“It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat.” mocked Mandy with a tone of dominance in her proud voice. “We’ll see about that, considering my bestie has true talent unlike you.” Samara said, defending Chloe. “Oh really … ha ha ha! All the worst to you.” Mandy muttered as she walked away with her snobby friends. “Aaaaah. I hate her.” low-screamed Chloe as she threw dirty looks at Mandy. “I can’t let her take my role this time.”

“It’s fine, I know you can do it.” said Samara encouragingly.

“Oh my goodness, only half an hour left, I’m so freaking out for this audition!” exclaimed Chloe. “Is my hair alright? What about my makeup? Is it perfect? Wait, how’s my costume?” “You seriously need to stop worrying too much Chloe. This is not the most important thing, it’s just a play and I’m sure you’ll get the role” said Samara, seeing her friend get overdramatic.

“Just a play huh? That’s how you term a determined fight against Mandy, the worst beauty-queen ever! It’s my firm decision to beat Mandy and get the role of Princess Eliza and I so very hope she, a.k.a Mandy gets the role of the pauper girl, but yet again, that too would be a huge disgrace for me letting her act in the play I’ll be starring. Well, since I’m known to be super-sweet, I might as well give her the role-” started blabbering Chloe non-stop. “You know what, ju-just keep worrying. But never open your mouth again.” sighed Samara as she said this. “Fine.” sulked Chloe and started rehearsing again. “Miss Hilton, your audition starts in a couple of minutes, head to the backstage.” announced Professor Daniel in his usual French accent. “Chloe, you have to go now, everything is perfect. Good luck!” said Samara. “Merci.” said Chloe gracefully, “That’s how I’ll end my lines.” Samara replied “Great!”. “Oh no, it’s alright.” panted Chloe, her heart beating fast every step she took towards the stage.

“You may begin your audition, Miss Hilton.” said Professor Daniel. “Laissez-la passer les portes … échangeons des vies … la vie est vraiment dure ici …” she was doing the audition great. Samara was proud of her friend.

She quickly glanced around to check whether Mandy was enjoying this too. There she was, at the far end of the auditorium, with fierce jealousy in her eyes. Samara couldn’t resist a chuckle.

A minute later, Mandy wasn’t there. “Odd.” thought Samara. But there was something more than ‘odd’ going on. She roamed the whole auditorium trying to spot Mandy, probably planning something to ruin the perfect audition. Even though this feared Samara, she was overjoyed to see Chloe concluding her audition gracefully as she’d commenced, “La pauvreté doit être bannie du pays … merci.” Chloe bowed elegantly and walked down the stage with her cheeks flushing with color as Samara flung her arms around her and hugged her. “You rocked Chloe. I distinctively saw Professor Daniel pleased with your performance.” said Samara, smiling. “I think so too. Seeing Mandy so furious gave me the spirit.” confessed Chloe.

“Speaking of Mandy, where is she anyway?” asked Chloe looking around. “Dunno. Saw her, and then after a minute or so she disappeared. I was worried she’d ruin your audition.” explained Samara. “Well, she can’t be gone for long ‘cause her audition starts right after mine.” said Chloe thoughtfully. “Wanna go get some ice cream?” suggested Samara. “D’love to.” said Chloe with a grin as they went towards the lifts. “Chloe, you were spectacular on the stage.” complimented Harry, their close friend, who’d been waiting for the lift to arrive. “Thank you!” blushed Chloe as she said this, “Are you coming with us to get some ice cream?”.

“I’m ‘fraid I can’t, I’ve got soccer practice.” “Oh right. We too are in a hurry. We wanna see how Mandy performs.” replied Samara. “Oh, she?” asked Harry. “Yup.” said Chloe “She.” The lift arrived and the three got in, fully aware only the school staff were permitted to use them. They reached the ground floor and parted ways. “See you later girls!” Harry said as he ruffled his untidy, black hair. Samara and Chloe waved and were soon found walking back to the lifts with their almost-finished ice cream cones. They were astonished to see, not even a single soul was in the auditorium except the janitor. “Hey, where is everybody ?” asked Chloe as she scanned the place for Professor Daniel. Samara, followed by Chloe, walked up to the janitor and asked, “Excuse me ma’am, but do you know where everyone is?” “Some purposeful accident there-” started saying the janitor pointing towards the nearest lobby, but abruptly stopped when she noticed the name ‘Chloe’ on Chloe’s identity card. “You Chloe?” asked the janitor with a clearly not-so-pleased expression. “People are waiting for you there …” saying this, she continued to mop the floor. “Oh me?” replied Chloe wondering what on earth the janitor was talking about. Both of them sprinted towards the lobby to see a huge crowd gathered around a girl who was now, made to sit on a chair. Her frantically bleeding head and badly bruised arms were being bandaged insecurely by one of her snobby friends. Samara was astounded to identify the girl on the chair. She nudged Chloe as she gasped in horror recognizing the familiar black eyes and blonde hair. “MANDY!” she shrieked. “Ah, here comes our innocent assailant.” they heard Professor Daniel say, eyeing Chloe accusingly. “Professor me? B..but I-” started Chloe but was interrupted by Professor Daniel’s words, “Now, now. Don’t try to cover up Miss Hilton. It’s very best if you confess your wrongdoing, er … right now and right here.” “But she has done nothing wrong to confess Professor.” said Samara fiercely. “Oh, are you her accomplice then, Miss Rodrigues?” interrogated Professor Daniel in his usual French accent. “Professor, we truly do not know what you’re talking about.” said Samara, this time even more confidently.

Professor Daniel got up from his armchair and asked loudly yet patiently, “Then who else should I be blaming for this young girl’s tragedy of being pushed down from the stairs.” “Stairs?” asked Samara unsure. Professor Daniel turned his head towards Mandy and spoke “Dear, let’s have it all explained one more time so that these innocent-acting girls become fully guilty of their own deeds.” “Very well Professor.” said Mandy with colorless, clear liquid filled in her eyes. “I was rehearsing my play when I suddenly remembered that I had left one of my props in my classroom which was on the second floor. I was walking briskly to the stairs when I saw Chloe following me. I asked her if her audition was over and she said it just got over … and, and the next thing I knew was kneeling on the stairs with blood all over my head and hands.” sobbed Mandy. “You liarrrrr!” screamed Chloe with utmost hatred towards Mandy. “Is there anything you girls have to say now?” asked Professor Daniel. Moments of awkward silence filled the atmosphere and Professor Daniel begins to speak again “Well, since you-”. His words were cut off by Samara’s, “Yes, Professor, I certainly have a few things to say.” Professor Daniel looked confused and so did Chloe, Mandy and the others who were around. Chloe nudged Samara but she just nodded as though meaning to say, ‘I know what I’m doing’. Samara was in a dilemma. She had to help her friend out of this fake accusation. But that would mean admitting one of their flaws. Anyway, she decided to go for it. “You see Professor,” began Samara with fierce confidence in her voice, “as soon as Chloe’s audition got over, we went down to the school cafeteria, through the el….elevators.”. She paused to analyze the professor’s reaction; she was merely surprised to see him nodding eagerly to know what happened next. “Er..yeah as I was saying, we went down to the cafeteria and in the same way came up to the auditorium through the elevators to find no one but the janitor here.” She finished the sentence quickly as though not to highlight ‘elevators’. “And what makes you think I would believe these events, Miss Rodrigues?” asked Professor Daniel questioningly in his usual French accent. “A witness.” came the quick-witted reply.

It was now Chloe realized what her friend was actually doing. She glanced at Mandy to see her slightly taken aback with this news.

“Who is the witness?” demanded Professor Daniel. “If you would accompany me to the school ground, I might as well be able to justify myself.” Samara answered relentlessly. “Well, take me there.” said the professor. “Er … professor, may I come too?” asked Mandy clumsily. “No dear, I think it’s high time you should rest.” said the confused professor.

Chloe and Samara led the professor to the school ground where the soccer team was practicing. Once they got there, Samara yelled “HARRY” and a figure with ruffled, untidy black hair froze on the ground and came running towards them,“Hi Samara. Hey Chloe. Good morning Professor Daniel.” “Well, I have a few things to clear so would you mind telling me a little bit of truth …” said Professor Daniel. “Er…truth… yeah.. I won’t mind at all” replied Harry perplexed. “Good.” muttered the professor. “Now, is it true that these girls came down to the cafeteria through the elevators at around twenty minutes ago?” questioned Professor Daniel in his usual French accent. “Tell the truth Harry.” whispered Chloe. “We’re sorry professor, it is true we three, came down through the elevators and it was only because we were in a hurry. Professor, we are extremely sorry. See professor, I had soccer practice and well I decided to use the lift and met Samara and Chloe. Chloe had just finished her audition and needless to say, it was amazing …and we apologize great …” he did not seem to end his apologies.

“Well, I’m sorry I doubted you girls.” said Professor Daniel smiling, “I still do wonder, how Mandy, would’ve got blood over her-”

“Hahahahaahha … Professor, I’m sorry to interfere but I saw her taking red liquid from her bag.” said Harry smirking. “Well, I surely need to get my spectacles changes, don’t I girls?” They all burst into a fit of laughter as they walked back to the auditorium deciding what punishment Mandy deserved. “I think you ought to give her detention professor.” suggested Samara. “Or maybe give Chloe the role of Princess Eliza sir.” Chloe blushed and Professor Daniel said “Maybe.” in his usual French accent, this time with a warm smile.


