[ WARNING - This is a murder mystery. It contains sensitive content. ] Detective Michelle “Mickey” Mantle looked at the autopsy report-Accidental Carbon Monoxide Poisoning. An open and shut case; the batteries in the carbon monoxide detector were dead; except they shouldn’t be. The expiry date wasn’t for ten years; they were nearly new. The manufacturer confirmed that batteries with that expiry date had only been on sale for two months. Taking the batteries and a printout of the manufacturer's information, she went to do battle with the coroner. Jim “JJ” Johnson had been Vancouver’s chief coroner for twenty years. In that time, he had seen everything from drug overdoses to decapitation. His decisions on cause of death were final and rarely challenged. As soon as he saw Michelle, he knew what she was going to say. “Go away.” He growled. “Chris Peterson was murdered.” “Piss off. . . . I know carbon monoxide poisoning. God knows I have seen enough of them.” “Did you check the batteries?” she said, slamming the batteries on his desk. “They were dead.” “They shouldn’t be. . . . Check the expiry date. They are less than two months old.” Johnson glared at her. Christ, how did I miss that. He goes to his filing cabinet and pulls the folder with his notes on the Peterson case. It is remarkably thin. He quickly finds what he was looking for, a one paragraph statement on the carbon monoxide detector. He reads aloud. ‘The batteries in the carbon monoxide detector were dead. Replacing them with fresh batteries shows the detector is functioning normally. A label on the detector says the batteries were replaced by his son in January.’ He takes the folder back to his desk and sits down hard. He sits there stroking his chin. “Well, what are you going to do?” she demands. “Could be a mistake on the label.” he muttered. “Change the cause of death to Indeterminate and get the batteries tested.” Johnson scowled. This slip of a girl telling him how to do his job didn’t sit well. That she is right made it worse. Trying to appease him she says, “I’ll buy lunch if I’m wrong.” Going into his computer, he changed the official designation. “Happy? . . . Now piss off.” Two days later, Johnson was at Mantle’s desk. “Get your coat.” She smiled. “The lab said the batteries were probably dead before being put on the detector. We’ll go look at the crime scene, then I’ll buy you lunch.” It was one of those Edwardian homes that pepper the Shaughnessy Heights area of Vancouver. Screened from the road by a row of laurels, Mickey placed it as original and not one of the faux Edwardians that were in fashion. The exterior had recently been restored, although the grounds were in need of some TLC. Walking to the house, Mickey looked at the two chimneys. Only one had a metal cap, the telltale sign the fireplace had been converted to gas. Johnson rang the doorbell. A middle-aged woman, well on her way to what would euphemistically be called matronly, answered the door. “Mr. Johnson, what brings you here? I thought you had all you needed.” “Just a few loose ends to wrap up Sandra. . . . May we come in.” JJ doesn’t introduce Mickey. He had worked with her before. He would introduce her when she was ready. As she put it, “People are more likely to speak freely when I act like a secretary following her boss around.” They go into the bedroom, a large room on the ground floor. Mrs. Peterson asks, “Would you like a cup of tea?” JJ hated tea, but wanted her to leave them alone. “Yes, that would be very nice.” The gas insert in the fireplace caught Mickey’s attention. It is an older, ventless model. “I didn’t think that type of gas fireplace was allowed in a bedroom.” “They're not. . . . This was originally Peterson’s den. He turned it into a bedroom after he tripped and fell down the stairs last spring, breaking his hip. . . . Prior to that, he had his own bedroom upstairs.” “Tripped?” “That’s what the incident report said.” “Anything else I should know that didn’t get into the file?” “His doctor had prescribed Xanax, he took one before going to sleep. . . . And the bed showed signs that someone else had been in bed with him. . . . I didn’t ask.” “Who says chivalry is dead? . . . I think we need to talk to Mrs. Peterson.” They go to the living room where Mrs. Peterson has laid out tea. Mickey took in the room; the furniture is period, but reproductions and not very good ones; the tea set had mismatched cups; Mrs. Peterson’s cup has a small chip in the base; the fireplace has a new, vented, gas insert. JJ takes the lead. “I am sorry to have to inform you that we are now considering your husband’s death as suspicious. This is Detective Michelle Mantle, she is heading the investigation.” Taking over, Mickey asks “How long has Mr. Peterson used the den as a bedroom?” “Since last spring.” “Does he usually have the gas fireplace lit?” “No, just since the cold weather started.” “In the last two months, who would have had access to your husband’s bedroom?” Mrs. Peterson looks puzzled and doesn’t answer right away. “Just my son and me.” “You have your own bedroom?” “Yes, upstairs.” “How long have you and your husband had separate bedrooms?” Mrs. Peterson is getting angry. “For just over three years. . . . How is that any of your business?” Mickey ignores the question. Pausing for a few seconds, “Someone else was in the bed the night your husband died.” Peterson explodes. “Did he have his trollop of a secretary come over when I was out? In my house.” She was screaming, “In my house. . . . If you want to find someone with a motive to kill him, you should talk to her.” Calmly, “Why would she want him dead?” “He was going to sell the apartment he bought for her and her bastard son.” “Her three year old son?” Mickey ventured. Peterson jumps up screaming, “Get out. Get out now.” Mickey turns to JJ, “A little late, but we should seal that room.” Then to Mrs. Peterson, “Thank you. I may have more questions later.” “Get out.” As they walk back to their car, Mickey observes, “That went rather well.” Sarcastically, “Yeah . . . You hit it out of the park.” Pausing, “You can be a real asshole at times. These people have feelings. She just lost her husband, and her son blames himself for the defective batteries.” Mickey seems to ignore him. “Lunch?” “White Spot?” “Sounds good.” On the way to the White Spot, Mickey calls Constable Carson. “Hi Brian. Looks like we have a murder investigation. Clear it with Staff. I need you to do a financial check on the Chris Peterson file, wife, son, the works. Look at credit card receipts. I am looking for batteries purchased in the last two months. And check if there is any insurance. . . . Thanks” JJ looks at her. “You don’t really think they would use a credit card, do you?” “Do you carry much cash?” JJ shakes his head. “Me neither.” After lunch, Mickey drops JJ back at his office and goes to interview the secretary, Carolyn Brooks. Not what most people envision as the other woman, she is a short, mousy, thirty something brunette. She leads Mickey into Peterson’s office for some privacy. Mickey sits down, Carolyn starts pacing, starts talking. She was self-deprecating, “I am not what you expected, am I?” Actually, she was. The Hollywood stereotype of the busty young blonde were the exception, women like Carolyn were the usual. “Sandra called. Called me a murderer, a whore, said our son wouldn’t get any of Chis’ money.” She laughed. “What money. They are broke. Even the house is mortgaged to the hilt.” Mickey knows all she has to do is let her talk. “It started just over three years ago. The business was in trouble even then. He just needed someone to talk to. Sandra just kept telling him he had to work harder. He turned to me. . . . I know it is a cliché, but we didn’t really mean it to happen. . . . Then I got pregnant. He was a good father under the circumstances. . . . I don’t know where he got the money, but he pulled together the down payment for my apartment; I pay the mortgage. She thinks she will sell it, but it is joint ownership. It’s all mine now. . . . Did she mention the insurance?” “No, she didn’t.” “There is mortgage insurance on their house, and this apartment, a million dollar policy for our son and Chris Jr., and I think she has a ten million dollar policy.” “Do you think she could have killed him for the money?” Carolyn shrugged. “Possibly. He said he was having trouble making the premiums. He was going to cancel everything except the mortgage insurance at the end of the year.” “How about her son?” “Chris Junior, no-not unless his mother talked him into it.” Mickey closed her notebook. “I am sorry, but I have to ask, were you with Mr. Peterson on the day he died.” Carolyn blushed. “Had you been there before?” “No, that was the only time. . . . He called and said he needed to see me. . . . We just lay there holding each other for over an hour. His wife almost caught us.” The next morning, Constable Carson is waiting for Mickey to come in. “Got the information on the batteries you wanted. It is strange . . .” She cut him off. “Chris Peterson Senior bought them?” “Yes, but that is not the only strange part. There were two purchases. First he bought an AA battery holder, the type they use for building electronic projects, and some wire. Then, a week later, a six volt lamp and a pack of AA batteries. . . . How did you know it was the father?” “Just a hunch.” “Did you look at the life insurance?” “Yeah, he got them three years ago.” “So the suicide clause has expired.” Constable Carson nodded. Damn. No one likes to investigate suicides. There isn’t any closure for the family, just a lifetime of self recrimination. Mickey calls the lab, then goes to see JJ. She goes into his office and slumps into the chair next to his desk. JJ watches her for a minute then snarls, “Shouldn’t you be out catching bad guys?” Mickey doesn’t answer right away. “You said he took a Xanax.” JJ nods. “Sleeping in a room filling up with carbon monoxide-painless?” His expression changes, he whispers, “Yes.” She tells him about purchases. “Why did he buy new batteries?” “I checked with the lab. If he tried shorting out the batteries, they could explode. I think that is what happened. . . . Using the lamp would run down the batteries slowly, without any obvious damage.” JJ looks troubled. “I’m not going to change the report to suicide based on two credit card receipts and a theory.” “Indeterminate?” “I can live with that. . . . We need to tell the family. His son needs to know he didn’t kill his father.” “You go-I don’t think they would want to see me.” She starts to leave. “Mickey," he barks, "You did good.” “Why doesn’t it feel that way?”


