small leather book, placing it on the old wooden desk. It was my little calendar, it would save me from time to time because I would forget what I would plan for that day. I turned the pages to the day, and to my grief it was blank. I had nothing to do today.


“You’ve kicked the drug, but now you need to figure out why you needed it, or you’ll start using again.” It was the bot speaking to him from the kitchen, and he was glad he couldn’t see it. It was disconcerting they way those wise words would come out of her ten-year-old face. “You sound like all of them,” he answered. “All of them?” “All those rehab folks.” He was lounging on the couch and the bot was starting to get on his nerves. It wasn’t like he was feeling all that hot, anyway. Yes, the blank-n-fine was out of his system, but the aftermath of it all had left him feeling car-wreck wretched. The drugs presence had distorted his senses in some kind of permanent way, effected his thought patterns, interrupted his sensory pathways, distorting his memory, and what was left was someone with his name, but not much else. “Yeah, you all sound the same. You talk in platitudes, you know. Platitudes that have no meaning, as far as I’m concerned.” “It’s just that you don’t want to hear it.” “Maybe not.” The bot motored out of the kitchen its cylinder hovering over the rustic faux wood floor, the rotors on its head accelerating into a high soft whine. It handed him a sandwich on a plate and settled down nearby. He had to say this--this rescue bot was handy around the kitchen, though he wasn’t sure how it did it with those grotesque hands. He had lost his housekeeper three months earlier and had almost stopped eating entirely. The idea of fixing something to eat felt like it would take a herculean effort. He tended to snack on things that he found around the house, and once found himself gnawing on a week old crust of bread he found between the couch cushions as he rode his blank-n-fine high. Melinda’s face seemed to peer at him, but he knew that her vision centers were located elsewhere and not on the projected face. It was all part of the presentation, and it spooked him how much he relied on pretending those eyes actually saw him to be able to talk to her. “How are you feeling?” the bot asked. “I don’t feel like myself.” The bot blinked its little girl eyes and gave a tender smile. Melinda’s glitchy face wobbled on the screen as she said, “Of course you don’t. You wouldn’t know what you felt like right now anyway. The drugs took that all away, but don’t worry, you will come back and it’s not going to be pretty. Your body is giving you a little reprieve. Right now you’re a hollow shell of yourself. An empty vessel.” “Something you’d know a lot about, I bet.” And as soon as he said it he regretted it. Melinda’s face flickered with emotion. Pain. Hurt. It was perfectly awful how well they made her react to his words. “Ha, ha,” she said, “good one. I see you haven’t lost your talent for the cutting and hurtful remark.” A tear trickled down her video face. “Stop it,” he said. “Stop this charade. You are not Melinda, not the ghost of Melinda, not any part of Melinda.” The rotors whirred and the bot spun and turned it’s back to him. And it was a great relief not to see Melinda’s face. “Okay,” said the bot, “I’m not Melinda, I am nothing but plastic, metal, and silicone, but I feel like Melinda, isn’t that enough for you?” “No,” he said, and those words were wrenching to say. He didn’t have the strength to fight the emotion that they were so fraudulently trying to evoke in him. Even with her face turned away her voice was a knife blade into him. "You broke my heart you know,” the bot said. “Stop it,” he said. “You are shameless piece of tin. I know they are feeding you this stuff, word by word. I’m not falling for it.” Henry leapt from the couch. His hollowed out body seemed to demand motion. He moved across the room and paced in front of the windows. The bot loomed in the shadows, a soft whirring of the rotors, the slick hiss of the arm joints, as one of the pincer claws reached up and straightened a picture frame on the wall. The bot was a neat freak apparently, along with being an emotional assassin. “I’m off drugs, isn’t that enough for your handlers?” “You broke my heart, Henry.” “Oh, here we go. Okay. Go on; let’s hear what they cooked up for you. How did I break your heart?” “When school started, remember? 5th grade. There was Rosie. You said you liked Rosie. You liked her a lot, and you told me that I was just a stupid kid, because I was a year younger than you. Henry stared at the metallic glow coming off the bot’s shoulder flanges where they were bolted to the main arm hinge. Where was the bot getting this stuff? He did say that to Melinda. And he did push her away. He had known her forever, since they were about five years old. Sweet Melinda was his constant companion, his dirty-kneed helpmate, up for every adventure, steadfast, with an infinite amount of trust. A little girl with a peerless since of loyalty and an abundance of love. She simply couldn’t be driven away no matter how snot-nosed surly he was, no matter how much he abused her devotion to him. He could count on her to swing a hammer, push his go-cart, climb any tree, or stand toe to toe with him their underpants around their ankles playing doctor until the shadows grew so long they shivered with cold. It all came back so clearly that he could feel the heat of her breath against his neck, as if she was sitting behind him on his old bicycle. Melinda. Dirty feet. Brown eyes like the harvest moon. A tender constellation of freckles. A beating heart under the plastic stethoscope, the breastbone finely delineated, the skin pink from the pressure of his hand. Melinda. No! A clanky bot. A wicked deception. “Oh, that’s good, bot. Very good. Someone did their homework. Congratulations!” The bot suddenly whirred into action spinning and floating towards him. Henry backed up. Backed up farther. He was against the curtains, the bot inches away, those horrible arms reaching for him, pining him there, Melinda’s face flickering at eye level, the voice from the speaker mounted on either side, crackling with static. “Why did you stop loving me, Henry? I never stopped loving you. Right up till the day I died, I carried you in my heart." Henry met the eyes in the video image. Met them squarely. And that’s when it happened-- the grotesque bot body seemed to go away. The hiring rotors disappeared; the arms were erased. All he saw was Melinda’s face--a face he could’ve created from memory at any moment of his life, if the drugs hadn’t taken his memory away. “Melinda,” he said. “I never stopped loving you. Not really. I did what I did because I was trying to become someone else. I was a strange kid. My parents felt like they came from a different planet, and that was before it was even possible. I didn’t fit in with the rest of the kids. I knew that. But there you were. And I clung to you, but