THE SUN SETS ON THE MEADOW I have been working in the Brothers Grimm and Associates architectural firm for almost twenty years. I have always been involved in the renovation , or  refurbishment of bathrooms and kitchens. Never in all these years I have been asked to design a building. And when I say a building I don’t mean a public work (one), not a condominium or even a villa. No, I mean a single house, even a small one. Well, that morning , one of my bosses, Adolf Grimm, summoned me in his wide office. He even offered me a tasty, hearty  breakfast, after which he started to talk about what he called the occasion of my life, that he would offered me. Ah, he said me, a real stroke of luck, for you, my dear James. Indeed a train to be seized on fly , since, oh, occasions  like this doesn’t happen every day. As he lingered in these preambles, I swear I was thinking he is going to offer me a trip to the space , or something like that. Might be he was going to propose me the design of ( for) buildings on Mars. When he finished with his introduction, which promised, announced wonders, Adolf Grimm instead said me that he had decided to entrust to me the project for the construction of the villa of the Commendatore S. Rossi, who was also a Knight of merit of the Republic. I was complexly stunned, more than surprised, I could only be incredulous.   “ What, you don’t say anything?”  Mr. Grimm asked, with his thundering voice. Then he, standing up from behind his desk, came beside me, with his hands stuck  unto his trouser pockets, his chest out, and his belly too. I had remained seated , and was quiet, silent as a chick. “ Ah, but sure, I can understand that you are left speechless, by God! You would never have expected an occasion like this, right?” Mr. Grimm said, towering over me with his imposing physique. He leaned over me, his big bald head hit my ear, my cheek too. He grabbed my shoulder with his big hand, giving me a strong squeeze. “ Come on, but speak therefore! No, don’t tell me you have to think about my proposal! Since   you don’t really need to think about it! It is an opportunity to be seized on the fly! On, what are you waiting?” He shouted, giving me a strong slap on the back. “ Oh, I….really need to think about it a little before deciding” It came naturally ( spontaneously) to me to say. “ Ah, don’t start saying bullshit now! I cannot stand it!” Adolf Grimm thundered. “ But I have no experience. I never projected a building, much less a villa” I said. “ Oh, my dear James, I know, it’s our guilt. Ah, it’s mine especially, if you here, in our firm ( studio) have not been appreciated as you would have deserved, Oh, sure, I’m sorry, I regret too having entrusted you only with assignments mostly regarding the modernization of some rooms of a house…..Ah, look, I acknowledge that I have been wrong, even much wrong, that I made a big, unforgivably mistake , and I’m ready to apologize …..But you know how things go…..my brother Frank and I, we aren’t the only partners in this firm….” The biggest of my bosses started a rant, or rather a spiel , that I really didn’t stand to listen to….Oh, if I knew how…..things go in a prestigious architectural firm ( studio) like that of Brothers Grimm and…..and others. The architects who have to make a name for themselves, they are entrusted with the projects for important works, those works of which magazines and newspapers will write, of which  television will also speak , which will indeed advertise and the works and the architects who designed ( projected) them.  And, coincidentally, the architects who are entrusted with the design of these great works, they are always either relatives or friends  of the firm’s partners . ( of the firm’s owners) . And, as for friends, they are all sons, daughters, nephews, cousins of very rich and successful entrepreneurs , or even of powerful politicians. Meanwhile he, my biggest boss, insisted, he continued to speak non-stop, without listening to a word of what I said, indeed of what I was trying to say, he kept claiming the very great importance of that task ( assignment) for me. Oh, could I imagine? My name associated with the villa of S. Rossi! He, just he, the big entrepreneur , the biggest in the country, in the steel, iron, aluminum, pipe industry! Ah, his villa would obviously have been a marvel! It could only be an absolute wonder, a masterpiece, the villa of a man so much excellent! I understood this too, didn’t I? Oh, of course I should have designed the villa taking into account the tastes of this very excellent man “……since , oh, after all, it is he who pays!” My very big boss said, pulling up, with an energetic   tug at his belt, his trousers , which, truly, were not falling at all. Oh, but he, Adolf Grimm, is like that : when he loudly proclaims an unquestionable truth, oh, he needs to underline his words with an energetic gesture. Despite his great commitment, although he really gave it all to make me accept that sensational, fabulous assignment , oh, a more unique than rare occasion ( opportunity) for me, he could not at all convince me. Since I did not feel like saying him immediately, in front of his large face, that I didn’t  accept the wonderful assignment , which he, so magnanimously, had decided to gave me, since I also could not stand to hear him declaiming , thundering, his rant, I said him that oh, I thanked him very much, but I needed to think about it for a while before accepting that assignment.  He would never have expected it, that I could not have accepted instantly, so Mr. Grimm was very disappointed. Oh, I could see on his face how much he was disappointed . What face he made! Oh, his big, large and stubby face seemed to be smoothed out ( stretched out), flattened. It really made me think that it was as if the rolling pin, with which my grandmother smoothed the dough, had passed over his face . But that day the surprises weren’t over for me. I had just come back to my office, I was look at the plant of a bathroom to renovate when, oh, nothing than surprise, I almost took a hit, here that she came….she, Claire, the young and beautiful niece of the Grimm. Even Claire worked in the Brothers Grimm and associated firm ( studio). But she, unlike me, was a successful architect, yes, she was almost an archistar, however she was going to become one ( an archistar). Ah, Claire was a real beauty. She was tall, with a lithe, harmonious physique (body) , beautiful legs, slender and well shaped. She had a perfect oval face, wide, sculpted features, green cat eyes. Eh, Claire….years ago, not even so many years ago, even if it seemed to me a century had passed from then , when she had just been hired in the firm of her uncles, ah, I had been struck by her . I had made her a tight court. I had sent her flowers, accompanied by notes with words, oh, what words….words which now it could  never happen to me to write to anyone, never…….I had given her gifts, yes, jewels too….But she…ah, to say that she had stubbed me, it is too little. She had done worse. She had mimicked me with people of her high entourage, she had made fun of me. I had waited in vain for her on more than an appointment , which she had given me, and to which she had not come. But now, as they say, all this was a thing of the past. And instead here I saw her arrive, quite unexpectedly, in my office, all smiling and winking, even full of kindness, but you look a little…..Claire immediately ___she had entered without knocking on the door, but, oh, of course, apologizing as soon as she entered____began to congratulate me on the very important assignment that had been entrusted to me. Oh, a really great opportunity, not to be missed! Oh, I had to feel me at the seventh heaven, hadn’t I? I said her that, yes, the project for the magnificent villa of S. Rossi  was a great opportunity for me . After saying that I agreed with her, I was silent for a few moments, as if preparing the effect__or the space___of what I would add ( of what I was going to add). However I didn’t know if I would have accepted the fabulous assignment, I said, in fact. “Oh, but you want to joke, don’t you, James? You cannot at all speak seriously, on! It wouldn’t have ( make) sense for you to refuse! But why you would refuse, then? I really didn’t understand!”   Claire started screaming, even yelling, so much  she couldn’t believe that I spoke seriously when I said that I still didn’t know if I would have accepted to take care of the project for the villa of S. Rossi. She kept on screaming, came next to me, and, hopping around me,she slapped on my back. She even asked me, coming close to me, all thoughtfully, bringing her face closer to mine, if I was okay. Did I have health problems, which prevented me from accepting that assignment? “ No, I have no health problems. I’m fine” I replied calm, without breaking down. “ Then why? Oh, you won’t be serious, this is an occasion to be seized on the fly, that you can’t miss! “ She continued to insist, shouting and hopping around me. Perhaps it was because of her insistence , because it was evident that Claire, like her big uncle, didn’t care about what I thought____what mattered, what she, like his uncle, could admit , and also what they could understand, was only what they thought____that suddenly  her very presence became unbearable for me. I couldn’t wait for her to leave. When she, all smiling, said me that she was inviting me to dinner at her house that evening, that we would be alone, that , oh, she would have convinced me to accept the fabulous assignment, I would have liked to kick her out of the way. Of course, I didn’t kick her . I only refused her invitation, saying that I couldn’t, since I already had a commitment for that evening. Oh, the face that beautiful Claire made when I declined her invitation to dinner! Suddenly her perfectly sculpted features wrinkled, her face assumed the appearance of a deflated balloon. Of course, it wasn’t true that I already had a commitment for that evening. When I came home, the sun was setting. I stopped in front of the lawn near my house.  “ SUNSET is my favorite time of day, it’s my hour” My grandmother Lucy said, and I seemed to hear her voice again as I was looking at the lawn in front of me, under the light and shadows of the sunset. It was a meadow that had always left uncultivated. In the green of the meadow, among grasses and weeds, the daisies grew thick. I was used at that meadow. I saw it every day as soon as I left the house, it had nothing special for me. That day, completely unexpectedly, under the fiery sky of the sunset, that meadow appeared to me as an enchanted, wonderful vision. That expanse of daisies which peeped in the green carpet of the grass , suddenly it was something precious, something priceless.


