The car shudders in the cold December afternoon, and Tanner drums his fingers against the leather of the steering wheel. The sooner he gets this done with, he tries to reason with himself, the sooner he can leave. And then, the sooner he can get his life together and move on, the sooner he can forget about Holland and his begrudgingly-charmed smile and his warm embrace and– He’s getting off task. Again. This is exactly why he’s been sitting here for twenty minutes and hasn’t managed to unglue himself from the driver’s seat. Step one, he decides, is to shut off the car. That’s easy enough. He turns the key and the engine gives one last, long rattle before going quiet. This car’s been in its death throes since he inherited it when he was sixteen. He and Holland drove it out to Cape Cod that summer, just the two of them and some tents and a cooler full of beer Holland’s moms had bought them under the strict promise that there would be no drinking and driving. They’d watched the sun set every night and rise every morning, their shoulders pressed together, their voices quiet so as not to disturb the peace. Tanner still remembers wanting Holland so badly it ate him from the inside out, still remembers the way the yearning tasted like the backwash of that first gulp he’d taken of the beer and then spit back out in disgust.

Step two is harder. Step two is getting cold enough that he actually gets up and climbs the steps to the third floor, where his box of stuff is waiting. He’ll turn the key over to the apartment, he and Holland will bid each other adieu, and then… Well. Tanner hasn’t figured out step three just yet. The problem is that Tanner is stubborn. The problem is that they’re both stubborn in their own ways, but Tanner is like both the rock and the hard place when he wants to be, unrelenting, unmoving. He’s put himself through worse than a little cold to avoid something he didn’t want to do. He’s put them both through worse. He’d stayed up four days straight studying for his SATs in his junior year. Holland had come over to his house on the fifth and thrown all his study materials out into his hallway, despite Tanner’s screams of protest, and pushed him down into bed and laid on him until he fell asleep. They both missed school the next day, Tanner still passed out from exhaustion and Holland refusing to leave his side.

Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Twenty. He feels himself shaking: first his feet, then his hands, then the rest of him, until he’s certain he’s going to vibrate right out of his skin. “This is stupid,” he says to himself finally, throwing open the car door with a sense of finality. “Just get the shit and be gone.” He tries not to notice that it sounds like Holland’s voice when he says it. He stomps up to the apartment, proud of himself for hesitating only a moment when he gets to the staircase. Up, up, up he climbs, all the way to the top, and then keeps walking down the hall to the left, and there it is. 302.

His box isn’t in front of the door, and he’s going to call that a win. Given the way he left, Holland would have been well within his rights to donate everything Tanner left behind, or better still, to toss it in the garbage. To set it on fire.

Still. It means he can’t get out of this without at least a small confrontation. He takes three deep breaths and knocks at the door. Somewhere in the complex, a dog is barking. Two car doors open and shut, the sound echoing across the parking lot. Birds, the ones who haven’t left for winter, chirp in the trees nearby. Their song grows louder and louder in Tanner’s head, and he tries to close his eyes to shut it out. Still it crescendos, and he can’t breathe, and he needs it to stop– “Tanner.” The door is open. Holland stands in the doorway, dressed completely inappropriately for the weather in an A-shirt and sweat shorts that are fraying at the knees.

Tanner wants to hug him so badly he aches. “Your key,” he says instead, producing his keys from his jacket pocket and looking down at them to avoid Holland’s eyes. “I brought it back. And came for my stuff. Like I said I would.” Holland’s only response is a grunt that could mean just about anything. It’s been four and a half months since they’ve seen each other. It’s the longest they’ve gone in the eighteen years they’ve been best friends.

Tanner’s hands are still shaking. It takes him longer than it should, but he manages to slide it off the ring and hand it over. Holland takes it. “Come in,” he says, and then he’s turning and going into the apartment before Tanner can respond. Tanner scrambles to keep up. By the time he’s in and the door is shut behind him, Holland has tossed the spare key onto the counter and disappeared into his bedroom. There’s no box anywhere in the tiny space that serves as both living room and kitchen. It felt huge when Holland first moved in, when they’d brought up all his boxes and stacked them in a pile only to ignore them while they ate takeout pizza, their knees knocking together under the kitchen island. Tanner had reached over to push some excess cheese into Holland’s mouth, laughing and calling him a brute, and Holland had caught his wrist before he could pull away and kissed it with his eyes intently focused on Tanner. They hadn’t gotten any unpacking done that night. Tanner stands awkwardly by the front door, afraid to take off his boots and overstay his welcome and also afraid of getting the carpet dirty. Holland reappears a few moments later. There’s a cardboard box in his hands. Tanner’s breath catches in his throat. This is it, he realizes. This is the moment that everything they’ve had officially becomes history. This is the end of Them . It hurts more than he’d realized. He thought he’d put it all behind him while he was abroad, thought getting some space was what he needed. He realizes, very quickly, that he has no idea what he needs. Holland crosses the space between them and hands Tanner the box. Tanner looks down to find that it’s empty. His brows furrow. “What the hell?” “I’m not packing it for you,” Holland grunts. “You want your stuff, you find it.” Tanner’s jaw drops as Holland goes into the kitchen and busies himself with something in the refrigerator. He looks down into the box again just to make sure he isn’t having some sort of hallucination, but it’s just as empty as it was before. He grits his teeth. “Fine,” he mumbles. He stomps into Holland’s bedroom and sets the box down on the bed. It remains more or less unchanged from the last time Tanner was here. The sheets are still messy on the bed; Holland never saw the point in making it when he was going to get right back in it the next night. Dirty clothes are in and around the hamper; the desk is crowded with study materials. There’s a single strand of soft white lights above the window that Tanner is surprised to see plugged in, since he was usually the one who insisted on having them lit.

The photo collage that Tanner put up last summer is still on the wall. He hasn’t been cut out of the photos or anything.

“Are you going to stare or are you going to pack?” Holland asks. Tanner jumps. He hadn’t heard him enter the bedroom. “Pack,” Tanner murmurs.

Holland goes to the bed and sits next to the box. Tanner goes to the closet. The majority of his wardrobe had migrated here over the year Holland lived here before Tanner left. He starts taking down items one at a time, folding them as carefully as he can manage with his shaking hands and going over to place them in the box. “So…how was it?” Tanner looks up at Holland, who is intently studying his nails. He bites his lip. “It was good,” he answers, taking down a sweatshirt he accumulated in high school. It doesn’t really fit him anymore, but he used to like to wear it around the apartment. It was fun to catch Holland staring at the way it rode up when he’d reach for something high, exposing his hips and stomach. “I learned a lot.” “S’good,” Holland answers. “And…you got space. Which is what you wanted.” Tanner is glad he’s facing into the closet. He can’t help the way he squeezes his eyes shut, the pain clamping tightly around his heart. “Yeah,” he manages. He hopes it doesn’t sound too strained. It’s quiet for a few more minutes as Tanner packs. He comes across several shirts whose owner he isn’t certain of. He elects to leave them in the end, deciding that if they do belong to him, Holland can toss them if he wants. There are a lot of other things spread out in the bedroom that technically are Tanner’s. The blanket folded haphazardly and shoved into a corner. The few DVDs next to the tiny television. A box of granola bars that he doesn’t understand why Holland hasn’t already thrown away. He collects it all and sets it gingerly in the box, unable to shake Holland’s gaze as he packs up the evidence that he was here. There are tears thick in the back of his throat that he wills himself to hold onto until he’s out of the apartment. Just a few more minutes, he reasons, and then he can cry all he wants– “Tanner,” Holland says, breaking the uneasy silence. Tanner looks up at him. He’s hunched over on the end of the mattress, his arms crossed over his chest. Maybe it’s Tanner’s imagination, but it seems like there are unshed tears in his eyes, too. “H-Holland,” he whispers. “I should–I should go. The rest of this can just…can just stay…” Holland stands abruptly and closes the distance between the two of them, cupping Tanner’s jaw and kissing him. Tanner can’t help the way he melts against Holland. He has years of practice fitting himself against this man, and he knows exactly how to tilt his head, exactly how to move his mouth. Holland lets out a sigh against his lips as Tanner wraps his arms around Holland’s neck. “Why did you go?” he asks, and Tanner must have been right about the tears, because his lips suddenly taste like salt. “I know you, Tanner. I can see that you’re not happy. This isn’t what you want. Is it?” “No,” Tanner admits. He was never able to deny Holland much of anything, much less the truth.

“Then why?” Holland urges. “Why are you doing this? I’ve missed you so much, Tanner. Stay with me. Just stay with me.” Tanner can’t help but let out a choked-off sob. “I-I can’t.” “Bullshit.” Holland leans his forehead against Tanner’s. “Bullshit, Tanner. You can do whatever you want. Do you want me?” “Yes,” Tanner answers, “but–” “No buts.” “Holland,” Tanner cries. “I can’t–I don’t want to hold you back.” Holland takes a step back, untangling himself from Tanner. His eyes are wide, his jaw hanging open slightly. “Is that what this is about? You fucked off to Europe for four months because you thought you were holding me back?” “It was a good opportunity for my program,” Tanner answers automatically, the same thing he’d spat out every time someone had asked since he’d gotten home.

He’d never wanted to go. He used to say he was going to travel the world with his team someday, so he’d see Europe then. But then he got hurt. Baseball was ripped out from underneath him, and suddenly all he had was school, and the future, and… Holland huffs in disbelief. He’s always been the best at seeing through Tanner’s carefully constructed half-truths. “If it were really about that, we would have video called every night. You would have sent me pictures. You would have brought home a whole suitcase full of souvenirs for our apartment, for–for our house, someday.” Tanner looks up at the ceiling, begging himself to keep it together. The third day he’d been there, he’d bought a print without thinking about it, teal and white and black like their high school colors had been. He’d been imagining a place for it on a wall in a house they lived in together and he’d handed over the money before he could stop himself.