It's a cool Saturday night, I sit on my chair watching the tele as the last of the Doritos crumbs cascade off of my enlarged stomach. I'm a rather large man, light short hair with the inability to grow a beard without patches. I'm wearing nothing but sweats and a grin across my face from the last corny joke that was said. This is how I spend most of my nights. Some call it pathetic while I call it home. There is a knock at the door, somewhat startling but not uncommon on a Saturday night. Probably the college kids messing around again. I lived not far from campus and it was not unusual for them to wander into the neighborhood. Thinking about answering the door fades from my mind as I decide nothing will disturb me on one of my beloved days off. After a few knocks I can see the figures pass by the front window and back onto the sidewalk. Maybe it was the Mormons looking to "save" another soul. I decided I was not going to be "saved" during one of my favorite sitcoms, Besides I'm perfectly content. I continue watching my show until my memory fades. A few hours pass as I lay sleeping in my lazy boy recliner that I splurged for last month. My mouth wide open pointed towards the sky as I make Roaring snores, the last of which is Loud enough to startle me awake. I noticed the TV was still on, not odd for one of my days off. In Fact it's hard for me to think of a time the TV was ever off, I'm either in the room watching it, or working, but either way it stays constantly streaming. Suddenly without warning an ad break starts on the TV, not unusual for this network, ever since the ratings have gone down they have needed a way to keep funding up. The commercial is nothing unusual, a rush of colors and sounds made to gather the attention of the average Joe. As I watch waiting for the show to start something catches my eye. I suddenly spring into action, doing my best to grab my wallet and keys carefully laid across my Side table, often where I put them after getting home from work. I run to the front door throwing on my jacket and slippers nearly breaking my neck as I somehow manage to close the front door and sprint to my truck (refreshed after that tuneup I got last weekend). I get to the drivers side and nearly drop my keys as I slide into the velvety interior of my truck. too occupied to put my seat belt on, I slam the keys into the ignition, turn the key and my pride and joy comes roaring to life. I throw it into reverse, then shift to drive and head recklessly down the road. No one was going to stop me from trying the new Doritos locos taco....


His eyes slowly fluttered. They flinched, closed shut again, but fought to remain open. The eyelids were heavy as sleep overweighed on them, like little bricks forcing them shut. It was dark and cold, the night’s void of any warmth. He didn’t shiver, but he couldn’t move. Lukewarm liquid, like damp grass, grazed his numb fingers, and the night’s breeze, right under the full moon, playfully slapped his face. Usually, these nights, despite of their coldness, pumps warmth in his heart. When he was young, he gathered around the fire with his parents, grandparents, neighbors, and friends for a weenie roast. He longed for that night under the starry night when his grandfather starts the camping party with, “Once upon a time...” He groaned, his breath hitched. He’s in pain, and he wants to cry. Usually, such a pain would force a scream, but his voice was dry. He recalled once falling down the stairs after running off from the school. And because of his rush, he fell down, broke a leg. He’d never felt such a pain before, so he cried and was carried to the hospital where he hugged his mom. He allowed himself, his younger self such a treat, to be spoiled by his mom’s warmth. Unfortunately, that warmth dissipated today. Only the coldness of the night wrapped him like a burrito. His vocal cords were frozen, and his veins flinched in pain. “You’re always clumsy,” his mom once said, “You never look over the bridge of your nose!” He looked down at his shoes, a huge pout masked his face. Whenever his mom yells at him, whenever he does something bad, he feels all the negative emotions overflowing in his eyes, forming embarrassing rivers that barely holds back in the sockets of his eyes. Slime drools from his nose, so he sniffles because it’s embarrassing. And in the end, he gets a cheek pinch from his mom, who won’t seem to be mad anymore every time that happens. But that doesn’t mean he’s not clumsy if his mom forgave him every single time. He always tripped by everything, even his shadow. He exhaustedly smiled; it was bitter. His smile explained the lifeless situation he’s been in because of his clumsiness, only lulled by the bright memories of his younger self. Although he’s an adult who has children, he’s still as clumsy as before. He moaned when he shifted... What happened to his children? To his wife? Where are they? He forced his pupils to tour around the vacuum to find his childhood friend who had turned to be his wife, the one who held his children. He couldn’t spot that smooth blond hair he always sifted through, the one he threw a bucket of water at when they were in elementary school. He couldn’t spot those glassy blue eyes, the ones he once goofily said, “They look like magical orbs,” making his younger self wife blush. He couldn’t find her, only strolling in his memories, in his dreams. He closed his eyes and touched the gash where his lukewarm liquid, he knew as blood, seeped. Something like a film rolled all his lifetime events before his mind’s eye. They were mostly the ones where he was extremely happy... He recalled himself when he first discovered his love for art. He cried too much to get his first easel for kids. He did chores, became a good kid, and washed his dad’s car every morning until he got it. He bickered with his parents for stopping that day, however, it was such a good memory to reminisce. Back then, he went to his best friend, his wife, to tell her about his parents’ gift. She was flabbergasted to know about his interests; it turned out, she likes crafts. It was one step closer to her heart before he could camp in there forever. They crafted art, lots of art. From their fashion clothes, to their dream home. She wanted that big house with a pool and a gym, but he wanted a blonde wife, specifically with magical blue orbs, and two children in a small and cozy apartment. When she laughed at him, he laughed with her, but he said, “I’m serious. A home sweet home is hardly a big Villa.” She slowly stopped giggling, looked at him, probably thinking. “A home sweet home is being happy with family,” she replied, and he nodded. Happiness to them was to be engulfed by warmth. Now, that warmth of his mom, of his family and wife, dissipated. It left him alone in a dark pool of blood because of such a clumsy mistake that led to a car accident. He wondered if his wife’s cold too; he wondered if her body’s lying far or just closely enough to his. His children had their seat belts on, so they might be stuck in the car. He wondered if he’s going to be born again, if will he have the same life as this. Was he good enough to be lucky twice? He wondered if he’ll be able to ever fly the red kite with his brother, or to eat barbeque with his family. He wondered if he’ll go back to the same school, meet his wife again and softly bully her into loving him, or not? He wondered if he’ll face the same pain of breaking his leg, or he’ll get a good omen of “Break a leg in there,” when his gallery finally sees the light of life, like he always dreamt. Life doesn’t have enough answers to a lot of questions, but humans live in the hopes of finding the answers of what confuses them the most. They keep fighting like he is now to make sure he’s the only one dying, not his memories with his family and friend. He didn’t want to leave. However, when his younger self showed up inside his dreams, a red kite in hand, he couldn’t miss the fun, so he went with him...