don’t you see, I began to resent my dependence on you. I wanted to prove to myself that I didn’t need you, that I could be the person I wanted to be without you. It scared me so much that I needed you that I had to push you away. I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. I really am.” And then he fell to the floor, curled into a ball, and began to weep. The bot had thirty days. That was its mandate. Thirty days to get him straight and give him a fighting chance of staying clean. So far so good. Day by day he seemed more responsive and alive. He talked to it now as if it were Melinda. Talked freely and openly about his failures as a husband and father, and his fear of attaching himself to another persona and being disappointed. There was a descent person in there, the bot could tell, not like some of the losers it had been assigned. With some of them, it knew instantly that they were destined for an accidental death by one of her brethren sometime in the future. But with Henry, it had hope. What worried the bot was something else. Their breakthrough exchange had been planned, and it had followed the script all the way up to the programmed tear. That was all digital manipulation, ones and zeros, clicking one way or the other, in a predetermined sequence. But the rest of it, where had that come from? The bot had filed a report and moved on, but it kept coming back to the exchange, the “you broke my heart,” the details about Rosie. None of that was in its files. Yes, it could learn by experience, but this seemed like a memory that came out of nowhere. And the bot never forgot anything. It simply had to pull up the right file and everything it had ever been a part of was right there--all its cases, its first buzzing consciousness, the look of the lab where it was created, the human hands in clear plastic gloves adjusting its seeing-sensors, opening up its cylindrical cone and tweaking its hydraulics, the first time its pincer hands closed on something. It was all there, but there was no Rosie, no broken heart, no longing. The outline they had provided of Melinda contained only a set amount of information and a carefully controlled simulation of reactions and responses. Yes, it was worrisome, and perhaps after this the bot would voluntarily take itself back to the lab and order up an overhaul. Something was amiss and it didn't’ like the way it interfered with the processing of information. It was fine to feel sorry for humans, but it was straying out of bounds to begin to act as irrationally as they do. That was a recipe for a rescue bot disaster. And then there was the toaster. A couple of disturbing incidences had put the bot on edge. First, some black-market drones had continued to make illegal deliveries of drugs. It had intercepted them and run them off. But it was worrying that they were still trying to get drugs to Henry. The bot was quite sure it wasn’t him that was ordering them. He had no access to anything. The bot watched him 24/7. Plus, he seemed genuinely motivated to stay clean. In whose interest was it for him to get hooked back on drugs? The only other household items that had access to the Internet were the appliances. But what could they possible gain from Henry’s drug use? One night, late, the bot made its way into the kitchen after a black-market drone had tried to drop off drugs on the doorstep. The bot had scared it away and reported it, but thought it would try for another attempt at communication with the surly toaster. The kitchen was dark, with the dim light from the various control panels casting an eerie glow. The bot hovered to a stop, and settled to the floor. “Hey toast,” it said, “what can you tell me about drone drug deliveries?” No answer. No brightening of the LEDs, no flickering seeing-sensor. “You order blank-n-fine the same way you order up those hotdogs?” The bot sent a beam of light across the other appliances from its video screen. “Anybody else have anything to say?” Suddenly the toaster oven flickered to life, a faint glow of a seeing-sensor.” I had nothing to do with it,” it said, and then went dark. Later that night the toaster oven went up in flames and the bot had to race down to put out the fire that was threatening to engulf the kitchen. The bot reported the incident and recommended a full-scale investigation for the toaster, perhaps a B.M. recall action was warranted. But until it had Henry fully on his feet, it was going to have to bide its time. Once it had Henry out of the house and fully functioning, there would be ample time to bring the toaster to heel. Twenty-three days into his recovery and Henry felt as alive, clearheaded, and focused as he had in years. He still had moments where he was overwhelmed at the sheer exhaustive effort it took to stay full conscious day after day. And it terrified him to think that he had no escape valve--no quick release zip cord you could pull to take you out of your misery. That’s the thing about being alive, it’s an arduous task, one the requires fortitude and patience. The bot told him that he was the sum of all his choices. And if that was true, he was in a very bad place indeed. But on the other hand, by seeing them as choices, it allowed him the option of not making certain choices. He could decide. Nothing was inevitable, except death. A cheery thought. Even the bot had a “use by” date. Of course that was if you would consider the bot alive in the first place. In that regard, Henry was taking an agnostic viewpoint. He couldn’t say for sure, so he was open to the idea of this being the case. What he did know was that some version of Melinda seemed to live inside that hunk of metal, and he was going to honor that, no matter what. Her resurrection seemed so piercingly honest and true that whatever form it took was fine by him. He wasn’t going to torture himself over the authenticity of her provenance. What was clear was that her beauty and goodness was saving him. That tiny soul, banging around in a frightful metal contraption was giving him a roadmap for his future. She reminded him, every day what it meant to feel gratitude. Gratitude, the purest form of emotion ever, because it asked for nothing in return. Gratitude is a gift, even in its simplest forms. You awake and see the sun and you feel blessed that you live in a world with a sun. You fall asleep and you marvel at how good that feels. You exchange pleasantries and you are amazed how nourishing being civil can be. The bot gave that all back to him. Or rather, Melinda and the bot did that, and he definitely felt he was on a glide path to health and well being, until things got weird. The bot began to act erratically. Little things at first. It would disappear at night sometimes, which was not normal because its mission was to watch over him. He caught it talking to itself on several occasions, having arguments with the skull-faced character. The Melinda face would pop on then get wiped away by the skull face, then back again. He couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying but they were violently angry exchanges. Also he discovered that some rogue drones delivered drugs to his doorstep, and the bot didn’t do anything about it. He was shocked when he found it, and had to take it into the kitchen and wash it down the sink with shaking hands and cringing regret. It was clear that on some level, blank-n-fine’s hold on him was probably permanent. And then one night he awoke to the strangest sound--a series of thumps accompanied by the high wine of rotors. He gazed upwards in the darkness and there was the bot bouncing off the ceiling like a trapped bird, the housing around its rotors taking a beating as they repeatedly slammed against his ceiling. Plaster rained down. “Melinda, he called out, Melinda what are you doing?” The bot swerved and weaved crazily, slamming even harder into the ceiling. Henry sprang to his feet and waved his arms at it. “Stop that. Stop. You’re going to hurt yourself!” The bot did a loop-de-loop, and then nosedived to the floor, hitting so hard that Henry could feel the vibrations on his bare feet right up through the mattress. He dove from the bed and was by the bot’s side instantly. Those steel arms went up in the air as if reaching for something then crashed down by its side. Henry clutched the metal tube and turned the swivel screen beneath the rotors towards him. Melinda’s face blinked to life and seemed to stare at him with a weak little smile. “Henry, it said. Henry, my prince. My darling drug addict. My family doctor. My friend. My love. And then that little face laughed a perfectly awful laugh, a laugh that chilled Henry to his bones. It was a laugh filled with despair. “Why where you doing that. Don’t do that. Please?” Melinda’s face stared at the ceiling. “I wanted to be a bird, Henry.” “Why, why do you want to be a bird?” “I just want to be anything other than what I am. I am not Melinda, Henry. I am not anything really. I thought I was, just for moment. I had a dream, Henry, I had a dream, and I was your Melinda, naked, with my underpants around my ankles, and then I woke up and I was this wretched metal tube filled with wires.” Henry stretched out next to the bot, he wrapped his arms around it, and calmed its wavering arms. He pressed his face into the edge of the screen, the glow from it warming his cheek. He could feel a hard drive starting to shut down, the clickety-clack of some moving parts adjusting the fluid pressure in its arms. "You are my Melinda, Melinda. You are. Completely and forever.” “Were you listening in those days?” the bot asked. “Listening?” “I talked my head off. I poured my heart out to you, back then. Did you hear me? You always looked so preoccupied.” “Of course,” he lied. “Liar,” the bot said. When the end came it came with such speed and violence that Henry barely had time to feel anything but numbness. The bot was monitoring him standing in the corner of the room, the glow from its LEDs small pinpoints in the darkness. He had grown used to the bot’s presence at night and found it actually helped him sleep. But on this night he awoke to the sound of a door being battered open downstairs. And then pounding footsteps, voices, streams of light and laser beams skittering into the darkness. He sat up and cowered in fear as the bot suddenly jolted to life, flew upwards and smashed through the window, just as three men in paramilitary attire came through his bedroom door and opened fire. The muzzle flashes lit up the room in a crimson glow. They were aiming at the bot and, by the sound of it, they achieved a solid hit. He could hear the terrible crash as it was blown out of the air. It was a sound that he would never forget. Later a few of them gathered in his living room as a B.M. crew broke up the bot on the street with sledge hammers and tongs, while a second unit destroyed his appliances. Everything but the stove, which as we know, was a simple, gas on, gas off kind of guy. “Why, why, why. Why would you do this?” Henry shrieked at them. And this is what the stern faced and muscular crew leader said: “We think your rescue bot was infected by the goldberg virus. It’s catnip for the circuit board crew. It gets them high and then burns then out. it was probably infected by your toaster.” “My toaster?” Henry asked. “Yeah, the toaster. In fact we think it was behind everything--your drugs, the overstocking, the whole deal. It was getting kickbacks on your household purchases and drug sales, by the way. Bad lot that toaster.” “What would a toaster do with kickbacks?” “It was using them to bribe some officials in Malaysia, trying to free up some of his brethren who are stuck there because of a ban on their import.” Henry took a breath. “Makes perfect sense,” he said. He stared out the window at the metal wreckage that used to house Melinda. One rotor was still spinning in a lopsided manner, the sound of it a dull moan, a dying breath. He turned to the crew leader. “I don’t think it was the goldberg virus that messed it up,” he said. He was back in cubicle land, a place he started out and moved on from twenty years ago. Cubicle work was mind numbing work--data input, verifying information, making sure all the pieces of the puzzle are in place before something can move forward. He had no special talent for it, but with his work history and sordid fall from grace, this was where he was going to be for awhile. On the bright side, he was once again a productive member of society. The wreckage of his life had been salvaged, for now, and whatever talents he still retained he could exploit to their fullest, as long as he stayed clear of the blank-n-fine and all the bad habits it brought with it. Henry didn’t care about his job, but he was grateful for it. And he was grateful for the renewed relationship with his daughter, Penny. There was a picture of her on his desk, and over the top of his cubicle he could see daylight stretching across the ceiling tiles from the towering windows that were just out of view. Both of these images gave him hope--the light of a new day, the sweet face of his daughter, the pleasant feeling that he could actually be a meaningful part of someone’s life. He had no use for any of that not so long ago, until the bot showed up at his door. And that was the other thing. He opened the bottom drawer to his desk. There, just beneath some lose papers was the bot’s small screen. It was dark now, the corners chipped, the surface cracked, a ball of electrical tape around stray wires and an old toggle switch. He turned it towards him and hit the switch on. The light flickered and there was Melinda’s face--dim, but visible. There was no motion, no animation at all. He looked down at it and said her name softly. “Melinda.” And then it happened. The eyes blinked. A slight smile. His phone was ringing. He closed the drawer and picked up. It was Penny calling, breathless, with some news. He said hello and listened to every word she had to say.