“I don’t care, you know,” Holland says. “I never cared that you were going to be Tanner O’Brian, famous baseball player. I didn’t fall in love with him.” Tanner takes a deep breath. “That’s all I was ever going to be,” he says, his voice raw and ragged. “I picked art history because I thought it would be fun, but it wasn’t supposed to matter. I was supposed to play. Without baseball, I’m just…” Tanner jumps as his hands are taken roughly in Holland’s own. It forces him to meet Holland’s gaze again.

“You’re just the love of my life,” Holland says. He sounds angry, almost. Determined. “You’re just the man who’s spent his whole life by my side.” Tanner can’t help it. The tears fall from his eyes and stream down his face. “Everything is changing,” he says. “I’m not who I used to be.” “Neither am I,” Holland replies. “Look, Tanner, just–were you happy? When you were without me?” Tanner shakes his head. He’s been a lot of things the last few months, but happy is not one of them. “Do you want to be with me?” Tanner swallows, looking down and away. “I don’t deserve you. I ran away. You shouldn’t give me a second chance.” “I’ll give you as many chances as you need,” Holland says. “I love you, Tanner. I love you so much, and I never want to stop.” Tanner sobs, just once, and Holland pulls him into his arms. It’s the only place Tanner has ever felt whole.

“I couldn’t pack your box because I didn’t want to,” Holland says. “I wanted you to stay. I want you to stay. Will you stay with me?” And for the first time in months, Tanner doesn’t hesitate as he whispers “yes.”


"Mom, how come we hardly ever visit Grandma Bates? We go and see Dad's parents all the time and they live much farther away. She's just across town and yet we barely know her." "Well the truth is, your Grandma has problems. She has a medical condition called 'agoraphobia'. She has a intense fear of going outside. She hasn't left the inside of her home in many, many years. She has a delivery boy bring in her groceries. Her mail is dropped through a slot in the front door. If she is sick, she calls a medical service to come and visit her at home. It's not that I'm ashamed of her. I know she can't help her irrational fears and phobia but deep down, I suppose I worry that her mental illness might be a little contagious. I don't want her odd quirks to rub off on any of you." Both Jan and Markus stood there with their mouths agape. The big family secret had finally been revealed. Grandma Bates was the dark subject that nobody talked about. In her innocence, Jan was too young to realize her Mom was uncomfortable talking about it. As little kids are apt to do, she just blurted out what thoughts occurred to her. Being a little older, Markus cringed like a member of the audience witnessing the wrong key pressed at a piano recital. "That's so sad, Mom. She never goes out in the sunshine or plays in the snow?"; Jan asked. "If she can't help her fears and we never visit her, then she's all alone in her house." Her daughter had a way of melting through even the most hardened hearts of ice. Mrs. Byers had subconsciously erected a wall of isolation between her and her mom. Intellectually she knew the phobia was powerful but emotionally she felt like her mother was just being 'stubborn'. Previous attempts to lure or drag her out of the house had failed miserably. After that, she just threw up her hands and gave up. Now it looked like Jan was about to open the same old wounds. Next she would attempt to 'help' her too. It's what well-meaning compassionate people do. Ultimately Mrs. Byers decided that it was unfair to let the issues between them affect her mother's relationship with Jan and Marcus. "Well, I'm sure your Grandma would like to see the two of you again. The last time we were there, Marcus was just a toddler and you were only a baby. I'll call her and see if she would like some company this afternoon. If we go, both of you must be on your best behavior. She gets highly agitated if anyone tries to talk her into going outside, or if you leave the door open too long. Those are the rules, ok?" Both nodded in understanding. Mrs. Byers called and had a short but cordial conversation with her estranged mother about the proposed visit. Once the details were agreed upon, the family loaded up the car and drove across town to Grace's quaint childhood home. Mr. Byers was silently impressed that his daughter had sweet-talked his wife into visiting. He had only been to his mother-in-law's house three times, himself. It was a sore spot with his wife to even talk about her. In only a handful of sentences, his daughter had managed to rebuilt some of those long-ago, burned bridges. Once at the Burns residence, Mrs. Byers reminded everyone again about the sacred, non-negotiable rules. She nervously rapped on the front door panel and waited for it to open. As if on queue, the door flew open wide and the whole family bound in like precision clockwork. The house was meticulously clean. Everything was just as Grace remembered it. There was no new furniture or furnishings. Her mother could never leave the house to buy any, nor could the delivery people rush through the door fast enough to avoid triggering her paralyzing phobia. It was a house locked in time. The kids looked around and drank in the atmosphere while Grace and Alan made uncomfortable small talk. Regardless of the initial friction, Mama Burns was thrilled to get to see her grandchildren again. Receiving school portraits once a year in the mail paled in comparison to having personal visits. After the initial ice was broken, both Grace and her mother began to relax and speak of old memories. Time had passed and both women were much more mature. The had grown to better accept the situation for what it was. The battle of wills was mostly over and things softened significantly between them. Life was too short to hold resentments or grudges. All in all, it was a very productive, healing visit. As if to make up for lost time, the family started visiting 'Mama Burns' on a regular basis. Over time, the old woman's eccentricities started to fade in importance. She would bake Markus and Jan cookies or watch old movies with them. She even participated in the pillow fortress games they played in the attic. When the kids asked if they could spend the night there on a summer vacation sleepover, Grace cautiously approved the request. It seemed harmless enough and it allowed them to bond during her mother's remaining years. Perhaps it would be therapeutic for all of them. The old house grew warm in the summer months and it's aged air conditioning unit was overworked. Jan made the mistake of asking if she could open the upstairs window. Mama Burns swift reaction caught the children off guard. Up until that point, they had treated the requisite rapid entrance and exit through the front door as a kind of fun game. It seemed harmless enough. Their other grandmother forbade them from wearing shoes in the house and using the 'fancy' guest towels. The 'door thing' just seemed like another household rule but her overreaction to the window request was different. For the first time, they saw 'the other side' of Grandma Burns. The one their mother warned them about. Almost as quickly as she had snapped at them, she calmed down and attempted to down-play her manic reaction. The kids mostly shrugged it off. In the end, it wasn't worth making her upset over. They just turned on the fan to cool off the room. All was smooth sailing again until Marcus spotted a large gray tomcat on the upstairs window ledge. It was looking directly at them through the curtained glass. "Hey Grandma, how did this large gray tomcat climb all the way up to the windowsill?"; He shouted down to her in the kitchen. "That must be at least fifteen feet straight up." A loud crash of dishes breaking downstairs erupted in the night air. Grandma Burns raced up the steps in a breathless panic. "Do NOT open that window under any circumstances!"; She screamed as she scaled the steps two-at-a-time. Then as she reached the threshold of the bedroom, she repeated herself again; with only a slight decline of fear in her voice. "How did it get up...." She cut Marcus off mid-sentence. "Never mind that! You can see it? You can see the big tomcat? Tell me what he looks like. Describe him to me." Both Jan and Marcus nodded nervously. They could see the large gray feline as it perched gracefully on the narrow ledge but were very confused by the odd question. Why would she ask such a strange thing and did it cause her to drop dishes on the floor? Of course they could see it. Marcus finally understood his mother's prior reservations about her. Even Jan could see she was acting unstable. "Yes Grandma. We can see it. He's very large, gray and has white feet. Oh, and he's missing part of his left ear. I guess he's been in a fight or something." Grandma Burns lip began to tremble in raw, vindicated emotion. The additional detail about the missing part of the cat's ear was the final confirmation she was seeking. They COULD really see it! "Children, I have a dark confession to make. That damn tomcat died 30 years ago. I killed it myself. I got angry that it kept fathering kittens around the neighborhood but it's owner wouldn't have him fixed. I'm ashamed to admit that I captured it in a pillowcase and tossed it into a nearby creek to drown. It's restless spirit has haunted me ever since. I know it is waiting to get its revenge on me as soon as I step outside or open the door. You mother could never see it and thought I was going crazy. She tried to get me to take anti-anxiety and hallucination pills. You don't know how relieved I am that you can actually see it too. All these years I thought my guilty conscience was just terrorizing me for my evil deed but both of you can see it! I don't know which is worse. To be haunted by a phantom feline or to just go crazy from the guilt. At least now I know he's really out there waiting to get inside." The cat remained on the window ledge while directly eyeing Mrs. Burns. It clawed the glass passively. Fearing it might fall and harm itself, Jan instinctively went to open the window. She was too young to put much weight into the confession or its terrible implications. Grandma Burns eyes were wide-open with pure, gut-wrenching terror. Not knowing what to believe, Marcus froze in confused indecision. Unfortunately Mrs. Burns was also too far away to stop her. As soon as the window was open enough for the cat to squeeze through, it bound in and pounced down on the floor with a graceful plop. Making a beeline straight for the object of his long quest, the cat sprang off the floor and leapt into the air with a singular purpose. After the kids calmed down enough to speak, they gave the detectives a nearly identical account of the fatal attack. The powerful animal sprang up and attacked Mrs. Bates before she could react or defend herself. A room by room search failed to find the feral beast but the medical examiner confirmed the method of death was consistent with a small feline attack to the jugular veins. Contagious disease experts were called in to take wound samples for possible rabies quarantine analysis. The kids were taken to a mental health trauma center to help them deal with what they had witnessed. For the first time in more than twenty years, Mrs. Bates left the relative security of her shuttered suburban home, by the coroner's wagon.