On a stark Thursday night, I stared out of the window of the precinct. Then, looked at my watch to check the time. It was 10:30PM and the skies looked like it was about to rain. I couldn’t wait to get out of this humid police station and my sweaty uniform. My thoughts are interrupted by my colleague Chirag. Apparently, he has gotten into the weekend mood a little early and he is forcing me to grab a beer with him at a nearby bar & restaurant. “Come on, Mary gold bar will be empty tonight and it’s owner hasn’t paid his due for this week... it will be a free beer for you. What’s the harm?” While Chirag was trying to convince me, there is tall lanky guy with frameless spectacle coming in all worried and sweaty. It felt like he had lost his car or something. He was in office formal attire and he directly looked at me & said” I had like to press charges for an intruder in my house... my wife is with him... but... but ...” His voice breaks down a little “she is ok with it” Chirag’s tough voice breaks in “Look mister, we are not here to record your petty cheating cases of your wife” The victim looks up in rage “You don’t get it, it was all planned!!! First my friends then my money and now my family... this is not fair “ I try to reassure him by saying, “please sit down and let’s take your report formally” Chirag’s get a phone call and he walks out to attend the call. The victim & I walk into the side and sit on the table. He is a bit worried now but he starts narrating his case and his weird experiences from past few days... “... I am Raunak Sharma, working in the ITS, an IT firm. I had client holidays on Tuesday and Wednesday. So I had planned for an evening out with my best friend. When I left my house and drove my car towards the hotel... there was this strange person who was standing in the middle of street. When I honked at him he came to the side and asked politely for helping him to drop him off at a nearby. He informed me how his cab got cancelled and how got late for his seminar. He looked decent with a round face and a white shirt coupled with blue trousers was worn by him. His stop was quite near for me to ask any questions or strike a conversation with him...” “Can you please get to the details of when and where the crime was committed? This feels more like your personal experience... It’s quite late and I don’t think this is relevant to the crime at all...” I interrupted him as I wanted to get done with this as soon as possible. “... officer this person is the one who took my life, my money and my everything...” “Look sir, if you really want, I can arrange a sketch artist to whom you can describe the details of this person and we will try to find him. It would be a robbery case and you can just get to the point about what all he stole please?” He gave a heavy sigh and continued “... I am getting to it, officer please let me complete.” Raunak continued “When I dropped him near the junction, he got down and before he got down he told me something really weird ... he told me that friends are like a real gem and often a set of different gems form a wonderful collection of jewellery, it would be a shame to lose any one of gem isn’t it? At first I ignored and rushed to the hotel. To my surprise, my best friend was already there. He is often late but this time he was there. He was looking for someone. When I went and greeted him, he didn’t recognize me and acted like I was a complete stranger and he started asking questions like do I know you? ... ” I interrupt him again this time in anger “Sir, if this isn’t even a robbery but a stupid prank. Why are you even reporting this? Please call your friend and get consolidated” “...Exactly my thoughts a prank, a joke. He walked away and so did I. When I returned home and told my wife about this strange event she thought I was also trying to spoof her and prank her as well. I tried calling my best friend’s cell but he didn’t pick up. Next day I had to rush to Office for an important document and use it to fill a form. When I was driving my car to office at the same place I found that creepy guy with the same outfit as last night... He looked at me and emptied his pockets and ran away ...” “I wanted to chase him but he ran into nearby lanes or shop’s. It was strange but this task of office was much more critical and I had to get it done within the time frame. So without much though I rush to office. Again to my surprise, when I reach office ... I find my pockets missing my wallet... I had my keys, phone and wallet but now it wasn’t there....” Now, I am convinced that this guy is either some creepy lunatic who is out of his mind. I would not interrupt him and ask him how he lost things or how he is able see this other guy he keeps speaking about. “...I was convinced this guy was either some creepy lunatic who was completely out of his mind ...” Raunak said in a reassuring manner When he said this I was completely taken aback. How could my exact thoughts be felt by him? I am scared to my bones. Raunak studies the change in my body language and now for the first time he smiles and says “You know what’s crazy? Today when I returned from work I met this guy again but not in middle of street in some strange way. He booked a ride for carpool from my office till my home. When he comes to my car from the office pick up spot. He seems changed, he has spectacles now, formal clothes, he is no more trying to talk to me or trying to take things for me or being mysterious at all. In fact, the whole way back, I keep asking him questions, trying to get thing’s out of him. He even calls me crazy at a point of time. He says he has never met me...” Raunak chuckles for a bit then he continues... “When we reach my building, I am going to basement to park my vehicle but to my surprise there is already some other car in my parking spot. While I park at some other spot and go to my apartment via the elevator thinking about all these strange experiences... I try to unlock the door with my keys but it didn’t work for some strange reason... When the door unlocks from the inside I see the same creepy person yelling at me stalker go away, I’ll call police go away... I could see my wife looking at me like a complete stranger, like someone else...” “I was broken, my head started hurting, I thought about calling the police but I see the notification of the carpool app with my own name giving me 1-star rating but the photo on the profile was that of the creepy guy.” “I couldn’t believe what had transpired, how my life was taken away from me ... “ Raunak stops speaking now, I am feeling depressed. What if he is actually speaking the truth, how will he ever get his life back with no alibi’s or no one recognizing him. How is this even possible? Chirag who was once my colleague comes in and questions me “Do I know you?” I have no answers but one hundred more questions on what the hell had just happened.I couldn’t believe what was transpiring, how my life is being taken away from me ... He later drags me by my collar and I fall off my chair in complete shock. He says “We shouldn’t entertain these fuckers, these bastards wearing our uniform’s ... come on Rajesh lets fucking leave, it was your holiday and yet you came in and tried to help this piece of shit...” My mind hurts, I couldn’t process what had happened to raunak was in fact him doing the same to me... I look at my shirt’s side pocket, I am still in police’s uniform and the name tag reads “RAUNAK”.


