In the middle of the night, beneath the shining stars, I saw some butterflies circling the street light. There were many of them, their colorful wings fluttered and made the light turn to jewels. Just like when the sun shines on the altar through the stained glass in the cathedral. I was in awe. I couldn’t look away. But it didn’t take long until the butterflies attracted more people. They came seemingly from nowhere. There was over a dozen of them, men and women of all ages: from children to the elderly. They made a big crowd underneath the lamp post, almost trampling me in the process, and they tried to reach the twinkling butterflies flying high above them. Some tried to climb the pole, others threw their hats, and some even their shoes or loose pieces of cobblestone from the road. The butterflies flew higher and higher, trying to avoid the flying debris. But eventually, one of the butterflies, this one was the most vibrant shade of red, was hit and he came down crashing. He shattered into milions of tiny sharp crystals that scattered over the sidewalk. The people suddenly stopped moving and just stared at the mess they caused. The swarm of butterflies flew upwards and dissapeared into the dark night sky. There was only the red stain on the ground left, as if blood was way more beautiful, than it really is. A strange sense of calm and content spread over the crowd and bliss took over their faces. That lasted only a few seconds and then the people started to dissapear back into the dark alleyways where they came from. I had some questions, so I decided to follow one of them. A girl around my age with long brown hair. “Excuse me… I have never seen anything like this before…” I started very clumsily. Her long thin legs took her further and further with each step and I had trouble keeping up. “What do you mean?” she answered without a hint of emotion. “You know… the… the butterflies. And then it crashed and broke apart… it was just…” honestly I had no idea where to start. There were way too many thoughts running through my head. Even more of them popped up when we walked underneath a street light and I saw her face for the first time. “Are you trying to tell me you never broke a butterfly before?” she stopped and stared me deep into my eyes. I took my time with the answer. I could’ve sworn there was the exact same spark in her eyes like when the light shines through the stained glass in the cathedral. “Hello? Anyone there?” her voice brought me back to earth. “Oh, yes… I mean no. I see them outside every now and then, but I never thought about breaking them. Just looking was always fine for me, they are beautiful even then.” I couldn’t look away. “Yes, but now imagine how wonderful it must be to break one.” She smiled and I smiled back without even realizing it. I didn’t say a word. I had nothing to say. She had to be the one to start talking again. “What about you come with me now and we break a couple butterflies together?” “Now?” It was late, I should be on my way home. “Yes, right now.” I shouldn’t. “Alright, let’s go.” There are offers that you just can’t refuse. We walked through the streets and her eyes were pinned to the stars. her long hair flowed like waterfall down her back. “But, if we break them,” I was thinking out loud. “Wouldn’t anyone get angry with us?” “No, anyone who broke a butterfly before will understand. And... we don’t care about the ones who never broke one before.” she smiled again. Oh, what a time to be alive. “And will we not run out of butterflies one day, if everyone just goes around breaking them?” She started laughing and I’m pretty sure that was the moment my soul melted. Eventhough I would go anywhere and break anything for her, I still couldn't help the feeling that breaking these wonderful things is like throwing stones into the windows of a church. “When we do, it will be a sad day. But I’m pretty sure it won’t be tonight. Now shut up and help me look.” And so we kept walking through the night, eyes on the night sky, looking for any spark of color. It took long but in the end, when the sun slowly started to crawl into a new day, we found some. In a remote park, they were circling around an old rosehip bush. We carefuly approached them and I struck one to the ground. Blue crystals scattered across the green grass. And that was when I first touched the stars. And she was there with me. And we became one and the same. Trying to describe this feeling would be a waste of paper. But I knew, right then and there, that nothing else matters. It’s just her and the glass butterflies that shatter on the pavement. \ H.


The notebook is small, the ink and cover both faded from what must have originally been a licorice color. The whole thing is speckled with dust and the spine is completely wonky, bent to a near-ninety-degree angle except where it’s belted shut with a dingy old shoelace. I shouldn’t have picked it up; there are real books in the yard sale, books that aren’t tucked, half-smashed, into a cardboard box with a mouse-chewed hole in the corner. But I’m curious. Who bothered to keep such a junky collection of scraps, and why? I throw the thing on top of a pile of books I’ve found. The eighty cents it will cost will wash out in the money I’ll make selling the old textbooks and classics online, anyway. I pay for my loot and load the books into the trunk of my beat-up ’93 Pontiac. I stop, snag the notebook, and tuck it into my coat pocket with my COVID mask. On my drive home, I get stopped at this intersection that always seems to have seen an accident. This morning is no exception. Annoyed, but with nowhere to be, I throw the car in park and pull the little black book from my pocket, hoping it’s interesting. I work at the knot in the shoelace for a minute with my fingernails—teeth would have been disgusting—before realizing it’s just loose enough to slide the whole thing off. And I kid you not, twelve hundred-dollar bills kerflumph into my lap. I choke on my own spit. My mind races as I cough; what in the world? That’s a grand. Where— why—do I have to return it? How—

No, I don’t have to return it, I reason as I finish my coughing. Nervously, subconsciously, I glance at the cops in the intersection ahead. They aren’t even aware that I exist. Besides, I paid for the notebook , I argue. It’s not my fault that the yardsale chick didn’t know about the money.

Feeling slightly more comfortable now, I cautiously open the notebook. Three more hundred-dollar bills fall out. No way. I flip the notebook, turning the spine toward the steering wheel. Peeking out between coffee-stained and water-bent pages are more bills. One per page. I do a quick calculation in my head. Not believing, I pull out my phone. My fingers tremble as I open the calculator app. “That’s twenty thousand dollars,” I say aloud, my tone absolutely stupefied. It’s an incomprehensible amount of money to me. Thoughts tumble through my head: riding in an airplane to Europe. Paying my back rent. Do I have to pay taxes on this? My Amazon app, and the list of things I keep saved for “someday.” A full shopping cart at Walmart. Flustered, unsure what else to do, I open the book again. I glance at the intersection—not quite clear yet—and then back down at the book.

“June 9, 1983

Today I am a dad. I’m a dad! Louis is so small, so perfect, so… what do you say about a baby? It’s all been said before. But this is my baby. My son. He has tiny toes and he eats until Marie says it hurts (and then some.) I keep looking forward to playing catch and eating burgers together, and then I stare down at the blanket-bundle in my arms and I have to dash tears from my eyes because he’s here, he’s real, and he is mine. Ours. Marie’s and mine. My boy. My son.”