You give the man eighty dollars and he says he'll be right back. It doesn't seem cool, but you're jonesing. 10, 15 minutes go by. You're sure you've been burned, and you're quietly cursing the guy who has your eighty bucks fondling the lining of his pocket. Just as you're about to leave, brushing the alley debris off the seat of your pants as you stand up, he appears. He's been gone too long for everything to have gone smoothly. He's walking at an unnaturally brisk pace, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds. As he approaches, you can see that his face is dripping with sweat, and he's bleeding from his left shoulder. He heaves up to you and shoves a plain brown paper bag into your abdomen. He says nothing, and never breaks his stride. Somehow he managed to run straight into you and yet keep walking as if you never existed. You exit the alley and adopt the same brisk pace as the mealer had, eager to return to your car. It's only a couple blocks away. You'll make it. You got this. Relief washes over you as you fall into the drivers seat, and the aroma of the burger fills the cabin with the most forbidden smell of all. Real meat. You drive the hell out of there, following every law you could possibly imagine exists - what would your wife think if you even got a ticket in this part of town? There's an old dirt road nearby, just outside of the city, that you used to ride your bike on when you were a kid. At least if someone finds you out here, you can make something up that might sound reasonable. Nostalgia. You park the car, shut off the lights, and wait. And listen. You can see some cars on other roads - most likley teens necking or partaking of less illegal contraband - methamphetamine, cannabis, every flavor of heroin. Just the usual. You're in the clear. You unwrap the burger. It's not exactly hot any more, but it'll do. You retrieve some bbq sauce from the glove box and give the burger a proper treatment. Shit, you think, this stuff is probable cause for a meat test. Why do you keep it in the car? But you know why. Can't have this sort of thing in the house. She might find it. You've come this far and there's nothing left to do but destroy the evidence. Your guy was good this time. It's the real deal. Even the tomatoes are fresh. Fucking better be for $80. You finish the burger and exit the vehicle with a small gardening spade. You dig a little hole and throw the bag and the wrapper in, and set them alight. It doesn't take long for them to be consumed. You kick sand into the hole, concealing the evidence of your crime. As you drive away you wonder how long you can keep this up. This lie of a life, this charade, this bullshit idea that you're fine with being a vegan like everyone else. Everyone cheats, yeah, you're sure of that. Most people do. You just don't talk about it. The real danger is if you get caught. Because you know. You don't like to think about it, but you know. You know where that meat comes from.


From the diary of Kermit Roosevelt, the second son of Theodore Roosevelt, found in the estate of his younger sister, Esther Roosevelt. Sunday, February 27, 1927, Rondônia, Brazil Thirteen years the nightmare has haunted me.

I have blamed myself, pushed everyone away — everyone except Esther and Archie and mother. I ended it with Belle, nearly ended myself many, many times. And here I am, back on this ink-black river. Back to search for him, what remains of him, if anything remains after thirteen years, but how can there not be something remaining of him, as vital as he was — father? The forest on either side of the river is a green wall. I already feel the eyes on me, the natives hiding among the trees, watching, as they did thirteen years ago. The sun is rising. We are off at midday. --- Friday, March 4, 1927, River of Doubt, Amazon Jungle When father was feverish, in delirium, he kept repeating these lines of Coleridge over and over: "In Xanadu did Kublah Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree." Over and over. Hours on end. The same words, repeated, repeated. They run on in my mind.

I should not have come here. I am no longer a young man.

What do I hope to achieve by this? The black water of this river rushes, rushes, turbulent and black like my mind. --- Friday, March 11, 1927, River of Doubt, Amazon Jungle Insects everywhere, a black, buzzing, biting cloud. "This is my last chance to be a boy." That's what father said to me as we set out on the expedition, thirteen years ago. Maybe he died a boy.

How odd, for a son to hear his father wishing to be forever a boy, a Peter Pan, but that was him, wasn't it, the forever boy? Get action!

How many times we heard him say that:

"Get action!"

As if constant 'action' would chase away the black moods, the despair. Yes, that is what I need. I realize this is why I am here now. It's the only way to keep from eating the barrel of a gun.

Get action! --- Thursday, March 17, 1927, River of Doubt, Amazon Jungle We woke this morning to find the dog at the stern of the canoe, shot full of arrows. It was the same as thirteen years ago. A message from the natives following us, watching us from the jungle on either side of the river. They could do this to us at any time. Why do they refrain? Do they want us to turn back? Do they want to egg us onward? --- Friday, March 18, 1927, River of Doubt, Amazon Jungle We took him for a native. He came out of the jungle, jumped into the river, swam towards my canoe.

When he pulled himself out of the water into the canoe, I recognized him. It was Julio de Lima, the camarada porter who had snapped and killed a man during the prior expedition, then disappeared into the jungle. Thirteen years later, here he was, back again. He did not look a day older.

"Ajude-me!" he cried out. That is ' Help me! ' Then: "Chefe do pau grande — " A single arrow flew from the jungle and pierced Julio through the throat, cutting off his words.

The arrow must have been dipped in some terrible poison, because Julio withered before my eyes, his skin wrinkling so that he took on the appearance of an old man, his hair turned from black to gray then white, his lips drew back from long yellow teeth, and he fell dead on the spot. We buried Julio under a tree.

This is the place. The spot where I last saw father.

This was where father told me he had determined that he would end his life with the small of bottle of lethal morphine he always carried with him, so that he would no longer be a burden for the expedition. By then, the infection in his leg was so bad that he had to be carried.

“Boys, I realize that some of us are not going to finish this journey," father said. "I want you to go on. You can get out. I will stop here.” But I refused. I would carry him out, I said, even if it was his dead body I carried on my back. So he might as well come along alive. And I would have. I swear I would have brought him out alive. But it wasn't to be. That night, the malaria fever took me. By the time I recovered, it was days later, we were down river, and father was gone, left, as he wished, in this forsaken spot to die. --- Sunday, March 20, 1927, Xanadu, Amazon Jungle Now I understand Julio's last words: Chefe do pau grande. But first, let me describe this place. Here, in the middle of the hot, humid, insect-infested, rotting jungle — Paradise! As in the literal meaning of the word 'Paradise' - from the 'walled gardens' in the Persian Empire. I have found Eden, here in the Amazon, west of the headwaters of the River of Doubt. The air is perfectly temperate, the trees bear fruit that taste of all the best foods my palate can imagine, animals of all kinds roam free, the lion next to the lamb, and a tribe of innocent and peaceful people live in this walled garden, eating the fruit, enjoying a perfect, simple life. And here I found him, ' Chefe do pau grande ': The 'Chief of the Big Stick', elected by the tribe to be their leader: Father. He is alive. Alive and a young man again.

To see my father again, to clasp his hand, to speak to him, is beyond what I could have imagined.

More incredible still, to see him as a man now several years my junior, in the prime of his life. In the middle of the walled garden is a fountain, a wellspring. Those who drink from it will have their youth and vigor restored and live forever. But there is a price to pay, and I am not yet certain I can pay it. Father has lost all memory of his former life. That is the first price to pay for those who drink from the fountain of youth: your past life forgotten. The second price: never to leave the pleasure-dome of this walled garden.

Julio left — and paid the price. --- Friday, March 25, 1927, Xanadu, Amazon Jungle If I drink from the wellspring, will I know father as father, or will even that memory be lost to me, as it appears to be for him? Will he simply be a friend? So be it. I swore I would not leave him. I will keep my promise. Four of our number have decided they must return, must leave Xanadu. I will give them this diary to take to you, Esther.

I will drink from the fountain. I will give up my memories. I will remain in the pleasure-dome. I will stay with father. Smile when you think of me and of father. Here there are no black moods. Here there are no dark memories. Smile, and remember me.


It started snowing at 11am. Though I have a birds-eye view of the parking lot from my second-floor window, frost coats the edges of the glass, leaving only a small porthole to peer through. I can see the snow piling up near the electric fence and slowly creeping its way across the battered pavement towards the warehouse where I'm stationed. There are no cars in the lot. Everyone was sent home months ago because of the pandemic, except for the five of us—the skeleton crew—who needed to be onsite in case anything breaks and needs fixing. Aedna and Hal do the hardware stuff, fitting the robots with new wheels and cameras. Kash and Mo do the software stuff, something about algorithms and coding. Anyway they tell the robots where to go, what to pick up. Then there’s me, Alex. My job is to keep the floors clean so the robots can see the painted lines and find their way through the tidy maze of boxes full of books and dumbbells and blow-up dolls. Though I suppose there's a lot less demand for that stuff now. 1pm. The snow looks about a foot deep, falling in big, fat, heavy flakes. When the wind kicks up, the flakes swirl like those sufi whirling dancers I saw on youtube once. They wore long white tunics and skirts, and twirled like crazy, their hair flying out beneath their tubular hats. Huh, how did they keep the hats on? Maybe they stapled them to their heads. Anyway, you stare at those swirling flakes long enough and you get mesmerized. Hypnotized. You are feeling sleepy, very sleeeeepy, Alex. Very relaxed. Long deep breaths. Nothing can hurt you now, Alex. You’re in a safe place. I’ve eaten all the food in the communal kitchen, except for a jar of anchovies, because that’s gross. Aedna loves anchovies. She puts them on salads and toast and pizza for Christ's sake. What kind of a degenerate puts anchovies on pizza?

Pizza. I could really go for a slice of Louie’s famous pepperoni pizza, but I doubt old Louie is still making pizza pie, even if I could call him. The phones haven’t worked for weeks. The landlines went first, and then the mobile phones. Mo left as soon as the phones were cut off. His wife was seven months’ pregnant. They might have had the baby by now. 3pm. A foot and a half of snow, and some small drifts forming. I’d turn on the news to hear the weather report but we’ve not had TV or radio broadcasts for about ten days. It doesn’t matter much anyway. It’s not like I have a car or somewhere to go. The first news report after the phones went down said there was some kind of glitch in the system, but we found out it later it was purposefully destroyed. Sab-o-tage.