#Hello r/Shortstories! Today we’re going to give a to /u/chunksisthedog! He’s been around the subreddit for quite awhile and has been a participant in both features here. His serial, *The Stone Wielder*, written on has recently concluded with 21 chapters! And wouldn’t you know it, they’ve already begun a new one. So let’s take a few minutes to chat with them and read a bit about their experience.   ***   #The Stone Wielder - Written by u/chunksisthedog **A brief synopsis from Chunks:** A group of people called Wielders use Stones to channel energy. They call them techniques. Different techniques produce different elemental results. All Wielders are trained at The Academy in the capital city. Jeson is a just graduated Wielder that finds a fugitive Wielder. His ideas are challenged about what The Academy is and does. He journeys to a far away place and meets others that share his ideas and some violently disagree with them. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |   ***   #A Chat with u/Chunksisthedog about Serial Writing ##**What have you learned throughout the serial writing process?** I learned that I need a sort of outline. This is the first time I have ever attempted a serial and really the first time I put anything out on reddit. The first couple of posts I did not read the story before I posted it. The ones that I read to my wife before posting allowed me to hear the mistakes. ##**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** What I enjoyed the most was the feedback. I do not fancy myself a writer, so hearing what I did well along with things that I needed to improve on was awesome. That really kept me writing. ##**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** The biggest challenge I faced was starting it. I have read stories on here and everyone seemed so much better than me. The wondering if I was going to get laughed out of the sub. My wife pushed me to post, so finally I did. ##**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** My advice would be to lay your serial out first. I decided to not outline and "just stay with my vision." I got sidetracked somewhere that I didn't want to go and felt like I wrote myself into a corner. I kept digging my way out of it but felt like I lost some control of my story towards the end.   ***   Thank you so much for your time. It’s been such a pleasure to read your words and watch your writing grow over the last several months. I’m already enjoying your new project and I wish you the best of luck on your writing journey. Be sure to leave Chunks a comment and some love below! Feel free to ask him questions about his serial and/or his experience.   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I asked the researcher I was interviewing what specifically he was trying to learn about domestic cat behavior. His reply was both clear and concise. It is always good when an interview subject offers natural responses on camera. Otherwise it becomes an editor’s difficult job to salvage the footage. They have to cut it in such a way that it doesn’t come across as awkward. Luckily my assignment was comfortable and engaging on film. “As an animal behaviorist who specializes in studying our feline house companions, I seek to better understand what makes the little balls of fur tick. They are complex creatures. By studying their body language and various postures, we can learn a great deal about how to interpret their moods and future behavior. I also hope to decipher their complex range of vocalization. What are they ‘saying’ when they come up to our feet and purr or meow? What do they want us to know? I’d love to find out exactly what they are trying to tell us.” “Very interesting.”; I agreed off camera. “I think many cat owners have wondered that. Sure, we assume it’s coos of love and acceptance but it could be more complex and detailed than that. Finding out what they are trying to communicate with us would be very compelling! I hope you crack the feline code, sir. Do you have some scientific methods of deciphering what it might mean?”; I asked. It was always good to prod the subject with follow up questions to keep them talking. “Thank you. We hope to have some very definitive answers soon.”; He replied. “We are mapping their brain activity with an MRI and monitoring which sections are the most active for different circumstances. From the specific activity we recognize like hunger, anger, lust, and fear; we will chart out a baseline. I expect that strong behavior patterns will materialize almost immediately. When they are stalking prey or courting a suitor for mating, we will see strong, uniform activity in the same areas of our different test subjects. Once this activity chart is fully mapped out, we can test them to see how they respond to new situations. From the proximity of the unknown brain activity to the known, we can associate them and get a rough ‘translation’ of emotions. It will be the closest we’ll ever come to having a ‘cat-to-human’ translator.” “So ‘fear’ might reside in the same general brain area as ‘anger’; and thus you can infer they are very close in the mind of the domestic cat?”; I concluded. “Exactly! It’s not a perfect science but we can loosely associate the known with the unknown. I hope my research gives humanity a better understanding of how cats feel about certain things. We wouldn’t extract this data from a single individual test subject. We will correlate our findings between all our subjects and then overlay them for a stronger picture. It’s the only way to form a scientific picture of felis domesticus as a species.” “Do you expect any surprises?”; I asked him point blank. “I’d think any open-minded research study would have to come with a few revelations that didn’t fit in with the initial hypothesis.” He smiled. “There may be a few. As you implied, good science is open minded. If we go in looking to only confirm what we expect, that’s all we will find. Real science wants to discover the truth; not validate what we already believe. I’ve already spent two years conducting the same brain mapping research on the big cat species of lions, tigers, and leopards. Once I’ve finished collecting this data on their smaller cousins, we can compare it to my earlier research. I can’t tell you how professionally exciting it will be for me to compare the results!” I thanked the man and wished him well. We promised to check back with him in a few months to see where the research led. As a medium-sized town mobile news reporter, I never really knew where my assignments would take me. I wasn’t even sure my line producer would let me follow up on the story but a few months later I got the assignment. Frankly I’d forgotten all about it. This time the research scientist leading the project seemed very different. He was almost withdrawn and ‘down’. He’d been so animated and enthusiastic the first time that I almost dreaded conducting the follow up story. Subjects in that state of mind are among the most difficult to interview. I couldn’t help but assume the research had failed to go where he wanted it to. With that in mind, I jotted down a few questions to ask with a more sympathetic tone. When my camera man was ready, I began the interview. “A few months ago, I sat down with you as you were just starting to map the domestic cat’s brain with an MRI. If memory serves, you were going to compare and overlay your data with earlier compiled data on the brain activity of big African cats. How did that turn out?” He started out a little slowly and I feared we might have to stop. His reluctance to delve into his findings was obvious. His response and body language implied all his research was a wasted effort. I was tempted to remind him of his earlier words about true science being the search for truth and not validation; but I knew that would bring the interview to a screeching halt. Instead, I decided to give him some space to tell us about his findings, no matter how professionally disappointing they might be. Eventually he opened up and confessed the reason for his somber mood. “Yes, that is correct. We collected MRI activity data from the domestic cats in our study. By comparing the brain reactions of circumstances we already knew, to those we did not; our understanding grew immensely of how the test subjects felt about other things. It was very successful research and we learned amazing things about the thought processes of cats in general. Especially those of smaller domestic cats.” I was perplexed at his morose tone in light of what he explained. It sounded like his research went very well but I had to express that in a more discreet tone for the interview. “Great!”; I tried to infuse enthusiasm into the proceedings. “I can’t help but detect a slight level of hesitancy in your voice though. Were some of your research findings not what you expected?” He looked up at me and pursed a slight smile of reluctance. “Mumm, well yes. My team and I did make some discoveries that we didn’t expect. Some of our data results are going to be highly controversial. I’m still not prepared for the backlash it will be met with. We checked and rechecked our data a dozen times. It’s absolutely correct but once this interview becomes public, there will be a huge furor among pet owners everywhere. The public isn’t ready for the truth.” I was taken aback by his statement. I never expected him to suggest the research was itself successful but the results would cause controversy. That possibility never even occurred to me. Of course he peaked my curiosity about what the big secret was going to be. His research was about house cats, for heaven’s sake. Just how ‘controversial’ could it be? I guess he saw the heavy skepticism telegraphed on my face. Surely he understood my doubt considering the circumstances. It sounded like an exaggerated level of build up. I adopted a more contrite expression as he went on to explain but it was I who was in for a shock. If anything he understated how controversial his research would be. “We did a complete MRI work up of reactions to different situations the domestic cats were exposed to. As we expected, their brain activity was focused in the same areas, for the same situations. From the known areas of brain activity, we could extrapolate data about the unknown reactions and how close they are. I’m proud to say that we now have an unprecedented understanding of their emotional responses.” I was confused. None of that was even remotely controversial but I could tell he was holding back ‘the big one’. Whatever it was. I motioned for him to continue. It looked like he needed another push. “As we expected, there was very little difference between the brain activity of the massive cats of Africa and our diminutive pets around the house. After all, they share 99% of the same DNA, right? The same things that intrigue a huge jungle tiger, intrigues our cute house pets. The same goes for fear, anger, lust and the full gamut of emotions they experience. What really took us by surprise was the similarity in their motivations. The smaller Asian leopard often ‘talks’ to its prey. We have witnessed them ‘chattering’ in a soothing manner to disarm and relax their prey before they pounce.” I nodded politely at his informative story. I still didn’t see what any of it had to do with all his heightened level of secrecy and apprehension. I still couldn’t understand his pained hesitancy. Then he finally lowered the hammer. “I wanted to explain about the Asian leopard’s hunting method because it’s important for you to understand my next point. Those cute purrs and meows from our feline companions that we always assumed were just gentle cries of love, are actually predatory taunts. They are focused in the same part of the brain that is hyper active when the big cats are about to strike and kill. Even our beloved house cats see us as food! They just recognize the futility of attacking such a larger animal and play ‘nice’ while they bide their time. Make no mistake, they would kill us all if they could. Every single cat owner in the world would be stunned if they aware of how much their pets were thinking about killing them. The cat’s meow is about eating us.