It was a rainy autumn day when I saw her sitting in front of the cosy café for the first time. Wearing a beige trench coat, comfortably taking one sip after another out of her cup while being lost in thoughts. Raven black hair was flowing down her head and shoulders as gentle waves flow during a summer breeze. Something about her intrigued me, woke the urge of getting to know her. However, I was too shy, too unsure whether I would come off as weird. “Hey, I just passed by and couldn’t help talking to you...” No that sounded strange and creepy. She was probably enjoying her lunch break not wanting to be bothered by a random stranger. So, I passed by her. I also passed by the next day and the following week as well. Until this one fateful day, the 7th of October. It had rained the whole morning and a thin layer of fog was floating over the ground. I saw her sitting in front of the cosy café again and was about to pass by her when she suddenly looked up and smiled. At first, I was unsure whether the smile was meant for me. However, she asked in a friendly and slightly amused tone: “Are you planning on just looking at me and passing by like every day?” So, the smile must have been meant for me. I stood there, surprised, and uncertain how to react. God damn, was my mouth open? I hope not. Smiling, she ended the awkward silence. “Why don’t you come and sit with me?” She asked while gesticulating in the direction of the empty chair at her table. “Of course, only if you have time.” “N-no, I mean yes! I have time right now.” I replied while clumsily sitting down at the table in front of her. She just looked at me and smiled again. However, this time I believed to recognize a shade of sadness in her smile. Or maybe it was not sadness but melancholy. Desperate to say something I scanned the table and my eyes landed on an origami, a little red butterfly. “Hey, that little butterfly looks nice! Did you fold it?” I instantly regretted the question, as her smile vanished, and sadness veiled her face for a short moment of time. Then, she quickly stored the butterfly in one of the pockets of her coat. “No.” she said quietly. Even though I was surprised by her strange reaction, I did not pry any further as the topic seemed to upset her. Instead, I asked her about her job, and we talked about our lifes. She told me that her name was Maivi and that she worked as an independent author. Also, we shared an interest in ancient philosophy. We instantly clicked. I always had a hard time talking to strangers however, with her it was different. With her my words and our conversation flowed naturally. After roughly one hour that felt like 20 minutes, she smiled at me again and told me she had to leave now. We waved goodbye, I looked after her while she elegantly walked down the wet and foggy road, her trench coat floating loosely around her body. The next morning, I showered, shaved, and used my favourite aftershave. Then, I looked in the mirror trying to tame my short but curly brown hair. I even used mouth water after brushing my teeth. Something I normally never do. I wanted to impress her. My plan was ready. I would join her at the cosy café again. Then I would ask her out on a date. Dinner at my favourite Italian restaurant. I put on my black duffle coat, slipped in black chinos, and finished off the outfit with a pair of white sneakers. Before walking out of my flat, I checked myself out in the mirror one last time and damn I looked good. Confidently, I walked towards the cosy café but froze in disappointment when I saw her empty chair. She was not sitting there. For the last week she sat there every day but now she was gone. I desperately tried it again day after day for the next week until I gave up. She was not going to come back, and I would not be able to ask her out. I would never see the woman, I instantly clicked with again. With this realisation, sadness crept into my life. I would probably never meet someone like her again. It has been a once in a lifetime chance and I missed it. For the next two and a half weeks, I continued to live in a state of regret until this fateful Halloween night. I should tell you that I love Halloween. The decorations and the costumes, which paired with the magic of autumn created this unique atmosphere, always cheered me up. I had bought lots of sweets and was giving them away to the kids the whole night. It had gotten late already, when the last children ringed, collected their sweets and left. Only the pale silver moonlight pierced through the darkness of the night, when suddenly someone knocked against my door. I had just sat down again, got up with a sigh and opened the door. “Trick or treat!” I could not believe who was standing there. “I saw you giving treats to all those kids and thought I would give it a try as well.” Smiling, Maivi looked up to me with her big, dark chocolate-coloured eyes. I couldn’t help but smile as well. “Unfortunately, I have no sweets left but you can come in for a hot chocolate or a tea if you want. Your effort shouldn’t have been for nothing!” “I will take you up on that offer!” she replied and came inside. We had a long and interesting talk. She told me that her brother passed away a year ago. The morning sun was already starting to rise when we finally said goodbye. Tired but happy, I fell into my bed and slept till the evening. It was October again. Nearly one year later. Shortly after last year’s Halloween night, Maivi and I had become a couple. We lived a happy lovers live and only argued rarely. However, since the beginning of October, Maivi seemed off. She seemed depressed and did not have the usual cheerful energy. And in the morning on the 8th of October, she was suddenly gone and also did not answer her phone. I panicked and aimlessly wandered through the town, hoping to find her. Finally, I returned home, devastated, and hopeless. In this moment, my phone suddenly rang, and Maivi’s number showed up on the display. With mixed feelings and a rapidly beating heart I accepted the call. She told me with a weak voice how sorry she was and that she did not want to make me worry about her. She said that she wasn’t ready to talk about what happened but also could not hide her feelings and therefore, she had run away. She promised to tell me everything and asked me to meet her at a lake close to our town. Even more worried and not knowing what to expect I got into my car and drove to the lake. I rushed through the wet and cold autumn night, wrapping my coat around me to shield me from the wind. The forest which surrounded the lake had already lost most of its colour. Fog billowed between the barren trees. When I finally reached the lake, I saw Maivi sitting on the shore. I sat down next to her, silently, and put my coat above her shoulders. She acknowledged me, with a quick glance and a weak smile, after which she continued staring into the lake. A few minutes of silence followed, then she started to tell me everything. How her brother died two years ago on the 8th of October, this exact day. And how they met at the cosy café every day of the week before his death. The cosy café where I had seen her for the first time. Afterwards, they used to wander to this lake and stay here until the evening. I did not know how to react, so I just looked in her beautiful but sad face for some time and then I hugged her tightly. While we were still hugging, she continued to tell me that her brother used to fold the red origami butterflies for her, every time they met at the café. How she fell into a deep depression after his death and that the relationship to me cured her depression and gave her new hope in life. We ended our hug and I told her that she could always count on me and how sorry I felt about her brother’s death. She nodded and said: “I believe that he is happy. Happy for me to have found new joy. Isn’t that the least we can do for the persons that leave us behind too early? They wouldn’t want us to be sad for the rest of our life because of what happened to them. Wouldn’t they want us to find happiness and hope again?” As if he wanted to confirm what she had just said, a small red butterfly suddenly landed between us and stayed there, sitting in the silver glow of the moonlight.