Nathaniel Thornton thought he had found a haven. But, as he tried — and failed — to wriggle free of the pillory, it occurred to him that he’d been wrong. The post wobbled when he fought against his shackles, but the trap would not break. The wooden framework, into which they’d locked his head and hands, remained steadfast and shut. At least no sharp blade hovered above the stocks, ready to guillotine him. Although he’d later reflect that decapitation would have been a preferable fate. “Now, now, Nathaniel.” Heledd Cadigan, dressed in a white robe, tutted. She walked around the front of the pillory. A crown of flowers adorned her head. It wove through the Scandanavian braids of her platinum blonde hair. The creases of her face reflected her authority over the other girls. The sparkle of her crystal eyes glinted, clear and aquatic and mad. She smiled, a grin stretched across, lips pressed tight. “No need for aggression, now. We’re far past that.” Nathaniel thought he’d seen the worst in people. He thought that if he acted in a kind and caring manner — his heart on his sleeve — others would follow suit. Others would respect and treat him with kindness. He thought that you’d only reap what you’ve sown. He’d never sown anything like this . But, he realised, he’d made a mistake on every account. The darkness within the souls of people had no end — it plunged on forever, pitch-black. Other people wouldn’t follow his example, they’d only use his gentleness as a weapon against him. And, at last, there is no karma. Good things happen to wicked folk. Bad things happen to good people. There is no order or system. Shit happens . “Let me go!” Heledd tilted her head back and laughed her insanities to the sky above. The sunlight fell upon her, golden and soft. On the walls of the small courtyard, lush green vines crept their way up the stone. The windows all boarded up. The ones of the building opposite barricaded from the outside . A thick metal chain locked the door in place. “Why on Earth would I do that? It’s destiny that you’re here, Nathaniel. Do you know what your name means? Hm?” He thrashed within the shut holes of the pillory. Wood scraped skin. Splinters deposited, scratches left to bleed. “You’re insane! Let me outta this thing!” “It means—” she said without reply “— Gift of God .” Heledd stepped forward and cradled his bound head. If he’d been a more savage man, he’d have tried to bite her. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Even now, with the wooden boards locked into place. She crooned to him. “And that’s what you are, Nathaniel. A gift of God. You see, he has a plan for us all. And this is his plan for you. For us to let you go…” She shook her head. “Well, that would go against God, wouldn’t it?” “Stop this!” Nathaniel’s voice cracked. “Stop this now!” It commanded none of the authority he wished to embody. It came out thin and reedy — the whine of a prepubescent boy. Not an insistence. A weak-willed plea. “Oh, how you’d like that. To spit in the face of Mother Nature. You men are all the same. All you do is take and destroy. Rape and pillage. Burn and raze and scar . This blessing she’s laid upon the world.” Heledd grimaced. “The thing you call a virus, a disease. It’s her reckoning , don’t you see that? Mankind evolves and usurps nature’s throne. Says it’s his rightful spot.” Heledd spat on the floor. The rest of the girls — all younger — did the same. “You’re insane!” Nothing more than a pitiful croak. The skin around his wrists and neck now red and raw. The blood trickled down his arms and his back and his face. Hot and wet and wrong. “But Mother Nature has a trick up her sleeve. She has her reckoning. You call this blessing HuLa . Hmph. Such a human perspective! To name this most wondrous thing after ourselves. Human lyssavirus?” Heledd shook her head. “No. This is Mother Nature’s tool for rebalancing . And we are here—” she gestured to the girls “—to ensure that her tool gets put to use!” They all wore white, with various flowers and leaves stuck in their hair. “To make sure that you don’t evade her wrath, to stop you from spitting in the face of the divine!” She dropped her voice down a register: “I must insist.” All the moisture evaporated from his mouth. The blood drained from his face. Ice rippled through every vein. No words came out, only a dry groan. Nathaniel’s eyes watered and his vision blurred. Under different circumstances, he’d have shamed himself for the tears. In the background, two of the girls unlocked the chains from the door. Behind these, a pair — more robust than the others, arms roped with muscles — held sticks. Hooped lassos dangled from the ends. Two more flanked, spears at the ready. The metal chain clinked to the floor. A flurry of movement. Snarls and growls. Clicks and howls. Grunts and shouts from the girls. One of those with more authority barked orders to the others. Heledd stood aside, to clear a path from the opened door to the pillory. Nathaniel got a good look at this reckoning . And started scream. The girls brought forward a female rager, held in place by the lassos from either side, hoops around her neck. Those who had a grip on her had faces of pure concentration. Jaws clenched. Eyes squinted. Muscles tensed. Tendons strained. The rager wore what must have once been a white gown. Now, brown-red blood splotches stained the material. Flowers protruded from her messed-up hair at wild angles. Had she been one of them before HuLa? Or had they dressed her up post-infection? The thought seemed insane. Her eyes stretched wide, bloodshot. Her gaze fixated upon him — right in her line of sight. She twitched. Pink foam frothed at the corners of her mouth. It dribbled down her chin and wet the collar of her dress. Unintelligible shrieks jumped from her throat in fits and bursts. Her joints cracked as she staggered down the path towards him. Nathaniel screamed and tried to back away. But, of course, he couldn’t. He shredded his skin against the rough-hewn wood. Half-strangled himself against the lock around his neck. The boards creaked and groaned, but they did not give way. Heledd sighed and gazed upon the rager. Her countenance indicated peace and tranquillity. “For too long has womankind been forced to subjugate and serve. All for the petty crime of a bite from an apple. Well, no longer. The second great sin of our species has been committed, this by man. By his greed, by his ego, by his arrogance. The earth bleeds, and we with it. If the second great sin has been committed, then this plague is surely the second great cleansing. Mother Nature must purge the poison from her veins. We are the Daughters of the Earth.” All the other girls repeated this last line as the rager drew ever closer. “We are the Daughters of the Earth.” ### This is part of my project (novella?) for April’s Camp NaNo. The plan is 30 short stories, 30 characters, 30,000 words. Give or take. All set in the same city. All focused on the same event. This is actually #17 in the project. I also submitted part #1 to the monthly #BlogBattle, and parts #3 and #10 to Reedsy. https://joshuainsole.com/short-stories/this-place-is-dead-1-daughter/ https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/contests/88/submissions/61324/ https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/contests/89/submissions/62242/


*THIS STORY CONTAINS MENTIONS OF ALCOHOL AND CHILD ABUSE. Beep, beep, beep. Beep, beep, beep . Maya rolled over and flipped off the alarm. Then she slid out of bed and into her day clothes, skipping the shoes. Ever since their mother died three years ago, their father didn’t care much where they went or what they did. She wasn’t worried about waking her brother, Gilbert, who shared the room with her, because she knew his bed was empty.

The last two Tuesdays Maya had seen Gilbert rise at five in the morning and sneak out of their small three room house only to be back in time for breakfast and pretend that nothing had happened. Today she was going to follow him and find out once and for all. She had set her alarm for 5:10 and hoped that would work. Quietly she left the house. She looked around and spotted a figure leaving Rose Gardener’s house; the old lady that lived next door. It was definitely not Ms. Gardener so it must be Gilbert. When she spotted a package in his hands, her nine-year-old imagination took flight. It could be anything! The figure began walking farther away from the two houses and toward town. She crept after him, keeping to the shadows. Gilbert was six years older than Maya and practically kept the family going but, of course, she didn’t know this and was thoroughly convinced that he was up to mischief. After a little while of walking she began to wonder if it was indeed Gilbert that she was following? and if he knew that she was there? and how far he intended to go? and so on. Should I go back? But the thought of being alone in the dark on an unfamiliar road was rather foreboding, so she continued forward. Perhaps I should call out to him. He wouldn’t send me back alone so he would have to take me with him or go back with me. But then she remembered the package and thought that if it wasn’t Gilbert then it could be someone with a little girl’s head in his package; and so her thoughts went on until she had herself quite frightened and nearly ready to cry. After what seemed like forever and really wasn’t very long at all, a small light appeared along the horizon and buildings loomed in the distance. She hoped whoever it was wouldn’t see her trailing them. Suddenly and much to her distress the person turned into a fenced area to the left of the road. A graveyard. Maya shuddered but her curiosity got the best of her and she crept up to the gate. She could hear the person moving through the graves. There was no doubt that he knew where he was going and what he was going to do.

Then the footsteps stilled. Had he heard her? She slipped through the gate and behind a large headstone. The person stood staring at a smaller plot that seemed slightly familiar to her. Then he knelt on one knee and reached into the package. She froze. What will he do? she wondered silently, her heart pumping faster. And all at once it became clear. The mysterious feeling disappeared and the whole place silenced as if waiting for something. In the dim light she could see Gilbert kneeling by their mother’s grave. He lifted a bouquet of roses from the package and gently brushed away old, dead flowers, replacing it with the new ones. Then he spoke. “Hello, Mama. It’s me, Gilbert. Oh, I’m doing alright, I guess. I got a raise in my wages. You remember I got a job at McClellan’s feed store? Well, my boss said I’ve been a real help and deserve a raise. “How’s Maya? I reckon she’s doing fine. It’s hard to tell sometimes what’s on her mind and I know I ain’t always good about talking to her and making sure she doesn’t feel alone or neglected, although I try.

“But, Mama, it’s Pa that worries me. He doesn’t seem to care about living or us. I’ve been going to tell you but I really didn’t want to bother you about it but days turned into weeks and weeks into years and I don’t know what he’s gonna do. I try to protect Maya from finding out what he is really like but he yells at her too. Either that or ignore her. He spends most of his time in bed now, as if he’s sick. You see, the reason I’m worried is . . . well . . . he’s been drinking alcohol for the past few years and the other day I got tired of it and threw it all away. I’ve done that before and he always gets mad and yells at me, sometimes he hits me, but then he always goes out and buys more. This time he didn’t do any of that. He just went back to bed and stayed there. I tried to give him food but he wouldn’t even look at me. What am I supposed to do?” His cheek glistened and teardrops gently fell up the roses. He was quiet for a moment and Maya tried to let it all sink in. It was a little much for her to comprehend but she caught enough to realize how hard it was for Gilbert and see a sag in his shoulders as if there was a heavy weight upon them. She wanted to go tell him that it was okay and get him to stop crying but he began talking again, his voice still low and soft. “Some days it’s harder than others and I just want to crawl in a hole and die but I’m not gonna give up. I’ll do my best for Maya . . . and Pa. I miss you, Mama.” Then he lowered his head. “Dear Lord. I don’t know if Mama can hear me or if it’s foolish to be talking to a headstone but I feel the closest to her when I come here. I can’t come everyday but since you called her to be with you on a Tuesday it just seems right. Give me the strength to carry on, Lord, and wisdom to know what to do with Pa. And tell Mama I love her, will ya?” He stayed in this position for a while without saying anything. Maya wondered if she should head back so that he wouldn’t know she heard, or maybe hide and trail him back, or just tell him she was here, but before she could decide he rose and walked toward the gate and the headstone that she was hiding behind. He walked through the gate, not seeming to see her. Without further thought she stepped out from her hiding place. “Gibby,” she called softly. He stopped dead and slowly turned around. She saw the tears in his eyes and rushed toward him with open arms. He knelt on one knee and embraced her. He didn’t say anything so she spoke instead. “God will help you, Gibby.” She smiled slightly. “ And I’m always here too.” He sniffed. “I know.” Then, standing, they walked hand in hand into the rising sun.