“Hey!” I glance up, the words of the book and the words of the cop waving me forward blending in my brain because twenty thousand dollars is still swirling around in my head too. I put the Pontiac in drive, pull forward slowly, my left hand trying to cover the fortune in my lap as the car rolls on, just in case the officer decides to look through the window. I race home. I stuff the bills in my pocket when I get there, worrying about neighbors staring me down. I try to walk normally, but I feel shifty. Nervous. The book is in my pocket again, too, feeding my curiosity. I race through my crappy apartment, then dump the money onto my bed, double- and triple-checking that I’ve gotten every bit out of my pockets. Then I turn the book, pinching the spine, and wag the pages back and forth. A rain of wealth descends on the quilt Mom made for me. Mom. Mom could use a hundred bucks, I think. I suppress the generous impulse. This money is mine now, and I could also very definitely use a hundred bucks. Mom will be okay. I’m tired, suddenly. I climb into the unmade bed, careful not to spill the bills onto the floor where they could vanish under the bed or the laundry pile, and I read again.

“July 4, 1983

Louis’ first Independence Day. He doesn’t seem to care, except when the neighbors set off fireworks last night and woke him up. I’m not sure if the baby or Marie was more upset, though Louis definitely screamed more. I haven’t told Marie, but I decided this journal is for when he graduates high school. I put a hundred dollars in the back page. It’s more than we can afford, but this is our son. And I can always take the money back out, I guess. Anyway, Marie is calling me. Just wanted to say: I love you, son. I’m already proud of you, and you’re just a little lump that lays on the floor.”

Something in my heart pricks at me. I don’t think my father ever said he was proud of me, even when I was—what was it? I glance back at the page. A little lump. I smile halfway at that, the way I do when I see a cute puppy on Tumblr.

“December 25, 1983

It’s been a little while since I wrote for you, son. Work has been… insane is the word, really. You’re rolling now, and almost sitting up. Your grandma says you have a round bottom, which makes your mother laugh. I saved another hundred for you, tucked it in the back with the other one. I’m sorry you’re not getting much this Christmas, but we’re doing our best, and as your mom points out, you don’t care much. Not this year, anyway.

January 1, 1984

Happy New Year, Louis!

You’re almost seven months old. Hard to believe. You’re almost ready to sit on your own, and even better—your mom is getting past the baby blues. It’s nice to be getting my wife back again. Don’t feel bad, son, but you’ve been hard for her. I always said I wanted two kids, a boy and a girl, but I think we’re done. I hope you’re okay with being an only child.

If I could convince you to sleep, now, that would be something. There is something nice, though, about cuddling you up in the rocking chair at night. Your mom gets you most of the time—boy, do you eat a lot!—but after you’re done eating around 2am, I take you from her and I rock you. Sometimes I sing. I doubt you’ll remember that about me, because I don’t want to sing where you can hear me when you get old enough to know anything about music, but for now—you seem to like Dad’s rusty old voice. At least, it sometimes gets you to sleep. Who knows? Maybe you’re knocking yourself out so you don’t have to listen anymore. I wouldn’t blame you.”

My phone rings, and I jump haphazardly, searching around for it with one hand while I try to put the book down gently with the other. The page I was reading is barely hanging on, and I don’t want to destroy the thing. “Hello?” “Tim? It’s Grandma.” Part of me knew that—caller ID. But telling Grandma I know it’s her won’t keep her from identifying herself on the phone or signing her texts. “Hi,” I respond, unsure what Grandma wants. “Were you going to come change my lightbulbs today?” Crap. I was. Mom has been haranguing me to help Grandma for a week, guilting me with the idea of a little old lady living alone, in quarantine, in the dark. Stupid COVID—normally, Grandma’s neighbors changed the lightbulbs and did other little upkeep things, but I guess she’s been insisting to Mom that I need to do it now—as if a pizza delivery guy has less germs on him than her work-from-home neighbor. Whatever. “Sorry, Grandma.” I find my keys in my pocket. “I’ll be over in half an hour.” “What, dear?” “I’ll be over in half an hour!” I all but shout into the phone. Then I hang up before she can babble at me and keep me from actually getting in the car. I look at the money on my bed. My room is private, but Greg, my roommate, is nosy. I go to the kitchen and, after hunting around in the pantry for a minute, come up with an almost empty bread bag. I hurry back to my room, eating the heel of the bread, and stuff the money in the bag, then tie it shut. Do I bring it or hide it? I consider for a minute. Where is it less likely to be stolen? Greg doesn’t usually root through my drawers or anything. Finally I throw the bag in my pocket, the book sliding into its now-usual place.

I climb into my car. Grandma’s house is ten minutes away—I have a few yet, but I’m already in the car.

I pull out the notebook. Suddenly, it hits me—the money was still inside. What happened to little Louis? How did the yard sale lady end up with the notebook, and the twenty grand? I check the inside front cover, and there it is: an address. Finch Drive isn’t even that far away. Maybe twenty minutes—I verify with my GPS. Eighteen minutes. I don’t even know what I’m hoping. It’s been, what, almost forty years since Louis was born? I don’t even know what happened to the author. I open the notebook again, this time to the last page with writing.

“February 18, 1999

I’m sorry, son. I’m sorry I’m going to miss so much. Your high school graduation. Your college graduation. Your wedding, your children. I was excited. I was already excited to meet my grandbabies.

And I know you won’t really remember who I was. I mean, we have a lot of great memories together. Lots of catch and burgers. But we’ll never have an adult-to-adult relationship, and I’m really, really sad about that.

In a selfish way, I hope you’re sad too. I hope you miss me. Is that terrible? I always had my dad around, and I can’t imagine life without him. But I guess the best I can do is leave you with some wisdom. Wish I had some.

Be a good person, Louis. You’re a good kid. Take care of your mom. Heck, take care of my mom, if you’re willing. Be smart. Be hardworking. But most of all, be kind.