The generator is still working, powering the lights and dormant computers, but there's no warmth running through the radiators. It's gotten so cold the past few days that I've finally resorted to wearing Kash's goose down parka. It was hanging in the cloakroom on the ground floor. I kept thinking he'd come back to get it, but I guess he can't be bothered. And as much I'd love to order an electric heater with same-day delivery, that's a no-go since the internet went dark last week. That’s also when Kash and Aedna decided to leave. Hal was disappointed, he didn’t think they should abandon their posts. I could hear them arguing all the way from from Hal's office as I stirred my cup-o-soup. My favourite flavor of cup-o-soup is tomato, though chicken noodle isn't bad either. I glance toward the trash bin near the elevator. The styrofoam cup with remnants of red pulp is still perched on top. I was throwing it in the bin when Aenda and Kash asked if I wanted to leave too. They were getting a ride from Hal. But Hal was already in the elevator, impatiently swinging a keyring round his left index finger while holding the door open with his right. I could tell he was in a hurry and didn't want to wait for me. I shook my head in a silent 'no thanks' and waved as the elevator doors closed. That was seven days ago. I've been on my own since. 4pm. At least two feet of snow with drifts twice as high, climbing up the fence. My fingers absently twirl the key fob in my coat pocket. It unlocks the stock room in the basement that I’ve cleaned every day for months. Correction, every day except the past seven days. Can you call yourself a skeleton crew if there's only one of you? I'm just a thigh bone on my own. And this thigh bone ain't getting any warmer or fatter watching the world turn white. Time to see if I can find a heater and some food in the labyrinth of bar-coded boxes. I take the stairs to the basement because I don’t trust the elevator. If I get stuck, who am I gonna call? I press the key fob against the panel near the stock room door and hear the familiar sound of bolts moving, clicking, and unlocking. I pull the door open and step in. It looks pretty much like I remember. A big room, the size of a football field with a 30-foot ceiling and rows of metal shelves stacked to the brim with boxes, creating narrow corridors where the robots roam. The motion-activated lights nearest me wake up. I notice my breath rising in little puffs of steam and rub my hands together to warm them. It's always cold in here, but it cuts to the bone today. On my left, I spot the dim shapes of the robots, sleeping in their bays. The size of squat washing machines, they're two feet tall, but powerful enough to move rolling shelves loaded with laptops, and Barbie dolls, and barbecue grills. All the bays are full except one. I make a mental note to look out for the rogue robot. It's probably roving the corridors, trying to find its way back to the recharging roost before its battery dies. If I run across it, I'd like nothing more than to ask, 'hey bud, take me to the cups-o-soup', because I have no idea how things are organised. The cardboard boxes have bar codes or RFID tags, whatever those are. All I know is that I don’t read robot. I pick a row at random and grab one of the boxes on the shelf that’s waist-high. I cut it open with my pen knife and fish around inside to find out what I’ve won. Tampons. The next box along has tubes of toothpaste. I pocket a few, and try another row, venturing deeper into the room. More lights flicker on. The smell hits me first. It reminds me of the time I came back to my apartment after two weeks away to find my pet rat, Mable, dead and decomposing in her cage. I thought I’d pretty much lost my sense of smell over the years, but whatever this is, it’s pungent. Maybe some meat has spoiled? I hear a noise, a faint whirring sound. I hold my breath and walk quietly toward it. It’s the wayward robot, poking around the corner of a row, fifteen-feet dead ahead. I breathe out in relief, releasing a large cloud of steam. Approaching the robot, I see that the back wheels are trying to turn, but something is preventing escape. Rounding the corner, I see the source of the stalemate. A bloody tablecloth is twisted around the robot's front wheels. Kash is kneeling on the floor, half-slumped against a shelf. A perfect bullet hole mars his forehead, but there are no other signs of struggle. Aedna is lying face down, her torso bent over a crushed box of tablecloths, blood soaking through the contents. Her right hand rests limply on the trapped robot. I hear breathing behind me. I turn slowly. Hal is standing in front of me, holding a gun casually in one hand, and an opened can of kidney beans in the other. He smiles, offers me the beans and says, “Guess we’ll be a proper skeleton crew tonight.”


Arithmetic? – Ah, I am not good in that at all. When it comes to measuring distance, I found it too difficult to do. Most of the times, when am stuck in the issue while talking to someone, I try to measure in my head the distance between two electric poles and what I wanted to say.      “Emm, about two or three electric poles” That is always my answer to distance questions. That’s if am talking to close acquaintances. But if the person doesn’t fall into the category of a friend or acquaintance, I will supply guessed answers in miles. I can’t just claim to be deficient in what I supposed to know in my primary. Nah, it isn’t wisdom to belittle one’s self to a stranger in the name of being honest.

Few days ago, I was driving with my friend to a popular market not far from his house to buy some provisions. About three poles away into our journey, we were stopped by police officers that mounted road blocks and asked us to slow down. We did. We was asked to clear from the road. That is their normal parlance. Clear from the road or park well. We did. The officer started with:

 “ Where’s your particulars” We presented him with the car papers. He went into motion of checking it. Whether he was actually checking it or counting it, I really can’t tell. Observing him, I had this feeling that he was counting the number of papers not seeing what they are. They seems to Know how many papers each car supposed to have not what they supposed to be. After the counting, he handed the papers over to us again. Then, it was:     “ where’s your fire extinguisher?” We showed him. Then it was: “ Come down and open your boot” My friend went and opened the boot for him. He peeped from it north to south and then west to east and asked: “Where is your spare tyre?” My friend shifted the boot rug and pointed out the tyre for him. “Where’s your four heads?” he showed him. He sighed audibly and eyed us and then, it was: “Why do you put tinted glasses in your car, don’t you realize it’s against regulations? Civilians are not allowed to use it. You must get permission from the police before using it. Do you have the permit?”     “ No Officer” “ Give me your keys and documents, you must follow us to the stations. This is serious offence” “ Officer, this the first time am hearing about this laws. Besides, I bought this car with the tinted glasses on it. I didn’t change them” “ I don’t care whether you imported it or bought it with tinted glasses on, my concern is that it’s against regulations. We will talk more at the stations” “Ha, officer, station?- we had been talking already for 30 minutes and you want to talk in the station again. We are going to the hospital to see a sick friend. We will change the glasses first thing tomorrow morning” “You are asking how you will follow us to the station, don’t you know that by law, we supposed to impound this car and you?- I gave you leeway to go and see our chief and you’re arguing” “ But officer, I never knew that laws like this existed. Pardon my ignorance and I will do something about it first thing tomorrow morning” “Pardon your ignorance?- do you know exactly the interpretations of what you just said?- are you asking me not to carry out my official duty?” “ No, no officer, that’s never what I meant. I am just asking that you reason with me for today” “ Reason with you?- how?, Tell me how you want me to reason with. Are you suggesting I shouldn’t carry out my constitutional duties?”   Awkward laughter from me and my friend seems to spur him on. “officer, you must carryout your constitutional duties. After all, we are the ones you’re serving”

 We argued, pleaded, cajoled for about another 20 minutes before the officer opened his constitutional mouth to voice out what we all know it will lead to from the beginning.  “ Okay, because you are visiting the sick, I will help you see our chief. You have to hand over your papers and 20k and go see the sick after wards you come to our stations to collect the cover papers” “ What! 20k?- I don’t even have such amount on me. It’s huge amount. How can I pay 20k for cover papers” “Oh, you want to pay lawyer and court 100k? You don’t know once this your car got to the station, we will queue it up behind those with similar offenses and when it’s your time in court, we will notify you. No problem if you consider 20k huge. When we open proceeding, maybe 100k would be not huge anymore to you. Your documents first” We argued and pleaded for another 30 minutes before he agreed to help us with 8k. Help us. That’s his exact word. Afterwards, he turned and wanted to know what we are still doing there. “Fade” he ordered. It would have been stupid as Nigerian to show him how intelligent we were by following him to the station to go talk to their boss. If we were lucky enough to get to the station in one piece or even alive, the boss would have still sided with his boys. It’s normal practice here in Nigeria. Motorist went through hell in the hands of officers each day. Many are wasting in jail for nothing courtesy of Nigerian police. Officers here are in the class of their own. They has no rival in the whole of Africa. It might interest you to know what their motto is:        “ Police is your friend” Of course, they are our good friend. For just bribe of 20 naira from a driver that tries to play them by speeding off while pretending to park well. Bullets always teach those in that bus lessons some of them are not given chance to put into practices.

Well, we got to the hospital from the market. We entered into the wards our friend is in. He was on colored drips and after talking with him and assuring him that all will be well. We left to see the doctor. If the man had been a yellow guy, you would have concluded in laying eyes on him that he must have been born in the year of the dog. He walks like one, talks in a bark like tone just like dog and when he is not talking and eyeing you, he seems to be doing so just like dog that is debating within whether to charge or not.      It’s funny how small things always turn to something else. Our friend who is actually our course mate sustained the knock that ended him in hospital while playing soccer. He had thought like everyone that it’s a small thing and was massaging it with hot water and applying balm. Three days later the pain was getting worse that he decided to see doctor. We were surprised to hear from the dog like doctor that the guy has serious diabetes that if not urgently treated with special medication the name he mentioned was sounding Greek or Latin, the leg would be amputated.

Our friend panicked and started sending “ save my leg” messages to all his course mates. We nearer had been the one connecting with other course mates in person and phones. Luckily, we were able to raised the 2.3 million naira the doctor claimed the special medication from America would cost. We paid him the money and collected receipt from him. On our way down to the parking lot, we had noticed one nurse that looked like someone that should be in the security sector not health sector following us. The way he walks and cast eyes here and there attracted our attention. She is just like those men you see at times in gym lifting weight weights.