“I won’t go back. The past is in the past. I won’t go back. The past is in the past.” It was no use. As Tobias slammed his eyes shut he felt his presence begin to slip. Warmth and tingles began to wash over him. Starting at his toes and then to his legs, the feeling rose. As the feeling hit his waist, he clenched his fist, his knuckles turning white in hopeless defiance. He was overcome now, his stomach in his throat and still he whispered, “The past is in the past.” But the sensation continued to engulf him and he continued to slip, as if falling forward while lying still. As his stomach settled and his fists eased, Tobias allowed himself to slowly open his eyes. For a moment, he considered not opening them at all. “Perhaps if I don’t, it will pass,” he thought to himself. After all, what was there to see? He knew where he was. He didn’t know when but he knew where falling down the rabbit hole had led him. To the same place it always did; his former self. Back to past moments of his life long-lived, no longer his, and no more than memories to his present self. Good memories, bad ones, absolutely pointless ones, it didn’t matter. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason as to why Tobias continued to tumble back into himself. “A bloody curse!” he mumbled, tears streaming from his still half-closed eyes. At first, he thought it was a gift. An opportunity to right the past, to truly live out the age-old question of what one would do differently if they could go back. But it made no difference. Calling the girl back, accepting the job that seemed too risky at the time… the past and the future remained unchanged. And the good memories? The ones you think you’d want to relive? Those made his heart ache the most. Nothing more than exuberant nostalgia tinged with the knowledge of the loss that was yet to come. His fingers curled around the edges of the cold porcelain sink. He wanted to scream. Instead, with eyes wide open, he stared at himself through the steam that was fogging up the bathroom mirror. A sopping wet former version of himself stared back. “Oh, c’mon! Are you kidding me?! I know this one. I know this one and no! No. I don’t want to be here!” His heart began to race. “Fuck!” His teeth clenched as he paced through his own puddle of shower water. Try as he might, he couldn’t will himself out of the moment. “Come on!” he yelled through gritted teeth, his frustration leading his fist forcefully into the mirror. Jan’s familiar voice called from just beyond the closed door, “Everything okay in there?” Tobias struggled for words, his breath taken away at the sound of her voice. “Um... I… I…” “Tobias? What’s going on? You’ve been in there for almost an hour.” “I’m… fine! I was feeling a little dizzy but I’m good now. I’ll be out shortly.” “Okay. Well hurry up or we’re going to be late. Your mom already drones on about how you’ve been late your entire life. ‘Always fifteen minutes late for school. Twenty minutes late for your own wedding, and —’” “’Two weeks late for my own birth,’” Tobias chimed in, a smile audibly settling into his voice. “Let’s not make them wait that long for you to show your face at their anniversary party,” Jan quipped. “I won’t. I’m almost done. Promise.” Tobias listened as Jan’s footstep trailed away from the door. “Fuck!” he whispered to himself. Pacing once more, he attempted to calm himself. He knew there was nothing he could do. These slips, as he called them, came as they pleased and were always just beyond his control. Ten years of slipping to and from himself and he still had no idea what was causing it or how to stop it. But this slip was different. It had been almost six months since his last slip yet this was the second time he had found himself in this bathroom, just finishing a shower, and on his way to his parents’ 50 th wedding anniversary party. He’d never had the same slip twice. “I just need to --” His thought was interrupted by the sudden turn of his stomach. His sight grew dim. “Well, this is new,” he mused to himself as he stumbled toward the sink. Typically, each slip lasted a few hours. “Think! Think! Okay, uh... This was what — Ow!” His vision began to fracture as a sharp pain surged behind his eye. “Um... Fifteen, twenty minutes tops! That’s not long enough. That’s not long enough! What is hap —” Tobias awoke to find himself face down on the bathroom floor, staring at the same black and white tile that he had just drenched when he didn’t bother to towel off after his shower. Well, his former self’s shower. “Did I slip? Like actually slip?” he wondered, but as he pulled himself up, he realized the floor was dry. He was also fully clothed. In clothes that he didn’t recognize. Drip. Drip. A warmth began to run down the side of his face and pool between the adjoining hexes of the tile floor. He smudged at the green-hued liquid on the floor. It didn’t make sense. He reached for his right temple. A wet, green-hued liquid stained his fingertips. “Clearly, I’m bleeding from the fall, but why is it green?” Still dazed, he steadied himself with the edge of the tub before pulling himself up to sit on the toilet. With his head resting in one hand, he reached back with the other and grabbed the hand towel near the sink. The fibers were rough in spots and overly worn in others. It was a terrible hand towel. It did nothing that a hand towel was intended to do. Nevertheless, he couldn’t throw it out. It was Jan’s first embroidery project. She was so proud of the tiny red and white flowers she had painstakingly stitched onto nearly every inch of that towel. He never had the heart to tell her she had robbed the poor cloth of any hope of ever being absorbent. It was comforting now, pressed against his temple, even if it felt mostly like sandpaper. He missed her. “This isn’t right,” he said aloud as he pulled the towel from his temple into his line of sight. He pressed one of the tiny green flowers between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s supposed to be red. It’s always been red! And blood is supposed to be red! What the hell is going on?” He wondered if his last slip had taken him to a different time, a different place, to a different him. “Jan?! Jan?!” he cried as he lunged for the door. “Maybe she’s still here. Maybe in a world with green flowers and green blood, she’s still here.” It wasn’t until the knob was within reach that he saw it. A small, yellow Post-It note right at eye level. He stumbled back toward the toilet as he read it, “SHE’S NOT HERE.” Thick and heavy, a sense of panic started to settle in. His chest tightened and his breathing shallowed as the acid from his stomach made its way into his throat. He reached up to the sink and braced himself to stand. His fingers curled once again around the cold edges of the porcelain. He used every muscle in his face to close his eyes as tightly as he could. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be where he was before either. He just wanted, so desperately, to live his boring, thirty-something, crappy-job life. A life where nothing exciting happened but at least it was happening for the first time. He waited. For tingles. For warmth. For anything to indicate that he was slipping back into his present. The sound of his heart pounding in his ears was unbearable. With an exhale he opened his eyes wide ready to confront a past version of himself in the mirror. But the mirror was devoid of any face. Instead, it was filled with Post-It notes. Meticulously numbered and completely covering the mirror. He pulled the notes off of the mirror one by one and read them aloud. “Number one: You’ve developed protanopia. (Colorblind) You can’t see red.” “Number two: The slips caused your protanopia.” “Number three: This is where you are supposed to be.” “Number four: Yes, you’ve learned how to control it.” “Number five: The bathroom, the party, Jan — all significant. It’s why you keep returning there. You don’t know why it’s significant.” “Number six: This is where you are supposed to be.” “Number seven —” A glimmer of light off the now exposed mirror caught Tobais’ eye. He didn’t recognize the face looking back at him. It looked like him but the hair, the face, it was wrong. This face had grey hair and time-worn skin. As he touched his face, a hand touched the face in the mirror as well. He pulled at his cheeks and pinched his nose. The hand in the mirror also pulled at the stranger’s cheeks and pinched the stranger’s nose. “How hard did I hit my head?” he wondered. “This isn’t me. I’m not old. My hair is black, not grey. What the fuck?!” The room began to spin. He reached for the edges of the sink but the note labeled number seven was still in his hand. “Number seven: THIS IS THE PRESENT.” “This can’t be happening. What happened to my life? How old is this person? Sixty? Sixty-five? I was in my thirties!” Tobias heaved at the thought. “This can’t be right. Okay. Think. Think.” All he could think about was how exhausted he was, his head still throbbing from the fall. Any thought of any possible solution alluded him. He sank to the ground. “A bloody curse!” he mumbled the tears spilling from his eyes. As he reached to wipe the tears, he realized one of the Post-It notes was stuck to his hand. He reached for it, violently pulled it from his skin, and tore it to pieces. He screamed in frustration and sunk his head into his hands once more. That’s when he saw it, on the floor, between his legs, note number four: “Yes. You’ve learned how to control it.” He sprang to his feet and looked at the old man staring back at him in the mirror. “This is not me. This is not my fate!” He felt warmth and tingles begin to surge through the tips of his toes. The feeling rose. One last defying glance in the mirror and a final remaining note caught his eye. “Number eight: The past is in the past. DO NOT GO BACK.”


I felt it for the first time when I was 12. I learnt about worms in school and I had always been very intrigued by them. They need warm places to live, breathe through their skin, and their colors range from red to brown. I could not tell why adults always refused to tell me about them. It was as if I could not even look at one. I thought, what's wrong with taking a peak? As long as I don't keep it, I don't see the harm. At first, I could not tell that I was feeling a little worm. I thought it would be somewhat gooey, but it felt soft and cold, and it perfectly blended with the back of my head, making it really hard to spot. Indeed, I still haven't put my eye on it. I thought, however, that it was normal, and that everyone gets a little worm every once in a while. I saw some on my classmates, teachers, and in my mom, but these seemed to quickly vanish. My worm was different, though. It was a little bit like me. It liked the things I liked, and disliked the things I didn't. It would also help me sometimes. For example, if I was too mean to my friends, or I disappointed my parents, it stung me very hard in the back of my head. I liked my little worm. It made me different from the rest, and made me see the world from a much safer and realistic point of view. After a couple of years, I finally let the worm into my head. Once inside, my little worm got full access to my thoughts. This was good, I told myself, as every sting was a sign that something needed a little fixing. But time passed, and the stinging got more and more painful. Soon, I wasn't able to produce a single thought that came without a spurt of agony; a single action without a burst of misery. But my worm was right: I was repugnant. I was a revolting, soggy, heinous burden. I infected those around me, brought deep sorrow to every room. I hated my little worm, and yet I was nothing without it. One day, almost overnight, I couldn't feel it anymore. My thoughts were free and everything seemed so clear so suddenly. I was scared, but very excited. I had learnt a lot thanks to my little worm, and I owed it who I was. It was a new beginning, of forgiveness, growth, and experimentation. It was still in my head, though. And sometimes, some days, it stung. But it brought with it a feeling of familiarity, trust, and even nostalgia. My little worm was my friend now. I grew up, and my little worm did too. I could feel its bulkier size, its larger weight. We were gonna be unstoppable. Nonetheless, I found it a bit weird that I couldn't only feel it in the back of my head anymore. I now felt it close to my forehead, in between my temples. I guess it had just been moving around. This was about the time when I started spending way too much time inside my own head. It wasn't that interesting or fun, but it felt more appealing than looking at the outside. Colors were lifeless, sounds were flat, food was insipid. People seemed bland, learning felt pointless, curiosity vanished. My little worm doesn't sting anymore. But it now blurs all colors, dampens all music, encases all words. Everywhere I look I see its shadow, every breath I take I feel its tail pulling on my eyes. When standing it numbs my eyelids, but when laying down it dries and hardens them; when speaking it sucks my thoughts; when smiling it clots my cheeks. My head gets heavier every day, making it harder to raise. My arms seem to move by themselves, my legs have grown free from my commands. My mind is not mine anymore. Sometimes, when taking the bus to work, I like looking deep into people's eyes. And sometimes, if I look hard enough, I can tell whether theirs is red or brown.