I love you, kid. -Dad P.S. Cancer is the pits.” I stare at the last few words. “Cancer is the pits.” I can’t do it. I can’t leave Louis hanging. I turn the car on, follow the GPS to Finch Drive. Knock on the door. A lady answers. She’s maybe 60-something. “Are you Marie? I’m sorry—I totally even forgot my mask.” “Yes, I’m Marie.” She’s puzzled, I can see it in the top half of her face, which is the only view I have. Funny, I thought somehow that she would’ve been blonde like my mom. “I found this,” I say, holding out the journal. “It belongs to Louis. Your husband wrote it.” Tears well up in the corners of her eyes as she looks at the book, and one splatters out onto the beat-up cover. One more spot of water damage. “I—how—I don’t—” she says. “And, um,” I’m not sure how to explain, so I pull the bread bag out of my pocket. She looks at it, and her watery eyes go wide. “Is that—” “This was in the pages. It’s for you. Or for Louis. I dunno. Is he okay? Louis?” She nods mutely, her shaking hand moving up to clutch the little black notebook. She doesn’t even look at the money, just stares at the notebook. I realize I never replaced the shoelace; it’s somewhere in my room, I guess. “Louis!” She calls, and a man a decade older than me pops out a second later. His hair is dark and messy, like Harry Potter’s. “You okay, Mom?” He asks. She nods her head, apparently unable to say anything. He squints at me, like he’s trying to decide if I made his mom cry because I’m a threat. “Your dad wrote that for you,” I say, waving a hand at the notebook Marie has now clutched tightly to her chest. “And he left this.” “My—” Louis stops talking as he realizes that the bread bag is full of money. A bread bag full of dough, I realize silently, and I try not to laugh at the stupid pun. “My dad?” “I found the book at a yard sale. With the money inside. I read some of it—sorry.” “It must have been in the stuff I donated,” Marie says with a sniffle. She wipes her eyes with her thumb. “This young man—” She pauses, looking expectantly at me. “Tim,” I supply. “Tim. You brought Dennis home to us,” she says. “Dennis?” I blink a few times before I get it. “My dad,” Louis says, and I nod idiotically. I could’ve figured that out.

“It didn’t even occur to me that the guy had a first name—I’d just thought of him as “Louis’ dad.” I mutter. “He’d have liked that,” Marie says, and her cheeks move under her mask. She’s smiling. “Well, thanks,” I say, and hold the bread bag out again. “Thanks? Thank you,” Louis says. He stares at the bag. “Can I give you some of that? A finder’s fee or something? Goodness knows times are hard for people.” I swallow, and it comes down harder than I mean it to. “Nah,” I say, and I fake a smile. Doing the right thing is hard. “But—” Louis’ eyes find the Pontiac. “I got this,” I say. “I’m alright. Besides, your dad saved all that for you.” Louis nods, takes the bag, and then puts his arm around his mom. “Thank you, Tim. Really. I wish you’d known my dad.” “He loved you,” I say. “Read the book. You’ll see.” Louis’ eyes widen. “I know he did,” he answers. I smile for real at that. Louis was lucky. I nod a few times, feeling awkward, then turn and walk down their porch steps. The door doesn’t close; they watch me walk away. Maybe I’m lucky too, I realize as I get back in the car. I’ve got Mom. I’ve got Grand—

Shoot.

I pick up my phone. I’m fifteen minutes late for lightbulb duty. I hit my recent calls, and, not looking at Marie and Louis, start the car while the phone rings. “Tim? Are you alright?” Grandma’s voice is strained; she’s worried.” “I’m fine. It’s a long story.” “You can tell me about it. Maybe…” she pauses, and I put the car in drive. “Maybe over lunch?” “Sounds great, Grandma,” I say. “I’ll be there in ten.”