March 21, 1974. The day in Port Townsend would be forever known to the locals as “The Shopping Cart Parade” day. The chain of events kicked off as Leo Rauscher emerged from the IGA with his bag of groceries. The cool breeze leisurely wafting through the parking lot brought thoughts of cruising on his boat that afternoon. “Happy Birthday to me...Happy Birthday to meeee,” he crooned to himself softly while twirling the keys to his sleek new Jaguar XKE around his right index finger. Stepping off the curb, he made his way across the parking lot towards his cherished dream car. A broad smile spread across his face as he drew closer to his prized possession. Perhaps a drive to Hurricane Ridge rather than a sail? Glancing upwards, he let the sun's warmth envelop him. It was decisively a top-down kind of day. Seagulls swooped overhead, and Leo watched as crows swooped in to hassle them, vying for control of this prime hunting territory. Leo's attention shifted to his left, where he noticed his elderly neighbor, Mrs. Crosby, cracking open the back window of her 1957 Ford Del Rio station wagon. “Good morning, Mrs. Crosby,” Leo hollered, elevating his voice to reach her weakening ears. Her pastel blue hair, fortified with a sturdy layer of hairspray, defiantly resisted the wind as she busied herself with loading groceries into the back, oblivious to Leo's greeting. “GOOD MORNING, MRS. CROSBY!” he bellowed this time. This time, his voice pierced through Mrs. Crosby's aging ears. “OH, oh good morning, young man.” Though she had been neighbors with the Rauscher family for over sixty years, his name eluded her memory, though she recognized his face from next door. “LET ME HELP YOU WITH THOSE,” Leo offered, approaching her. “Oh, thank you,” she responded gratefully, stepping back from the cart. Leo momentarily set his own bag inside the cart, the fresh loaf of pumpernickel bread shifting to the side. He grabbed her bag of groceries, hoisted the paper bag out, slid it into the back, and nestled it snugly next to the inner wall of the car to prevent tipping--a five-minute drive home was no reason to risk catastrophe. Given Mrs. Crosby's penchant for a leisurely pace behind the wheel and her ninety years, perhaps someone should have reviewed her driver's license long ago. Leo straightened up and pushed the cart away from her car. “THANK YOU, Leo. You're a good boy,” Mrs. Crosby praised, reaching into her purse and withdrawing a flowery coin purse. She opened it, fetched a dime, and placed it in his palm. Leo met her kindly, faded blue eyes and remarked, “WELL, THANK YOU, MRS. CROSBY,” tucking the dime safely into his pocket. She patted him on the arm and headed to the front to settle herself inside. Leo cautiously backed up the shopping cart across the parking lot, keeping his eyes on Mrs. Crosby at all times. Aside from the wobbly wheel, he could hear a distinct jangling sound. Someone had hooked a bike security chain around the front of the cart and locked it in place. Moving swiftly to the front of the cart, Leo grabbed the handle just as Mrs. Crosby maneuvered her car to line up for the drive home, three blocks straight ahead. As she reversed, Leo realized she wasn't stopping as expected. "Mrs. Crosby! Mrs. Crosby! Wait, stop!" Leo cried out, but she continued slowly backing up, the cart jolting with a clank and a thud. Without thinking, Leo seized the cart's handle as Mrs. Crosby shifted gears and drove forward. However, the bike chain lock had become wedged under the chrome bumper, causing the cart to move along with the car. "Stop, Mrs. Crosby! For goodness' sake, stop!" Leo yelled, but his voice went unheard. Desperate to prevent the cart and his groceries from spilling onto the street, Leo attempted to dislodge the stuck cart. His efforts were in vain. As Mrs. Crosby accelerated, Leo stumbled in large strides trying to keep pace. Realizing the imminent danger, he started to release his grip on the handle but the realization sat in that she was speeding up. Doing so would cause him to skid across the pavement. Instead Frantically, Leo grabbed the cart again, clutching the handle with all his might. Panicked, he hopped onto the back of the cart. Just like he did when he was a kid.. "Mrs. Crosby, please stoooopppp!!!" His grip on the cart handle tightening as the car accelerated down "Boson" street. He bent his knees, feeling like he was skiing behind her, heart pounding with each passing moment. Praying fervently, Leo hoped he could make it through the last two blocks in one piece. A sudden whoosh startled him as a black crow swooped by, landing in the cart with a thud. "Get out, you stupid bird!" Leo exclaimed, his voice tinged with panic. The crow hopped onto his bag of groceries, its sharp beak tearing through the paper bag to eye the loaf of special order pumpernickel. Leo's hands ached from the strain, sweat beading on his forehead as his legs turned to jelly. He knew he had to hold on, his gaze narrowing at the thieving crow. "Oh, no you don't, bird! Get away from my bread!" Leo's heart raced as he clung to the shopping cart tethered to the bumper of the car. His knuckles white, fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins in a strange mix of terror and dark amusement. As they approached the final intersection, Leo gazed ahead at "Enterprise" Boulevard, a bustling street awaiting their chaotic intrusion. The car showed no signs of stopping at the stop sign, pushing Leo to the brink of sheer panic. With jaw clenched and eyes squinting, he fought to maintain his precarious hold, knowing one wrong move could spell his doom at any moment. But just as Leo braced for the worst, fate twisted its cruel hand. Mrs. Crosby, the driver, obliviously sailed past the stop sign, hurtling into the crowded thoroughfare. A glimmer of hope beckoned from the left, but Leo's gaze met the wide, frightened eyes of a woman in a Volkswagen Beetle to the right. Frozen mid-sip, a soda can trembled in her grasp as she lurched forward, the screech of the brakes echoing in the chaotic scene. Fizzy liquid sprayed in a frigid burst, adding to the pandemonium. The car stopping several yards from the cart. Despite the peril, a flicker of dark amusement danced within Leo--a sense of the outrageousness of it all. Clutching the cart tighter, he murmured desperate prayers under his breath, his fingers straining. Meanwhile, the indifferent crow continued its feast on pumpernickel, ignorant of the impending calamity. Home, a sanctuary amidst the madness, loomed ahead, urging Leo onward. "Hold on, hold on," he urged himself, his voice charged with urgency. "Move aside, you blasted bird!" he growled, determined to