*Location: Southern California* “Forty bucks worth of gas at pump twelve.” I said to the teller. “That all?” The teller asked. I thought for a moment and said “And a pack of Marlboro, if you promise not to tell my wife.” “I don’t make many promises.” The teller said. “But that one, I can keep.” I should clarify where we were and what I was doing. My family and I (aka my wife Jade, our thirteen-year-old son Ricky, and our eight-year-old daughter Deven) were driving towards Anaheim to take the kids to Disneyland. Even though the sun was starting to set, we were nowhere near any places to crash that wouldn’t be roach motels, so we decided to just power through for another hour to get into Los Angeles County. We could’ve already been there, but Jade wanted to go through a more remote route to pass a “hidden gem” natural site out in the desert she heard about on Instagram. Anyway, our last stop that night was a Native American reservation to get enough gas to make it all the way to the city. “You know, it’s a full moon tonight.” The cashier commented as he got me my cigarettes. “Yeah, I heard.” I replied. “Things get weird around here whenever there’s a full moon.” He said. “There are myths of an old curse, a supernatural disease that white settlers passed onto our people generations ago. They say it manifests every full moon, and that our land isn’t safe until the sun rises. If I were you, I’d drive far tonight; if the myths are true, you may regret being here once it gets dark” He then scanned the cigarette pack and said “Your total is $48.56. Paying with cash or card?” \_\_\_\_\_\_ When I went back to the car and started filling up, my wife immediately noticed something was up. “You okay?” She asked from inside the SUV. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I said. “The teller was really weird, that’s all. Said there was some kinda curse around here on full moons.” “Calm down, tourist traps love to tell ghost stories to travelers.” Jade said. “It brings in money. Back in New Orleans, my sister and I couldn’t go to a single bar without being told about all the ghosts that were haunting the place.” “Yeah, that’s probably it.” I said as I waited for the car to fill. \_\_\_\_ After getting gas, we hit the road again. Unfortunately, about ten minutes or so after leaving the gas station, we got a flat tire and I had to pull over. “Aw fu…” I started to say, before remembering my kids were in the car. “Fudge. Aw, fudge.” I then said. The kids looked worried, but I said “Relax, we have a spare. It’ll be a bumpy ride, but it’ll get us into town.” As I started changing the tire, I heard some kind of growl, almost like a dog’s howl but much louder. I reached into the trunk, and rummaged through it to find something I was desperately hoping I never unpacked after our most recent family camping trip. “Oh thank God.” I said to myself after I found my bear spray. It wasn’t much, but I figured it would stop whatever animal was out there. I continued trying to repair the tire until I heard it again, but much closer. I got in the car, locked the doors, and rolled up the windows. “Jade, check to see if the 9MM is still in the glove box?” She opened it and said “It is.” “Good, keep it close.” I saw that the kids were scared, and said “Don’t worry. It sounds like there’s some kinda animal loose, but that’s all. If we just stay in the car and…” Moments later, we felt something crash into the side. Then, there was a horrible sound of metal being scratched. And then, it jumped onto the hood. I shined my phone flashlight at it, and what I saw horrified me. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I was not expecting the monster I made eye contact with. It had a human-like torso but had the face and paws of a wolf. It roared when I shined a light on it, and then used one of its paws to smash through the window. Before it could enter the car, I shot it with bear spray. It retreated in pain, and Jade fired a shot that grazed its shoulder. The monster then fell off the hood, and ran off. “What the Hell was that?” Jade asked. “Shit, I don’t know.” I said. “But we’re getting out of here.” I got out of the car, lowered the car jack, and quickly tried to reattach the new tire. However, when I heard the monster growl again, I simply got back in the car, and decided to take a chance on a car with only three functional tires. I turned the car around, and slammed on the pedal to get us back to the reservation. Sure their hotels would be crap, but at least we’d be safe from that thing. “Jade, we gotta call the police.” I said. “I’ve been trying.” She said. “But I’m not getting any signal.” Just as I thought we were getting away, the car stalled. “Oh no.” I said. I popped the hood, and used my phone as a flashlight. “The battery terminals are damaged.” I said. “That thing must have ruined them when he jumped onto the car.” “What are we gonna do?” Jade asked. “I don’t know, I really don’t.” I said. I thought for a moment and said “We’ll continue on foot. Hopefully someone will spot us.” \_\_\_\_\_\_\_ We walked for over an hour in the dark, sticking close to the road in case anyone was there to see us. Unfortunately, there were none, it appears we were alone that night. And then, we heard a familiar noise. “Shit.” I muttered when I heard the monster’s roar. “KIDS, GET BEHIND YOUR MOTHER AND ME!” I ordered. Jade had the gun, and I had the bear spray. We were both out of our depth, but never underestimate two parents trying to keep their kids safe. “IT’S COMING!” I shouted when I heard the beast running towards us. Jade fired two shots, but both missed. I then shined my flashlight at it, and saw that the light alone was enough to keep it at bay. “JADE, IT HATES LIGHT!” I shouted. Once we had it on the run, Jade fired another shot (one that grazed its stomach), and I hit it with another round of pepper spray to the face. Jade tried one last time to shoot it, but missed again. I then grabbed the gun, ran up to the beast, and hit it in the face. Unfortunately, the beast retaliated by slashing my chest. At first, it seemed like all hope may have been lost, until a car came approaching with its high beams on. The monster was so frightened by the light that it just ran off. When the car got closer, I could see that it was a Tribal Police cruiser. “You folks alright?” He asked. “We need help.” I said. “We were attacked by…a bear.” "A bear? Okay." The officer said, but I get the sense that he knew I was lying. "I'll radio for help, once we get you to the rez we can get you to the urgent care." \_\_\_\_\_\_ We spent the night in a crappy motel across the street from a casino. First thing in the morning, we called for a ride to bring us into the city. While we were waiting for our driver, I realized that I lost the pack of cigarettes I bought the day before, so I went back to the gas station to buy another. Believe me, I needed a smoke break more than ever. I walked right into the gas station and said “Another pack of Marlboro please.” “Welcome back.” the cashier said as he turned to grab a pack. “You look like you had a rough night.” “You do too.” I said, as a joke at first. But as I approached the counter, I could see that he looked worse than I did. He had a black eye, almost like he was hit in the face. And I could see some kind of bandage underneath his shirt, around his shoulder, right in the area where Jade shot the beast. At first I couldn’t believe it, but I also could see what looked like blood underneath his fingernails. He clearly caught onto what I was thinking, and said “Like I said, strange things happen in these parts when there’s a full moon. Don't say I didn't warn you. Your total is $8.56.