CW: Gun violence and language Not many people walk into the saloon at 10 in the morning. On most days, the dusty room is filled with nothing but the stench of ale and echoes of the previous night’s revels. The air lingers with the ghosts of men who have come and gone, chasing greater purpose than an evening of drinking in a hardly notable hamlet. Passersby pause their journeys for a night’s time to add their story to the symphony of lives painted in the air of the town bar, then leave newfound brothers for a tomorrow somewhere else. In this town, nobody stays for long. Then again, not every day is the same. On this particular day, the sun shines as bright as any other. The sand kicks up periodically in lively dances, then settles back down to its place on the street. In the saloon, the barkeep diligently cleans liquor from tables and blood from the ground. So far, the only words he’s had to say this morning are “goodbye” and “safe travels,” while he watches men whose life stories he had heard the night gather their things and prepare for yet another long and arduous journey to weather. His ears are soothed by the peaceful sweeps of the morning breeze as he goes about his daily chores for the something-thousandth time. Each table gets scrubbed diligently, awaiting its next soiling once the sun goes down. The stink of booze is washed away bit by bit by the soapy concoction, and the house of chaos becomes more and more orderly. Apart from the subtle sounds of dust and tumbleweeds, the world is perfectly silent. However, the empty silence of the town is soon interrupted by the sound of clacking hooves far away. The barkeep is hardly a stranger to this sound, and he lets out a small sigh as he abandons his cleaning in preparation for attending to the new visitor. The traveler’s fanfare crescendos over the next minute before the horse finally delivers its rider before the swinging doors of the barkeep’s sanctuary. Once the dust settles, through the doors walks a middle-aged man wearing a worn-out coat and hat. A six-shooter sits on his hip, completing the look of a man who’s most likely had use for it. “Welcome,” the bartender says with a tired voice. “What can I do for you today?” “I’ll take a whiskey.” The stranger’s voice is rough and gritty, most likely from days of riding with little water and sleep. He takes a seat at the bar, obviously occupied with thought. The barkeep has seen many types of people in his time working the saloon. Because of its role as a resting place for travelers, everyone from rich businessmen to penniless laborers have spent a night in this quaint town. Outlaws have been born from deadly duels just outside the welcoming doors, and world-changing ideas have been concocted over a drink at the bar. However, to the barkeep, the man sitting at the bar right now is an enigma. He wears a classic cowboy’s getup, torn and battered from life in the desert. His face is similarly decrepit, covered in scars and sporting an unkempt beard riddled with grime and dust. Hidden beneath the nest of hair under his destroyed hat, two brown eyes stare into nothing. As his drink is placed before him, he doesn’t seem to acknowledge the existence of either the barkeep or the liqueur. He gazes at the wall with an intense focus, yet somehow seems entirely disconnected at the same time. The same face stares back at him under the word “WANTED,” nailed to the wall. Without moving his eyes, he grabs his drink and takes a sip. “Nice town y’all got here. Nice and quiet. I like it,” he says in a low tone. “Ain’t that so. Not much here; it drives some folks crazy. That’s just what I like ‘bout it.” The barkeep’s voice trails off slightly toward the end. The stranger turns to face the barkeep and looks him dead in the eyes.“Do you know what it’s like to kill a man?” The bartender is taken slightly aback by this but doesn’t show it. He gives a halfhearted reply while shining the glasses behind the bar. “Can’t say I do. Heard plenty ‘bout it though. All types of men been ‘round here.” The stranger chuckles slightly at the barkeep’s lack of fear and leans back a little. “Is that so?” The silence that fills the saloon between each word is louder than the busiest night of the year. The barkeep may have been scared if he was 20 years younger, but as the years left him so did his fear. In this part of the country, men die young from all kinds of maladies, and the barkeep knows his time could be around the corner any day. Outlaws don’t scare him. “You’re probably wondering what I’m doin’ here, huh?” The stranger pokes a little at the barkeep. “Sure, if you’re inclined to humor me,” says the barkeep lazily in response. “We ain’t got no banks ‘round here.” The stranger scoffs playfully. “I ain’t ever robbed a bank. Sounds a good time though.” His face betrays a sense of bittersweet irony. The barkeep gives in to curiosity. “Then why’s your face up on that wall?” His body tightens slightly. The stranger looks at him. The seemingly endless silence is broken by the stranger’s slightly frustrated groan. “Bah. ‘Cause I’m a damned fool, that’s why.” He takes his revolver out of his holster and tosses it on the bar to reveal a dozen notches on the grip. The barkeep still doesn’t show a shred of emotion to the outlaw. “Now, that’s something I’ve never seen before. Even for old-timers like us, that doesn’t happen on accident.” The stranger picks up the gun and begins to fiddle with it. “I haven’t used this in 15 years. You know, after you kill enough people, entire towns start to hide from you and eyes follow you everywhere you go.” He glances at the entrance, where a pair of eyes flash away, and the sound of scampering footsteps soon follows. “If I could take it back, maybe I would,” he says nonchalantly while spinning the gun in his hand. The barkeep takes the bait. “Why maybe?” “If I could go back to the first time I pulled this out of its holster, even now I don’t know if I could stop myself. I had my reasons.” He gazes disjointedly at the revolver as it spins. “Long story.” For the first time, the barkeep gives an intentional answer. “Go ahead.” Curiosity fills his mind, but a shred of empathy guides his tongue. The outlaw, strangely enough, seems remarkably genuine and calm. Though age can soften a man, the barkeep can’t shake the feeling that there’s something he doesn’t know. “Some 20-odd years ago, I lived in a small town, not unlike this one, in Texas. I was staying with a friend of mine, who gave me somewhere to live after the measles got my ma and pa. I was hardly a man, and the only thing I owned was this very same revolver. My pa gave it to me just before he died. “My friend dreamed of starting a business, you see, and sellin’ some kind of new medicine he was comin’ up with. I didn’t know much about it, but he trusted me to help him however I could. Day after day we would wait in the saloon for travelers to stop on by, and try to sell them some of his magic whatever-it-was. He was convinced it would kick the smallpox right out a man’s body, but people didn’t exactly believe him.” The stranger starts chuckling at this point, which slowly escalates into a hearty laugh and a coughing fit. “Damn dust. Anyway, where was I? “Ah, the medicine. Well now, these travelers wasn’t exactly privy on buying what he was sellin’. He got into all kinds of fights with people calling him a swindler, and I got some bad beatings myself backin’ him up. It’s a wonder he lasted as long as he did, with his big ideas and all that… “But eventually some guy got mad. Real mad. He was sayin’ stuff like, ‘I’m sick of your goddamn voice. Get out of here ‘fore I put a bullet in your brain.’ We probably should’ve wised up and got out of there. But before I could say anything, words had already turned to fists. We were doin’ a number on him, and he got scared. He pulled out his gun, and the only man in this world I trusted got a fuckin’ bullet put through the back of his skull.” The outlaw’s voice trails off. His posture tightens slightly as he digs deeper into the story, which has captivated the barkeep. “The whole place exploded into chaos, and before the guy could grab my friend’s money and leave, I ran at him and challenged him to a duel. Now, I wasn’t a violent guy. In fact, I was pretty damn spineless. When my parents died, I shrugged and said ‘Oh well.’ When people would spit at me and beat me up for tryin’ to sell stuff, I would get back up and say ‘Oh well.’ But when my best friend’s body hit the floor, I felt a new pain, a type of pain I didn’t even know existed. I wasn’t thinking about saving myself or avenging him. The only thing on my mind was making that son of a bitch feel the same pain I did.” A bitter look covers the stranger’s face. “To be honest, I thought he would just ignore me and book it, but he accepted. We went into the street, and all I can remember after that is the sound of gunshots and the man’s dead body face down in the dust. “Before I even realized I had just killed somebody, I grabbed my horse and got out as fast as possible. I didn’t know where to, I was just tryin’ to get somewhere else. After a few hours, once I could finally hear my thoughts again, I looked around and saw I was out in fuckin’ nowhere. I had no money, no food, and blood on my hands that would never go away.” The stranger seems entirely entranced during this retelling and only pauses to take sips of his whiskey, which the barkeep continually refills. “At first, I planned to stay on the run. Two days without food got me off that idea quick.” The stranger chuckles. “So soon enough, I rode into some town far away from my last home. I figured no one would notice me, and I could slip through and stay low. Guess I underestimated the speed of news ‘round here. Everybody who saw me gave me some kinda look and whispered about somethin’ or other. ‘What, they never heard of a duel before?’ I thought. Seemed like someone got shot every day back then, so why was everybody watchin’ me? “I figured some grub would quiet my thoughts, so I stumbled into the saloon and ordered somethin’. In fact, I was so hungry I was too busy stuffing my face with food to see a man come right up ‘hind me. I might’ve run, but I was done caring by then. I figured he would’ve shot me and that’d be that, but he offered to cover my bill instead. ‘Ain’t you that fella who done shot that villain down in Texas?’ he said. ‘I ain’t shot no villain.’ ‘I’m sure of it. That fuck was runnin’ people out of all their money and stuffing the law’s pockets for years ‘fore you got him. Matter o’ fact, he was a damn good shooter too. How’d you get him?’ ‘I, uh, shot him before he shot me.’ ‘Ah, you’re a funny guy huh? Well, I’ll say this, somebody had to do it. Law’s definitely on your ass but you did a damn good thing.’ ‘Sure.’” The stranger pauses for a second before continuing. “I didn’t think so. After I had eaten and skipped town again, I took a while to think. I had nowhere to go. I couldn’t go back to a normal life, and my face was plastered everywhere from here to Louisiana. So I decided to embrace it. “Like that fella said, somebody had better do it, right? If the law was gonna call me an outlaw, I was gonna be an outlaw. Out there in the desert, I vowed to find the worst men in the West and take ‘em down with me. And it turned out I was good at that dueling thing. Real good.” The stranger analyzed the notches on his gun as if it was the first time he’d seen them. “Year after year, I’d track down crooked men and challenge ‘em. And sure enough, I’d win. After a few years, as you probably know, the law got stronger. I couldn’t keep jumping between towns, so I had no choice but to set up camp in the desert and hunt for food. I wouldn’t see men for a year or more at a time, and I thought a few times about doing to myself what I did to the rest of the killers. But I couldn’t. “After a decade of holding on to nothing, I was close to my wit’s end. Every day I would hunt for scraps of food, then sit for hours and do nothing but watch the sun fade away. One day, I came back from hunting and saw my camp up in flames. Everything I owned was destroyed, and the only thing I could gather was a note left on the ground. It read, ‘No more hiding,’ and it had the seal of a Territorial Ranger. “Now, I had heard ‘bout these guys. They would track down outlaws ruthlessly and kill us like we would do to each other. I got that note a few months ago, and I been seein’ shadows ‘round me ever since. “I’ve got nothing left, you know. If there’s really a god, this is his retribution on me. Serves me right for tryin’ to do his job. Or maybe there is no god, and I’m just gettin’ what comes around. Who knows.” For the first time since the start of his story, the man goes back to staring at his poorly-drawn portrait on the wall and thinking about nothing in particular. The barkeep can’t help but empathize with the man. He has heard of all types of struggle, and he’s seen the burden killing places on a man. For each life taken, shoulders get heavier and hearts get darker. He’s seen the bravest men he’s known crumble under the weight of a few righteous killings, and the man before him has a greater burden than he’s ever seen before. Yet somehow, visible inside this sullen form is a brightly shining ray of hope. Looking at the forlorn face of the burdened man, the barkeep grasps the opportunity to finally do more than listen. “There’s salvation out there for you, I’m sure of it. The only thing you have left to do is find it and embrace it. No more hidin’, right?” Silence fills the air once again. However, this isn’t the same heavy silence. This is something new. Before either man can fully understand what the silence holds, it’s shattered by the sound of an approaching horse. The ominous steps clack slowly, one after the other. Neither man moves or makes a sound. After a perceived eternity, the man at the bar grabs his gun and starts to get up. “He’s here. Maybe I’ll give this salvation thing a try,” he says as he slowly hobbles towards the old creaky doors of the saloon. The barkeep is unable to react, even in the long time it takes the man to reach the blinding rays of the New Mexico sun. What happens next he is unable to see. The harsh wind now blowing through the town conceals the ensuing conversation, and the barkeep is only able to make out one final sentence from an unknown voice. “Then it’s a duel.” In the town where nobody stays for long, two men prepare for a fatal contest. One, a fabled outlaw, readies his trusty revolver for its final shot. The other, a young ranger, examines his never-used weapon and prepares to deliver his first dose of justice. The world watches and waits to see which side will prevail, but the barkeep and outlaw know there’s only one option. “BA-BANG.” Two gunshots ring out in quick succession, and the echoes reverberate for seconds more. Shortly after, a figure wanders through the doors of the saloon. He wears a classic cowboy’s getup, torn and battered from life in the desert. His face is similarly decrepit, covered in scars and an unkempt beard. However, a different pair of eyes lie hidden beneath the nest of hair under the man’s destroyed hat. They are bright and brown and stare into a world no other man will ever see. The man walks slowly up to the bar and lets out one burdensome sentence in a rough, gritty voice. “I forgot to pay my tab.” He falls face first on the bar, with a hole in his chest where his heart used to be.