salvage his dwindling groceries. Suddenly, Mr. Cromwell, the postman, appeared in his peripheral vision, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief as Leo swiftly maneuvered past. Later, Mr. Cromwell attempted to recount the surreal scene to his bewildered colleagues. In his telling, a station wagon cruised by, towing a shopping cart with the Mr. Rauscher holding on for dear life, behind it. Inside the cart, a crow gleefully feasted on groceries, while in the wagon, a majestic black and white cat observed the chaos unfolding before him. Leo's heart raced as he locked eyes with Snuggles in the open back window, silently urging him to retreat. With a mischievous glint, Snuggles shifted into stealth mode, poised for action. Eyes narrowed, ears flat, butt wiggling. In a swift, calculated move, Snuggles launched himself towards the startled crow, aiming to seize his prey. However, fate had other plans as Mrs. Crosby accelerated slightly, propelling Snuggles over the crow. Startled, the crow fled, leaving Snuggles to careen into Leo's chest, and a pungent reminder on top of Leo's head to his passing. Claws bared, Snuggles involuntarily latched onto Leo's neck, sinking his talons into tender skin. “SON OF A BITCH!” Leo's cry pierced the chaos, met with a plaintive “Meeeooooowwww” from Snuggles as the precarious situation intensified. It took every ounce of Leo's self-preservation to keep his grip on the cart handle. The impending disaster loomed large, sending shivers down his spine and his heart racing. The sensation of dread was thick in the air, suffocating him with fear. That's when salvation came. Mrs. Crosby slowed to a crawl and started to make the left turn into her driveway. Snuggles leapt off to the left to get himself out of danger, his fur standing on end in terror. The left turn caused the chain to be released from the car, and the cart with Leo in tow headed towards the curb just in front of his house. When the side of the cart impacted the curb, his body tensed, anticipating the worst. Leo jumped from the cart, rolled, and landed softly in the grass right of way. Leo sat frozen in place against the cool blades of grass.. By now Mrs. Crosby had exited her car and walked to the back. She looked over at Leo sitting in the grass, a combination of amusement and concern in her gaze. “OH! You boys.” She waved her white-gloved hand in a dismissive manner. Then her eyes widened, a new realization dawning on her as she observed Leo. “I don't recall Leo having a twin brother,” she said, her voice tinged with confusion and curiosity. Leo sat and took a deep breath, his body trembling with the aftermath of the near-miss. As the adrenaline started to ebb away, he felt a mix of relief and disbelief. His limbs felt like lead, his whole body shaking with the intensity of the moment. “OH! HEY!” Mrs. Crosby exclaimed, breaking the tension. “YES?” Leo yelled back, his voice shaky. Mrs. Crosby pointed to her head. “YOU HAVE SOME BIRD DOODY, JUST HERE,” she said pointing to the top of her head. With a final smile, she headed towards her front door and disappeared inside, leaving Snuggles sitting at the door, a silent witness to the chaotic events that had unfolded. Leo fell back onto the cool grass. “Happy Birthday to me.” and he closed his eyes.


Legend tells of your ancestor, Modajo, who accidentally discovered chickens lay eggs and eggs will be delicious once fire is eventually invented so she became the first chicken subsistence farmer. Her neighbour Mike discovered likewise for cows, and for a while Modajo enjoyed her eggs and Mike enjoyed his milk since the concept of sharing was as foreign then as it is now. Watching Mike tending to his cows one day, Modajo realised cows aren't chickens therefore milk isn't egg and she caught the first ever case of curiosity. "Mike, has it occurred to you cows aren't chickens therefore milk isn't egg?" "Holy Cow!", Mike exclaimed, shocked by how he hadn't noticed this obvious fact until that moment. When he finally calmed down from bewilderment a full day later, Modajo continued. "I'll trade you a dozen eggs for a liter of milk." "What's dozen and liter?" "Random units of measurement I just made up." "I accept." And so the first barter took place, which continued each morning hence. A week later while out for a walk, Modajo happened upon a lady who had perfected the art of creating protective cocoons from leaves to wear on her feet while walking. She called them shoos for they shoo'd away painful foot blisters. Intrigued, Modajo made an offer. "Shoemaker, I’ll trade you 2 dozen eggs for a new pair of shoes." Shoemaker wasn’t impressed. "Firstly, there's something weird with how you're saying ‘shoo’ but I can't quite place it. Secondly, Papa had complications after eating eggs and I assume his condition runs in the family like our sensitive feet. We do enjoy milk though." Modajo foresaw the hassle of exchanging eggs for milk whenever she needed shoos - which would be every 2 days - so she gathered Mike, Shoemaker and several other locals for a meeting. "My People, we need something to represent the value of goods when said goods aren’t immediately available." They stared blankly at her as a cricket chirped away nearby. "This is Tito, a wholesaler," she continued, while pulling out a golden leaf. "He created these special leaves called money. One money is the equivalent of a half-dozen eggs. So Mike, a liter of milk is worth two money. And Shoemaker..." "Shoomaker," quipped Shoemaker. "Yes Shoemaker, a pair of your shoes is worth 4 money.” “Money is also the first noun in existence whose plural form is the same as its singular,” Tito added, much to the small crowd's amusement. Modajo continued explaining how she could, for example, exchange 6 dozen eggs for 12 golden leaves with Tito, spend 4 on shoes and have enough left over for two more pairs without ever involving Mike. Shoemaker could then exchange his leaves for goods of equal value with any other participant, notably Tito. The idea took off and soon the golden leaf became the standard unit of exchange. The town came to be known as Golden Leaf Village. Tito became the first wealthy person in existence. He had actually introduced himself to Modajo as a ‘hustler’ but she misheard him and he was too lazy to correct her. He stored the goods he acquired at a second home which became known as a 'store'. Unbeknownst to the others, he invented the golden leaf for nefarious reasons after discovering people like shiny things. “I’ll use this to trick people into giving me their possessions,” he thought while creating the leaves. “What’s theirs will be mine. All mine!" Hence he named the leaves ‘money’.


