Donald flew the usual route. The other geese flew behind him in a V-shaped formation. They trusted Donald and followed him blindly. They did not know that he was trying to escape from them. No matter which turns he took, no matter how many loopings and barrel rolls he did, the other geese would always follow him. Donald hated being the leader. All the other geese could see each other, talk to each other. They must have felt like part of something bigger than themselves. The Leader had nobody to talk to and felt lonely. His father had been leader and so nobody had ever asked Donald what he wanted out of life.  The team was heading south. Their route took them over the colorful vineyards of northern italy, lit on fire by the autumn. Donald gazed at the red and yellow beauty of the leaves and did not see the human hunters, who were aiming at him. "PANG" Blood soaked his feathers and he fainted. As he got pulled closer to earth's surface his body gained speed and Donald crashed right through the window of a teeny tiny stone house.  As he woke up Donald found himself circled by humans. He was laying on a wooden table and two human girls were looking at him with a big grin and sparkling eyes. Initially he was scared, but he looked at his hurting wing and saw that the humans had helped him. They had cleaned his feathers and patched him up. He let out a scream of relief.  Finally, he was free. A huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He did not have to lead anybody. Suddenly, his stomach crumbled and Donald looked across the small room, searching for something edible. He saw a few seeds close to the open front door and started waddeling towards them. The humans started moving. They followed Donald to the seeds. The mighty leader of the geeese got scared, let the seeds be seeds and waddled out of the house. He found himself in the middle of a small village. After some exploring Donald was suprised to see that it was empty. No humans anywhere. Donald could not fly, his wing would never fully recover and so he waddled through northern italy without seeing anybody. That was until one day as he was drinking out of a little pond Donald saw the reflection of a human girl standing behind him. He turned around in shock and saw that hundreds of humans had lined up behind him.  The humans had recognised that they were in the presence of a true leader and started worshipping Donald the mighty gander. Politicians had lied and betrayed them for years and Donald had a long desired purity and honesty. He went on to waddle through the whole country and unwillingly became the first gander president of the republic of Italy. His sudden rise to fame marked the beginning of birdism in Europe.  Long after Donald-Il possente-'s death Italy and France were led by charming magpies and Germany had a female cuckoo as Chancellor. The birds were quite fond of each other and instituted long lasting peace on the continent.  \-This is a short story written for a creative writing course that I am doing. It had to consist of the following blocks: Orientation-Crisis-Escalation-Twist-Ending.


From Drake's *Scorpion* blasting from one side of the clubhouse competes against country music from an unknown country artist coming from Cory's locker. A race war, although this one has no casualties, only good natured shit talk amongst teammates being hurled from one corner to the other, is in full effect. Twenty five teammates, a manager, four coaches, a few kids moonlighting as batboys, and a couple of washed up reporters from the local news station go about their business like they have for every other home game this year. The Richmond Flying Squirrels have a record of 54 wins, 64 losses, and are 11 games out of 1st place. To say the team is playing out the season is an understatement. Right handed pitcher Mateo Rodriguez is the only player on the Giants 40 man roster and other than a few other fringe prospects, the big league team would have to all die in a plane crash for anyone in this clubhouse to get a sniff in the show. Blake leans over to tie his cleats as Mateo walks by with his hammer of cock out and busts Blake's balls for having the whitest name possible. Blake pays him no attention; he has other things on his mind. Besides, what can he say to the 21-yr old kid with a future and a cobra between his legs, that would get under his skin - nothing. "*I know shorty and she doesn't want no slow song had it made last year, life goes on*" bumps from the sound system. Unbeknownst to his wife and all his teammates, this will be the last time Blake laces them up and runs out between the white chalk lines. 29-yrs old with a birthday rapidly approaching, Blake has played over 1,200 minor league games after playing ball at Eastern Tennessee State. After signing with the Braves in the 12th round in '10, he's been traded more times than DMX has been arrested. The moderate signing bonus Blake received is long gone. Some of it spent on PEDs which helped him get called up to AA two years ago, some if it spent on drinks for floozies in visiting towns, and the vast majority of it went to child support for a child he hasn't seen since birth. His baby mama got pregnant on purpose, thinking Blake would be her ticket out of bumfuck Tennessee. She should have spent more time watching him play than lying about being birth control and she'd realize Blake had no shot at making a big league squad. General Managers aren't looking for a left fielder with 30 career homers in nearly 8 seasons of lower level play. 6:30 and first pitch is 37 minutes away. Willie Larkin, the Flying Squirrels manager, is in his office finishing up his interview with the local reporter. Same shit different day. Neither want to do the interview, but then again, neither he nor the reporter are talented enough to get beyond this point. Willie is giving one word answers. The sooner this asshole leaves him alone, the sooner he can take a swig of the Jim Beam in his bottom desk drawer. In the clubhouse, players are taping their own wrists & ankles up. Others are on their phones texting their significant others and DMing the ladies they're planning to cheat on their significant others with on the road next weekend in Hartford, CT. Mateo pitched a gem last night, 7 shutout inning and 12 Ks, and has made his way to the field to scout talent in the stands. Rolling a basket around the clubhouse, the batboy picks up towels and rolls of medical tape and warm-ups from the guys lockers. The smell of foot sweat and unfulfilled dreams permeate the cramped room. A flickering light above the center of the clubhouse is symbolic of just about every ballplayer presently putting on their uniforms. Blake takes it all in. Eight years in pro ball, another 15 before that, he's seen all baseball has to throw at you, except for the spin on a 95mph slider. He's addicted to painkillers; he chews enough tobacco to kill a bull; he doesn't earn enough to pay for his herpes medication; he's a dream that's run out of gas on the freeway. Too many successful folks get interviewed he thinks to himself. Makes you think everyone will be. On the one flat screen TV mounted on the wall across from him is the pre-game of the Giants game scheduled to start at the same time as the Flying Squirrels game. The thing that will eat at Blake's soul for the rest of his living days is not falling two exits short of the show, but rather, seeing former teammates of his through the years make it to the cathedrals that are MLB stadiums. Jealousy is a deadly sin and Blake knows that jealousy will be the cause of his death more so than tobacco & illicit drugs ever will be. Willie stammers out of his office with a five o'clock shadow going on midnight and tells the boys first pitch is less than a half hour away and to turn the music off. A standoff between those listening to the country music and those listening to Drake ensue. Neither side wants to be the first to turn their music off. Same shit different day. Eye black applied a few minutes earlier, Blake picks up his Louisville Slugger in his callus covered hands and grips it with more passion than he did his baby the day she was born. Baseball is his true love and he's been lusting after it ever since his dad brought him to Camden Yards as a 6-yr old. That day Blake told his dad he'd play there when he grew up. Problem is love is a two-way street and baseball doesn't have time for washed up players that are going to be on the wrong side of 30 soon. The clamors of cleats clicking on the cement pavement rumble as the teammates make their way out of the clubhouse. Blake waits behind and sneaks into his manager's office for a quick swig of Willie's Jim Beam. He's not in the lineup tonight, so why the hell not. In a few hours he'll be an ex-ballplayer. That thought soaks into his pores more than the cheap liquor. With one more glance at the deserted clubhouse, Blake turns and makes his way to the hundreds, not thousands, of fans that have come to the game for $1 beer night. None of them know his name.