1. Audrey            In two three four, hold two three four, out two three four. Audrey repeated the mantra to herself as she practiced the breathing exercises. She looked at her reflection in the elevator door. She was ashen, almost anemic looking. The anxiety rolled over her like an old frenemy: heaviness in her chest, the foggy brain, the urge to run and escape. It reared its head in even in the most mundane situations. This however, a stuck elevator, was a good reason to panic.            She had suffered from anxiety since a young age, her first panic attack was at the mall with her mom when she was eight years old. She hadn’t been to a mall since, only shopping at open-air plazas. It controlled every aspect of her life. In college she could only take courses that were on the first floor. Anxiety was probably the reason she was still single too, unable to date like a normal person. She had to sit in the back of every room, near the exit, in restaurants, at parties, etc. She had tried medication and it helped some, but she was still limited. Hold two three four. Most of her days were the same, starting with a certain sorrow gradually moving into a simmering panic by noon. Out two three four… 2. Ethan            Should I say something? She looks like she is panicking. What do I say? She’ll probably think I’m an idiot. Ethan looked at his reflection in the elevator door. His ears stuck out too far from his head. Why did he wear that shirt? It was supposed to be white but was yellowed in the armpits. Leaving him feeling like an inadequate teenager. Or like the abstract painting on the wall behind him, shallow and chaotic.            He felt like a kid playing dress up in his father’s clothes. His mother’s voice, long gone, still echoed in his head, wrapping around him like a vice. His insecurities were hungry.

His parents had divorced when he was young and it was always just his mother and him. Dad got the television, she got him. Which was like planting a perfectly good seed in clay, doomed from the start. His mother’s voice haunted him the most in the quiet moments, like this. It was a wound that would never heal, no natter how much attention he gave it, bandaging it, applying ointment to it.