When Julie was born, she was born an original. For awhile, before she knew better, she was content. But then came Jon and Jane and soon, she was made to be part of a trio. Her parents were once in love but that time had passed and it made her sad that they stayed together. So she promised never to do that to herself. To stay restless and never to drop anchors tethering her to one little place. She grew tall in a small small world. She surmised that problems in a small world must be to scale, and thus solvable. And her name was a problem, so she went away to the field of imagination. And there she saw a dream - a swirl of ash and leaves twisting and turning together, agitated. They reminded her of herself, spinning and spinning and not going anywhere at all. So she decided to leave and to rename herself Ashely. She flew from one town to the next and she never fell in love so she never had to stay. Each and every decade she started anew. Fresh spring, fresh fall, the leaves turned green to brown and fell to the ground. She picked up a drink because it helped her think and it slowed down the seasons. One glass led to the next, she set in her ways. Jon and Jane called out her name, but she was too busy spinning to come up for air. So she spun without a care for any one specific thing. Gone went the years and her red hair, too. Just another small small problem, so she donned a wig and tried not to care about that either. She sat and listened to strangers and put their fragmented minds together. Their lives and dreams and fears were far far away, and thus safe to contemplate. But before the last piece was complete, she was gone again. After all, who had the patience for 10,000 puzzle pieces and she’d helped enough already, hadn’t she? Ashely liked to play the game of pretend. But she never married because a man is big and real, and she preferred things palmable though not palpable. Jon and Jane settled down and had kids of their own and she sent them movies and toys and taught them the magic of make believe. But all that imagination takes a toll, and it’s hard to live in a world where nothing’s tangible and it’s all just small small problems stacking up and becoming bigger ones. And speaking of problems... the drink got drunker, so she put down the glass and picked up the pill bottle. For she’d given to others, so why not take for herself? That crackle of pills shook like a maraca, music to her ears and she twirled to the beat. But with each pill she popped, the earth beneath her feet fell further and further away and no matter how fast she flew, she knew she was spinning in the opposite direction of the world’s orbit around the sun. And she missed her hair though she’d never admit it and she missed her mom and stories that had happy endings. But her sardonic sensibilities set a precedent and she couldn’t want for those things now. What was the point of wanting what could not be got? So she spun a web of withering words and tore out of town again. And she spent all her money and she drank again and stopped again and she tried new jobs but they were all on a different frequency. Like they were on FM but she could only play on a tape. Try as she might to wind and unwind, she was obsolete and she felt it. The ash and the leaves fell at her feet and her shoulders hunched but she pushed them back violently. She had to stand, for she was too proud to sit down. Ashely slept in her car with only her dog for company. Gryffindor she called that Great Great Dane, and she barked at Ashely’s frequency, even if it was only music with no lyrics. A tune was better than none at all to twirl to. Now it was winter and there were no leaves, only ash. And yes, the fires burnt out as soon as she set them. She went to the doctor because she was cold, but he was colder. And yes, she needed money but she had her pride if not little green papers. Who decided upon wealth and worth, anyways? Jon and Jane were worried, but their wrinkled foreheads stressed Ashely out and she hated to see them. So she called when she knew they wouldn’t pick up for a few times, mentally preparing herself for another lecture on responsibility and being a productive member of society. But Gryffindor was braver than she, and the barks gave her solace. They were going to be okay. Until the puppy got dogged on old and her fur wrinkled and all Ashely’s money was gone to pills and pours. And she had no more for her little companion. And she cried and cried but Gryffindor still died and her heart was in life no more. She finally agreed to sit down and feed with family, though they were more interested in telling than listening. Laughs came out like coughs, and smiles were smothered with responsible nods and she’d seen too many raised eyebrows in her day. It was enough to close her eyes and never open them again. But she loved Jon and Jane so she tried, at least a little. But she never tried quite hard enough. And her chest started to hurt and she thought it was a problem, but the doctor said it wasn’t. So she figured it was just the pain of life until she had a heart attack and was found a day later. The people cried for enough time, but not for too long. And Heaven was full of dogs and long locks of hair and the people who cared on earth forgot to up there. And she was happier.


Hi, This is my first attempt at writing a short story. Before I write any more, I wanted to share the first 500 words to see if I'm on the right lines or if I'm making some kind of cardinal sins I'm unaware of? What do you think? Feedback appreciated. Albert Pearson kept a gun, fully loaded, in the bottom drawer of his bedside cabinet. The top drawer was for his socks - each one bunched together with its counterpart, a system designed to ensure no sock could exist without a partner and all but eliminating the possibility of any garment going rogue and hiding at the back, unused for years. The middle drawer were for boxer shorts, each folded neatly, each a carbon copy of the last, dark navy with an elasticated waist. The bottom drawer was for his gun. His wife, to the surprise of many, was very much in favour of the gun. Other folk had their own particular opinions on storing a loaded firearm in an easily accessible place, but upon hearing their concerns she would move to quash them with a well versed speech about “keeping the family safe” and how there’s “plenty of weirdos and nutters about”, before closing with a “you can’t be too careful” for good measure. “What sort of gun is it?” someone might ask her, for the politeness of continuing conversation more than any real curiosity. “One that fires bullets” was her all too well-rehearsed riposte. There was no malice in this reply, her ignorance was not feigned for the pretence of wit. Rather, she genuinely didn’t know. What did it matter if it was a Smith and Wesson, or a Glock and Spiel, or an AK47, or whatever, it didn’t make any difference. It fired bullets that shot people, that was the only thing she needed it to be able to do, and so long as it did that, the rest really didn’t matter. Mr Pearson forbade his wife from talking about the gun. “This right here” he said, the handle of the gun clenched tightly around his bony fingers, “this is between you and me. Ain’t nobody else what needs to know about it. Cause if other people knows we got this, they’ll be thinking we’re trouble. But we’re not trouble, we’re just preparing in case there’s trouble. And the more people what think there might be trouble, the more chance of there being trouble in the first place, you understand?” She nodded her head, to disguise the fact that she quite plainly did not understand. Rather than heed her husband’s advice, convoluted as it may have presented itself, she decided instead to do entirely the opposite, regaling near strangers with levels of braggadocio usually reserved for when parents talk about the pseudo-accomplishments of their kin. “Well Martin’s doing great, he’s got a big job at one of those financial institutions, and we’re so proud of Lauren for getting into university, and did I tell you about the gun scaring off that suspicious looking man lurking around our bins the other night?” Neither Mr Pearson nor his wife knew exactly how long they’d had the gun. It was years, that much is certain, if not the exact number. Long enough that you can’t immediately recall its purchase. If time allowed, of course, one would be able to sit down and through a process of pairing significant dates and anniversaries to the timeline of purchase, be able to deduce roughly when the gun came into their possession. But it seemed of little importance; the various particulars of who did what and when seemed to have little bearing on the outcome, that Albert Pearson and his wife owned a gun.