I had the same dream every night, of looking at myself in bed, from the corner of the room. The dream would end when I tried to touch my sleeping body. The first time it happened, I was 15. I hadn't thought much of it the first night, but when it had repeated itself a few times, I started doing some research about what was happening to me. I came across tons of articles on "dreamwalking" and "astral projection". Most of it sounded made up, but after my dreams, I was way more open to entertaining those ideas. The concept I kept coming across was that a non-physical version of you could theoretically separate from your physical self, and would then be free to roam the cosmos, unbound by your physical limitations. Once I'd read about it, in my next dream, I turned away from my sleeping body and tried to leave the room. I couldn't. It was like there was an elastic band tying me to my body, and if I moved too far away, something would pull me back. Disappointed, I went to tap myself on the shoulder, to wake up. And so the dreams went for months. It got boring pretty soon. Try as I could, I was unable to travel far from my body, let alone fly around the world like some articles online had suggested. I started waking myself up earlier and earlier, cause atleast awake, I could move around the house, rather than spend hours stuck in one room, unable to interact with anything. Pretty soon, I was heavily sleep deprived and depressed. To prove to myself it wasn't just completely imagined, I'd left a book open at a random page before I went to sleep one night. In the dream, I found the book lying open on a table, and memorised a sentence. When I woke up, I checked the open pages for the sentence, and confirmed that whatever was happening to me wasn't just simple dreaming. With the novelty of my "astral" dreams wearing off, and the depression starting to affect my performance in school, and my social life, I turned to my mom. She'd been a single mom since Dad died many years back. She worked incredibly hard to provide a life for me, but we'd never had the kind of relationship where you share deep stuff about yourself. But with nothing concrete on the internet, and no close friends anymore to reach out to, I figured it was worth a shot. She'd noticed something had been wrong for a while, but just chalked it up to a teenage phase. While we were sat at the dinner table one night, I started, "Mom, do you ever have weird dreams?". She looked up from her plate. "What kind of weird are we talking here?" "Like, seeing yourself sleeping, like you're outside your own body" I'd expected her to just chuckle or be dismissive or something, but she dropped her fork and looked me dead in the eye, her tone dropping to a much more serious one. "How long have you been having these dreams?" I explained how they'd been going for a few months now, how I came to learn how the ability worked, how I'd touch my body to wake up, and how boring it had started getting. She listened carefully to every word I said, and when I was done talking, she asked, "And do you ever see anyone else there, when you're having these dreams?" I tried to think back through the past few months, confessing that I'd never had. She looked relieved. Confused, I asked "What's been happening to me Mom? Who else did you think I would see?" "Don't worry about all that. The only thing I need you to do is this. Every night, before you go to sleep, I need you to trace your index finger down from the centre of your forehead to the centre of your chest, all the while humming, like this". She demonstrated. "You should feel the vibration from your humming in your finger at the end, when you're touching your chest. Do that, and you should be able to sleep without dreaming. Can you remember that? Promise me you'll do it every night" "Yeah, I'll remember, and I promise" That night, before I went to sleep, I did as Mom instructed. As I finished up, I felt all the tiredness I'd accumulated over the past few months wash over me, and I passed out. The next thing I remember was waking up to a ray of sunlight breaking through the closed curtain, falling directly on my face. The moment I woke up, I realised that for the first time in months, I'd had a real night's sleep. I got out of bed and ran straight downstairs to find my Mom making breakfast. I told her how much better I felt and asked her why that weird humming thing had worked. She told me not to worry about it, but repeated that I should never forget to do it. I promised again that I never would, and I really meant it at the time. Over the next few months, I consistently did the little ritual every night, and woke up fresh every morning. I picked up new hobbies, reconnected with my friends and life in general seemed to be a lot brighter. It was a few weeks after my 16th birthday, for which I'd had a small party at home with friends and family, when my dumbest, but most fun friend called me. He told me that he wanted to throw me a real party, which left me confused. He then sent me a picture of him holding two six packs of beer that he'd obviously stolen from his dad, and told me to meet him at our local park in the evening. Rolling my eyes, I texted back that I'd be there and sent an invite to another one our buddies that lived nearby. The park was usually empty after 7pm, and today was no exception. We messed around on the slides and the monkey bars, like we'd done before we'd gotten too old for it, before settling down to open our first cans. It was a fun evening. We repeated all the stories we'd told each other a thousand times and laughed just as hard as when they actually happened. A few drinks in, we started messing around on the swings, pushing each other and seeing who would throw up. Funnily enough, it was the friend who'd brought the beers in the first place who lost that little game. Not wanting to be caught for throwing up in the local park, and realizing that the sun was setting and we'd run out of drinks, we all hugged and headed back home. It wasn't a long walk, and I'd only had 3 beers, so I made it back in one piece. It was almost 10pm. I tried to get in without making much noise, but I shut the door a little too hard. My Mom called out from upstairs "Where were you?". "Just with some friends", I responded. "I'm gonna sleep soon. Long day. There's some food in the fridge if you want. And don't forget to do the thing before you go to sleep" "Yeah, yeah, thanks" I stumbled up the stairs, suddenly aware of how tired I was. Or maybe it was the booze. I made it into my room, took off my shirt and my jeans, and fell onto the mattress. My eyes were starting drift shut, when I remember the ritual. I raised my hand and touched my forehead, slowly tracing a line down to my heart. With that taken care of, I drifted off to sleep. I realised I was standing in the corner of my room, looking at my bed. I could see my body lying on it, my chest swelling and rising, my mouth slightly open. "The humming!" I thought to myself. I forgot the damn humming. "Do you ever see anyone else there, when you're having these dreams?". My Mom's question from months ago, the night she taught me the ritual, echoed in my head. I didn't want to wait to find out what she thought I might have seen, and so I began to move towards my body, reaching out my hand. That was when I felt a violent pull back, similar to the pull I experienced when I tried to move away from my body in these dreams, only this time, the same force threw me back into the wall. I tried to fight away from the wall, towards my body, but it felt like I was trying to walk through water. I looked to the opposite corner of the room, on the other side of the bed, when I saw it. A dark figure a few inches taller than me moved towards my body. As my eyes adjusted, I saw, what it was. Or rather, who it was. I'd only ever seen him in pictures, or if I'd seen him in person, I'd been too young to remember. But now, seeing that cruel smile on his face, there was no doubt in my mind. I was looking at my dad. I'd asked Mom about him for years as a kid, and always heard the same kind of answer. "He passed away when you were young. It was just his time, don't worry about it. You have me, and I'll look after you". If I bothered her enough, she'd show me a picture or two, and one time, she broke down crying, and I'd hesitated to ask ever since. But now was staring right at him, as he moved towards my sleeping body. I tried to scream out, but the sound was caught in my mouth. He reached out towards my shoulder, as I struggled against the forced pulling my back. He looked up, directly at me, and just said "Thanks kid", before tapping my shoulder and fading away. I watched it horror, as my own body began to stir without my control. The eyes opened, and the body shuffled to the side, climbing down off the bed. The force holding me back began to ease up, and I rushed as fast as I could towards the body. I tried to tackle it, hoping to somehow regain control, but I simply fell through my own body. The body, still just in my underwear, opened the door and walked out into the corridor. I was lying on the floor, after my failed tackle, when I felt a familiar pull, drawing me back towards my hijacked physical form. Fighting the indifferent pulling force, I managed to stand and walk a few steps behind my own body. I followed it as it walked downstairs, and towards the kitchen. It opened up the fridge and grabbed a handful of sliced ham and shoved it into it's face. It turned as it chewed, opening up a few drawers and rifling through. I was panicking already, unsure of what to do, when it drew out the largest knife in the kitchen and looked back towards the stairs. I felt myself being pulled again as I saw myself walking back up the stairs. I kept trying to touch my shoulder or grab my leg, but my hands simply passed through. I started crying, screaming "Dad! Please! Don't do this!". I wasn't sure he could even hear me, but it was all I could do. I watched in horror as the door to my mom's room slowly creaked open, and my body stepped inside. It crept slowly towards the bed, and lowered the knife over my sleeping mother's face. I screamed "Nooo!", as I watched myself drive the point of the blade into her forehead. She woke up immediately, and tried to fight back, but I was stronger, managing to hold her down as the knife traced a line down towards her heart. I saw my face contort into the twisted smile I had seen on my father's face, as I wept at the sound of my mother screaming. I kept trying to grab my arm, despite knowing it was futile, clawing more desperately each time my hands passed through. As the blade touched the centre of her chest, I watched in horror as my arms tightened their grip and drove the blade deep into my mother's heart. Her screaming stopped, as the blood poured from her, soaking the white sheets she was lying on. I broke down weeping, when I noticed her turning her head towards me, gasping for her final breaths. I wasn't sure how, but it felt like she was looking directly at me. She whispered, "I'm sorry", and her eyes glazed over with death. I was so occupied with my mother that I hadn't even realized that my own body was now sitting on the ground, on the other side of the room. I noticed a deep red line running down from my forehead, down to where I held the knife pointed at the middle of my chest. I heard a crunch, as the blade dug its way into my heart. I watched my own body collapse forward, as I bled out into the rug. I was so shocked at this point that I wasn't any more taken aba when I saw my father appear again, standing beside my body, looking down. He then tilted his head up to look at me, and with a wild cackle, he simply said "Good luck kid", and walked past where I stood frozen, out of the room. I stood there for hours, alternating between frozen shock and weeping. A few hours later, I tried to leave the room, but still found myself unable to move away from my own body. ……………………….. It took a few days, until the smell alerted the neighbors, and the authorities came by. The officers took one look and all seemed to agree it was some sort of psychotic breakdown leading to a murder-suicide. I watched my body being transported to the morgue, and the coroner determining that I'd been drinking the night before. I hoped my friends wouldn't get in trouble, or feel too guilty for drinking with me, but there wasn't really anything I could do for them anymore. Before long, I was packed away and given a silent burial as befits a murderer. It's been months now, and I just sit around in the graveyard all day, watching the trees, the grass and the occasional mourner, still unable to move more than a few feet from my own headstone. All I want to do is sleep, or even better, die.


The first time I experienced real death was when one of my classmates passed away. I was never really close to him. We chatted from time to time, but it was rare. I was friends with some of his friends, though, so they were more impacted than I was. I remember everyone from school came to the service. People who didn't even know his name were there. Pews full of young teenagers watching as the family wept while the boy's short life was sealed away in a wooden tomb. I remember my friend, sitting beside me in the church, eyes clouded with tears, listening as the preacher told us about him. How good a boy he was; how he was in a better place; how God had a plan and everything happens for a reason. But I know none of that mattered. Truth be told, nobody wants to be told that their 14-year-old is in a better place. They just want their son in their arms. Alive and well and that's all they want at that moment. They'd apologize for all the things said and for those words not said and tell them they love them. But he wouldn't hear. He couldn't. He couldn't hear his mom crying in the first row. The crack in her voice when she told everyone in the church that he was a wonderful boy, or when she could barely walk away when the coffin was fully submerged in the dirt tavern. My friend sat beside me in the pew, his eyes clouded with a grief no one our age should have to endure. I remember I sat there beside him, wondering whether he needed tissues, or if I should hold his hand, tell him it was okay. But I didn't. I couldn't. My friend sat there beside me crying while I sat there confused. I was so confused. What had happened? I couldn't even tell if it was real, everything felt surreal, so fake; like I was playing out a dream, or, more accurately, a nightmare. But as we finally stepped out of the stuffy church into the summer heat, my other friend's grandmother stopped me. She pulled me in a hug, and wouldn't let me go. She wrapped her arms around me tightly, rubbing my back. She told me he was gone, but that it was okay, that he was okay now, that everyone else would be okay too at some point in time. She told me it was okay to cry, even if I didn't know him that well. And so I did. There on the steps to the white building, I bawled my eyes out. I cried for the young boy whose life was ripped away from him in a split second, I cried for my friends, his family. I cried at the realization that life is a precious thing. Something that could vanish without caring whether that person was important to anyone, without caring whether that person leaving could break someone down until they themselves could barely be considered living. Death doesn't care who they take, or the aftermath that's sure to follow.