“Excuse me sirs. It’s your friend you came to see just now, the one they said suffering from type what I don’t know diabetes, right?” “ Sure, anything the matter?” “ Yes sir. Everything is the matter oh. I can tell you something I believe you should know about that your friend's sickness. It’s all in this form my boss asked me to sell… sorry show you. It is all about your friend” “About our friend?- let see the form then” “ Ah, sir, the form is sealed. I believe seriously you needs to know about the real truth about that your friend” “ Let see the form then” “ Ah, sir, my boss asked me to show you this form if you have 10k. In fact, it’s more than important” “10k?- for what? Who is this your boss?” “ Sir, it is sealed. Once open without 10k, I am the one in trouble” We debated within our self and decided to know the truth. We paid the nurse and she handed over the form. It was test from the lab department of the hospital our friend did on arriving there. The result indicated that our friend had serious knock on the leg that required resting for about two weeks while on antibiotics.    We have never seen anything like this before. We though it was only in security and political sectors you see dupes and crazy staffs. We can’t believe the health sector have joined the bribery race too.

We calculated and debated what best to do.

    “ Who is the mad one here?” My friend queried rhetorically.


In year 2352 a cone shaped transport hovered into position outside the domed city of Powlett, Mars. On opposite sides of the vessel ‘Solar Spaceways Cruise Coach’ flashed in bold, yellow letters. Hanging in the thin air, it sprouted a disembarking tube to connect to the round, sealed dock. Outside the dome was a typical Martian landscape with rocks and dust to the horizon, and a faint blue sunset decorated the dark sky. Inside Powlett there was not much more to see. The single-story buildings were made of stone, and the only sign of life was a crowd of people loitering near the circular hatch. Yet, when the four sectioned metal seal slid open, the passengers were eagerly lined up to move in. The first one to disembark was a short, thin man with light brown skin and neatly combed black hair topping his soft, round face. Unlike the pants, shirts, and jackets of the other passengers, he wore a three-layer beige robe with four green stripes on the collar. The neutral attire marked him as a seeker of knowledge, official representatives of Earth Management, and the four stripes gave him a high rank. “Thank you for flying Solar Spaceways, Craster Krenne. Welcome to Mars,” a smooth, feminine voice spoke to him. The message was from the ship’s pilot, but she did not know him personally. There were two hundred other passengers on this shuttle from Earth, and each received the same farewell with their own name. It was not his ears that received the message, but his brain-computer. Deemed a human right in 2234, brain-computers contained a few parts of ceramic, plastic, and metal, but most of the device was grown from a person’s cells. It formed a truly personal bond that would work for no one else. Craster’s brain-computer allowed him to connect to the Solar System Information Service, or the Big Sis as it was often called. It contained the accumulated knowledge of all humanity that spread throughout the solar system, centered on Earth. With the SSIS he could communicate remotely, learn public matters, and access the machines woven throughout society. Without replying Craster passed over the threshold of the city entrance and stepped onto the dull landing platform. His brown eyes gazed over Powlett with calm confidence as he made his way to the level, stone ground. Ten yards away a line of people dressed in bright colors fashionable on Mars silently waited to fill in the empty seats. Other than the pilot’s message, only Powlett’s musty odor greeted Craster, and he could not resist the thought that it was an alien scent invading his Earth raised nostrils. On the home world he had seen holograms of Mars with beautiful people lounging and playing next to enormous sparkling swimming pools and lush green foliage. In the background a violent storm wasted its strength behind the protection of a dome. Other commercials showed majestic floating barges with smiling people mingling and enjoying every luxury off the tip of Olympus Mons. The Mars tourism trade presented it as a planet full of exhilarating spots of the finest pleasures humanity could offer, but this was not that kind of place.


The General’s Uniform Tristin’s eyes popped open. Jumping up he twisted. Explosions rattled his ears. Camouflaged troops shouting orders and others laying down fire atop the bulwark. Wait...he squinted; they were literally laying down fire. Blasts of flames burst from the troop’s palms incinerating the landscape before them. Black dots zipped across the scenery like ants with superspeed. He tried to make out the dots, but they were too far away. He tried to move but his clothes refused. His clothes felt...stiff, he regarded his outfit. “What tha...” “Hey,” a soldier shouted, “he’s up!” Tristin regraded the clothing again, a general’s uniform, pristine and starched stars and pins galore. But everyone else’s uniform was ripped and torn. One of the dots jumped onto the bulwark while they were distracted. Tristin stepped back or at least tried to step back. These dots were beasts. Their molerat body and lion type legs seemed out of place. Weirder yet, their bodies were translucent like it wasn’t really here. Is this a dream ? Tristin thought. A soldier screamed as it smacked him into the pile of weapons behind. Real enough to hurt Tristin thought. “What is this!” he shouted. One of the soldiers blasted the beast sending it screeching away. “We can’t kill them sir,” another cried. “We need him now!” The soldier with furrowed brows and a firm step came towards him. He looked in charge. He handed him a shield he got from the armoury. Tristin’s arm rose to take the shield. He clenched his fist. “What was that?” Tristin asked. “Take the shield nitwit,” a voice said, Tristin twisted searching for the source...” hurry up the men are dying.” He glanced at the captain that stood before him. He pointed to the general’s uniform Tristin had on. “Yes, I can talk,” the uniform said top pocket flapping like a lip, “but no time for that, now” it continued, “take the shield.” Tristin took it. “Are you sure this is his affinity?” the captain asked. “Guess we’ll see,” the uniform said, then launched him into the midst of the creatures in the open plain before the bulwark. With inhuman speed he dashed into the horde, translucent pink blood masked the land with every strike. The shield sent rippling poles of lightning across the land evaporating the creatures. Soldiers cheered but Tristin screamed as he was pulled backwards. His hand twisted behind him crashing into another set of ghost-like lion-moles. “What are you doing?” Tristin yelled. “My arms don’t work that way...” “Just shut up,” the uniform said “I’ll do the work just hold tight to...” A creature pounced on him. Tristin jumped. Panting, he turned. He was in a living room. His living room. He exhaled. “Honey are you ok?” Jemma asked, “oh my you’re sweating.” He felt the couch beneath him just to make sure. Jemma chopped vegetable a few feet away. She was real, right? Of course, you couldn’t fake that beauty. “That one felt real,” he said. Tristin sighed, relieved to be home. “One of those weird dreams again?” Jemma asked.  “Yeah” he replied “but this time it was...” he reclined resting his head on the couch then closed his eyes. As soon as his lids closed, he jumped. Soldiers blasting lion-moles and screaming all around. “You again,” the general’s uniform said. “The same one?” the captain said, shield in hand. “Well, this wasn’t it,” he said looking at the shield. He rushed for the sword. “Take it,” the uniform demanded. The uniform had a deep, masculine voice. “Hey!” Tristin said refusing to take the sword, “this is my body.” The uniform sighed, “could you please take the sword so I can save my men.” “Why am I talking to a uniform,” Tristin said, “this is a dream.” He closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes, they were still there. The captain regarded him, concerned. “Why did you pick him again?” the captain asked. “I didn’t,” the uniform said. “This is not a dream Tristin, take the sword or men will die. And if they die, you die.” “The same guy?” Another soldier asked. The captain nodded. “I am right here you know.” Tristin said. “The only benefit,” the uniform said, “is that we can have multiple chances to guess his affinity for one of the armor sets.” After trying to wake himself two more times he finally took the sword. “Hey,” Tristin said, “do I have a say in this?” “No” the uniform said, then launched him into the horde. He crashed into the ground knee and fist sending dirt flying. He didn’t feel anything just as before. The uniform moved his hand with the sword slashing lion-moles. Lightening cracked and pink blood splashed as they made their way towards a distant form. A giant lion-mole standing on two legs. The giant monster loomed in the distance. Tristin eyed the creature. It had three heads. “Focus,” the uniform said, “stop stiffening your hand.” Tristin decided it’s best to play along if he won’t wake. He moved with the uniform slashing and stabbing. “Good,” the uniform said. “I know right, I think I might be getting the hang of...” Tristin woke up in the middle of a board meeting. “Tristin,” his boss said smiling, “Glad to see you are back with us.” What day was it? He checked his watch; a week had passed. “I’ll let him off the hook this time guys, he burnt the midnight oil to meet the deadline.” Deadline? Tristin thought, for what . Who was living his life while he was away? The only thing he could recall was going to sleep on the coach. Tristin rubbed his temples, then closed his eyes. He held them shut. He feared what he would see if he opened. He could feel a migraine coming on. What in the world was going on? Slowly he peaked. “He’s back,” the Captain said. “That one was amazing.” Tristin cupped his forehead. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. “Yeah,” the uniform agreed, “but the sword is still not his affinity.” “What on earth is going on here?” Tristin asked. “Why am I here, what are we doing and why can’t I remember the time that passes when I am here?” The captain handed him a belt, ignoring his rant.            “Ready?” the uniform asked.            “Wait,” Tristin said “what does this...” the uniform launched him into the horde. He still hadn’t gotten used to that superhuman jump. This time Tristin––or rather the uniform––killed beasts with his bare hands.            “Ah!” Tristin screamed flashing his hands. They really were bear hands or paws. They ripped into lion-moles as Tristin flowed with the uniform directing his body.            “Hey,” Tristin said as his fist split the head of a beast.            “What?” the uniform answered sounding breathless.            “What’s your name?” “Really” the uniform said slipping underneath a lion-mole and ripping its gut. “You are in a transdimensional space fighting translucent monsters wearing a talking general’s uniform and you want to know my name?” “Well,” Tristin said, he ducked as paw pass passed above him. “I don’t have anything better to do. This all must be a dream, even when I think I am awake.” “Just call me general,” the uniform said. “I doubt we’ll see each other again. Summoning the same person three times is...unlikely.” “Summon?” Tristin asked. “Yeah,” the general said, “only your type can wield the legendary weapons and ware me?” Tristin regarded the belt as they ducked for cover, “yes” the general continued, “this is a part of the legendary armor.” “How long have you been fighting?” “Just over two thousand years,” the general replied. “What!” “As long as we can hold them back its fine,” the general said. “But weaklings like you cause them to gain ground.” “And yet you summoned me twice?” Tristin asked. “I don’t choose who wears me?” the general said. “Who does?” “Enough talking,” the general said “when I say duck, then...” “What?” Tristin said. His head lifted off his body. Tristin jumped standing. The people in the pews behind watched him. Church? He thought, he could remember the last time... “Honey” his wife said under her breath, “please sit down.” He sat down eyes opened refusing to even blink. “You promised you wouldn’t sleep,” Jemma said “I...” she looked at him, “what’s wrong with your eyes?” “Nothing,” he said, eyes dripping. “It’s watering,” she said “Hun, is everything...” a shush from behind cut her off. Tristin stared ahead, ignoring her. His only aim right now was to not go back. And so, he kept his eyes opened. “Is this because you didn’t want to come” she whispered. He shook his head. “We do not fight flesh and blood!” the preacher shouted in that signature way preachers do. Totally unnecessary if you asked him. “And so we need the full armor of God.” Wait Tristin thought what? “Let’s look at Ephesians 6:13” the preacher continued. “Therefore” the preacher read “put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand.” Seriously? Tristin thought. “The only way to defeat the devil in your life” the preacher continued. “Tristin, I think we should...” “Stop talking” he said to his wife. “I mean, listen...” “The only chance we have” the preacher said, “is to put on all the armor, not one, not two all of it.” Tristin sighed, “I can’t believe I am doing this again.” “Doing what,” Jemma asked. Tristin shook his head, then closed his eyes. “Listen general,” Tristin said to the uniform, “Give me all the armor.” “What?” the general asked. The captain handed Tristin a breast plate. “I want them all,” Tristin said. “Are you crazy kid,” the general said, “you can barely handle one; anymore and you wouldn’t even last a minute out there. These are legendary...” “What’s the worst that could happen?” Tristin asked. The captain eyed the uniform. The general remained silent. Finally, he spoke “If you are killed by a legendary weapon, you die! For real, not just here, no coming back.” “Oh” Tristin said. “Go hard or go home.” “Oh crap” the general said, “get them all, best case he dies early and we get someone else next time.” “Done!” the captain said strapping on the boots. “Ready?” the general asked “let’s do this,” Tristin replied. They zipped from one lion-mole to another slashing dashing and spraying the land pink. Most of the time the lion-moles evaporated even before he could slice through them. A sort of force enveloped him creating a protective shield. “I’ll be dammed,” the general said, “you are still alive. How’d you know?” “Long story,” Tristin said ducking under a paw. The duck was late, but it didn’t matter, the lion-mole evaporated before it touched him. They stopped. The lion-moles hesitated, stopped attacking. One of the three headed giants zipped towards him. The general blocked with the shield. This one did not evaporate. A thrust with the sword sent the giant zipping away, avoiding the strike. “Alright,” the uniform said. He rose his arms, shield in one sword in another. Thin strips of blue lightening danced across the surface. Tristin squinted; a bright blue light shot from the heavens. In waves they rushed across the land in every direction. Lion-moles and giants alike evaporated into nothingness. The general sighed, “you should have led with that one,” Tristin said. “Didn’t know I could,” the general said, “it’s the full set. It made all the difference. Good work kid.” “Wait,” Tristin said, he could feel his mind drifting away, “what now?” “We go home,” the general said. “Honey,” Jemma called, “we are going to be late, check the closet.” Right, he thought we are heading for a restaurant, and I am looking for my favorite tie . Wait, how did I know that? He opened the closet door. The general’s uniform hung at the front of the row. “General?” Tristin called. “Who are you talking to?” Jemma asked. Tristin spun, “no one,” adjusting her hair she went downstairs. “Don’t worry kid,” the uniform said, “I’ll be here when you need me, and I brought the armor, all of it.” The general lifted a sleeve pointing under the bed. Tristin smiled, then left.