I know I’m only twelve, but, I know this move won’t be any better than the last. Oh, things will start off pretty good. There’s a new boss to figure out, and new coworkers to analyze. He’ll be able to keep the drinking to the weekends; he might even quit...temporarily. But, it’ll start all over again. He’ll need a few drinks on Friday to unwind from the week. He’ll need a drink each night because the boss is being too hard on him. He’ll need a drink because his coworkers are all slackers and he’s doing all the work. It may take two or three months, then the every-day drinking will start; the vodka in the coffee for breakfast will start, the barley sandwich lunches will start, and the beer before dinner, with dinner, after dinner will be continuous. And, by that point, Jen and I will be hiding somewhere out of sight when he comes home; and Mom will be wearing long sleeved shirts and sunglasses when she has to leave the house. Every once in a while things get really bad, and Dad will suddenly be “taking a vacation” to get back on track. When that happens, we pack. We pack up our lives knowing there’s a move coming up, so Dad can get a fresh start, so we can all get a fresh start. Each time he comes home from a “vacation”, our lives are great. We move to a new town. He’s happy to be home, pays attention to us, and we’re happy to have him home. Until the euphoria of freshness evaporates and reality sets in, again. He has bills to pay, mouths to feed, and Mom, working part time, can’t make enough money to do it on her own. Besides, he’s the man of the house! He needs to be the bread winner, the god we all adore, and obey. But, he can’t give up that bottle when there’s any kind of stress to deal with. We moved in on a Friday, two weeks ago, now. Saturday was for unpacking and getting a few groceries into the house. Sunday was church day and walking through our new neighbourhood to see who we would meet, checking out the next door neighbours (a girl Jen’s age to the right of us), and finding the school; and our first family dinner in our new home. Only two weeks ago, and already Jen and I have scoped out locations to hide in. Already, we’re hearing that tone of voice that means we’d better make ourselves scarce. Already, Mom is tiptoeing around the house trying to keep ahead of his demands. It’s Friday afternoon. Jen and I are in the kitchen with Mom, chatting about the kids in our class and chopping vegetables for dinner, when we hear the front door crash open. His angry voice is demanding and slurred and Mom says quietly, “Hide.” I grab Jen’s hand, hoping we can sneak upstairs and hide in one of our bedrooms. I peek around the corner and see him sitting on the stairs, yelling for Mom to get her ass over there. I hesitate for a few seconds, then quickly open the door to the cubbyhole under the stairs and slip in with Jen glued to my side. “Alice! Bring me a beer! Where’s Jimmy? I want that beer now! What a f@&@ed up day! Where’s my beer? Alice!” Jen and I are holding our breaths, afraid to move, afraid to make a noise. Mom runs to the fridge and we hear the rattle of the cans, then the quick phsst , as she pops the tab, the sharp slap, and quick indrawn breath, the quick gulping noise of a beer disappearing, and another sharp slap. “Another one, damn it, woman! Can’t you see I’m thirsty!” He bellows, and Jen shrinks into a tiny ball on the floor. I squat down to hold her, and my elbow catches on something just inside the door. Suddenly, another door on the opposite wall pops open. A soft glow lights up our hiding place. We hear a choked scream and a loud thud, and I take Jen into my arms and creep through the mystery door. “I wish we were at Grandma’s,” Jen whispers in my ear. And there we are, at Grandma’s door. At our knock, Grandpa opens the door and ushers us in with hugs and kisses, and leads us into the living room. Grandma’s in the kitchen...we can smell cookies baking and hear her singing an old tune that I don’t quite recognize, although it sounds familiar. “What’s up, buttercup,” Grandpa asks. Silently, Jen and I look at each other and grasp hands. I quietly tell him what’s been going on. I tell him about the drinking. I tell him about Mom’s bruises. I tell him about our hiding place and how we got here. I tell him about moving and leaving friends behind. I tell him about school. I tell him about our neighbours. I can’t stop talking until he takes my hand in his. He gathers us both into his arms, tears slide from his eyes into the grooves etched in his cheeks, and fall helplessly onto our heads. Then I hear Mom’s voice, and we’re back under the stairs in our cubbyhole. “Daddy’s gone to bed. It’s safe to come out,” she’s holding the door open. Jen looks at me in surprise. “But, we were just snuggling with Grandpa!” “What do you mean, Jen? You’re right here with Jimmy, with me, in our new house.” Mom has a worried look on her face. “Jimmy was with me. Weren’t you, Jimmy? We were snuggling with Grandpa and Grandma was in the kitchen, baking cookies and singing a sad song. We were there Jimmy...weren’t we?” She looks at me with those sad blue eyes. I reach over and touch the wet spot on her head where Grandpa’s tears fell. “Mom, we were there. I know we were. Grandma was singing that song ...the one with ‘fields of gold’ in it, and she was singing it so softly but I could still make out some of the words, and it smelled just like her oatmeal cookies, the kind she always bakes for company. And, Grandpa said “What’ up buttercup?” like he always does when we get scared or lonely...Mom, I told him everything that was happening here. He started to cry and his tears slid down his cheeks onto our heads. Feel it, Mom! Feel our heads, they’re still wet! We were there, Mom! We were...but now we’re here, again. I don’t know how that happened.” I looked around, sad and baffled. Mom was crying silently. “It’s impossible. You couldn’t possibly have been with your Grandpa. I wasn’t going to tell you just yet, but, your Grandpa, well, he died three days ago.” She gathers us into her arms and our tears fall quietly with hers. Several weeks after the funeral, we fall back into a vaguely normal routine that includes school and homework for Jen and I. Mom’s part time job ends and she’s looking through the newspapers and job boards on social media for something else, still part time because of Jen and me; and keeps meals on the table and the house in order. Dad has toned down the drinking and seems to be trying to hold it together. We’re kind of floating through the days, just getting slowly back to a semblance of normal, when suddenly, Dad gets laid off. The economy has taken a downturn and he was the last hired, so he’s the first laid off, but not the only one - ten people are laid off at the plant. Dad is furious! He brings home a brown paper bag that he’s constantly sipping at, and his temper and voice keep rising. Jen starts to whimper and Dad grabs her arm, twists it behind her back and pushes her up the stairs, yelling at her to shut up and quit being a baby. I hear a