           He looked at his reflection in the elevator door, but his mother was the only one he saw. B ut he couldn’t blame her, he was all she had. So he kept quiet. 3. Greg            Greg had been working with Ethan for several months. He watched and waited for the signs, a gaze lingering too long, a casual brush of the arm. When Ethan looked at him Greg returned the gaze, soft and unguarded. But that gaze was never matched. He would leave work at the same time as Ethan, in hopes of a conversation being started, but inevitably would fold and watch Ethan drive out of the parking lot in his shiny Audi. He tried to picture a man, or a woman in the passenger seat. He could only picture himself there, though. Ethan's strong arm around him.            Greg leaned in and smelled Ethan's cologne, bathing himself in his boyish aroma, like leather and soap. Then he looked at his reflection in the elevator door. A bead of perspiration formed on his forehead, his shoulders drooped.            What would he say? The last thing he needed was to be ‘outed’ at the office. He wasn’t exactly in the closet, but it wasn't something he went around advertising. Especially not in their male dominated office of fist-bumping and snide remarks about the women employees. He would wait a little longer, continuing to watch for signs, while trying to act strong and nonchalant, but feeling like a tangled ball of yarn. Maybe next time. 4. Beth            What is he looking at ? She thought as she saw Greg glance at her. She was so sick of the male dominated office. She’d been dealing with macho man-children since college. I suppose it’s my fault for picking a male dominated field . So many times she had walked into the kitchenette, the room going quiet, as if they were just talking about her. She‘d feel their eyes burning a hole on her ass as she walked away, the tell-tale snickering.            The department head tested her every time he had a chance. Seeing how far she would let his advances go, a systemic grooming. She was pretty enough to be on a billboard but she played herself down as much as possible, even wearing her thick black-rimmed glasses.            That afternoon she had given a presentation to her colleagues. As she stood in front of them they looked her up and down, leaving her feel violated. After she left the room she heard them laughing like pigs, snorting from their big stupid faces. She yearned for the comfort of her car after being stuck in a testosterone-filled office all day.            When she moved up as vice-president they wouldn't be scoffing. Until then, she just had to put up with it. 5. Roger            Roger was missing happy hour, part of his daily routine. His family thought he worked late most nights, but the truth was he stopped for happy hour at Mickey's on the way home, his wife didn’t approve of him drinking during the week.            He hadn’t had a sober day since he was discharged from the Army, a ‘functioning alcoholic’ is what the therapist called him. If he’s functioning then what’s the problem?            He looked at the clock, like Pavlov’s dogs, he felt the burning sensation in his throat, the alcohol putting out the fire. He looked at his reflection in the elevator door, his cheeks rosy and ruddy. Alcohol had robbed him of his youthful appearance. His hands began to tremble. He raised a shaky finger to push the button again. He felt like a bomb ready to go off. Had he known he would be stuck here he would have taken the flask he kept in his desk for emergencies.            ‘TING’ the elevator sounded, finally opening its doors. Without a word the five strangers scrambled out.


January 2nd, 1996

Throw vodka out.

January 3rd, 1996 For Real This Time January 4th, 1996

I cannot wind up like Gran. Eighty year old woman blacked out floating in her pool at her birthday party ← bad.

Could be fun?

Sounds grim.

January 5th, 1996 This does not mean you will end up blacked out floating in a pool on your eightieth birthday party. BUT a month-long-stay-away from the good stuff will help “ground” you. Or whatever load of shit David used to say before he dumped you for someone with a sensible hair color.

January 6th, 1996

Went out for after-work drinks. Did not drink. Did not die.

January 7th, 1996

Was wrong. Want to die.

January 8th, 1996 Packed myself a tuna fish sandwich for lunch. Smell is much more pleasant when not nauseous in the morning.

January 9th, 1996 Ran into David. Looks too happy. Must get to a salon soon. Didn’t buy gin on the walk home.

January 10th, 1996 Very clear now that not drinking has not stopped me from being wildly annoying at work.

Reminder to self: keep voice down. Also: not everything is funny. Also, also: everything you say isn’t always funny.

January 11th, 1996

Missing David.

January 12th. 1996 Sometimes it feels like everybody is good at the ordinary bits but me. Cannot imagine being good at grocery lists and knowing how to sear a fish. The seafood section of the grocery store gives me stage-fright— Or whatever the equivalent is when you can’t remember why on earth you might prefer tilapia over salmon. Fishfright.

“ Hello, good man. Tell me, what’s hot in ‘fish’ right now?” God I’m a lunatic. Maybe I’ll ring Mum and tell her how good I’ve been doing with the no drinking thing. Maybe I’ll just try bangs again instead?

Buy a comb.

January 13th, 1996

Starting to think the bangs actually suit me. Didn’t do too bad of a job.

GO. TO. SALON.

January 14th, 1996

Was feeling brave and went to Lou’s birthday party. Massive mistake. Ran into David near the profiteroles. Left early.

January 15th, 1996

Starting to think the bangs are an issue.

January 16th, 1996

What’s so great about going drink-free? All this effort for what? So that everything can be sharp at the edges with no breaks?!

January 17th, 1996 Made some soup. Was shit because I didn’t have any bouillon.

January 18th, 1996 Maybe Gran had it right.

January 22nd, 1996 Missed a couple of days. Caved. Made a whisky sour on the 19th. Made four more. Called David. He told me not to call him anymore.

I think he misses me.

Woke up with something crusting in my hair. Really, truly must go to the salon.

January 23rd, 1996

Double caved. Rang mum. Drunk rang mum. Finally told her David left. She said the dreaded words, “Well isn’t this just like you, Piper. He was a good one.” IknowIknowIknowIknowIknowIknowIknowIknowIknowIknow !!!! January 24th, 1996

Finally tossed the whiskey down the drain. Wish I could throw myself down the garbage disposal with it. Wouldn’t be a bad way to go really. Maybe they’ll let me do a story at the paper about the dark underbelly of the u-bend.

January 25th, 1996 Got bouillon.

January 26th, 1996

I started all this because of Gran’s big eightieth. Because I thought it was cool at first. Funny. Classic Leo she is. I was proud I saw a bit of myself in her lanky floating body— Just without the muumuus. But the thing is. If you catch her before noon she’s viciously sad even though I think all she’s ever wanted was to laugh everything off. But even when she laughs I can see how Puppa was unkind to her growing up. In the pool she looked shockingly little. Maybe it was the years she wasted making cabbage soup, cottage cheese on tomato– obsessing over that ridiculous book Dine Out and Lose Weight: The French Way to Culinary Savoir Vivre. I’ve told Gran she’s already a smoker, what's with the extra reading? Mitterrand should have her on his payroll. Dad had to actually go in the pool and drag her out. He doesn’t drink when we’re visiting Gran. He doesn’t come out and say it but I think we’ve all sort of noticed. David was always saying that it seems like Dad doesn’t trust her to be left alone.

Guess he was right about that, left to her own devices she might’ve hit her head or let her fab silver crop sink a little too low and start breathing in water by mistake. I saw Dad standing there on the lawn while everybody else laughed. I was laughing. But he looked like The Parent. That’s what I thought. I couldn’t take my eyes off that little crease in between his eyebrows, well worn like one of the archeology digs he did before he herniated a disk in ‘82.

How have I managed to fuck things up with a dad like that? ‘Cmon party girl.” Is what he said. Wading into the water in his trousers and loafers, not caring that his favorite watch got wet.