She looked at him with tears in her eyes, and a stuttered slur of words erupted from her, "I thought I could trust you" she wailed followed by a strong but weary cry, he began to feel her words as they sunk into his mind. A tear flowed down, staining her bright rose face, the disbelief of his dishonesty had turned into a throbbing in her chest that felt as if it would never surrender, "I thought it would help" the boy replied as he attempted to brush a droplet from her bright red face. he thought of what he had done, who he had done it to, and then he truly understood her heartache. It wasn't manufactured like the emotions of the popular girls and it wasn't a cry for attention like many of the ones before it, it was a genuine, honest pain, a pain that could leave a man bed ridden and a pain who could destroy the happiest seeming of people, as it had done here She wanted to leave, she wanted to leave her life behind and disappear as if She had never existed in the first place like she never graced the hearts of so many people, like she never brought a smile to anyone who saw her, her head rang with indistinguishable thoughts.


The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents. \ I spent my first night on the island lying close to the fire, waking constantly to chuck on more wood between being serenaded to bouts of sleep by the gulls that swooped over the island. When I woke the next morning, I felt hydrated and warm enough, but now my stomach grumbled. Returning to the forest, I hunted for something edible. During my previous trips I was already aware of the lack of fruits hanging from the trees, or bushes ripe with harvest. Autumn had arrived. Whatever colour filled this forest a few months ago, was now nothing but inedible browns and greens. The only nutrition were small berries on some of the bushes. They were tiny red beads, firm to the touch. As I picked them off the stems, they held their shape, the juice inside unmoved. I lifted one to my mouth and tried to take a small nibble out of the side. My teeth slid across the hard waxy surface as the berry plopped back out of my mouth and into my hand. I tried again, grating the outside with my incisors until the skin pierced. I felt the gentlest release of pressure, yet tasted nothing. No sugar, no vitamins. I could just feel the flecks of floating skin, and the droplets of additional moisture. At least though, they didn’t taste sour or rotten. They were edible. Still, whatever sustenance the tiny red dots would provide wasn’t enough. What I really needed to survive here was protein. I needed meat. I knew how to fish. I was good at it. But fishing required a line, and there was no one here to trade me the string. It would need a hook too, and one man couldn’t form a mine to get the ore to forge the metal to create one simple hook. The end skill, the one I knew, was the last step in a long line of those needed. And without the ones before, I was useless. Above the trees, I could hear the squawks of the gulls. A meal, riding the air currents, taunting me from the sky. If only I could lure one to land. I tried the next day to use the berries as bait, placing a small nestle of them on a rock near the shore. A bright red trap backdropped by grey stone. Yet nothing came. I sat some thirty metres away, nibbling away on my own branch of the thin pellets unable to blame the gulls for being disinterested. If I could dive into the ocean for fish I’d be doing the same. By the time the sun began to fall on my fourth day on the island, I could feel the hunger taking its toll. It was no longer a pain or discomfort. My whole body felt tired, limbs burning energy that wasn’t there, fire burning in hollow arms and legs. With no energy and no place to go, my body had been allowed to wallow in its weariness, and I found myself spending more and more time simply staring into space. I needed a break from the atrophy and so I forced myself to walk to the western tip of the island. I told myself I needed the firewood, but truth be told there was still plenty closer to the campfire, and I had already added enough large logs to the fire that it was now nothing short of a pyre. More in danger of spreading than simply petering out. It was a nice evening for the stroll. The air was crisp, and the light had dimmed to a calm twilight. Soft waves lapped up against the shore, the sea so much calmer than the waters that had brought me here. Maybe it too was tired. My train of thought was broken by something at the corner of the beach. Two seagulls stood squabbling, jostling with each other. They hadn’t noticed me, too busy squaring off with each other. Their beaks were open, preparing to attack. One jolted forward, and the other met it, their beaks clacking like swords. Then they reared their heads back, waiting for the next strike. The one nearest me flapped its wings, hovering briefly above the ground. In the space I could see what had caused the fight. Another gull, this one very much dead. The corpse lay on its back, wings splayed. There were blotches of red, large gaping wounds that had been picked at by the scavengers. Loose feathers littered the nearby stones and a still, beady eye stared back at me. The birds resumed their standoff. This was my chance. I crouched down and began slowly moving towards them, trying to tread softly. The stones shifted and clinked beneath my feet, but the sound was masked by the lapping waters and clapping beaks. I got closer. The birds were only ten or so metres away. The sea seemed to grow louder, the tides slightly faster, the waves driving me on. Do it! Do it! the waves whispered to me. Charge! Run! Kill! I tried to ignore the sea’s agitations. The gulls were still engaged in their dance, their wings outstretched, as they shimmied around the corpse, trying to intimidate the other into submission. I trod on a loose stone. It slid hard against its neighbours, who in turn rolled against theirs. A cascading echo rolled through the earth, the sound running through the cavernous gaps between the rocks and blaring like a siren into the air. The gulls looked up. Their heads turning to me. Then, they flew. Both knew a bloated corpse wasn’t worth dying over. I was alone on the beach again. Just me and the dead stare. I walked over and inspected the corpse more closely. It had clearly been dead a while. One wing bent awkwardly and poked up to the air, while its rigid legs pointed to the sea. Gashes where the other gulls had attempted to get to the offal inside could be seen along its distended belly. Most of all, the bird stank; the odour of decay that rots at the inside of your nose. The gulls’ stomachs could handle this carrion. Mine could not. But it was bait. One I knew they liked. I picked up the bird by its neck, the stiff frame holding its form. A small part of my insides rolled just from the touch and I could feel my oesophegus tighten with nausea as the smell grew closer. I kept my arms outstretched, keeping the carcass as far away as I could, and retreated to the campfire. The next day I set about creating my trap. The bait lay on the rocks while I dug a small crevice ten or so metres away, enough to lie in and try to appear as small as possible. Between me and the target, was the longest branch I could find - a thick and waving trunk. Light for its size, but still carrying the impact of a club. The middle of the branch balanced on a rock, with the rest held in the air. The result was a heavy branch with a single point of friction that,with one quick jolt of my arm, would move with speed and force over the the target. The trap was makeshift, and I was certain an experienced hunter could do better. But I was improvising from what little I knew. One person, with no real knowledge, guessing their way to hopeful survival. I tried to make myself comfortable among the jagged pebbles and stones of the beach. As I peered over the top of my small trench, watching the lifeless feathers waiver in the breeze. I thought back to Alessia, how easy she’d probably find this. She was always a step closer to the source of a problem than I was, a few less levels of abstraction. “I suppose you’d have a better plan,” I muttered to her apparation, under my breath. “You probably used to capture birds all the time.” I imagined her response. The way her tongue stuck between her teeth when she was being cheeky. \*Can you even move fast enough to pull this off?\* “We’ll find out. But I don’t have a better idea. I wanted to tie a knot in some string, but…” \*No string.\* “Exactly. So the branch it is.” \*You reckon you can kill a bird with this thing.\* “Probably not. But maybe stun it. Give me enough time to get over there and grab it.” \*And then what?\* “We’ll ride that wave when we get to it.” A gull landed near the corpse. It tilted its head, eying up the offering, moving closer in short and stuttered steps. \*Be patient\* “I know,” I whispered. The gull arrived by the bait, its head centimetres from the pole. My stomach grumbled with anticipation, but I could see the wariness in the bird’s eyes. I had to ensure the bird gave into hunger before I did. The gull picked tentatively at the corpse with its beak. After a couple of pokes it took a more definitive strike, trying to pierce through the skin. \*Now\* As its head reared back up, I swung the branch. The bird turned to see the pole and flapped its wings in reflex desperation, trying to escape. The pole made contact, but the moment of flight cushioned the blow, and the gull rolled backwards across the beach. I scrambled to my feet, just in time to watch the gull find its footing and take to the air. My lungs deflated as the bird glided across the sea towards safety. Failure. \*You swung the pole too soft.