People like me are more likely to die from suicide than in the line of duty. With Stella moving out things have gotten insufferable. The more friends and colleagues who “Exit Stage Left,” the more it seems like an option. It seems odd that those of us who answer the call to save lives at all costs, somehow can’t find a reason big enough to save our own. The emergency tones had beeped loudly from a dozen places in my apartment, startling me out of a whiskey-induced coma. Just after ten in the morning, on my day off, no less. “THIS IS A NATIONAL EMERGENCY. IF YOU ARE HEARING THIS…” Then the message broke off. Our cell phones went silent. The TV died. It all happened without any warning. Much like Stella deciding to leave without saying a word of goodbye. When Stella left, I could have started exercising, got fit, started going back to church gatherings, engrossed myself in my Ambo duties and angled for a promotion, or tried coping in any one of the dozens of other ways they urged at HERO—my First Responders Support Group. The ways I had after my past breakups. Not this time. I hunkered down with my Johnnie Walker Red, ate greasy takeout, stopped showering, and degenerated like a putrid limb cut off from circulation by a tourniquet after a gunshot wound. The real death knell for all of us is being disconnected. In times of crisis, isolation is death. Was it an EMP? A solar storm? A result of the megaquake on the West Coast? Collateral damage from the Gulf of Mexico being poured over Galveston like a mother pouring a bowl full of soapy bathwater over a child’s head? Causing the child to furiously wipe his eyes off with his knuckles as if soap water in the eye could kill you. I couldn’t tell you what it was. There was a blinding light. I wasn’t looking at it, but I could feel it on my face through the window, as it woke me. It felt like being by a campfire with the heat on your skin on just the side closest to the flame. Curls of dark smoke from various places dispersed and muddied the sky over Galveston. That bright Texas sun took a knee. And the world seemed just a little colder and darker. Maybe it was the shock of it all. Whatever it was, the lines are all dead. The towers too. No electric. No cell phones. No landlines. No radio transmission. The grid is down. I turn the tuner on my radio and get the consistent tone of static on every channel, even the satellite stations. The hurt and helpless are crying out all around Galveston. But I can’t find them. My Ford F-350 Super Duty Ambulance hurtles down I-45 scouting for areas where people may be in distress, pulling off of one exit after another onto flooded local roads, littered with stranded sedans and crossovers without sufficient ground clearance. The thought of wishing for a catastrophe that takes me out of the game persists. I can’t shake it from my mind. A part of me wants a way out. That part is loud. Ever present. Goading me. Reminding me of the numbness that has become my world. Reminding me of the wall I’ve put it up which makes it impossible to take one more injury. Leaves me with floosies and drifters like Stella, until they pass along, like shadows. Those shadows are evidence of a personal connection. But the evidence disappears instantly when the darkness descends and the shadow diffuses and merges with all the other lost things that cannot be seen, but which you can bump into in the dark times. At least I don’t have to grieve the relationship. The relationship was never for real to start with. Like showing up for AA meetings when you have no intention of getting clean. The disease laughs at the subterfuge. It isn’t going anywhere. The dulling of the pain outlasts the pain and replaces it. A companion that sucks all the air out of the room. It is there in the way we talk about our patients, referring to them by their ailments. “Broke my heart telling the family of that ‘A&E’ that he was DOA… that ‘bag and collar’ was going for an Emmy… my last call was a 'frequent flyer' Deb, I wish I could’ve just thrown that one back.” Our ability to feel human emotions is drowned out by the constant motion. At the end of the day, you show up. It doesn’t matter how you feel. If you feel anything. It’s their emergency. I’ve got to act now. Stay in it. Before the time is up to do some good. The freeway lights are all out and it is going to be hard to see anything on the island after dark. The window is closing. This is my chance to save a few souls. I pull down the visor and look at the notches I’ve made with my straight edge over the last two years since I’ve been doing this job. Seventy-eight. Twenty-five tallies of five. Three lonely straight-line stragglers. These are the souls saved that I’ve got to my credit so far. But what about all the ones I didn’t get to? The ones I failed to save? How do you account for those? A frequent anecdote at HERO is the Drunk Superman Syndrome. Jesus in Gethsemane weeping blood is another one. Who is there to save the savior? Where does the comforter find comfort? It is kind of like that bar scene in Superman II, where the beleaguered drunk superhero, swilling Johnnie Walker Red for good measure, descends into petty bullying and self-loathing, breaking liquor bottles, before touching down in a scrap yard a few miles away and having a full-on meltdown. Or the tantrum in Man of Steel where Supes skewers the 18-wheeler the rude grab-ass trucker from the bar owns. I mean, I get it, I do, the dude—literally—has the weight of the world on his shoulders. We have that in common. The only difference is that I wouldn’t be caught dead in those tights. Margot, the support group leader, calls it the “Martyr Complex.” Whenever someone starts going on about their first responder burden like it is a form of slavery rather than a privilege, she plays the martyr violin over her shoulder. Margot is a real pisser. In the natural world, there’s no one coming to save you. They are probably coming to eat you. The first line of defense for humans is that we can call for help. We’ve got that going for us. That there are helpers on the other end of the line. That somehow two-legged meat popsicles see each other as more than a meal. But what happens when the line goes dead? I guess there’s nothing to do but go on patrol. * * * Carl Belafore is doggone lucky. I am just passing the boat rental on the 342 huffing down a Marlboro Red cigarette before the fun starts and I see a crowd out in the Hooters parking lot. I flick the stogie and go to work. I swallow hard and brace myself. This is going to be a bad shift. Without my day partner, Debbie, riding with me, I’m all alone out here, doing a two-man job. Even if Deb is a real shit magnet—she’s my shit magnet. Drunks, vomiters, and urine patients. Bar fights. And 300-pound men that you have to carry down 7 flights of stairs. Those are Deb’s specialties. I pull up and jump out, carrying my Defibtech Lifeline Auto AED, battery-operated, out to the patient. Carl’s wife Angel is there screaming. Saying Carl just had heart surgery on Tuesday, three days earlier, and he went down in the parking lot after a healthy helping of onion rings and a few pitchers of Bud. Don’t get me started on Carl’s bad life choices. But who am I to preach that the body is a temple? Angel’s jawboning is jarring and shrill. She is just talking out her nerves like a kid filibustering a parent the kid thinks is mad at him. I tune it out like I have on imaginary earmuffs and focus all my attention on Carl. I check his breathing, skin tone, blood pressure, eye alertness, and skin. His skin is cold. Carl is down on the hot Texas pavement gasping for air and looking up at the clear blue skies, through a haze of ashen fog, as his whole body ironically starves. The layers of fat clogging his arteries prevent all those nutrients and all that oxygen from getting where it needs to go. Alright, Carl. You aren’t checking out tonight. Not on my shift. My two-way to the emergency room is the only means of communication. But I thank God it is still operational. “UTMB Emergency. This is Ben in ALS Ambulance 33. On the scene with a Code Blue. Please have a bed ready. Forty-eight-year-old male, conscious, disoriented. Skin pale and cold. Recent heart surgery. Administering CPR. Will defibrillate if he codes. I will bag and bed and head to you. I’m on my own. I’ve got no one in the cab.” “Oh my God,” Angel screams. She acts like this is her first rodeo with an ALS event and like she’s not an enabler. I want to strangle her for running up his blood pressure with beer, salt, and grease, when he’s not even a week out from discharge. I’d ask her if he took his prescribed meds, but I already know he hasn’t. As I perform some light chest compressions, I look up at Angel and say, “I can feel a pulse. There it is. Very weak. We are going to get him up on the bed and take a closer look at his vitals before we scoot.” Some blood starts making a triangle on Carl’s camo Bass Pro Shops T-shirt. The damn steri-strips are getting ripped open from the wound. I’m not going to be able to do compressions without hurting him. I place him on the stretcher, elevate it, and wheel him into the cab, breaking down the stretcher as I lift it inside the metal tomb. Angel comes in with me, crying distractedly as I continue to care for Carl. I want to throw something at her, but I just meet her gaze and say, “Maam. It’s okay. Carl’s going to be alright. We’ve got him now.” Once I have Carl in the cabin, I cut his shirt off and start placing the 12-lead ECG. First, I get the precordial leads in place, measuring the intercostal spaces to get the right orientation, and then attaching the other leads to his limbs. And we wait about thirty seconds for the monitor to pick up the signal, during which time I bag and intubate Carl, getting him some oxygen. The blips start running down the monitor and we are getting tombstones. A ton of them. Those patterns show the heart stalling like the motor of a car that won’t turn over properly. A sure sign of a heart attack. Angel is hyperventilating. She is heaving out small wet sobs. Her cinnamon-colored hair is matted on her forehead and her mascara is running off her long press-on lashes down the sides of her eyes. To be honest, her reaction is evidence that Carl has something worth living for. This devotion is touching. Lower-case t. “Is he going to make it,” she says. “Sir, please, please take care of my Carl. He’s all I have.” “I’ve got to drive,” I say. “Stay put and let me know if he flatlines.” * * * Margot is in the Emergency Bay, chain-smoking Marlboro Reds like it’s her job. As the rigs pull in and out, she barks orders and runs triage. She is in mass-casualty mode. “Get out of my emergency room,” she yells at a newbie EMS lingering in the triage area with a CTD (circling the drain) patient while the poor bastard goes downhill. The internists gather like fleas—the last to jump off a dying dog. “What’s the story with this hit?” Margot asks as I jump off the rig. And I give her the rundown. “So, what is the deal with this blackout?” I ask her. “Couldn’t tell you. Doesn’t matter. We’ve got a Hazard Response Team down at Pleasure Pier, pulling dead bodies out from under the rides. The Tilt-a-Whirl and the Ferris Wheel are in the chop. Roller coasters too. The seawall didn’t cut it. We are about to get slammed.” “Jesus. I guess it’s going to be a long night.” “You aren’t kidding. Hey. How are you holding up since Stella left?” “Par for the course,” I say, with a shrug, like it’s no big deal. “You better get back out there," Margot says. "Head down by Pleasure Pier.” “Roger that,” I say, and jump back in the rig. “Radio me about Carl, let me know if he is out of the woods, so I can mark it down.” I look at my straight edge sitting in the dash organizer. What the hell. I believe in you, Carl. I cut a hash mark into the visor. We’re going to count it. I have faith. * * * The rig pulls out. I take Seawell Boulevard toward the pier. As I drive down by the churning sea, looking over at the yellowed dust sailing across the horizon, I can’t help thinking that it is just another day at the office. Margot always says at the support group that every day counts. Every patient counts. And most importantly, you count. The Hazard Response Team are all wearing yellow jackets. They buzz back and forth like foraging bees. There are body bags lined up on the pier. Everything is black and yellow. Rigs are pulling out with patients on stretchers. There must be three dozen dead lined up so far. They will rot in the Texas heat until all of the injured are taken. Then the dead will be hauled back to the Medical Examiner for processing. Under normal circumstances, the family would be alerted in a couple of days. But now? Who knows. I watch the emergency workers carrying more bodies out from under the rubble. A black man with a proper beard is standing at the boardwalk staging the patients. Two men on the team are coming up the staircase onto the pier with a blonde-haired woman, late twenties, totally unconscious, a gash in her torso, and her jeans stained with red blood. It is Stella. I’d recognize her anywhere. I know right away that she is dead. I walk over to the guy and ask, “You have anyone that needs transport.” “Not yet, pal. All DOA so far.” “Gotcha. Let me know.” I pull out a Marlboro Red and stand on the pier looking out over the rubble while I smoke. I feel nothing. Even the heaviness of the smoke in my chest. My heart beating faster. It is academic. Action, reaction. What was Stella doing down here? I wonder what she was doing when she lost her life. What were her last thoughts? Was she happy? It is so unfair. Every day is a trauma exercise. The only unknown is the degree. Every day it is the same thing. Will today’s victim be experiencing the merely life-threatening, the real-life horror episode, or the apocalyptic nightmare? We never know when we clock in. Routine calls. The severity ranges from life-altering to society-ending. But they all matter. It could be a lone gunman. A theater shooting. Another Sandy Hook or Columbine. A fire with people’s skin peeling off like overcooked hotdogs that bulge, fry, and crinkle, with that screaming steam of nitrates flowing out from the spoiling flesh. Or it could be toppling buildings. A chemical plant explosion. Mad cow hysteria. Garden-variety flooding due to climate change. A gang of marauding cartel enforcers recklessly searching for a lost score. Today it is this. Pleasure Pier caving in. It is as if there is a divine agent with a thirst for vengeance and an infinite imagination for hatred and bloodshed—constantly inventing new implements for human torture. And today, Stella punched her ticket. But I got a free pass. I sit back in the rig and wait, pulling out the hip flask from the glove compartment. I have a long nip of whiskey. My chest burns and my eyes itch. Something tells me there are no survivors. There never are in things like this. Through the yellow haze along the horizon, I see the sun setting. Ribbons of pink blaze out from the sun’s vicious gaze. And a splinter of feeling pierces my heart. I know for a fact that this job is going to kill me. Suddenly, I feel an overwhelming instinct to get away. To get away from danger. To get away from the poison that is polluting my soul. You can’t save anyone else if you don’t keep yourself safe. There’s no one to call. The lines are all dead. It is up to me. Maybe Margot will visit once I get situated. Maybe I’ll start my own group out in Colorado, in the mountains, in the cool mornings, with that dark roast. I pull down the visor and reach for my knife. I draw the diagonal and complete the tally. Ben is marked safe. Eighty lives. That’s enough. Enough is enough. I rev the engine, pull out on I-45, and head west. Tears roll down both cheeks. And I begin to grieve. Margot’s voice comes over the two-way. “Benji. Good news. Carl Belafore is gonna make it.” Doggone lucky, that guy. Maybe we all are.