The Attack A warm sunny day though breezy. White clouds fill the sky changing shapes by the minute. The Finding is half what it was yesterday, and while alert, are expecting nothing of any consequence to happen today. Officer Jones is on duty, and his peaceful outlook as well as those of his other officers, are blown away when Officer Jones receives a call from the Finding sentries hidden in the Southwest outskirts informing him drones are in the area. Their exact number is unknown. Immediately the call for masks is given. All search the skies but see nothing. Officer Jones calls the other quadrants and tells them an unknown number of drones were sighted in the Southwest quadrant. All eyes scan the sky searching, momentarily distracted by the sounds of rustling leaves as flocks of birds burst from the trees into the skies above. Suddenly shouts of “there....there” sound from each of the quadrants over the open phone lines. Others point to the sky trying to pinpoint the exact location of the incoming drones. From a distance, yesterday’s drones looked like birds peacefully flying overhead while today those ‘peaceful birds’ are suddenly now diving from the highest of the clouds starting their attack. Officer Jones quickly counts six maybe eight drones before running for cover as suddenly one explosion is followed by another. They appear then disappear in a matter of seconds leaving behind a compound in ruins. With nothing left to burn, only the ashes of a few small fires still smolder. The compound is leveled, and the drones have disappeared back into the clouds. Officer Jones watches the sky but is sure no drones will return for there is nothing left, not here. He gives the order to withdraw quickly and quietly to the outskirts keeping intervals, then lay still remaining camouflaged. He calls Monroe, “The compound is destroyed... Thankfully no one is hurt. The drones surprised us... I don’t know what might happen next. I know they accomplished demolishing the compound and probably believe all of us are dead... Possibly a second wave might be coming... Right, we have to figure it out fast. I’m on my way.” Officer Jones puts his phone in his pocket, sighs and looks up at the now peaceful sky. Shakes his head, thinks...’sure didn’t last long.’ The team, with the exception of Officer Jones and Pamela, gathered at their new location to plan their next step. Rushing out of earshot, Bob calls Pamela. He has the urge to go get her. It wasn’t long ago, Pamela was kidnapped in San Antonio, and Bob is not sure what the culprits had in mind. Jesse says, “They wasted no time. It seems Neville is expendable to them after all. They wanted him to escape but couldn’t make that happen, and now they’re afraid he’s going to rat them out so in their opinion, Neville’s got to go.” “I think we need to talk to Neville now to see if he’s willing to make a deal,” Samantha adds. Pamela answers the phone, and Bob says, “You alright?” Hearing Bob on the phone, they all turn to look. It’s obvious Pamela is on the line. They listen in, in hopes of learning some new information from her Doctor Randolph visit. Pamela hears the urgency and fear in Bob’s voice and quickly replies, “I’m fine, What’s wrong?” Bob takes a deep breath and asks, “Where are you? Are you close?” “Maybe ten minutes away.” Pamela asks again, “What’s happened?” “Drones leveled the compound.” There is shocked silence now on the phone as Pamela shares in Bob’s urgency and fear. Then she asks, “Is everyone all right? No one was there, right?” Bob assures her, “No one at all. We’re all fine. No one is following you, are they?” “Don’t worry, really. I exited I 12, at La Combe, and I was the only one who did. What is happening there?” “Planning our next step.” Bob notices the others are listening and now relieved Pamela is okay, he asks, “Learn anything on your visit?” Pamela tells Bob, “I learned our nurse Harriet Drew and Neville were an item. Neville was her boyfriend, or so we were told by a woman named Sharon in personnel.” “Really? Interesting... That could change things. I’ll tell Samantha and the rest. Be careful. See you shortly.” Off the phone Bob shares his new found information. “Looks like Neville and our nurse may have been in a relationship.” Jesse says, “If that’s true, and if our nurse friend is an informant, that’s a double whammy for Neville. Now that his former partners believe Neville will tell all, even his girlfriend wants him dead.” Samantha smiles, pauses then states, “I have an idea. Let me question Neville, and you all play along with me.” The others are not really sure what she has up her sleeve, but she is the lawyer, and they witnessed the ‘light bulb’ light up. “Can Officer Jones send pictures of the compound?” Samantha asks Monroe. “I’ll get him to send them.” Monroe calls Jones to make his request. A few moments later, his phone beeps, and the pictures are there. Samantha asks, “Are we ready?” They nod and all quickly enter Neville’s room. Startled Neville looks at them, “My, aren’t we in a hurry.” Samantha tells him, “Yes, we are. You should be.” “Hurry for what?” Neville asks. “To make a plea bargain,” answers Samantha. “Why?” Neville replies. “To stay alive,” Samantha answers. Samantha turns to Monroe, “Do you have the pictures of the compound?” Monroe hands her his phone containing a video of the compound ruins. Samantha shows Neville and tells him, “This is where you were yesterday at this time. You’re expendable now. Looks like they want you dead.” Looking worried, Neville takes a deep breath. Samantha adds, “We don’t have much time.” Neville remains silent, but it’s obvious the gears are turning. He’s wondering how to proceed. Samantha tells him, “It’s up to you. The guy who’s trying to kill you may succeed and get away scot free. You have it in your power to take him down before he gets to you.” All of the others look on but say nothing. They feel as though they are the audience in a play. Samantha continues, “I want to offer a plea deal. You tell us what we need to know to stop these experiments, and I’ll talk to the DA on your behalf. Mr. Dugat, whoever wants you dead, thinks you’re dead, but it’s only a matter of time until they find out you’re alive. They don’t know where you are, but we can’t hide you forever. They’ll try to finish what they started when they find you. It seems to me you have a choice of receiving a reduced sentence with a chance for a new life when you get out or certain death.” Neville protests, “I would make a plea bargain if I had done anything wrong. You’ve got the wrong man.” “Oh, yes. You’re Justin Covell. I remember. You know, whether you’re Neville or Justin or somebody yet to be named, you’ll still be just as dead.” “What exactly are the charges... against Neville?” “Oh, that’s up to the DA, but I imagine kidnapping, attempted murder, if not actual murder for starters.” “Speaking of kidnapping and attempted murder, do you think they knew I wasn’t Neville?” “I think they knew you WERE Neville.” “Why do you think I was thanking everyone for saving me? They kidnapped me and were going to kill me.” “Mr. DUGAT, I think you want to keep your lie alive. That’s what I think. Did you see the video of the compound?” “I did,” Neville replies. “Why do you think that happened?” asks Samantha. “It’s obvious someone wants me dead.” “Did you put up a struggle when they kidnapped you?” “Yes, I fought them as hard as I could.” “Yet, those of us in the other room heard nothing. They pushed you though a window that was hardly big enough for a child, but no glass was broken nor a sound made. We only knew you were gone because Jesse Gunn checked, otherwise we wouldn’t have known you were gone, or as you say abducted. You still say you fought them tooth and nail?” “Yes, I did what I could.” “So two aliens, Avantans I believe before the change, each with their two hands, managed to hold your legs and arms together to get you through that tight window. Who was it that held your mouth closed that prevented you from calling for help, while you were screaming and kicking?” Neville says, “I was afraid they’d kill me.” Samantha responds, “Of course, that’s why you were so grateful you were saved. You held out hope we’d come to your rescue. But, I’m confused, why wouldn’t you help those in the process of helping you?” “What are you talking about?” “I have it on good authority you growled and slashed at those trying to save you. They thought you wanted to get to the bayou.” “I’d say your ‘so called authority’ doesn’t know what they are talking about.” “What would you say if I told you I’m an alien, and I was the deer that knocked one of the deer carrying you off his feet causing you to tumble. I am ‘the authority’.” “I’d say you’re trying to trick me and get me to admit to something that didn’t happen.” Samantha tells Neville, “It’s no trick. I was that deer, and you were growling just like I said. You came toward me slashing those Draakar claws of yours, and you wanted to kill me, but... you were just too damn slow...” Neville is visibly upset, angry, and worried. Samantha in contrast, exudes confidence. “Mr. DUGAT, Here are the facts. They tried to save you. They failed. Now they want you dead... It’s that simple. I will go to the DA, and I will be back tomorrow. Perhaps we can reach an agreement. No one knows where you are so you should be safe tonight, but we cannot guarantee your safety should you continue to keep silent. Mr. Cane, is Nurse Drew on her way?” Monroe looks like a deer in the headlights, an actor who has forgotten his lines. There