\* “I know. Move the axis back and I’ll get a harder swing.” \*That bird was quick too\* “Exactly. Maybe the next one will be slower.” Buoyed, I set the trap back up and returned to my spot. It took maybe half an hour for the next bird to arrive. This one looked older. It’s chest bulged with years of survival on the ocean. It strode up to the carrion and began pecking at the skin, undisturbed by the pole poised by its skull. I let it relax, get a few pecks in, let its mind concentrate on the meat. Then, wham. With a sharp jerk of the branch, the pole slammed into the bird’s neck and it rolled across the ground. I jumped to my feet and sprinted to the bird. The gull righted itself, shaking its head, as I dived towards it. It tried to take off, but I grabbed a leg, and the bird thudded back to the ground. My fist tightened on the limb as a sharp beak turned and began pecking at my hand. They were pin pricks at first, but then the beak jabbed hard. A spasm of pain ran through my wrist. In reflex, I opened my hand. I screamed, a small amount in pain, mostly in exasperation, as the bird took to the sky and left me. Again. Failure. \*Did you not think the bird would fight back?\* I sat down, checking my hand for cuts. “Not that much.” I sighed. “I’m going to die here aren’t I? Starve to death.” \*Have more faith in yourself. \* “I’m not sure I can do this.” \*Yes you can. You may have grown up some sheltered boy in Kadear, but you’ve survived worse than this.\* “I feel like I should be better at this. Others would be better. You would be better.” \*Humans are social creatures. We thrive off each other. You’re never meant to have to do this alone.\* “So I’m dead.” \*I said thrive. Not survive. But you’ll make it. Until you get rescued.\* “You had better be coming to find me.” \*If I’m around to, I’m sure I am.\* A pain gathered at the back of my eyes. The one in my hand evaporated. “We’re not going there, Ferdinand.” I told myself as I walked back to my mark. “We’re going to survive. We’re going to get off this island. And we’re going to find Alessia.” The next bird arrived around an hour later. It was smaller than the other two. Maybe younger, maybe less wise, I thought to myself. It walked skittishly up to the game, aware of the abnormality of a free meal, but unsure of how to assess the danger. The gull bent down and began plucking at the meal, quickly grabbing the flesh and trying to rip it with a jerk of its head. Whack! Just as the bird pulled its head, I swung, the branch hitting it square in the side of its skull. It bounced down the stony bank and I set off in a sprint, moving forwards as well as up. The bird was on its back and struggled to right itself - a couple of seconds of inertia - enough for me to close the gap and jump on it. I grabbed its body and neck, pinning it to the ground. A startled beak squawked in anger, confusion and fear. I grabbed a nearby rock and brought it down fast upon the bird’s head. There was a thud, followed by an injured and hurt call. I raised the stone again and brought it down a second time. Another thud, and a crack. This time there was no reply. \*Reminds you of Outer Fastanet.\* “The stone.” I replied to the air, dropping the weapon to the side. “It’s how they killed those pirates.” \*You didn’t learn it off them.\* I stood back and looked at the kill. “You think it’s instinct?” \*Maybe. Maybe not. Seems like a question you’d enjoy.\* I’d killed fish before. But this felt different. When you hit a fish with a hammer it looks at you with a sort of dumb confusion that it isn’t in water. The seagull fought. It fought for its life and I watched its pupils shrink with the realisation of its own end. I had to do it. I had to survive. But this was the first time. While my brain was still shaking at the act, my stomach grumbled with a different, more immediate message. With no tools to cut the bird, I plucked it as best as I could and then skewered the whole body with a long stick, and balanced it over the fire. I am sure an unseasoned gull - half-cooked and half-burnt over an open fire - was not a great meal. Yet, I had never been so thankful to eat. My stomach groaned with pleasure, my entire digestive system in elation, the frustration of dormancy suddenly unleashed into a hive of activity. For the first time since I arrived on this island I slept with my stomach full. I was going to make it. —————————————————— More days passed. My first kill had become the bait or my second, which became bait for my third. The water in the bushes had dried up, but fresh seagull blood was mostly water and it quenched my thirst enough. Between the gulls and the fire running steady, I was beginning to develop a routine. I was beginning to feel confident that I could survive on the island a little while longer. I reasoned too, that Alessia would likely have the boat repaired by now and be on her way to find me - she \*had\* to be on the way to find me. But if I wanted to make her or any other rescuer’s job easier, I’d need to let them know I was here. The best hope I had for that was the fire. A column of smoke during the day and light at night. However, I only had the one. I needed a second beacon, one on the other side of the island. I had been on the island for about two weeks, long enough to be uncertain of the exact number of days. It was the evening twilight, the point where you can see, but color and depth become a challenge. As I traipsed through the forest collecting logs for my second fire, I was straining to make out branches against the dark forest floor. My gaze was fixed downward as I scanned the uneven ground for suitable branches. Around me, the trees had been rustling all afternoon. A steady breeze had created a constant background shiver through the forest, a persistent auditory blur. I was in a sort of sensory deprivation. Had I been anywhere else, on an island with other people or any animals bigger than the gulls, I might have been wary of being so unaware of my surroundings. But the one plus to my isolation was that I could stare at the ground for as long as I wanted in perfect safety. I picked up one more branch and added it to the pile in my arms, the last stick almost sending the whole collection cascading to the ground. “That’s enough,” I announced to myself. As I looked up I noticed how the trees were shaking more ferociously. Branches waved, for my attention and the leaves sung ominously. “The fire should be fine, right?” I thought to the pile of logs I added before I left. Even a gale wouldn’t blow that out. I nodded to myself in reassurance. Still, the shaking forest tickled the hairs on my neck; a small itch that couldn’t ignore the howls from the trunks around me. \*You know what comes with wind.\* I looked up. The sky was black. Bulbous clouds hung low, groaning with their weight. I could see the light show of sparks flickering in the gloom, waiting to be unleashed. Static clung to the air, ready and primed. “Please, no.” The plea was quiet, too quiet to be heard by such giants. The weight above gave way. Rain poured down as a carpet, the world suddenly more water than air. Within a moment, everything was wet. The ground beneath my feet turned to mud, my clothes drenched through, and the kindling in my arms became waxy and moulted. The fire. I dropped the branches to the ground, and ran back through the forest. Each stride was like running into a wall of water. The cascade dripped into my eyes, blurring my vision as I rushed through the drumbeat of rain. Shaking branches tripped me and blocked me. I kept running, ignoring the slap of wet leaves until the mass of trees began to clear and I burst out into the open. Out of the forest, the rain was even heavier, and I could feel it pushing me down. The weight of a million droplets pounded against my skull until I could feel no other sense. My clothes were heavy, my feet slipped across smooth and moistened stones, and it was a struggle to keep moving under the bombardment from above. Trees rushed past until I turned the corner and saw the bonfire. The strong yellow flame had gone, replaced by gentle wafts of smoke and steam. I ran to it, trying to think of how I could protect the flame. No sheets. No shelter. Nothing but my waterlogged clothes and useless stones. Utterances of denial and vulgarities left my mouth. I looked to the base of the fire. I could see the red glow, a branch still bright with fire. Water hissed as it landed against it and turned to steam; the heat leached from the log. But there was still fire. I began ripping large leaves from the trees and bushes nearby, placing them in a pyre next to the fire, hoping the surface would provide protection. But the leaves were too few. Water and winds continued to pour through my paltry defence. I ripped off my shirt, and held it over the wood. Winds billowed in the fabric, sending water from the soaked shirt onto the wood. The fire let out a pained cry as more of the droplets transformed into vapour. The sky roared, the predator unleashing its fury. And like any good prey, I felt my heart thump in my chest as I cowered in fear, hoping not to be snuffed out. I looked around for something to keep the rains away. Panic and stupid ideas flooded my brain. Could I build a shelter from the stones? Could I drag the fire into the forest? Could I chuck my clothes - my soaking wet clothes - onto the fire as fuel? I bent down to check the base of the fire again, and my panic stopped. No more adrenaline. No more rush of energy. It was all worthless now. Water had gotten through. There were no glowing embers, no flickering flames, no hint of heat. The fire was extinguished. \ The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents.