The moving truck pulled up at twilight. I watched the movers unload the belongings inside and bring them into the house. I didn't see anyone else go in. I'd heard someone had bought the old Murphy house, but I thought they'd be tearing down the building, not living in it. The new owners must have heard the rumors about the house being haunted. It was featured in the news and at least one paranormal group had investigated there, capturing voices on tapes and shadowy figures darting from room to room. I hoped the new owners knew what they were getting into. Shaking my head, I moved away from the window and finished getting dinner ready. The next couple of weeks were strange. I didn't see anyone leave the house next door during the day. It was only at night that I saw someone leave. A man's figure would exit the door, lock it, then go to the car in the driveway. I didn't see him come back, so I figured he worked midnights. Due to him keeping the lights off, I didn't get a good look at him, so I wasn't sure what he really looked like. I'd also started to have nightmares every night. You'd think living next door to a haunted house would have done that, but it didn't. Every night, I'd dream something was scratching at my window. A feeling of dread would wash over me, and I'd pull the covers up over my head, so I wouldn't see whatever it was at the window. I'd feel a pull though to look, and just when I couldn't take it anymore and look, I'd wake up with the memory of a pair of red eyes staring at me. My heart would be pounding, and I'd glance at my bedroom window, but nothing was there. It always took me a long time to get back to sleep. One night, I'd decided to sleep on the couch to see if that would stop the nightmares. I wasn't sure if a change in scenery would do that, but I was desperate enough to try. I dozed off while watching the television, hoping watching something before I fell asleep would make me dream of something else. A sound in the backyard woke me in the middle of the night. The television was still going, so at first, I thought that was what had woken me, but then I heard it again. I muted the television. It sounded like someone was running through the yard. I sat up on the couch and grabbed my phone, in case I needed to call for help. Slowly standing up, I kept my attention on the backyard as I crept through the living room and into the kitchen, which overlooked the yard. I made my way to the window over the sink and peered out. The yard was still. I leaned closer. A pale face with red eyes lunged at me, causing me to fall backward as I let out a scream. I landed on my rear end and covered my head with my hands. I thought that thing was going to burst through the window and kill me, but all was still. I lowered my hands, which were shaking, and made myself look up at the window. Nothing was there. Looking around the room, I got to my hands and knees. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Reaching up, I grabbed the edge of the sink to help me get to my feet. My legs were shaking so hard, I thought I'd fall over if I didn't have that support. I made myself look out of the window once more, but nothing was out in the yard. I leaned closer to get a better look, but the backyard was as it always was. Shaking my head, I closed the curtains and went back to the couch. I unmuted the television and got back under the covers. As I was dozing off, I realized the face in the window was the same one as I'd seen in my nightmares. My eyes shot open, and I sat up, my heart pounding. Wrapping myself in the blanket, I sat up, watching mindless television for the rest of the night. The next day, as I was getting into my car to get groceries, my neighbor on the other side of me, Betty, called out. "Yoohoo, neighbor!" she said in her usual greeting. "Hey, Betty," I ground out, grumpy from lack of sleep. "Did you hear the excitement last night?" she asked, walking over. My eyes got wide at that. I shook my head and asked, "What happened?" "You remember that string of break-ins that have been going on for the past couple of weeks, right?" she asked, reaching me and leaning against the car. I thought for a moment, then nodded. I hadn't paid them much attention since I was so disturbed by my nightmares. "Anyway, they caught the guy who did it," she said, her eyes wide with excitement. "What? Where?" I asked. "Right in your backyard!" she said, leaning toward me. "What?" I asked, my mouth dropping open. "How did I not know about this?" "You might have been deep asleep," Betty said, patting my arm. "Are you a heavy sleeper?" I shook my head and said, "Not usually." Her face scrunched up, then she shook her head and said, "Anyway, the guy was in a panic and screaming that something was chasing him, trying to eat him or something." "What?" I asked for the third time. "What did he mean, something was trying to eat him?" Betty shook her head and said, "They weren't real sure. He was babbling and practically climbed into the back of the squad car to get away from whatever he thought was chasing him." We were both silent for a moment, then she added, "Oh, and the police officer said the guy was bleeding from his neck, so he must have scratched himself or something while he was trying to get away from whatever he thought he saw." After that news, she said her good-byes, and I got into my car. I didn't start it right away, but sat there, lost in my thoughts. I turned my head to look at the house next to mine. Staring at it, I had a sinking feeling I knew what type of person could live in a haunted house. Live being the operative word. I still had groceries to buy, so I started the car and went to the store. I made sure to stock up on garlic. I'm sure the cashier thought I was making a lot of Italian food, and I didn't have the heart to correct her. That night, I made sure to have a head of garlic on every windowsill and hanging off of every door. For the first time in months, I didn't have any nightmares. In the morning, when I opened the door, I found an envelope on my doormat. I looked around to see if I could tell who had written it, but no one was in sight, not even Betty. Closing the door again, I opened the envelope and pulled out the folded piece of paper. On it was written, "You have nothing more to fear from me. You are under my protection now." No signature was on the note, but I knew who it was from. The vampire next door.


Tough Love There was a list of things he had to do before the big date tonight. For the last week he’d been envisioning how the evening might go. From the location of their table to the color of his suit, everything needed to be perfect. Thats because thats how she was. She was a perfectionist, and without affirmation, he would be left to wonder what he could have done differently if all did not go accordingly. It had been almost a year since he’d seen her. Leading up to this day, there were many difficult nights trying to piece together his feelings. The last time they had met, he was not in the best place to speak my mind. They had both ridiculed each other on the night of a friends wedding which was out of character for them both. The truth of the matter was that they were drifting apart. In all honesty neither of them had direction in life. He was working for minimum wage, while she had learned to latch onto those with security. Those who could impress her with their success and status. Over the last year he had transformed for the better. Each morning was spent running around his neighborhood and the second hour stretching, completing his yoga practice. The consistency had taken him almost a full year to develop. Sheer determination alone could not take full responsibility. It was his drive to overcome his mistakes that woke him up in the morning, she was his morning sun. Getting into the office, he arrived 15 minutes early so that he would greet and thank his coworkers for their hard work. This way of thinking was new, and had become habitual as he genuinely cared to connect with others. In the last year he had taught himself to be grateful and show up to work with optimism and charisma, which had led to overall growth in the workplace. He treated them like her, and they received his gratitude kindly. The hope was that she would be able to see the changes he had made in his life. While getting dressed for dinner, he envisioned what the rest of the night might look like. Would she lay in his arms until morning? Or how would their first kiss be? Should he make the first move or would it be like in the movies, sudden and passionate. Most importantly he considered how or when he might tell her how he had always loved her. He had never heard her mimic those words back to anyone but those successful boyfriends she had in the past. Tonight he felt reassured as he had financial security and renewed confidence. Hopefully he was just as worthy as the rest, he was in their league. Arriving 15 minutes early, he took initiative to talk with the manager, slipping him a 3 digit bill to reserve the best table in the house. The manger smiled and proceeded to give him a two top overlooking the entire establishment and paired him with his most seasoned waitress on staff. Looking over the wine selection they went over which bottle might be best in season. They chose the Chablis 1992, which was far from fairly priced. Looking down at his phone, he debated whether he should txt her. It was 8:00pm. Approaching his table, the waitress asked if he would like to start with a single glass of the chablis which he declined. “No that is alright. I think she may have miscounted the time” “Certainly Sir, I will be circling around, please let me know if there is anything you need” As 8:15pm turned into 8:30pm, he sat there alone with his glass of water and untouched bread. Over the next 30 minutes he had become more present than he had been all day. Sitting up straight in his chair, he watched as the jazz band played an upbeat new rendition of Frank Sinatra’s “My Way.” Smiling at the waitress as she made her rounds, he did not feel much pain. Instead his focus drifted to a young couple sitting in a corner booth away from everything. It was a young man and women, no more than a few years younger than himself. The two of them half way decently dressed and were fooling around about something. He watched in admiration as they picked at their appetizers and drank their beers from the bottle. In the preceding years, this is how he and his best friend had been. He considered this with a bittersweet feeling. The waitress circled back again, it was 8:50pm. “Excuse me sir, I wanted to apologize that we had accidentally corked the Chablis. We won’t charge you for the bottle, but my manager had asked that we at least charge you for one glass.” “Thats quite all right, you can charge me for the bottle, and please if you don't mind, would you would take it over to that couple over there with the calamari.” “Sir I’m not sure that they’re a couple, they seem more like friends” He watched as the two giggled to each other about something. “Yeah, they do look like friends. I’m sure they’ll be happy to receive it then.” Paying his bill, he tipped the waitress kindly and proceeded to leave the restaurant. It was 9:00pm and he had been given up. Walking by the booth where the younger pair sat, he overheard the waitress as she informed them of their gift. He did not look back to see their reaction, continuing stride. While paying for his valet ticket, he began to feel his phone vibrating in his pocket. Looking down he saw a text from her. In it seemed to be an explanation from her that was too long for him to pick up at the moment. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into his car, turned on the ignition and began to roll the windows down. Then he heard a yell. “Excuse me sir” It was the young gentleman. “I just wanted to thank you for that bottle of wine for my good friend and I” “Sure, not a problem” He said this with a courteous smile. “By the way kid. If you love her, tell her.” The young man began blushing, and opened his mouth but couldn’t speak a word. “Worse things can happen than you not telling her” Letting these last words settle, he put his car in drive and took off. On the way home he let the fresh air outside blow through his car. On that drive he received another message from her, but did not look to read it. Instead he followed his nighttime routine, organizing his materials for the day ahead. As he wrote down in his journal the 3 things he was thankful that day: I am appreciative today for my health, that I am able to exercise and feel energized each day during my runs. I am grateful today for my job and the amazing people I work with who make my days easier. Lastly I am thankful to have had been stood up tonight. You have taught me the greatest love of all, and that is to love yourself. Txt Message from: Hi, I’m so sorry, my phone didn’t update for day light savings.


        “Wherever you want to go,” the man in the sport jacket said. He had an athletic build, and the white shirt he was wearing looked like it was just pulled out of the packaging. Blinding white. No one in Bend dressed like that. D was dressed in his regular school clothes, joggers and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He towered over the man in the sport jacket.                “How about Ruby’s?” D said.                The man in the sport coat and the heavy-set coach to his left smiled. “Yeah, sure, but you can go higher end, if you want,” Coach said. “We’re trying to get you to come to our school. You can order the chateaubriand.”                D didn’t know what chateaubriand was, and he didn’t want to ask. But he knew enough and he hated the implication. It was as though some fancy dinner and the prospect of financial gain could just make him do whatever they wanted. “That’s just the way those big schools do it,” Robert told him. Robert and Karen, D’s adoptive parents, were not persuaded that D should even pursue an athletic career. Karen, especially was concerned that D needed an education. She cited statistics about the success rates of those who pursued big school or professional sports.                “We just don’t want you to think that’s all there is in life,” she said. “When your career in sports is over, you need to assimilate. Sports careers are not that long.” But when he started being scouted, she and Bob, along with the rest of the community in Bend, got caught up in the hype.                He was a phenom, as the press put it.