David and I got into a fight on the car ride home. He told me that’s where I was headed. I told him he was doing a seriously good Anthony Hopkins impression. He gave me an ultimatum. I told him to go fuck himself. By the time I called him up saying I could cut out the drinking for a bit— and show him, really show him that I’ve got things perfectly under control— he had already started going with whatshername. As horrid as I am I always thought I’d be tough to replace.

That was Summer and I was probably drunk until Christmas. I couldn’t get Gran’s floating little body out of my head. I’d think of her while lying awake at night. Instead of counting sheep I’d count little old ladies who have too much fun for their own good. But you know, new year, new me and all that. Tricky part is— all I want is a drink.

January 27th, 1996 ¼ cup of olive oil

1 onion 2 shallots ( shellfish?)  kind of onion!! 4 cloves of garlic

2 carrots

2 celery stalks 3 cans of cannellini beans drained and rinsed (surely that’s too many beans)

2 bay leaves (?? ring mum)

1 teaspoon Italian seasoning.

½ teaspoon red pepper flakes 5-6 cups vegetable broth

½ teaspoon sea salt

½ teaspoon black pepper 3 cups of spinach

January 28th, 1996

Had Mum ‘round for soup. She said that it was pretty good even if the beans had gone a bit soft. Told her nobody wants a hard bean.

She apologized for what she’d said on the phone. The bit about me making a mess of things with David and “how that’s just my nature.” Told her that I’m trying to quit drinking. Don’t know why I said that.

January 29th, 1996

I stopped by the cafe. Can’t believe I ever thought that was a good idea. This is why people shouldn’t ditch their girlfriends when they start dating someone because girlfriends are the people who stop you from doing this kind of shit. I tried to act surprised when I saw him even though he works there every Friday morning because he bakes their pies back of house and even though he’s supposed to only bake pies they’re always cajoling him to work counter when it gets busy and they don’t have weekend staff.

I tried to look sort of effortlessly sophisticated— sort of grown up. But I think I wound up looking too much like Lorraine Kelly.

When I got to the front of the cue I didn’t even know what to say. Said I was sorry. That I’ve been thinking a lot about how I couldn’t have always been easy to be with sometimes. I told him I’m thinking about quitting drinking. Don’t know why I keep telling people that.

January 30th, 1996 I’m actually feeling sort of nice? Watch out London! Went on a little walk even and bought a ticket for a cheeky Shakespeare show. Like I’m an intellectual or something! Thinking about pitching a new column at the paper about reviews of local entertainment. Lorraine Kelly eat your heart out.

Addendum: David came by very late. He almost had my pants off when I realized it was just a terrible fucking idea. Told him to go home to Marzia. Going to sleep wondering if we really ever loved each other.

January 31st, 1996

No calls from David. Went to the Salon (thankeffingod ) and think I’ll stick with the pink for a while? It sort of suits me at the end of the day. Got the fringe straightened out which looks fab. Took the long way home by the water and it started to snow. Very pretty, that stuff.

It’s nice to feel cold again, I used to think I ran warm. That feels untrue now which makes me feel sort of strange and embarrassed. Especially when there’s something about Winter that reminds you you’re alive. Something about faces and fingers cooling and reheating and noses going pink. Maybe I quite like the new year— like I might not make a mess of things this time. Like it’s not my nature at all. Just timing.

At some point on the walk home I heard a group of people singing loudly at a local pub and it sort of broke my heart to not be a part of it. But the noise floated off the Thames and it made me feel less alone all the same.

Terrible singers. Not a Celine Dion in the bunch of them.


"God why is this so difficult?" I asked myself aloud. A shush came from the nearby librarian and I instinctively rolled my eyes at her. I scanned the bookshelves not knowing what I was looking at and sighed quietly.

I don't need to be getting kicked outta the library now, not when my assignment's literally due tomorrow. I don't even know what I'm fucking looking at.  I bit my lip ring as I tried reading the book titles on the spines trying to look for one to catch my eyes. Have books always looked this boring? I saw a book that had the title "Just Peachy" with the letters going horizontal, making it easier for me to read. Alright that one. I went to reach the book and just as my hands landed on them, a smaller,

petite hand covered mine. I looked to the right of me seeing a very flustered brunette. She immediately retracted her hand, holding it with her other one as I looked at her. Her green eyes expressing a feeling of worry and probably embarrassment. Cliché. "Um I s-sorry," she whispered to me. "Nah you're good," I replied, sliding the book off the shelf and holding it in my hand. I turned the book so I could see the cover, seeing an illustrated drawing of a man and woman looking at each other with a peach faded behind them. "Uhm..t-that's a good book," the girl stuttered. I looked at her again, seeing her playing with her fingers. I noticed she had dark red nail polish on, burgundy. "You read it before?" I asked in a quiet voice. "Mhm, if you uhm haven't read it it's a great first read," She seems really shy. "I don't really read much, I have to get one for an assignment I have due tomorrow," "Oh really? Ah, I see," she said sadly. Seeing her frown made my chest feel heavy with guilt. "Could you tell me what it's about actually? I wanna see if it's worth my time." I said. Her eyes looked up to meet mine and beamed as she replied, "Yes," Footsteps were quick to approach the girl and I and when I turned around I saw the stingy librarian. "You must be quiet, this is a library," she said sternly. "Oh I'm sorry Jessica, I just got a little excited," the girl said apologetically. "That's alright Violet," she said to the girl. "You, on the other hand, need to quit with the attitude and follow the rules here," she said, turning to me. "Yes ma'am," I replied. She glared at me before turning on her heel and walking back to the front desk. "If you'd like to, there's a downstairs area we can go to. It's usually for people to do their homework or need to talk on some level of normalcy,” Violet asked quietly. "Sounds good," I whispered to her. She started walking towards this "downstairs area" and I followed close behind her. Once we got to the stairs and started walking down, I had a moment of realization. Wait what the fuck am I doing? I just came here to grab a book and leave but here I am with some chick going to talk about a fucking book. "Hey you coming?" Violet asked, pulling her red plaid skirt down just a bit. "Yeah, sorry," I replied, snapping out of my thoughts and continuing to walk down the stairs. I didn't really know why but it was like a trance. This chick just drew me in and I can't get back out but if I'm being completely honest, I don't know if I want to. "Okay, we're here. This room is open," Violet said, pointing towards a room with an open door just down the hall. She started walking towards it and I followed suit. "So since you uhm know my name now thanks to Jessica, what's yours?" She asked. I scratched my head with my right hand as I clenched onto the book with the other. "Evan," I replied. "Oh nice, what school do you go to? The one in Newberry?" she asked, walking into the room. "No uh the one on the west side," "Oh is it that really small one I've been hearing about? I forget the name," she asked, tucking her white shirt into her skirt. She has a nice figure, even though her hands are pretty dainty, the rest of her body was a little more fuller. "Hmm?" She asked. "Oh yeah my school's the smallest one, Fox Niche," I said quickly looking away from her. Fuck I hope she didn't catch me staring. "Yeah that's the one. My parents were thinking about switching me there because it's closer to the house." "I think you'd like it, the school's small so you don't have to deal with a lot of people every day but our library is kinda small due to lack of funding." "You think I'll like it? Sir we just met," she laughed. I raised my eyebrow at her, noticing her sudden change in demeanor. "Yeah and you seemed a lot more shy before." She looked confused at what I said before she let out a breathy laugh. "Yeah I did didn't I?" she asked, more like to herself rather than to me. "Well I am known to be the life of the party so maybe you just fell to my "shell-less" spell," I said sarcastically. "Shell-less?" "Yeah, you know people are all like "Oh you gotta get outta your shell" and all that?" "Oh okay I gotchu," she replied. We stood in our places for what felt like much longer than it probably was, just shuffling our feet and looking at the stuff in the room. "So do you wanna sit at a table or the couch?" she asked suddenly. "Couch is fine," I replied quickly. We both walked over to the light gray couch and sat down just a few inches away from each other. "So tell me, is this book "Just Peachy?" I asked, raising my eyebrow again. She giggled, moving a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Well to me it is, it's a comedy romance story though so I don't know if that's really your genre." If it means you keep talking to me, it's my genre. "Like I said, I don't really read much so technically any genre is my genre," I replied. "Okay then, well it's a story about a girl and a boy that used to date in high school but one day they get into a pretty big argument and break up because of it. Both of them miss each other but don't want to admit it because they're both so stubborn which is also part of the reason why they broke up in the first place. Some years later, the girl finds herself moving into an apartment to try and get a fresh start and finds out that the guy