*click clack, click clack, the sound of Katrina Miller's heals continued down the long stretch from her office to the exit. Co-workers glared trying not to get caught staring. Knowing this, Katrina held her nose in the air higher and a pleased grin drew across her face. Before she reached the exit of her office building, her assistant cut in front of her and began speaking immediately. "Donavon called." She pumped her eyebrows multiple times before giggling and continuing. "He wanted to see if you were available to talk? He's on line 1." She clenched her notepad to her chest excitedly. Katrina rolled her eyes and scoffed, "Ha, tell him I am not in the office and take a message." With a nod and a huff she walked toward the elevator and declined down to the parking deck. "Siri call Felicia." Katrina unpinned her hair, it dropped down to her shoulders and she shook it looser. Pulled her watermelon flavored lip gloss from her purse and reapplied a layer of gloss and glitter to her lips before popping them out at herself in the mirror. Aye girl wassup? The southern accent spoke loudly through the car. Katrina couldn't wait to fill her in on the whole Donavon fiasco. Katrina laughed and started: You are not going to believe who called me today at work. There was a slight pause for suspense or for Felicia to guess within that time, but when she didn't, Katrina continued; Donavon! Katrina could hear the sound of Felicia choking on whatever drink or smoke she was hitting at the time. Katrina looked at her phone in annoyance. "You are so extra, I'm pulling up now. The phone call ended as Katrina pulled into the driveway of her friend Felicia's house. She honked a couple times to let her know she was outside, then proceeded toward the door. Felicia opened the door and greeted her best friend with a hug. "So Don called?" Felicia announced again while dropping down on the couch smiling in Katrina's direction. Katrina flopped beside her friend and tossed a pillow in her face. "yes girl, Katrina started. I didn't take the call, I want to make him work for it you know?" She shrugged then looked at her friend for assurance that she was doing the right thing. Felicia raised her brow, "You like the guy, been filling my ears and head up for the past month, he finally calls and you blow him off?" Katrina clutched a pillow and looked nervous at what Felicia might say next. "You did AWESOME GIRL!" They simultaneously scream like school girls. "Now he's really gonna break a sweat and try harder." Just then Katrina got a text: got a sec? -D Katrina waited a few minutes before responding. They scheduled to meet Thursday night at Bel-air's, an upscale 4 star restaurant not too far from where she works. Katrina pulled up to Bel-air's at 7 on the dot, paid valet and walked inside. She wore a slender black dress that hugged her tight and didn't go an inch over her knees. Her neck sparkled with a pearl diamond necklace, with earrings to match. She decided to curl her hair to bring more attention to her beautiful big brown eyes. She approached the waiter checking people in; "Reservation ma'am?" He asked with a light smile. Katrina cleared her throat, "yes, I'm meeting a friend here, Donavon McDonald." He looked down the list on both sides of the reservation paper. "No, I'm sorry ma'am no Donavon McDonald." Feeling the heat rise from the tips of her toes up to her forehead, she tried to keep her cool. "How about Katrina Miller?" Again he searched, again no luck. To save herself from more embarrassment she stepped out of line and called Donavon. " Hey, it's the Don, you know what to do at the beep." "Um Donavon it's Katrina, I'm at Bel-air's I think you forgot the reservation, call me." She looked around and finally spotted Donavon. "Am I late or you're early?" Donavon called out as he approached her, he flashed a smile, that she did not return. Her arms were folded and her body said she may be upset. "You don't have a reservation?" Katrina questioned. "I do, actually." Katrina shot him a look that called him a liar. "Under what name?" Instead of answering, he grabbed her hand and led her inside the restaurant again. "Hello sir, madam, reservation?" Just like before he gave a light smile and spoke very kindly. Katrina looked to Donavon, who spoke rather cheesy. "Yes, reservation under Markel Manson." Katrina released his hand as the waiter walked them to a table that was candle lit and had musicians close-by playing a soft melody. Katrina had to admit she was impressed. He pulled her chair out so she could sit, a true gentleman Katrina thought. "So you're name is Markel, is it?" Katrina interrogated. She took a sip of her champagne and nearly spit it out. It tasted like an old boot, if she ever tasted one. "It's Markel Donavon Manson McDonald, I know it's long and crazy just like my parents who gave me the name. I hope that's not a deal breaker?" She smirked at her suspicions, "no, but this nasty drink might be." They both share a laugh. "Hey Huns you ready to order?" A red haired waitress with a Texas accent approached with her pen and paper ready. "I'll  have a bourbon taco steak with mashed potatoes, green beans and the cheddar rolls." Donavon licked his lips at his order before closing his menu and passing it onto the waitress. "And for you Ms. Lady?" She turned to Katrina. "I'll have the southwestern chilli bowl with jasmine rice and cornbread with a large side salad, oh and instead of this champagne, I'd like a sweet tea please." Satisfied with her order, she passed her menu, and the waitress went to deliver their order to the kitchen. Donavon's face grew serious and Katrina caught it. "You okay?" Katrina asked. "I uh, I thought you'd order a lil' salad or sum." She noticed that how he spoke also changed. "lil'? She repeated. Donavon grew impatient with her and came clean, "the reason why I was late, is because I may have been involved in a robbery wit' my lil cousin Jermaine. Katrina was speechless and worried. She stayed silent for a while and then spoke. "So, you're a thief AND a liar", she pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a loud exhale. "I don't date thugs, or any rutheless man for that matter, I'm sorry but I have to go." When she got up to leave Donavon grabbed her hand, with such grip force, he stared into her eyes; "look wench! I did this for you! so you gone sit down and eat, now sit, or the next place I rob will be this one. Wide eyed, and frightened she slowly sat down and so did he. The waitress came back with their food, Katrina didn't touch her food. When the waitress came back around after Donavon finished eating she inquired to Katrina; "Is there a problem with the food?" Donavon gave Katrina a warning look, that made her force a shaky smile. "No, nothing's wrong, I just got full off the drinks, may I have a to go container?" "Yes ma'am, I'll be right back." Katrina stopped her halfway, "Oh ma'am? I'm sorry, where's your ladies room?" "Right that way, first door on the left." Katrina quickly linked with the waitress, apologizing for her behavior while blaming the tea and champagne for her full bladder. She wasted no time by looking back, she prayed there would be a window in there. Luckily there was and she managed to crawl out of the small window. Her dressed ripped but she didn't care, she ran up to the valet and grabbed her keys so she could personally get her own car. "Siri call the police." Out of breath still trembling she told the police everything, including the fact that she may need protection. After hanging up she parked the car and cried, thankful that her date didn't go any worse than it did.