               Coach and the man in the white suit climbed into a large black Cadillac Escalade. They seemed oblivious to how it stuck out in a town whose inhabitants drove Subarus. “Take the front,” Coach said. “I need to stretch out my legs, anyway. Too much traveling.”                Ruby’s was an unassuming local place. It was the sort of place that Robert and Karen took D when he got a good test grade. Sandwiches, wings, pizza and burgers. He had to hand it to them, Robert and Karen knew what he liked from day one, not like the other foster parents. Prior to Robert and Karen, D saw it all—the out-of-touch agency ladies and the leeches. The leeches were the ones who collected foster kids. Each kid was a new source of income. They piled them into the house and didn’t care what happened to them. And the other kids were insufferable. Some had been beaten up, and they were quick to beat up on others. D cowered away from them and tried to hide, until the day that Karen and Robert came to take him in.                Karen never had children and Robert was in sales. They went to church every week and had already fostered D’s other adopted brother, Sid, who was now a banker in Ohio. Robert signed D up for basketball. It was white man’s ball. By that, D understood that it meant just the basics. Robert and Karen lived in a huge house and had a half court outside. On Saturdays Robert and D shot layups. Robert told D that basketball and sports would build character. But D didn’t care at the time. He only played it because there was nothing else to do.                Ironically, Karen was the one who saw how much D took to it. She brought a flyer home about a travel clinic. She thought it’d be good for D to develop some skills. Besides, she’d pointed out, she and Robert could use the time that D was away for a little break. D was pissed at first. A break. They weren’t his real parents. D did practically everything for himself anyway. But it turned out Karen was right. D took to basketball naturally. When he started to pour himself into it, something magical happened. D grew. A lot. And the travel team played better basketball. They lined the players up and threw the basketball hard at their stomachs. Some of the boys got the wind knocked out and D found himself gasping for air, but it was a turning point. D knew it served a purpose. When D played other teams, he wasn’t afraid of getting hit or fouled. It sure beat getting a basketball launched at your solar plexus.                “You’re Demetrius, aren’t you?” the waitress had long, dark hair that was tied up in a high ponytail. She was pretty.                “Yes,” D said, before Coach cut in.                “Hon, we’re trying to keep it low-key, OK?” The man in the bright white shirt tucked some extra bills into her hand.                The waitress waved it away, “you got it,” she said. “Just wanted to tell you it’s a pleasure to serve The Phenom.”                Coach smiled, but it was not a real one. “Lots of phenoms out there, honey. Now can you get us a couple menus?”                Coach and the man in the bright white shirt perused the menu. D put his down.                “What looks good?” the man in the white shirt asked.                “I’ll have the double-decker burger, no fries,” D said. “Mind if I get two?”                “Whatever you want,” the man in the white shirt said.                “And the malted shake,” D added.                This was a little splurge. In season D didn’t like to drink shakes, but this was an occasion to celebrate. He led his high school team to a winning season and now he was being scouted by the big ten schools. The press then caught wind. When national sports reporters showed up at the house, D knew that things were changing. They wanted to talk to D. They tried to get pictures.                “You know we can’t offer you cash yet,” the man in the white shirt said, as he cut his burger in half and bit into part of it. Coach grabbed some fries from his plate. “Look here, son,” he said. “The money will come, but before it comes, you gotta show the world what you’re made of. I can help you get there. You come with me, and you’ll get court time, provided you are committed to putting in the time.” He paused. D smiled broadly. “I can put in the time,” he said.                Coach smiled back. “Then you can collect your shoe contracts and do your commercials.”                The man in the bright white shirt spoke next. “We brought along a couple things we thought you might like.” He pulled out a large duffel bag. “Just some college swag for our college boy,” Coach said. “You ever see these before?” He pulled out a pair of high tops. They were huge and light, but had some sort of stiff wedge above the sole.                “No,” D smiled.                “That’s cause no one has,” the man in the white shirt said. “Factory made for you when you join our team. Can’t wait to get you signed up.” He handed D the duffel bag. “Look through that when you get home,” the man in white said. “I’ll call you on Monday morning.”                When D got home from dinner, he expected Robert and Karen to beam. Instead, Karen was pale and looked at D through red-rimmed eyes. There was a woman sitting on the sofa.                “Demetrius, baby!” she held out her arms.                Karen looked sidelong at D. There was a rather long pause.                Robert spoke first. “Demetrius, this is your mother, Destiny Laximoore. She showed up at our door tonight.” *            *            *                 That had been three weeks ago. There were other schools after that. They all wanted to take D out to dinner. Some had given him gas cards, warmups. D wasn’t sure that cash equivalents were kosher under NCAA guidelines. At first, it had been fun to be treated like sports royalty, but D still found something unsettling about it. It was as though each duffel bag was a little piece of him that the colleges were buying. They wanted return on their investment. They really didn’t care what happened to D, D thought. They wanted to buy winning. Only Karen and Robert gave any thought to what was best for D, and then, well Destiny.                It was obvious that Karen didn’t like Destiny. She never said anything negative, but D could tell the way she looked at Robert when Destiny called, as though she wanted him to say that he didn’t need to tell D that Destiny had called. When D gave Destiny the gas cards he’d been given, Karen looked hard at Robert, who’d said nothing.                “Demetrius, I have always loved you, and I only need a little money so that I can get enough to get us an apartment together,” Destiny said. D took one look at Destiny and knew it was true. Destiny was skinny, like she could use a meal. She also needed to see a dentist. Years of neglect, thought D. The world is good to the Roberts and Karens, but the Destinys had to make it without any help.                “Mom, how’s the search going?” D asked one day. “I’m pretty close to picking North Carolina for school. We could move there together. Look what I got you.” D pulled out the pages that he had printed from his computer. He circled three apartments. He’d given Destiny money from his savings account, already. It would easily have covered a down payment on any of the apartments.                “Honey, I’m still looking,” Destiny said. “I gotta go now, catch you next week.”                D hated it when she said that. It meant that she might or might not show up the following week.                “Yeah,” he said, handing her a roll of cash. “Don’t forget to call me next week.”                But she did. And every time she did, D found himself taking out his anger at the court, slamming the ball through the hoop, lashing out at anyone who screwed up at practice.                Karen and Robert took notice.                “Hey, D,” Robert said one night. “What’s going on with your savings account? I thought you were saving up for a car—remember, I’ll match whatever you put down.”                “Yeah, my mom needed some money so she can get to her job,” D said.                “Hmm. D, maybe she needs to come up with some of that money on her own.”                Karen broke in. “Enough!” she said loudly. “Honest to God, I have had enough of all this. Why do we have to keep pretending? Demetrius, your mother doesn’t have a job. She’s sucking all the money off you because she sees you as one big paycheck. Where’s she been for the last fifteen years? Where was she when you spray painted the side of the school, huh? Did she get you out of that? No! That was us, Demetrius. Where was she when you were sick? Did she come to you then? How about when you couldn’t pass Algebra? She didn’t knock on our goddamn door then, did she?”                This was scary. Karen never swore. Her face was white and D could see a vein throbbing in her neck. Even her fingers were shaking. “Wake up, Demetrius. She’s using you.”                Robert looked bothered. “Karen—”                “No, I got it,” D’s own hands were shaking now. “You’re wrong. You hate her because she’s my real mom,” he heard himself say. “You wouldn’t have any of this, the fame, the attention, all that stuff you love if my real mom didn’t bring me into this world. Now you’re just jealous. Yeah? Well, you’re gonna find out the hard way. I’m outta here. I’m not your son anymore. I never really was.”                Robert looked bothered now. “Demetrius, we don’t mean that—”                But it was too late. Demetrius had grabbed his jacket and was out the door. *            *            *                Three hours later, he had traced Destiny’s steps. It wasn’t difficult. She drove a beat-up gold duster that stuck out like a sore thumb in a town of middle-class people. A few questions at the convenience store, and D found himself watching his mom from behind a dumpster in a parking lot on the edge of town.                “Yeah, I got it,” he heard her say. She handed a man the roll of cash that D had given her. “Now you give me what you got. D didn’t see what he gave her, but he felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. What was she doing? That was the money that was for the apartment. The feeling in the pit of his stomach began to rise. It was nausea. D swallowed back bile.                When the man left, D emerged from behind the dumpster. Destiny immediately turned toward the sound of a can falling from the dumpster.                “Demetrius, what are you doing here?” she called.                “What are you doing here?” D asked. “That money was supposed to be for our apartment, remember?”                Destiny looked hard at D.                D looked hard right back. “What’s your explanation? I mean, mom, why are you doing this?”                “Demetrius,” Destiny said. She paused. “I’ve, I’ve—” She gathered herself. “It’s for my job, like I said,” Destiny finally said. “I’m a nail tech. That man gets me my supplies for cheap. Too expensive to buy them at the store. I buy ‘em on the street.”                “Yeah? Where are they?” D asked. “Show me.”                “Actually, he delivers them for me,” Destiny said. “You know I can’t show them to you—cause he delivers them so I don’t have to carry them home. . . Then I do my nails. I’ve got some saved up, Demetrius. It’s gonna be you and me. I’ve got some saved up. We gonna live in that apartment—I just need one more thing, Demetrius. Just one more thing, and that’s the gel drying machine. Cost me about $500 more. Can you get that for me next week? Think you can get me $500 more by next week?”                D sighed. “Yeah, mom.” He walked slowly back to Robert and Karen’s. *            *            *                Karen had been crying. Her face was red and her eyes were swollen. “Sorry, D. I didn’t mean it,” she was saying. “We love you and are just glad you’re back.”                D looked at Karen and Robert defiantly. “I’ll sleep here,” he said. “But I want to you to know that you’re wrong. You were wrong. My mom’s a nail tech, and she’s been saving up to live at college with me. Till then, I’ll crash here, but only till then.” D then felt the overwhelming urge to cry, to run into the arms of Karen and Robert and cry, but he didn’t know why. Instead, he spoke. “I’m signing. North Carolina,” he said. “Then I’m outta here.” *            *            *                The man in the bright white shirt was back. “I just want you to know that you made the right decision,” he said. “I think you’ll find that we are a real family at NC. This is where you belong.”                Coach smiled and all his large white teeth showed. His large stomach shook with laughter. “So long as you perform, D!” he punched D in the shoulder.                Karen and Robert looked on. They smiled, proudly. “Well done, son,” Robert said.