is a pause then Samantha comes to his rescue with raised eyebrows and the world’s quickest nod. Monroe picks up on the cue and answers, “Yes.” He takes a quick breath and smiles slightly feeling pleased with his successful one line. Neville looks as though he’s been punched in the stomach. Samantha decides this is a good time to leave and walks out followed by the others. Pamela arrived just moments ago and waits outside the door. Quickly Bob goes to her. Pamela assures him she is fine. The others sit waiting to hear of her visit with Doctor Randolph. Samantha keeps her attention divided between listening to Pamela while hoping to hear Neville call to them asking for a plea deal. “Any luck with Neville?” Asks Pamela. “Not sure yet, ... trying to scare him into making a plea deal,” Samantha responds. Pamela tells them, “I’m sure Doctor Randolph has absolutely nothing to do with the experiments or kidnappings. Before Doctor Randolph was made Chief of Staff, he and Neville talked, even went to lunch a few times. Doctor Randolph felt Neville was picking his brain. They only talked in passing after he became Chief of Staff. Harriet Drew worked there but left six months ago. Doctor Randolph didn’t know her, but a lady from personnel said Neville and she both stopped working close to the same time and... she believed Harriet Drew was his girlfriend.” “If she is or was, I believe that romance is dead,” says Jesse. “Bob agrees, “Looks like it.” “Oh, and according to Doctor Randolph, Neville is hostile and resentful toward Osteoans. He feels they are dying out because of their assimilation. They’re bringing their destruction on themselves by hiding who they are. I believe Neville Dugat is not the main leader, but they recruited and used him for his knowledge.” Samantha adds, “That’s why Doctor Randolph felt Neville was picking his brain. Neville was trying to learn some of Doctor Randolph’s expertise.” “Neville’s job must have been developing formulas for the drugs for injections. Perhaps he was in charge of the experiments. That would explain the unidentifiable ingredients in Jesse’s blood and others.” Pamela is silent, but only for a moment then her face goes sour in disgust as if she took a bite of something vile and putrid, and she says, “Neville didn’t care if they lived or died... or how his experiments affected... his guinea pigs.” Monroe adds, “Well, we need to find the son of a bitch in charge. He’s declared war. This has to end.” They all look at each another with new hope. Samantha says confidently, “The END starts now.” The End


“Good morning, miss.” Her voice was gentle, as was the velvety soft hand on my bare shoulder, but neither could soothe the pounding in my skull. I offered some sort of noise resembling a distressed animal to let her know I was alive. Opening my eyes was too much to ask. “You requested a personal wake-up,” she said, her voice again sliding like butter, and I carefully forced open one eye. “I’m up,” I managed. I could not believe I was hungover. I had done everything in my power to avoid this, I mean, outside of not drinking. I had hydrated all day , not to mention the two water bottles I had consumed overnight, like a camel in a desert. I had stayed away from tequila, my nemesis. I know I had eaten well at the dinner last night. I had commissioned the beholder of the soft voice to make certain I was in bed before midnight. All in preparation for the best day ever! My wedding day! I suddenly bolted upright, the room spinning just a hair, taking in the woman. Her name was Cassidy, I remembered this now, and it was part of the Gold Wedding Package here at this luxurious hotel where my wedding was set to take place. Today! I reached out and squeezed both of Cassidy’s hands as if she were a friend and not an employee of the hotel. Cassidy was startled, both by my sudden jolt upright and the hand-holding, which I guess was out of the realm of the personal-assistant/bride relationship. Her face was flat, unemotive, but no matter. It was my wedding day! I pushed off the mattress and strode the windows, willing my headache go somewhere and die. I flung the room-darkening curtains open to look down upon the water that would serve as the backdrop to the best day of my life. Everything was gray. Everything. The sky, the water, the very air, it seemed, held a solid granite color. I turned to look at Cassidy in devastation. “What’s...where’s the sun? Today is supposed to be nice! Its my wedding day!” I could feel tears threatening already...this could not be happening! Everything about today centered on the partly sunny, seventy-two degree forecast of the past week. Everything: the photography. The ceremony. My hair. My hair! It was going to frizz up! The lovely, quaint, classy cocktail hour that was supposed to entertain the guests by the sea while Jeremy and I had our perfect, no-shadows, non-windy wedding photos taken. “I don’t control the weather, miss,” Cassidy said, her voice still smooth but with hints of annoyance. The staccato beats in my head remained; a fresh wave of bile threatening to erupt. “I know but...” The tears came then, spilling over. Dammit! That was going to cause puffiness. Cassidy softened a bit. “It'll be okay. It’s really not supposed to rain so I bet it will clear up. You’ll see,” she said, reaching over to pat my shoulder uncomfortably. “Take a shower, and I’ll set your breakfast up.” I nodded, feeling like a toddler who’s lollipop had just fallen irretrievably into the dirt. As I undressed, I contemplated the Plan B that I had paid no attention to, a ceremony in the front banquet room, the ocean just slightly visible if you craned your neck and pressed your nose up to the glass walls. In the shower, I let the scalding water wash over me, willing everything that had happened so far in the first five minutes of my wedding day to wash away as well. Okay: the hangover was manageable. A Gatorade and a double dose of ibuprofen, not to mention a protein-rich breakfast would cure it. The weather? Okay. Cassidy had said it would probably change. The forecast had predicted not a drop of rain, and it was still early, after all. I quickly dried off and felt my excitement returning as I brushed my teeth. I had been planning this day for two years. Two years . Ever since Jeremy had gotten down on one knee, cornily and generically, only overshadowed by the massive diamond he offered me. The life he promised me. Money, for one. Ease--I would never have to work. Babies: the thing I wanted most! Two or three matching little blondes...I could see them in my mind’s eye, riding in the back of my BMW crossover. Wearing matching designer pajamas at Christmas. Bedrooms with the Pottery Barn quilts and the letters on the wall spelling out the cute little androgynous names I’d already chosen. Harper. Kennan. Alex. I mean, Jeremy was part of the picture too. But. Sometimes I felt like royalty being assigned to marry the dorky prince-in-waiting. Of course, no one was forcing me to marry him, and I liked him enough, and he was truly a good, honest man. And physically, if you unfocused your eyes and made his clothing a blur, you could really concentrate on his beautiful features. I could not wait to see him in the black tuxedo I’d chosen! Jeremy was a man of good bone structure, a solid jawline, golden hair and ice-blue eyes. His smile was wide and congenial. He was the perfect height. He was a lawyer, not to mention the gobs of family money at his disposal. And he was truly, madly, wildly, head-over-heels in love with me--the future mother of his children, he called me. So what did it matter if I didn’t love him? Everything else I’d ever wanted was wrapped into a neat little package. Once we had kids he’d fade into the background, anyhow. I burst out of the bathroom, my headache receding despite the room erupting with noise. Cassidy looked a bit irritated at the squeals of my bridesmaids, wearing white monogrammed terrycloth robes--gifts from me! Madison held the garment bags containing the dresses, and Lauren had the make-up and shoes slung over her shoulder. And Katelyn was...wait. Where was Katelyn? “Where’s Katelyn?” I asked, breaking the screaming into silence. Madison and Lauren exchanged looks, their lips pursed together as if they weren’t sure what to say to me. “Welllll....” Madison started. “The good news is she’s okay.” “And since we know that, we don’t need to worry about her today,” Lauren added brightly, and I notice that both of my friends looked exceedingly tired. “Where’s Katelyn?” I demanded, my hysteria rising. This was just like her. Always late to the party, always having to be the center of attention. The complainer. She had been the one to grumble about the salmon pink color of their dresses; the one who didn’t like her groomsman, Jeremy’s acne-spotted fifteen-year-old brother. “Don’t you remember what happened last night?” Lauren said gently. I did not remember, but nodded as if I suddenly did. “Long story short,” Madison jumped in, “She had an allergic reaction to the shellfish at dinner. It got worse and while you were partying away we ended up taking her to the emergency room. We actually just got back around five a.m.” “So let me get this straight,” I said, willing my tears to stay put. “Katelyn is not going to be here for my wedding and you two didn’t sleep at all?” Madison held up an energy drink like a peace offering and Lauren stifled a yawn. Miserably, I sat down to the breakfast that Cassidy had set up. I specifically remember ordering a protein-rich meal, but before