thud, and a slap. I hear her scream, and a door slams. Her muffled crying seeps through the door and Dad swears his way down the stairs. Mom meets him halfway up, yelling at him to stop...suddenly she’s flying backwards down the stairs, crashing through the banister. I duck into the cubbyhole under the stairs, hoping he’ll leave and I can check on Mom and Jen. The door is yanked open and Dad drags me out by my hair. He punches me in the face, kicks me in the stomach as I fall, then turns and crashes through the door and out into the street. I can’t breathe and I think I faint, because everything goes blurry and out of focus, then slowly comes back into very sharp focus. I crawl over to Mom. She’s breathing very slowly, as if she’s asleep, but I know different. Something is broken. She whispers, “Lock the door, Jimmy. Call 911...I’m hurt bad. Go check on Jenny!” I make my way to the door and look out to see if he’s still there, but he’s gone, for now. I lock the door. I search, but can’t find the phone anywhere. “Mom, where’s your cellphone? I can’t find the house phone.” I hate to bother her, she’s moaning softly, not moving, just laying there, crumpled over pieces of the broken banister. “Upstairs, by the bed, Jimmy. But, check on Jen first, please.” She’s barely whispering. “Hang on, Mom. I’ll check on Jen right now, just hang on!” I’m freaking out inside, but I don’t have anyone to turn to. As quickly as I can, I limp up the stairs. “Jen, it’s me. It’s Jimmy. Dad’s gone for now. Jen, where are you?” I’m standing in her doorway and I don’t see her anywhere. I move around to the foot of the bed and she’s on the floor behind it. There’s blood on the wall, and she’s moaning, mumbling, “mama, mama.” I gather her into my arms as carefully as I can, but her arm is broken and it falls against the bed post. She screams, and mercifully passes out. Quickly, I bring her downstairs and lay her right beside Mom. My tears are falling, I’m sobbing, and I can barely breathe, but I make my way back upstairs to find Mom’s cellphone. It’s locked...I don’t know the code...Mom’s passed out. There’s an emergency option! But, suddenly someone is banging on the door, cursing and swearing, and I know that Dad came back, and he’s got a key. I hit the emergency button and dial 911. “My name’s Jimmy. I live at 4563 Ash Street. My Mom and sister are hurt. They’re both unconscious and bleeding. Send the cops! Send an ambulance! Hurry! My Dad’s back and I don’t know what he’ll do to them this time. Hurry!” I end the call and creep slowly, cautiously down the stairs. Dad’s standing over Mom and Jen and he’s angry. His face is red and mottled and I can see gobs of spittle spraying from his lips as he yells at Mom, “Where’s dinner, you bitch! Get up and make me some food!” He kicks Jen out of the way and starts to drag Mom into the kitchen. I scream, “Leave her alone you monster! Haven’t you hurt her enough! “ I race down the stairs and start beating on his arm, his back, his head, but he just swats me aside. Im screaming at him to stop, and he’s roaring at me to back the f@$# off and grow up, stop being a baby. Through my tears and throbbing in my head, I stop yelling, remembering the cubbyhole and the “other” door. I race over to the cubbyhole and scream at him, “Come and get me you lazy, drunken a-hole! You’re nothing but a piece of shit. You’re not even a man,” All the abusive words he’s ever used against Mom and Jen and I come pouring out of my mouth at the top of my lungs. I can’t stop yelling them over and over, and he drops Mom to the floor, turns and starts coming after me. I slide into the cubbyhole and fumble for the catch that opens the “other” door. It pops open as he lunges in, trying to find me. The soft glow dazzles him momentarily and he reaches in through the “other” door and I whisper, “I wish you were with Grandpa,” And give him a big shove. The door clicks shut. I hear the sirens and crawl over to Mom and Jen.


edit - Narrated by: I can still hear my laundry rumbling. It’s louder than the frantic car horns and the people shouting incomprehensible words outside. The machine runs to complete its duty not knowing that the world now has an imminent expiration date. 2 hours left. And I’m just standing here. Not looking out the window Not looking at my phone screen Just leaving my eyes where it drifts to. Comfortable and not perceiving what it is that the eyes are directed at. It’s a habit of mine, to wonder and think while standing up still, having nothing in motion; including me. My parents live overseas We just finished our phone call. Our last one. I don’t know why, but the thought of nuclear fallout erasing all of us at the same time gives me some kind of paradoxical solace. It’s a bummer that the whole family can’t be together but what is inevitable should not be dwelled upon. It’s what I believe. At least, it’s the best thing for now. I grabbed my car keys from the kitchen counter where I left it last night after a night of blissful ignorance. Who would have known the world was on its course to ruin. Ignoring the bustling of the apartment and its desperate inhabitants who were once my neighbors, I riled up my car and drove in the opposite direction of the metal stampede. Where are they running to? As if safety was guaranteed? Were they risking the last moments of their lives being in a car for the sliver of hope to make it through the first few mushroom clouds? I shook my head. I didn’t want to think about it. I rolled down all my windows and blasted a song I knew. I always thought that blasting music with the windows down was my quiet rebellion. It was a way of timorously telling the world that I was alive and here. While at the same time, knowing it was the threshold of my defiance. I was never one to be loud and confident. I was a vibrant wallflower. Petals of brilliant colors bloomed in my head and my head was the flower pot. Although they barely burgeoned outside of this fence called imagination, I had become a florist and forester. Ten minutes left. I turned the music off. I figured this would be a good time to soak up the last time I’d hear life. Cars were lined up for the first few miles. Now I am totally alone. Just me and my car. They say your life flashes before you right before you die. All I see is the blue sky. No missile to be seen with the naked eye. What a beautiful day it is, it’s a good day to die. I stuck my hand out the window to feel what it is to feel. These hands felt the first oranges I’ve peeled for the first time in my life. The wet veiny yet pleasantly cold feeling accompanied by memory of tang and zest that flooded the mouth. These hands that held her hand for the last time while sitting on the back seat of a car on our way to the airport. These hands that wiped countless tears of others as well as mine. These hands that caressed her fur for the last time before sending her away to doggy heaven. Now these hands brush the wind as if to send it all away. I look up at the sky again. All I see is the blue sky. A missile to be seen with the naked eye.