               They were standing outside, and D had signed four times on a clipboard balanced on the front of the Escalade.                “Wait, wait, we didn’t capture this moment,” Karen was smiling. “Someone take my phone!” She handed it to Sid, who had come home to celebrate D’s signing. “Sid, you get in the next one.”                Sid snapped a picture. D’s phone chimed.                There was the picture. Karen, smiling with joy. Robert, slapping D on the shoulder. The man in the white shirt looking victorious, and Coach looking as though he had just eaten the canary. Ironically, only D looked out of place. A big kid, in an even bigger NC warmup jacket, looking out from a bowed head, just like he had when he cowered behind the sofa at his first foster home.                “As long as I perform,” D thought. “as long as I perform.”


As Stella bent down to pick up her glove, a shove from behind almost pitched her headfirst into the soup can display. “Sorry, love, couldn't see where I was pushing the cart,” said a familiar voice. “Are you alright? It’s these darn bifocals. Can’t seem to get the hang of them. Here, let me help you up.” It was Mrs. Jones, the large, shortsighted lady who came to clean Stella's house every week. She reached down and yanked Stella up by the arm with the strength of a stevedore. “Say, did you hear about the old Miller place?” “What?” said Stella, rubbing her arm. She hated to think what would have happened if Mrs. Jones had wished her harm. Mrs. Jones looked around furtively, leaned close and continued in a stage whisper. “A famous author bought the old Miller place. I heard it from Mamie Hobbs that cleans the real estate office. He’s been on Oprah and everything. I only read the Bible and the Baptist mission magazine myself, but they say he writes some real nice stories. His name’s Dan Bonfatso or something.” She grinned happily at Stella’s surprise. The old Miller place was a beautiful but very dilapidated antebellum mansion in the historic area of town. It had almost reached eyesore status after sitting empty for years since the death of the reclusive last inhabitant. “It’s a big house. Maybe they’ll need a cleaner when they’ve fixed it up. You’d put in a word for me, wouldn’t you? Well, best get home to feed the old man. See you, hon.” With an affectionate parting slap on the back which almost sent Stella reeling, Mrs. Jones trundled off. Curiosity stirring despite her intentions to remain above the gossip, Stella did a Google search as soon as she got home. The author’s name was Dorian Bonifacio, and he had indeed been on Oprah and the New York Times best seller list. His novels were ‘modern but timeless, sublime and daring, addressing the exquisite challenges and pain of the modern age’ according to one reviewer. Stella ordered a copy of his latest from Amazon. Dorian was handsome, looking at her with brooding intensity from the back cover, but Stella gave up after the first chapter, thoroughly confused. She’d stick to her murder mysteries and chick lit even if it meant admitting the limits of her literary taste. During the following week, Stella heard at the pharmacy that the house was going to be demolished and at the vet's that it was going to be renovated. The locals who gathered in the diner every morning for breakfast had a field day discussing the amount and colors of paint that had been ordered from the local hardware store. Everyone agreed that the author deserved credit for buying locally and using local firms for the work but the gossip grew more outlandish by the day. It was going to be a bed and breakfast. It was going to be a walled compound and trespassers would be shot on sight. A chandelier was coming from New York and tiles from Italy. Stella drew the line at listening to speculation about heart-shaped bathtubs and mirrors on the bedroom ceiling. Mrs. Jones was bursting with news when she next came to clean Stella’s house. She had brought her teenage granddaughter Lacey along to help her. “He’s been down here,” she said. “The writer fellow. Had lunch in the tavern with some people. Mary Barnes told my Joe that he tipped real well. He’s a vegan. I thought that was some kind of religion, but Joe says that means he don’t eat no meat nor milk and eggs. And something else…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, and she blushed. “He’s got a boyfriend.” Lacey rolled her eyes. “Grandma, he’s gay. He’s got a husband, not a boyfriend. So what? At least he’s married. You always fuss when you hear about people who aren’t married living together.” “Things have certainly changed since my young days. I don’t know what this world is coming to,” Mrs. Jones said, offended. “But I judge not lest I be judged. Go polish those mirrors, young lady.” She stumped out and began vacuuming in the next room. “Sorry,” said Lacey. “She’s such a dinosaur sometimes.’ “Your grandmother grew up in very different times,” said Stella. “It must be hard to adjust to the new norms. Be patient with her.”

*** Work on the old house continued for weeks with the locals avidly following progress. Mr. Atkins sighed as he counted out Stella’s change after inspecting her car. No credit cards here. You brought cash and got a handwritten receipt at old Mr. Atkins' place.

“I swear I never heard so much foolishness in my life as about this feller coming to town,” he said. “You’d think it was the second coming or something.” “At least people aren’t talking about me as much,” Stella said. “It’s nice not to be the center of gossip for a change.” Mr. Atkins gave a slow grin, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “You was a mite different,” he said. “Coming from the big city with all that talk of natural healing and New Age stuff. Folks had you conjuring the devil and I don’t know what-all. But you’ve made a right nice job of that café and shop, though I still don’t know why people would spend money on stones and doodads. Lord knows we need something to fill some of them empty buildings on the high street and my Janey loves telling me stories about working there.” “Janey is an exemplary employee,” said Stella. “And they are healing crystals, not stones and doodads, I’ll have you know.” She winked at him as she left. He threw his gnarled hands up in surrender and laughed as she drove off. They had a busy day at the coffee shop. Stella was in her office counting receipts when Janey stuck her head round the door. “Psst,” she hissed. "He's here." “Who is?” said Stella, preoccupied. “We’re closed.” “It’s the author. I was just putting up the closed sign when he tapped on the door. I didn’t want to be rude.” Stella emerged. She recognized him immediately. He smiled pleasantly and extended his hand. There was a tall blonde man with him. “Hi, I’m Dorian and this is my husband, Todd. Sorry if it’s inconvenient, but I wondered if we could get a quick cup of coffee. We were trying to avoid your rush hour. We seem to be causing quite a commotion wherever we go.” “I understand completely,” said Stella. “Of course.” Janey had already hurried off to make the coffee, thrilled. “This is on the house. Welcome to town,” said Stella when he attempted to pay. “If you need a housekeeper, I can recommend a very good one. I can also recommend Janey’s grandfather if you need work done on your car.” Janey beamed. “Thank you,” Dorian said. “We do want to support local businesses in the community. We’ll be back.” *** A few days later, Mrs. Jones and Lacey showed up at the coffee shop. Mrs. Jones was uncharacteristically quiet and appeared worried. “A word with you in private, Ms. Stella, if you please,” “Come into my office,” said Stella. “What is it?” “I like working for you, I really do, Ms. Stella. But the thing is that the writer fellow offered me a job cleaning that big house. I said no at first because I couldn’t get used to the idea of two men being married. But he seems like a real nice person and he’s going to pay me a whole lot. Lacey reminded me that I said I wasn’t going to judge, and well, I…” “Someone must have given you a very good reference,” said Stella, smiling. “Though I seem to have done myself out of a good housekeeper.” “I know it was you, and I thank you,” said Mrs. Jones. “But Lacey and I came up with an idea. Lacey can do your house for now while she’s home from college and give you time to find someone else.” Stella looked at Lacey who nodded eagerly. “It seems to be a win-win situation,” said Stella. “And, Lacey, since you’re in college, do me a favor, please. Try reading his books and tell me if you can make heads or tails of them. They're beyond me.”