me sat an array of muffins and bagels. Sugar-laden orange juice rested in a tall pitcher, not a Gatorade in sight. I could barely care as I broke off a piece of blueberry muffin and shoved it in my mouth, savoring the crystallized sugar on top. Cassidy, God love her, seemed to take note of my circling of the drain. “Come on miss,” she said. “It'll all be okay. At least your friend is alive. Sounds like she barely made it until the paramedics arrived. And Melissa will be here shortly for hair and make-up. So, eat up!” Okay. It was still ugly out, but I could see that it wasn’t actually raining. My headache was finally dissipating, and the muffins, I could not deny, were heavenly. The orange juice was like crack. I hadn’t allowed sugar to touch my body in two years, so this was a treat. Madison and Lauren were staring at me with hopeful smiles, and I decided that I was just going to go with the flow. What else could go wrong, right? “Where’s the getting-ready playlist?” I said, breaking into a grin. “Don’t tell me we forgot it?” Lauren squealed again, and within minutes the room was filled with the pumping jams we had spent our college years partying to. Melissa arrived on time to beautify us, and we FaceTimed Katelyn from her hospital bed. Jeremy sent me a lovely, swooning text and my mother arrived to tell me that based on the hourly forecast, they were going ahead with setting up outside. By the time I was ready, the frustrations of the morning seemed to fade away. My hangover was gone . Melissa was a magician--she’d managed to even out Lauren’s ruddy complexion and transform Madison’s flat hair into something with a little bit of life. My own hair was a dazzling array of cornsilk braids twisted into an updo and I was pretty enough that my make-up was minimal. Even though there was a near-malfunction while zipping up my dress (the little hook at the top seemed to be missing??) the day was saved by Cassidy, who was apparently a seamstress as well. As we made our way to the patio, shielded by gauzy curtains that seemed to be wildly blowing in a cold wind that was out of place for August, I caught sight of Jeremy already down by the awning at the edge of the beach. The gusts were lifting his tufts of blonde hair, and I cringed at the already-receding hairline that was becoming visible. But there was something else that felt off... “Why isn’t he in his tux?” I gasped, grabbing the curtain and whipping it aside, not even caring if he saw me. “What is he wearing ?” “Okay, okay, relax,” Madison said, patting my back like a baby. “There was an issue.” “An issue!” I screeched. “Is it...is he wearing a brown suit?” I squinted, but there was no denying it. Not only was Jeremy not in black, it wasn’t even a tuxedo! And was his tie...green? What the actual heck was going on? Madison was speaking rapidly, and Cassidy looked concerned. Even she could see that the horrific, poo-colored suit and vomit-green tie were not going to work. “The tux shop...something got mixed up and your tux went somewhere else, and this suit came here...there’s no time, honey. But it does not matter! Do you hear me?” Madison gave me a little shake. “You’re marrying your soulmate today! This is the best day ever!” I willed the tears to go away. I could not risk runny mascara by sobbing, which is what I really wanted to do. Aside from the horrid visual of this brown suit against his groomsmen in classic black, and my girls in their lush, smooth, salmon-pink, what about our wedding pictures? “You can always recreate the pictures,” Lauren added, as if reading my mind. “Madison is right, it doesn’t matter right now. You’re getting married! ” She squeezed my arm and squealed again. “This is the best day of your life!” As I watched the guests fill the seats, I wanted to throw a tantrum. I could see Madison and Lauren watching me, knowing I was on the verge of snapping. Two years of planning, I thought miserably. Cassidy had failed to get me to bed before I’d started doing shots. Katelyn hadn’t had the foresight to avoid shrimp, which she’d apparently never eaten before? My body was crashing already from the breakfast of sugar and I was seriously concerned that the tiny, minuscule hook was not going to hold the back of my dress together. And Jeremy was in a freaking brown suit, like he was a door-to-door salesman of encyclopedias in 1982. And I didn’t love him. And it was raining. Wait. No, it wasn’t. The sky was just cloudy, the wind a bit aggressive. But it wasn’t actually raining, Cassidy had assured me it would not. And yet there, on the brick walkway that would guide me from the patio to the beach, were big fat droplets, increasing at an alarming rate. The bartender on the patio, sensing my growing hysteria, slid a shot across the pop-up bar. I gratefully took it, sliding the glass back for another. Madison, Lauren and Cassidy all stared at me, their expressions bordering on fear. I had sworn I would not be inebriated at my ceremony, a promise to myself, but it didn’t matter anymore. The ceremony was in shambles, but at least we had the reception to look forward to, where I planned to get blackout drunk and hopefully let Jeremy impregnate me. I shrugged at the girls, and they visibly relaxed. Cassidy broke into a smile, the first I had seen yet. “Let’s do it,” I said grimly, a sergeant commanding her soldiers to war. The girls headed down the path into the rain, which seemed to be worsening each moment. I followed in suit, each of my parents on one arm, shielding their faces as torrents of water seemed to pour out of the sky. Once I reached Jeremy, who was grinning despite the storm and his sewage-colored suit, we all agreed to abbreviate the ceremony by cutting out the speeches and the poems and shortening the vows. What did it matter anyhow? All I cared about at this point was getting inside, fixing my drowned rat look, and getting to the party. Jeremy’s friends and family were duds, but mine were fun, and as I listened to the preacher’s hurried speech, warped by the gusts of wind, I willed myself to feel excited. When Jeremy’s lips touched mine, the imagery of a cold fish appearing, as always, I internally clapped loudly, thrilled that this part was over. We clasped hands and ran through the rain, the guests following us in a big, dripping throng, everyone laughing and clamoring to the bar in wet shirts and dresses. The photos, obviously, were to be abandoned, and Jeremy and I quickly rode the elevator to our wedding night suite. Of all the decisions I’d made in the past two years, I was most grateful for the one that had us changing outfits for the reception. “Thank goodness,” Jeremy said, as he emerged from the bathroom in dress pants and a salmon-pink shirt. “I’ve never been so glad to get out of clothes before!” “I know!” I said, shimmying into my short, tight, white sequined reception dress. At least Jeremy and I were in agreement about the diarrhea-colored suit that was now crumpled on the floor. Jeremy held out an arm, showing me his goosebumps. “We would have frozen in those wet clothes!” I stood before him, the swell of my cleavage perfectly pronounced in my tight dress, blonde tendrils falling out and sexily curling around my face, my lips plump and perfectly pink. But Jeremy was only staring at his pimply arm, as if nothing was more amazing than gooseflesh. Oh well. The reception, which took place indoors, was a mess as well. Oh, who was I kidding? This whole day was a disaster. As I pounded what was probably my tenth tequila shot, I took a short break to sit for a moment, and to remind myself why I was doing this. Maybe I didn’t love Jeremy, but I loved the idea of us. I loved the life of ease that lay ahead of me, despite the rocky start. I especially loved the idea of the perfect, blonde, stairstep children I would get to have. None of the rest mattered, and Lauren was right, it would be a funny tale to tell one day. The hangover, the weather, Katelyn’s surprise anaphylactic shock. The puke-colored suit, the broken dress hook. Jeremy’s stupid, idiotic shivering arms. My level of drunkenness, which had the room spinning already. The band that regretfully announced that they were missing their drummer due to unforeseen circumstances. The cake that Lauren had accidently stumbled into, taking a chunk of salmon pink icing right to the floor with her. Just then, Jeremy’s mother sat down next to me. Like Jeremy, there was nothing exactly wrong with her, but I didn’t particularly care for her company. She’d make a great babysitter for Harper, Kennan and Alex one day though, with her curly granny hair and whispery voice. That voice was complimenting me now, and I perked up. She was talking about my resilience, about the grace I had exuded even though everything had gone wrong. She thought I was a class act, and I brightened a little bit under her words, trying to keep myself from swaying so she wouldn’t know I was plastered. “And so accepting, you are, of my Jeremy’s unfortunate condition,” she said, patting my arm like I was a puppy. “What condition?” I asked, trying hard not to slur my words. She looked uncomfortable but leaned in close. “You know,” she said in a hushed tone. “His...sterility. I’m so glad you don’t seem like the type to want children. Testicular cancer as a teen was tough for Jeremy, but worrying about a wife who would be okay with no kids was tougher. Thank God for you!” As she walked away, I wildly grabbed the half full champagne glasses on the table and drank them forcefully. I would not cry. Not tonight. Not on the best day ever!