Bad dreams can’t hurt you. No matter how real they seem, you always wake up. Sometimes quickly with a start, sweating and panting in the middle of the night. Sometimes slowly, your eyes unfocus from the eyelid movie and come back to the world around you. The terror of the dream fades into a dull ache, fading away into the mist of memory. In my worst dream there were white plates, silver and cups ringed with baby blue lines, gleaming in the midday sun. Rainbows of flowers swayed gently at tables clothed in gold down to the feet making them seem to float off the ground. The cool breeze carried the lazy large clouds lingering in the glistening blue sky, rippling the water in the lake. The exuberance reverberated off the curved wooden pavilion with voices accented from all corners of the earth. The door opened. She stepped through the door carrying her own localized wind, curling and gusting in visible wisps. A head full of flowers, rooted around her neck and shoulders, climbing upwards into a crown reaching for the sky. Her skin reflecting a dark golden warm honeyed brown wrapped in a dazzling white with small strips of baby blue and lavender placed thoughtfully and practically.”Plain white is just too boring”, I remember her saying. Her smile pushed out from her glistening teeth to the corners of her lips and spread up to her eyes. The music swelled to her entrance and the gathered party hailed her with applause. The moment reminded me of the first time I turned the corner and walked through the doorway and saw her. Wearing blue overalls with a white shirt, she was sitting in the sun focusing on a book. The air swirled softly around her and I approached. “Um excuse me —” She looked up and slowly focused her eyes on me as I stumbled my way through the first spark, a stranger to her universe, a rogue comet meant to pass by but got trapped by gravity. We pushed on together through the void of those youthful years over late night chats, stolen kisses in the stairwell at Smiths, shared jelly buns gushing all over us, notes and letters passed between friends, quick touches between hawk like eyes watching us, secret rendezvous, tears, fears and trepidations. Locked in a spiral of each other's gravity now we reached out with soft touches at the heart, slowly uncovering more about that new world that had appeared in each of our skies. A ringing brought me back to the now with a jerk. Hues of dark purple and orange were pushing away the blue sky. Someone was tapping a glass, cheering for the kiss. She blushed and slowly turned. Her shadow followed, wrapped around her and invaded her local atmosphere to embrace for a kiss. I stood apart from the audience watching the scene of happiness around me as I gravity disappeared for me and I began to float away: a rogue comet, meant to pass through and now sent back into the cold endless abyss. The door had shut and vanished without a sound. But bad dreams never affect me, they’re just a flash of memory, the mind playing while you rest. High above the world I look into the lake reflecting the deep purple of the sky. I watched my water twin swirling, screaming and twisting silently as it floated away, waiting for the terror to fade to a dull ache, for the scream to turn into a yawn.


By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire with the death of Avinash. The blood was still sprinkling from his neck. He was under that old cherry tree. Winter leaves were falling from the tree. People were already gathered around him in the early morning. I never thought it would end like this. He was a neighbour of mine, a very dear one. It started with his longing for money. He had been too greedy. He never thought where he was heading. A vicious circle of friends had acquired him by preaching the overnight rich method but he didn't understand that nobody can be successful overnight without doing any illegal jobs. His father was very proud of him. One educated boy he was. Every demand was fulfilled by his parents. I can say he was a very pampered boy in his childhood and young age also. He was the only child of his parents. They thought their children would be a respected man in this neighbourhood. In fact, he was already in the right direction. He was known as a good boy in our locality. We came here 2 years ago. Our locality is very peaceful. Small houses are surrounded by small gardens. Even the colour of every house was lightly painted. In front of our house, there is a small Cherry tree which looks so beautiful in spring. I heard that this is older than the others. No horns, no hustling and bustling of the city, though it is not a village. We enjoy the place. This place is remarkable at the time of spring when new leaves bloom on every branch. Birds chirping in the morning give this a different dimension. Though I was a little jealous about his good boy image in the locality, we were good friends. He used to live just beside our house. His father was an engineer by profession and mother was a teacher. His upbringing had been well nurtured. I remember when I first went to his house. I remember I went with Avinash. Aunty opened the door. Aunty - Hi Atul, how are you? So, how's your new home? I – good, aunty, it's been a great place for us. Very peaceful it is. How are you? Aunty - good, how're your parents? I - they are good. With asking the question, she went to her kitchen. Their house is well decorated. Avinash told me to sit on the sofa and he sat on a chair. We were conversing about a function which was going to happen soon in our area. She came out with a plate full of sweets and snacks and put it in front of us. Aunty - You have just shifted here, right? Avinash told me a little about you. You both have been good friends within a few days. I - yeah, just a 2 weeks ago. Actually, my dad is a railway employee and has a transferrable job. So, we have to migrate frequently. I am a very shy person, so couldn't eat anything but a bit of the snack and coffee. I met Avinash just 2 days after we came here. He has really been a very kind friend. Aunty - what are you doing then? Studying? I – yes, aunty. I'm still studying. This is my last year in graduation. Aunty - oh, that's great to hear. We had already finished our snacks. Avinash was silent in our conversation. He didn't say anything. Now it was his turn. He said, let's go to my room. I have already been accustomed to his chain-smoking habit. His room also was well decorated. It seemed to me he was a very creative person. Everywhere was paintings, writings. I asked, "Is this yours?" Avinash – Yes, I like to do this in my spare time. Do you like arts?? I said, yeah, of course. I know the value it gives us. We became very good friends within a few months. I used to be their regular guest. We were already accustomed to each other’s behaviour. He was already confronted with my calm attitude. He saw my aggressive side also. One day he told me why I hit my head at an aggressive time. I told him that was my childhood habit. It can't be changed easily. It was already concreted in me. A long year passed. In the meantime, I saw some changes in his behaviour. He was being aggressive for little matter. His frustration was not hidden from his family also. I found that he had started to take marijuana. Within a few months, he got too much addicted to heroin. His interests started to change. There were no creative activities. His mind diverted. The most important thing in our broken friendship which departed us is a lady. I fell in love with the same person he loved. She lives near our house. It is just a 5 minutes walking distance. I didn't even talk to that lady but felt a terrific longing for her. My desire for her grew rapidly. I tried to express my love but failed. The manifestation of love was not an easy task for me. Our friendship broke within a few days when he came to know about this matter. We had already stopped talking, though our parents would communicate with each other. I knew that he was running after money. He was being involved with a smuggling gang. I could understand his changed personality. As he passed out, he wasn't interested in jobs. He wanted to start his own business as an artist. It was not possible overnight. His dream was not being successful and finally, there was a friend who supplied the first marijuana to him. I knew the person. When I came to know that he had been accepted by the lady I became more jealous. Avinash started to come back to his good life. He was rehabilitating himself. He never thought the future of his destiny was in my hands. Nobody knew about his exact activities but me. Still, there is no trace of the killers. Everybody suspects that he was killed by one of his gang members, though I knew the truth. Hahaha! I felt an eternal happiness. The police came to know later about the murder within a few days. So, I had to go behind the bars.


There was a troll that lived under a bridge. He scared the local children and parents warned everyone away, but truthfully this troll was quite nice. His face was always in an upside down grin, for that was how he smiled. His eyes were big and one was just a bit lower than the other. He was quite odd to look at, by human standards. The troll was a very regular troll. However, he was also irregular. He didn’t like to do troll things, like bellow and bang and stomp through towns. He just liked the quiet under the bridge. He sat out under his bridge during the day, catching the things that flowed by. Tires and cups and newspapers and wood. He sat on the sunny side of the bridge and relaxed on the warm river rocks. And when the children crossed the bridge, daring each other to look at the troll or throw a stick, he would POP up! Sometimes he would ask them a riddle, or tell a little joke. Most times, they just screamed and ran. He did this for three reasons: 1. There were bigger, meaner trolls under other bridges, and he didn’t want the children thinking they could talk to them. 2. It was very funny. 3. He was a troll. At night he would go into the bridge under the left bank, through a little duct that led to a cozy brick room where he cooked and ate and slept. He had a cozy bed made of tires and a feather mattress. He had a table made of bottles and cans and a tea kettle Over a steam grate, which kept his home toasty warm. His duct became a window over the bed where he read the books that the children dropped by moonlight. Though to be quite honest, he had learned recently that he could use a fishing rod to grab a whole backpack if he was crafty enough. He slept well to the sound of the river running by. He was happy under the bridge. He loved the children and he loved his home. He had lived with trolls as a troll child. His parents were loud and angry, always bellowing and fighting. They didn’t understand their quiet troll child and yelled louder, hoping to inspire him. He hated the noise and the stink and the smashing. He just wanted a calm place to be alone. And so he treasured his life under the bridge. He befriended the ducks that came through, and one would often stay and chat through the night. He called him Huck. “Why do you suppose I always find one sock in the river but never two?” The troll asked. “QUACK.” Said Huck. And so it went long into the night. The troll was alone, but he didn’t feel alone. He had many friends, from the birds to the ducks to the owl that lived on the underside of the bridge next door, who he had much more sparkling conversations with. They had all donated feathers for his bed, and he caught them fish occasionally as a neighborly gesture. He saw the children grow every day, and he had good tea and good readings. He could always dry out the newspapers and magazines that floated his way, but he sometimes used them for papier-mâché instead. He was a happy, ugly troll under a bridge and he wouldn’t have it any other way.