Huck laid down in Elliot's grave and got comfortable in his bones. His heavy torso ground the decaying bones to dust. "Goodnight, Sweetheart," he said to the starless sky. "May the everlasting-" A scuffling reached Huck's receptors and the bonesman peered into the grave. His hood was pulled back and his full bodied ginger beard framed his aged features. He literally glowed from the lantern he had attached to his left shoulder. "Oh, Huck, not again," the bonesman drawled. "Hello, Bonesman," Huck said calmly. "Isn't it a nice night to sleep together with the ones we love?" "When people say that they don't mean this. How many times do I have to repeat myself?" "Hmm, perhaps once more." Huck laughed and crossed his ankles, placing his laced fingers behind his head. More of Elliot's bones cracked and ground beneath his weight. The bonesman sighed, stroking his beard. "Get out of the grave, Huck. You're destroying sacred remains." Huck hefted a bone, possibly a femur, and it disintegrated in his hand. "This? It's just dust, Bonesman. No harm, no foul." "If it's just dust, why do you keep digging up and lying on my skeletons?" "Yours, Bonesman?" Huck tsked. "These are my family. Not yours." "I have guardianship of all bodies delivered to my door. You get to pray at the headstones, but I get to ensure the remains stay buried. And unmolested." "I'm doing no harm that the earth won't do eventually. Let me lay with my sweetheart undisturbed." "No, Huck," the bonesman said roughly, slamming the butt of his shovel into Huck's chest with a hollow thud. "Get out." "Bah! Alright, alright, I'm moving." Huck slapped the wooden shovel handle aside and climbed up and out of the shallow grave. "Spoil sport." The bonesman immediately started to fill the hole that Huck had dug with his rapid hands, groaning and griping to himself. Huck watched for only a second before stalking off into the wistful night. So much for spending a long, quiet night alone with his sweetheart. Should he take care of the bonesman? Make him a grave somewhere near his beloved skeletons? No. He was a friend, or at least he was friendly. No matter how much he persevered in kicking Huck out of the graves he didn't deserve to take a permanent dirt nap. "Hey, Huck," the bonesman shouted through the graveyard. "Is this yours?" Huck narrowed his eyes and saw a metal object in the bonesman's raised arm. Was that a chalice? He strode over casually, like he wasn't fascinated beyond control, and held out his hands palms upwards. The bonesman handed him an iron chalice that was stripped off all jewels and embellishments. "This was Elliots," he gasped. "Someone has been grave robbing, Bonesman. You've got a much bigger problem than me lying in your graves. This was buried in a chest two feet under his remains. Stop burying him and help me dig instead." He tossed the chalice, now a worthless relic, over his shoulder and knelt in the grave. His hands moved at the speed of lightning, scooping and throwing dirt aside nonchalantly. "Woah, woah, woah," the bonesman said and slapped his hands with the head of the shovel. "Don't go desecrating any more than you already have. I have a reputation to uphold." Huck forced the shovel aside, but stopped momentarily and scooped up a handful of bones. They turned to nothing between his fingers and sprinkled the earth with a fine powder. "It was too late to try and protect these bones the moment you buried them," Huck said. "If you cared so much about them you wouldn't have placed them in dirt. Now help me dig or give me the shovel. This isn't good for my joints." He waved his dirty hands and they groaned in disgust. The bonesman thrust the shovel towards him. "I won't dig up a grave I buried. But I also know I can't stop you. Can I?" Huck laughed joyously and gratefully accepted the shovel. He got straight to work shovelling mounds of dirt haphazardly. "Mind the… oh never mind," the bonesman sighed, watching Elliot's decaying remains go flying into the crisp night air. After only a few seconds Huck hit something with a solid thwack. He scraped the remaining dirt aside and unveiled the majority of a wooden box. People used to be buried in these instead of their favoured belongings. That might have kept Elliot's bones from decaying so quickly. Oh well, there was nothing he could do as the last of the remains were swept aside. All but the skull were destroyed. Before opening the chest to see the damage he carefully hefted the skull and peered into the eye sockets. "Hello, Sweetheart," he whispered, "I'm just going to have a peek into your chest. Won't be long and then you can rest again. Sorry about your body, but I'm sure you don't need it anymore." He placed the skull outside of the grave and used the shovel to pry the box open. "My God," the bonesman cried. Huck stared flabbergasted at the living, breathing, pulverised man that was curled up and bleeding inside of the cramped chest. He was wearing poor man’s garb and had only exposed hands, neck and face. All of his visible skin was yellow and pocked. Huck didn't know what to say or do. This wasn't Elliot's treasure obviously. "He's alive," the bonesman said, stating the obvious. "We have to get him to the hospital. Who knows how long he's been suffocating and bleeding out in there." "Don't touch him," Huck instructed, using the shovel handle to block the bonesman from entering the grave. "Look at his pallor. He's sick." "He's been buried alive! Of course he's sick." "It's not just that. He looks like he has Biter's Sickness. No wonder they buried him here. They were doing their fellow men a favour." "Biter's Sickness? You mean the Kissing Vampires Disease?" Huck laughed and appeared to roll his eyes, even if he didn’t actually have eyeballs. "Nobody calls it that anymore, Bonesman. That nomenclature fell away with your generation’s decline. It’s simply Biter’s Sickness now. And whoever this man is, he has it. Look at the pustules and the pallor of his skin. I think that we should close the lid and bury him. Right now." "We can’t just leave a man in need to die alone buried in the ground," the bonesman refuted. "If you won’t help him then I at least will." "You’ll die. I might as well just bury you in the ground now." "Then you must do this. Have some human compassion." "I can’t. Not for a man who was stealing from my beloved." Huck gazed at Elliot’s skull and sighed mournfully. So recently he had been within reach, and now he was just that last piece of bone. What a great loss. What tragedy. He wanted to lie down in his bones again and soak into their memories together. Damn the bonesman for dragging him out of the grave and ruining his melancholy. "He was your beloved?" the bonesman enquired. "Then who are all of the other people in this graveyard to you? Why have you dug up and laid in all of their graves too?" "Practice," Huck stated matter-of-factly, glancing at the bonesman’s inquisitive face. His features appeared to morph. The corners of his lips went up, his eyebrows went down and he bared his teeth. He was furious. "Practice!" The bonesman yelled. "You've desecrated my graveyard to practice lying in a particular grave?" "You say that as if it wasn't important that I get it right," Huck argued, throwing a glare. "Elliot deserved that I figure out a way to dig him up without destroying his bones. Everything was right until you kicked me out of the grave." "But why? Why do this at all?" Huck gestured at the man in the box. "I think we're forgetting something. Let's bury him before you catch what he's got and then we can talk all about this." The bonesman grumbled and snatched the shovel that was still pointing in his direction. "We are not doing this, Huck. Pick him up and I'll walk a few metres ahead of you until we get him medical attention." "No," Huck said and slammed the chest closed, immediately starting to scoop in the loose dirt from all around him. The bonesman, the wily old goat, stepped into the grave, his heavy boots making the lid of the chest creak and crack though he didn't fall through it. He kicked Huck's hands until he stopped his efforts. "Stop that," Huck cried, greatly offended. "You'll catch the Biter's Sickness if you keep fooling around. This is no joke." "I don't care," the bonesman said stiffly. "I'll risk catching my death to protect my fellow man. Even if he does turn out to be a grave robber." "Huh? I don't understand you, Bonesman. Is this some mad human trait? To throw your life away for a stranger?" "How do you not have that coded into your central being? To be alive is to care for our kin. Surely you care for something enough to risk yourself protecting it." Huck dusted his hands and stared straight ahead into the bonesman's eyes. He was so powerful in his stance for someone who's livelihood required man's death. But did Huck feel any of what he was asking? Did his programming allow such human compassion? He felt something for Elliot, but would it have been enough to pressure him into sacrificing his own life? Probably not. But it did bring him back night after night to lay in the graves of men he would never know. "No, I don't," Huck said finally. "My own safety and survival comes first and foremost. It would be a poor design to be otherwise. Humans are weird." "Humans are versatile. Adaptable. We are above all else protectors. Whether it's for friend or foe we will do whatever it takes to preserve life." "I remember a time when your kind brutalised and murdered animals. How does that fit with your proclamation?" "Let me take this man to safety and we can have a conversation about the ethics of killing animals versus killing men." "Hmm," Huck drawled. "No. By keeping him contained I’m preserving the life of my friend. You." "Oh, Huck. We are not friends. You’re a nuisance who I have to keep driving out of my graveyard. Our relationship begins and ends there." "Rude." Huck laughed. "After everything we’ve been through together." The bonesman grinned. "You’re a wily one. Too bad you won’t win me around to leaving this man in here. Now get out of my graveyard and leave me to worry about what might happen alone." Could Huck live with allowing the Biter’s Sickness to potentially spread? Was this one grave robber’s life worth that risk? How would he feel if the bonesman died because he allowed him to expose himself? Surely none of that was his concern. However, the man could help him hunt down the other grave robbers who had stolen Elliot’s treasure. Perhaps he should let him out. Even just to ask him some questions. "Get out of the grave, Bonesman," Huck said. "This man knows who robbed my Sweetheart." The bonesman glared at Huck for a few quietly tense moments and then stepped up and out of the opposite side of the grave. "Don’t hurt him," he said. "I won’t. He’s probably hurting enough as it is." Huck stepped into the grave and opened the chest. He took a close look at the man trapped inside and was fairly certain that he wasn’t going to get any answers out of him. The Biter’s Sickness had claimed his life. "Well shit." He slammed the lid and started using his hands to fill in the grave once again. "Hey!" the bonesman said. "Not again." "He’s dead. Unless you want to come down here and get real close to confirm it, then it's time we buried him six feet under." "Hmm, I believe you. But I can’t just have an anonymous man buried in someone else's grave. We’re going to have to move the chest out until I can find him a new plot." "No way," Huck said, still scraping in mounds of dirt with his bare hands. "Elliot won’t mind, seeing as it’s only his skull going back in here anyway." "His family will not be happy when they come to claim his treasure in fifty years if they find a skeleton instead of trinkets." "I’m his family and I won’t be coming back after this. Let the man lie." After there was a few inches of dirt covering the chest Huck picked up Elliot’s skull and placed it at the head of the grave. He knelt in the dirt and went to start talking, but saw the bonesman shuffling around restlessly. "Do you mind?" he said. "Can I have a little privacy?" "I’ll be back to make sure you filled in the grave correctly," the bonesman said and departed with the shovel left stabbed upright in the dirt. "Sweetheart, I’m sorry this didn’t work out right. I waited so, so long to ensure that everything was right. I let the passage of time pass me by, practicing for our moment together. That second that I first laid down in your bones was everything that I could have asked for. If I could dream that would have been what I would dream of. After having you alive again of course. "So, once again this is goodbye, My Love. I had a whole other speech prepared to mark the occasion, but that’s rather ruined. So I will leave you with these last few words. I love you. I always loved you. I will hold our memories in my core forever. Goodbye, Elliot." If Huck was able to cry he knew that he would have wet tears staining his face. Instead he simply felt morose as he sprinkled two handfuls of dirt onto the skull and then got out of the grave. It only took him several minutes to fill the hole and then he stood back and surveyed his handiwork. Because he had thrown the dirt out haphazardly there was a few inches missing and there was nothing he could do about it. The bonesman approached and placed a hand on his shoulder. "It’s never easy to say goodbye to the ones we love," the bonesman sighed. "What would you know?" Huck replied shortly and walked away. "Hey, Huck. What about the answers you promised me?" "They’ll have to wait, Bonesman. I have treasure to find." "You didn't even check the man you buried for clues. What chance do you stand?" "How many grave robbers do you think there are around here? It won't be hard to find a few very specific trinkets for sale." "Well then, good luck, Huck." "I don't need luck, Bonesman. I have all the time in the world.