Grace By Cynthia Brennan            Grace walked in her garden for what was likely the last time. Sunflowers dipped and reached toward her for one final embrace. Hydrangeas in shades of pale blue and pink huddled close to comfort each other at the loss of their dear friend and caretaker. Bright red roses clung to their trestles for support. The usually happy-looking yellow and white daffodils drooped their heads in sadness. Grace was leaving her home of fifty five years today and moving into a retirement home. It was breaking her heart to leave her petaled companions whom she had nurtured and loved over so many springs and summers. She sat down on the bench that her late husband Warren had made for her a few years before he died. It was worn and faded and warped in spots, just like her. They used to sit together in the early mornings, sipping coffee and reading the paper while inhaling the intoxicating aroma of the many blooms opening to greet them. Her rational mind understood that the impending change of residence was necessary, but her emotions wanted nothing to do with common sense. This had been where she and Warren had raised their three children. Their son Robert was now an airline pilot and lived in Chicago with his family. Sabrina, the oldest girl worked as a chef in an upscale restaurant in Boston and had not met the right man to settle down with just yet. Charlie (short for Charlene) lived close by, but didn’t have the free time needed to devote to keeping her mother safe and secure if she continued living on her own. She was a nurse at the local hospital and often worked long hours, even double shifts, leaving her very little in the way of flexibility with her schedule. Grace was becoming less stable on her feet and had fallen more than a few times. There had been some near misses with minor head injuries and she had fractured a hip twice. They had tried having caretakers move in with her, but she didn’t like having someone hovering over her and taking away her privacy. When she began forgetting to eat, or take her medication, Charlie decided it was time to look into other options. One evening when she was working in the emergency department, a woman she remembered from her childhood came in with a fever and chills. The name on her chart said Rose Stevens and her address was listed as that of the retirement community a few miles away. Rose had been one of the family’s neighbors when the children were young. She and Grace had been close friends for many years. While Charlie examined her, she asked if she remembered her mother. “Of course, I do!” the elderly woman said with a wide smile. “How is she?” “Well, she’s starting to have some challenges. I noticed your address says that you’re living at the retirement development over on Lincoln Avenue. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but do you like it there?” “I don’t mind at all, dear. I love it there. There are so many people to socialize with. The staff is so nice and attentive, and they keep us busy with lots of activities. Oh, and the food is wonderful!” Charlie placed the blood pressure cuff on her tiny arm and began to pump it. “Is your mother thinking of coming to live there?” “Well, I think we need to consider that, yes. She doesn’t want to leave her home, obviously. But it’s starting to become too dangerous for her to be on her own.” “I felt the same way, of course. But after my husband died, I just couldn’t live alone. My eyesight became so bad I couldn’t drive anymore and was struggling to cook and take care of the house. My daughter did all the legwork and got me a spot over there. Just like you’re doing for your mother. We’re both lucky to have such good daughters looking out for us.” Charlie took a blue and white hospital gown out of cabinet and handed it to Rose. “Well thank you, but I’m not sure my mother would agree with you. We’ll see what happens I guess. Can you please put this on? The doctor will be in shortly. I hope you’re feeling better soon Mrs. Stevens. It was nice to see you.” “Thank you dear. It was lovely to see you, too. Tell your mother I said hello.” “I will.” She started to open the door. “Mrs. Stevens, would you mind if I told her where you live? Maybe it would make her more agreeable to considering it for herself.” “Oh no, you go right ahead. Tell her I’d love to have her join us. We’d have such nice times together again, just like the old days.” “Thank you very much. I’ll discuss it with her. Take care, Mrs. Stevens.” “Rose, please.” She said from under her shirt as she began pulling it over her head. “Rose.” Charlie repeated and left the room. After a few weeks of wrangling back and forth, Grace finally relented and agreed to the move. Luckily, there was a spot open and things moved quickly. Quicker than she would have liked, truthfully. The house was put up for sale, and within three weeks it was sold. Grace adjusted to her new life reasonably well. It certainly helped to find her old friend among her new community. She did all she could to make Grace feel comfortable and safe. One sunny afternoon some of the ladies were enjoying lunch outside when a young woman approached the table carrying two large bouquets of flowers. She leaned over and kissed a woman sitting across from Grace on the cheek. “Hi Gran, how are you doing today?” “Oh, Erin. So nice to see you! Ladies, this is my granddaughter Erin. Isn’t she beautiful?” The girl blushed and said hello to everyone. “Of course, I used to look just like that when I was her age. Except I didn’t color my hair blonde like this one.” She winked at her lovingly. “Erin, I don’t think you’ve met Grace. She’s new here.” “Nice to meet you Grace.” She handed one of the bouquets of flowers to her grandmother and then quickly turned back around. “Wait. Grace, did you live on Elmhurst Drive?” “Yes, I did.” She replied, a little sadly. “Well, then these are for you.” She handed Grace the other bunch of flowers. “I don’t understand.” said Grace. “My husband and I bought your house. These are from your garden.” Grace regarded the future corpses of the flowers for which she had so lovingly and painstakingly worked to ensure their long-term survival in their cozy little beds in the back yard. She began to cry. Erin looked at her horrified that she had caused such a reaction. That had surely not been her intention. Grace got up from the table and walked as quickly as her swollen arthritic knees would take her. “Oh gosh, I feel terrible. I certainly didn’t mean to upset her.” Erin said, still holding the bouquet. “Oh my dear, you didn’t do anything wrong. Grace was just so attached to her home, and especially her garden. I’m sure it was just a sad reminder of what she had to give up when she moved here. She’ll be fine, don’t worry.” One of the other ladies volunteered to take the unwanted flowers off her hands. Over the next few months, Erin visited her grandmother a couple times a week. While she was there, she made it a point to say hello to Grace. After their rocky introduction, Grace warmed up to the girl with ease. After all, it was a sweet gesture. How could she have known it would cause any pain? As the two women grew closer, Erin wanted to do something to give Grace back a bit of what she had lost. She hatched an idea that she thought would bring some comfort to her new friend. One day, at the beginning of the following spring, she asked if Grace would like to take a walk outside with her. She brought two coffees and two donuts to sweeten the offer. Since it was a warm day and Grace was tired of being cooped up inside, she agreed. “So Grace, I wanted to run something by you.” Erin began. “Ok, shoot.” “Since spring is here it’s time to tend to those wonderful gardens at the house.” “Yes….” Grace took a sip of her coffee, waiting to be assaulted once again by an inconsiderate remark. The girl was sweet, but so many of them were not all that self-aware.

“Well, I’m not really very good at gardening. In fact, I’m rather clueless.” Here it comes , Grace thought. “Uh-huh.” “And I was wondering if maybe you’d like to come over sometime and help me?” The words hung in the air for a few moments while Grace tried to work out whether she was offended or flattered. Erin continued, desperate to fill the silence. “No pressure, of course. If that’s not something you’d want to do, I understand. It would just be such a shame not to see them return to their usual glory.” Grace thought it over. Would she be able to “visit” her own home and not feel sad? Would it just be a reminder of everything that she had lost? She imagined herself working in the soil, coaxing new life from it, but not being able to look out the kitchen window each morning and gauging the progress. The new owners would have that pleasure, not her. She wasn’t sure she would be able to take that. “I was thinking maybe this Sunday, if you’re up for it.” She waited, hopefully. Finally, Grace decided that her boredom and desire to be outside making things grow overrode her reservations. She agreed to try it and see how she felt. They made a plan for Erin to pick her up the following weekend. It only took a few minutes for Grace to realize that this was a gift that she had been given. She walked around inspecting the condition of all the plants that had been slumbering and were now waking up. She patiently showed Erin what to do to get things started for the season. After a couple of hours, she grew tired and ready to go home. Erin parked the car and walked her to her room. Grace thanked her and told her she’d see her soon. The same thing happened the following week, and the one after that. After a while, Erin would pretend she had something pressing to do in the house and leave Grace to spend time alone in the place she loved. Grace knew the truth, but never said so. She just made the decision to be grateful, and savored every moment spent with the blooms that had been her constant companions for over half of her life. That spring the blossoms were brighter and larger than they had ever been. It seemed they were as glad to see her as she was to see them.


“Stage to Black”. John pressed down on the sliding knob to dim the lights on Act II. He brought the house lights up for intermission and watched the audience rise from their seats, their conversation growing louder as they moved toward the back of the theater. Ten minutes until lights up. Ten minutes. He slipped a blue latex glove onto his left hand and made his way through the heavy red curtains that separated make-believe from real. An unlit American Spirit hung from his mouth as he passed by dressing rooms filled with costume changes and actors reciting lines into mirrors. The euphoria of performance. All of it for a Thursday night audience buying discount tickets and overpriced wine served in plastic cups. Giggles followed him as he pushed against the backstage exit, lighting up and exhaling into summer. Five years doing stage tech at the Almost Corner Theater. A summer job that had quickly evolved into a way of life. Black shirts and Levis, alcohol and shows, tattoos and shows, parties and shows, after-parties and more shows. Lots of shows. More cigarettes too, but he’d been cutting down. Liza made him promise. She thought he was done, but he was still smoking a pack a week. Better than two. His car was filled with breath mints, cologne testers, and latex gloves. Those goddamned latex gloves. They stopped the smell sticking to his hands but fuck. The looks he got, especially on the drive home, a guy with tattoos wearing a latex glove, smoking on the highway. All of this behind her back and for no good reason at all. Liza knew he was still smoking. Five minutes. He took a hit, savoring the moment, letting it all out, unsurprised as the door opened behind him. Enter Sharla. “What’s up John? Bum me a cig?” He gave her a hard look, pressing the yellow pack into her palm. Ten shows down, and she hadn’t yet brought her own pack, or for that matter offered him a smoke. “Lighter?” She giggled, an instant of orange lighting up against her dyed black hair. Ten cigarettes and not one coming back to him in return. Not even a lighter he could pocket. Three minutes. He caught her staring at his tattoos, geometric shapes, from the shirt sleeve down into the latex glove. She looked back up at him. “Ernest just tried to kiss me back there. I turned away and he wasn’t too happy about that. He pushed me against the wall, but I still didn’t kiss him.” John frowned, exhaling, watching her inhale and twirl her cigarette in elegant circles. Two minutes. “Hey Sharla, how come you never bring your own cigarettes out here huh? Why you always bumming them from me?” She smiled. “How come you always wear that blue glove when you smoke?” He flicked his cigarette. “C’mon, let’s get back inside.” Her smile turning to laughter as he pushed the glove into his jeans. “It’s your girlfriend, isn’t it? She doesn’t like you stinking of smoke, that it?” He pushed by her to find the backstage door locked in front of him. She began to pull at his shirt. Her hands turning him around. Her face moving close to his before she spoke. “I don’t want to kiss Ernest.” One minute. He banged on the door behind them. “Fuck. We’re locked out, we’ve got to go through the front.” They ran around the block, John holding Sharla’s hand as they entered the theater. The audience already seated, waiting for the lights to come up, watching John and Sharla run down the aisle. Watching as Margaret, their diminutive director, jumped up and down, waving the script in her hand. Her hair bunched up in a nervous bun over thick-rimmed eyeglasses. She looked like a school teacher and her angry whisper echoed into the theater. “What the hell John?! Sharla! Places! Now!” Sharla pulled at his jeans, slowing them down before she slipped out of his hand. He took his seat at the switchboard and watched her scurry through the tense curtains. Act III. He turned the spotlights on, bringing the stage back to life. Suddenly smiling. Smiling because he tasted like smoke. Smiling because the girl who bummed all of his cigarettes just walked on stage with a blue latex glove on her hand.