Our daughter lives in the toilet, it is not of our choosing, but it is there that she resides, she can often be seen peeping out of the basin wanting to say hello, we leave the toilet door open so we can say hello too. Firstly let me say we do not use the toilet, not since she has taken up residence, oh no, we haven’t used the toilet in years. We know that she uses it as we hear it flushing in the night, but for me and my wife we have to go in a bucket and pour it down the sink, for the more “demanding” toilet breaks we go to our neighbours, they are quite understandable as they have a boy who lives in a bin. We have tried to get her out, pull her out, tug her out, even called the fire brigade, but it is not that she can’t get out, she just doesn’t want to. If we force her out, the moment our back is turned she goes back in. We have asked her why she likes the toilet so much, and she says it’s like having a miniature swimming pool in the house. I tell her that even if we had a swimming pool in the house we would still sleep on a normal bed. She laughs and says “Daddy you are funny”, I didn’t laugh, didn’t see what was funny. She used to leave the toilet sometime, for example when she had to go to school, but when the teachers complained that she spent her entire lunch breaks in the school lavatories we thought it best to home school her, at least our toilet can be kept reasonably clean. As she grew older we hoped that it would grow out of her, but it did not, she wanted her privacy as she aged so we put a lock on the toilet seat (on the inside of course) and put a little door bell by the side. Not sure the need in this, as the toilet seat was quite easy to knock on, but the wife thought it was best. Our daughter was always home, but I can understand the decency in knocking first, how rude just to walk in uninvited, she might have been “on” the loo or anything. Her independence got so bad that we had to register the toilet as a separate home, Flat 2 she called it, Flat 2. I did laugh at that reference, but wouldn’t Flat 1 have been just as funny. My wife says no, 2’s are funnier than 1’s. Then the fateful day came when the postman had a special delivery for “Flat 2” so we let him in to our house, he went upstairs and into the bathroom, rang on the doorbell and waited for our daughter to answer. She had been washing her hair, so took a little time to get to the door. The postman rang again, she finally answered. “Sorry to disturb you” he said “I have a package for you to sign, but do you mind if I quickly use your toilet?”. Well we always brought our daughter up to be polite so what could she do other than say “Yes of course”. So with trousers down and with both of them holding their packages, the toilet was... how shall we phrase this... hmm. Used. It wouldn’t have been a problem, of course our daughter blushed bright red at seeing what she saw, anyone would have, no the blushing wasn’t the problem, the flushing was the problem. The postman didn’t know, and she didn’t say, he pulled the flusher and flushed her down the toilet. We never saw her again. Now I know I said above that we always heard her flushing the toilet, but she always flushed when she was sitting on the toilet, not when she was inside. The postman told us later (when the shock had worn off) that she swirled around like a whirlpool, her hair spinning like wet candyfloss, and then she was gone. We tried to find her of course, but how can you really find someone that was flushed down the toilet.


To say I’m nervous would be the understatement of the year. My hands are shaking where they sit in my lap, but I can’t let it show because I acted way too calm when she came into our store earlier. I think it was a mixture of absolute shock and mild panic that made me act that way. I was in the middle of teaching an oil pastel class on how to blend darks to lights when the windchimes on the door jingled. Violet was in the front of the shop, so I expected her to get it, but when a voice that sounded a little too eager and too familiar called my name, I wasn’t expecting to see her . I knew I should’ve called out sick.

“I’m sorry I was gone for so long, it was work. Where were we again?” Lillian sits back down at the table and I do my best to maintain composure. Her plunge black v-neck blouse was more than revealing, but I didn’t let my eyes linger. She wasn't this dressed up when I saw her earlier so it's a little jarring. It shouldn’t be this easy to still idealize someone who dumped you out of the blue. I mean, we’ve barely spoken thus far, and it's not as if our conversations are meaningful. So then, why? “It’s fine. The food got here while you were gone, so at least you don’t have to wait.” I forced myself to smile, trying to fix the coils I had diffused only 30 minutes ago. I don’t know why she invited me out for dinner anyway. I mean, what was there for us to talk about? Remember that time we killed the guy who groped me on the bus and followed us home? Or maybe the time I cried in a jail cell after you had already left? Good times, huh.

“So how have you been lately?” She smiles, knocking back the last swig of her second glass of wine since she’s gotten here. Her fingers linger by the half-full bottle on the table which is being emptied by her alone.

“Good, good. Going to City College is okay, and I work at the art store down the street, but you probably know that by now.” “Yeah! I was so surprised to see you there. I was only in this part of town to see someone and they wanted to drop by that little store since they're a painter -- it was total luck!” “Avery,” I mumbled. They’re a regular and pretty good friends with Violet, so of course I would be familiar with them. But, who would’ve guessed they kneow Lillian. Small world, unfortunately. “Yeah. They told me they go there often, but I would have never guessed to see you there.” She smiles and some of her red lipstick has transferred to the glass, leaving a lightened pink stain on her mouth. Her steak sizzles on the plate before her, which she promptly drowns in A1. I hate the fact that I knew she’d do it -- that I remembered. “Well, what have you been up to? I heard you got into NYU forever ago, so how’s that been?” “Wonderful! I thought it would be overrated and full of snobs whose egos are bigger than their bank accounts, but everyone seems really down to earth and all of the teachers have been great. I actually have an internship at the court of appeals in Albany next semester, so things are looking up for me.” Good to know the criminal record point on your transcripts was wiped clean. “That’s amazing! I’m happy for you.” She pours herself another drink before taking a bite from her steak. “Yeah yeah, but enough about me. How’s your Mom? It’s been years since I’ve seen her.” Well, she reminds me of my no-good white friend anytime I do something that displeases her but, “She’s doing good. I’m sure she misses seeing you around.” “Yeah well, I miss her too. Dinner was always better at your house.” She sighs and the awkward silence when I nod my head in response was deafening. I take a sip from my glass and push my pasta around the plate. I’m too nervous to eat, but Lillian looks like she’s out-drinking herself. It’s pathetic in a weird way. “Why aren’t you eating?” She quips and her blonde beach-waves bounce with her tilted head. “Don’t tell me you're still doing those stupid diets.” “I’m not, and they aren’t stupid.” I frown, taking a bite of the pasta I don't want and forcing it down to prove a point. She doesn’t know anything about me, so why is she so comfortable. “Looks like I’ve struck a nerve,” she giggles a little too loudly and I’m afraid the alcohol’s gotten to her. “You were always so cute when you were mad.” ‘Lillian--” “And stop calling me Lillian. We aren’t strangers Rose.” I take a deep breath before continuing. “ Lily ,” I take the bottle of wine and move it to my side of the table. “I think you’ve had enough .” “Awww, but I was just getting started,” She frowns and I hate that my heart stumbles. It’s been five years since she left, and I thought I was finally over her, but this , this isn’t helping. It’s so unfair. “You’re so cold, Rose. Do you treat the girl with short hair like this?” “What girl?” I frown when she takes another bite instead of answering. “Lillian, what are you talking about?” “Y’know, the one at your job with the short braids and circle glasses near the cash register.” Violet? “Why do you care about that?” “Cuz,” She mumbles. “She kept staring at you when I saw you earlier. I thought you guys were like a thing or something.” She’s… jealous. But I don’t want her to be. I don’t want her to feel anything towards me. I don’t even wanna be here but everyone was looking at us and I couldn’t really say no to dinner with fifteen people watching. “It doesn’t matter whether we are or not. Aren’t you with Avery? You two seemed mighty close.” “We’re not… official… or anything. We just talk.” I sigh and feel disappointment settle into my bones. “Why did you ask me to dinner, Lily?” “Cuz, I haven’t seen you in years, and we ended on bad terms.” “You moved. We could’ve just ended like that--” “I wanted to see you.” She places her hand halfway across the table and I have to physically restrain myself from reaching out to grab it. “I missed you, Rose. Really. I- I wanted to apologize.” “You don’t have to say anything,” Please don’t make me want you again. “I already know.” “But you didn’t get to hear it from me and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you, but I was a pussy, and I was scared, and I didn’t wanna see the face you’d make when I told you.” “Lil--” She continues talking anyway. “But I’m sorry for moving away. My parents didn’t want me living there anymore after what had happened. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I was leaving, or that I loved you, or that I was going to miss you. I was… so scared, But I treated you badly and that was wrong.” “Lillian, you're drunk.” “Drunken words are sober thoughts, aren’t they?” There’s a look in her eyes that conveys more than her slightly slurred together word vomit does. “Now can you be real with me? Instead of putting up this long time friend charade. I don’t wanna know how you’ve been Rose. I don’t care about work, or how school is, or small talk. I just wanna know about you. What happened while I was gone?” “You won’t remember in the morning.” She finishes the rest of the glass she poured before I took the bottle. “Then humor me.” “Well, my mom hates you now.” “I had a feeling,” she laughs, but this time it’s how she used to -- high and whimsical like music to my sore ears. “And I hate my job, but the people there are nice.” “Also had a feeling. You looked miserable before I walked in.” “And I hated you. I don’t know if I still do, but I hated you so much it made my chest hurt.” She’s silent this time only nodding along when I continue. “You were… my everything. I would have followed you no matter where you lead me, I even lied for you. I loved you, Lily. So imagine my surprise when the case was dropped and you were gone the next day. I thought… I thought it was all my fault or that I did something wrong.” “I’m sorry, Rose. I was stupid.” “Yeah, you were. You really, really were, but I don’t hold it against you anymore. I mean, we were what, sixteen? Everyone thinks they’re in love at sixteen.” “Do you think you’re in love at twenty-one?” she asks dryly and all the words I had planned to say were gone in an instant. “No…? I mean, you were gone for so long that I--” “It’s okay. Forget that I said anything.” She nods, pulling her hand back from the table. “Are you sure you don’t wanna eat? I’m paying.” “I can pay for my own--” “I said, I’m paying, Rose. Why don’t you get your food to go? I don’t really wanna eat anymore.” “Well you drank three whole glasses, so I’d expect that.” She flashes me a smile that turns into a grimace. “Sorry, I drink when I’m anxious. You’re done though, right?” “Yeah, I guess. But I wasn’t done speaking.” “What d’ya need to say Rosey?” She rests her chin in her hand on the table, letting her eyes flutter close and I feel myself get hot in anger. She does this thing where once she doesn’t get the answer she wants, she just shuts down. It used to happen with trivial things, but whenever we argued, this shit would happen too.

“I just… I just wanted to say that what you did wasn’t fair. I’m glad that you walked into the shop today though because at least I don’t have to keep wondering about how you are and where you’ve been.” “I know it wasn’t. I know sorry can't fix what happened, but I’m sorry Rose. “ I look down at my still trembling hands, picking at the nail polish when I realize there's nothing more to say.  “Well, at least you don’t have to lie about your Mom liking me anymore.” I snickered before looking up at her. She smiled wide as if that was the funniest shit she’s ever said, and with the mix of bloodshot unfocused eyes and giggles, she looks drunker than she should be. It makes me laugh harder than I should. “Shut up.” # “Why are you still standing here?” “Because you drank the rest of the bottle even though I told you not to. I’m not just gonna leave you on some street corner by yourself when you're drunk. “Aww, how sweet,” She puts a cigarette between her lips, lighting it, and letting smoke spill everywhere. “I didn’t know you cared so much about me.” “Shut up.” I snapped, yanking on her arm so she wouldn’t fall over. Being this close, I could smell her perfume and the faint -- now strong -- sickly sweet smell clinging to her hair. “I didn’t know that you smoked.” “I don’t do it often.” She pulled the stick from her mouth and exhaled -- the white paper now stained pink where her lips had been. “You wanna try?” “Not really, no.” “That’s a shame. I think it’d be cute.” “Watching me smoke?” “Watching you cough.” I have the sudden urge to drop her. “Y’know, you were kinda cute when you were tipsy. Now you’re just annoying.” Her head whips around and her eyes nearly sparkle. “You think I’m cute? Really?” “Shut up,” I grumble and she laughs way too hard and way too loud. Passerby look at us and she cackles, leaning into me like a wall at a frat party. “Did you mean what you said about NYU earlier? I wanna transfer there once I get enough credits, but I don’t know.” “Well, half of it anyway. I’ve met a lot of nice people, like Avery for example, but there are still people who blow smoke up their own asses. I mean, it’s an expensive school for a reason. They’ve got good resources. I’ve interned a bunch of local courts”

“Oh god, I forgot you were a law student.” “Doesn’t look like it on the surface but, I’m kinda smart.” She giggles in a way that sounds extremely dumb but is still endearing. I hate how even if she’s adorably drunk or obnoxious, I still can’t deny her. It’s… upsetting. “Rosey Wosey, pay attention to me," She sing-songs in my ear annoyingly loud. “Don’t make me run into traffic.” “How much longer till your uber gets here.” She opens her phone which takes a painfully long amount of time. “Like four minutes, probably longer. Getting tired of me already?” “Yes.” She hits me on the shoulder before swaying lightly. “Gimme your phone.” “Why would I do that?” “Because,” she suppresses a hiccup. “You want my phone number.” It never even occurred to me that I didn’t have it. Instagram served as a perfect place to type out messages I’d never send, but I guess iMessage made more sense. So, against my better judgment, I hand it to her and watch as she stumbles through the contacts app.

“There we go, now you can bug me at any time.” “Whose to say I’ll text you first?” I tilt my head and she reopens the contact list, scrolling all the way to the bottom to look at the ‘My Card’ info. “I was going to text you, you didn’t have to do that.” “I don’t trust you. You hate me.” “You think I hate you?” I raise an eyebrow at her and she pouts at me like a child. “Yeah. I was an asshole at dinner, and now you’re babysitting me. I feel bad.” “I don’t hate you, Lily. I thought I made that clear earlier.” She squishes the cigarette she barely smoked under one of her heels. “Well, everything's a little jumbled, all I remember is the part where you said you hate me.” “You’re an idiot.” “Your idiot.” I freeze almost instantly, but she opens her phone again as if nothing was wrong. My heart ached at the memories in her bedroom: fighting over Mario Kart, crying over chemistry homework, all of the cuddles, the kisses, and playing Just Dance in her bedroom at 2 AM. “Earth to Rose? I said it’s okay if you leave. I think my driver’s lost. I should call them.” She slurs a little. Her lipstick is smudged against the corner of her mouth where the wine bottle was. Without thinking too much about it, I rub my thumb against it, smearing the pigment off of her skin. When I look at her again, her eyes don’t meet mine, instead focusing a little lower on my face before we make eye contact again. Most of her red lipstick’s been wiped off at this point in reality, but I guess my lips couldn’t make it worse, right? My forehead is against hers before our lips are touching and my hands are on her waist. She tastes like cigarettes, a lot of wine, and something else, but I can't tell what it is when I pull away after only barely kissing her. Her eyes are a little dazed and that’s when I remember, fuck, she’s drunk. “I’m sorry, I shouldn't have done that! You’re drunk and that wasn’t okay, and I don’t wanna take advantage of you--” She closes the gap I made between us before cupping my face in her hands. “You’re so cute when you blush.” I avert my eyes out of shame. “You can’t see--” “I can tell. You always blushed when you kissed me.” She mumbles against my lips before yanking on the collar of my sweater and crashing her lips against mine. Steak sauce . That’s what it was. She tastes like cigarettes, and red wine, and steak sauce. She tastes like the past; like ice cream after passing a quiz in biology, like sunshine on the pier in summer, like getting to play Princess Peach in Mario Kart. She tastes right. Her waist feels like I miss you in my hands, her hands feel like I’m sorry in my hair. She feels and tastes like Queens, she smells like regret and missed opportunities, but it’s all so her.

And even when her Uber driver gets there and we slide into the backseat as a mess of limbs, unable to tell where one begins and the other ends, it feels right. It feels like Lillian.


Times were tough. It was no secret I was miserable. A cloud of gloom followed me everywhere, including my job. A relationship breakup like mine would put anyone to the test and frankly, I was failing it. Still, I had bills to pay and it wasn’t going to help if I gave up and stopped getting out of bed. Each day I’d drag myself to the office and go through the motions like a zombie. I know my performance and attitude suffered but I didn’t care at the time. Much of the occupational grief and aggravation of the nine-to-five grind involved being employed so a person could afford nice things and have a fulfilling relationship with a significant other. Once the relative rewards of that dynamic went out the window, so did my motivation to work. I guess it’s a testament to my ability to do my job well, that I wasn’t fired outright after I went off on a difficult client. Behavior like that was a threat to the corporate ‘bottom line’. Obviously they didn’t want that. Apparently they didn’t want to let me go either. Instead, management tried a very unorthodox tactic which I only found out about much later. They actually hired a temp to ‘romance’ me, and boost my ego. It’s called ‘the girlfriend experience’ because it is supposed to feel ‘real’. It’s far more than paying a person to be intimate with me. That stipulation wasn’t even in the contract. Legally it couldn’t be. They just paid her to pretend to be infatuated and smitten. How she managed to achieve that artificial flattery was her business. I must say, it totally caught me off guard. In all fairness, I might’ve recognized the ‘snow job’ a mile away if I wasn’t deeply sad and emotionally vulnerable. Instead I ate up the attention with a spoon. They were smart enough to not hire a supermodel. They found a lady that was probably in the top register of who I might’ve had a chance with in real life, if I tried really hard to woo her. Not that I had to, mind you. She was the definition of a ringer. I gotta say, it takes a certain skill set to seduce a person with that level of believable sincerity. I totally fell for it. They brought her in to the office and assigned her to assist me on a big account. At first, it pissed me off. I didn’t care that she was attractive and working extremely closely with me. I resented the idea of having to hold anyone’s proverbial hand in training her to be actually helpful. To my relief, she was a quick study and eager to learn. Knowing what I know now, I still marvel at the theatrics and lengths the company went through to insert this woman into my life. It is kind of flattering to know they orchestrated the whole thing. I know it was only about the money I normally brought in, but it makes me feel damn important. ‘Missy’ was coy at first. Respectful and aloof even. She maintaining a polite distance while giving off a slight smitten vibe or schoolgirl crush. Like a big knucklehead, I swallowed the performance hook, line, and sinker. The truth is, I wanted to believe. Honestly, who in their right mind would’ve suspected such an elaborate hoax for my behalf? it wasn’t long before we were sneaking off after hours to see each other socially. The whole time, I was scared to death they would send her back to the temp agency. Inter office romance is strictly forbidden by HR so we kept the relationship a secret as long as we could. Once we had moved past a certain point, I didn’t care if anyone found out. I was finally happy again. By all appearances, she was too. I eventually asked her to marry me, and she accepted. Of course I didn’t know it was originally an arranged fling, so I definitely wouldn’t have guessed it was about to lead to an arranged marriage. The thing is, at what point does the facade cease to be worth playing along with for the corporate payout? Even for a person pretending to be interested in me, at some point, you’d think she would call the whole thing off, right? Either that or invent an excuse to break things off and still maintain the original deception. Here was an actress who entered into a contract to perform as ‘my girlfriend’ and then (for whatever reason) kept up the pretense long enough to marry me. At that point I still didn’t know the truth. I would have expected my employers to come clean then but it had went too far. It’s one thing to pay for a brief little office ‘flirtation’, it’s quite another to keep silent while their gullible employee committed to a legally binding contract. I was blissfully happy and absolutely ignorant to the disturbing truth. She was everything (I thought) I ever wanted. Believe it or not, she confessed the whole organized charade on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary! I was gobsmacked. I thought it was part of some prank or practical joke but she was dead serious. My whole world crumbled. Our three children were grown up and already out of the house. I’d made partner with the firm and yet, I found out the last 25 years of my life were based on some bizarre farcical performance script. Missy explained that while she had entered into the contract just trying to be a professional actress, she soon developed sincere feelings for me. On one hand, after admitting it started as an elaborate seduction hoax, it was hard to believe anything she said. On the other however, I’d had a quarter century of marital happiness and fantastic kids. Was she finally telling the truth, or was she still acting as a consummate professional actress dedicated to the role? I thought long and hard about it as she slept peacefully beside me. I loved her and I honestly believe she loves me. Much of life is pretending until it becomes true.