lives in the same apartment. At first they try to avoid each other as much as they can but soon they end up bumping into one another more and more and slowly make their way towards talking base and then liking base. It's really cute each of them try to make the other jealous by getting with other people which in retrospect is both good and bad because it means they still like each other but it's bad for the other people involved cause then they're basically being used. But anyways one night she ends up drinking too much and going to his apartment and then they do the deed if you know what I mean. Then when she wakes up she sneaks out and basically doesn't leave her apartment for the next week. Everyday he comes to her apartment to try and talk to her but she wont let him in, until he apologizes. He apologizes for being so stubborn when he was younger and letting his feelings get in the way of their relationship and not being mature about the situation. He explains that he moved right after he turned 18 to try and get away from everything and that when she moved in it was like both terrible and great at the same time and he didn't know what to do so that's why he avoided her even though everything in his body was telling him to go to her and awe it's just so cute I can't," she rambled. "Alright yeah that's a lot to process. At this point I feel like I don't even need to read it anymore," "What? But we haven't even gotten to the part where they find out their parents are gonna marry each other." "They what?!" I asked in surprise. Violet started laughing a lot, wheezing a little while doing it. "Oh my gosh, okay yeah you're shitting me," I said in relief. "Yeah but your face was priceless, I love doing that to people when they ask what I'm reading," she said, coming down from her laughter. "Yeah whatever," I said, waving her off and chuckling to myself. "Awe man never gets old," she said, resting her back on the couch. I looked at her and saw she looked a bit young, maybe around my age. "How old are you?" She hummed, "How old do you think I am?" "My age." "Which would be?" "17," "Oh yeah, pretty close, 16 actually." "So are you in 10th grade?" "Yep. "Are you good in school?" "Depends on what you deem as good," I don't know how long we were talking for but soon enough our conversation about the book quickly died down and questions about each other began to arise. At Least long enough till the library was about to close. We walked out of the library together after a staff member told us and checked the book out. "Wow I've never talked to someone as long as that before," she said once we got outside.

"Same," I replied, feeling dazed. She looked at the cars driving past us as I walked up to her. "So did you drive?" "Yeah, my car’s right there," she said, pointing to a car in the darkness. Even with the street lights it was still hard to see. "Cool, I walk home so uhm I guess this is goodbye?" I asked sadly. "Well it doesn't have to be," she stated. I don't think she could see anyways but I covered the smile that was forming on my face. "I don't have my phone on me though, it's in my car," she said. I dug through my pockets and pulled out a pen. I quickly grabbed her arm making her let out a small gasp when doing so and started writing down my phone number on her arm. "There, you got mine then." She looked down at her arm and started giggling. "You do realize that I could've just gone in my car quick and got my phone right?" she asked through her giggles. I realized what I had just done and scratched the back of my head awkwardly trying to think of an excuse. "Uh well you know I gotta get going like now, my mom's worried sick about me so yeah that's why- I…yeah you get the point," I said quickly. She smiled and sighed. "Alright, I'll believe it for the sake of your dignity," she replied. "Gee thanks." We stood there in silence for a few minutes. I just wanted to linger for that little longer. "What happened to needing to get home right away?" she asked in a questioning tone. "Yeah well… yeah I need to- I should go- uhm yeah uh y-you're gonna text me right?" I stammered. "Yes I will, you'll just have to wait," she replied with a sly smile on her lips. She started walking away towards her car giving me a wave before getting into it and driving off into the busy night life. I stood there just feeling the bit of presence she left behind and looked at the book. I'll just have to wait? Just peachy.


               								Lucine  “Stop fidgeting or you’ll wind up with this needle in your back.” “Is our young lady a little nervous?” “You stop teasing, Poppa.” “There, now let’s have a look at you.”     Kristine stepped to the portal, leaned against the jamb, and posed. “Tell me again, where’d you meet this boy?” “The Saturday night dance about a month ago.” “Seen him since?” “Again at the dance and at a basketball game.” “And now he’s asked you out?” “Yes, to see Spellbound at the Lincoln.” “The Lincoln?” “Yes, Poppa.” “What’s his name?” Kristine pretended not to hear her mother. “Kristine? What’s his name?”     “Sevi.” “What kind of name is that?” “It’s short for Sevda.” “That’s a Turkish name!” “So?” “Is he a Turk?” “He’s American.” “Where are his parents from?” “His father’s from Turkey; his mother passed away five years ago.” “Kristine? A Turk? Those barbarians killed your father and brother.” “Sevi’s not a barbarian. He’s gentle, and he treats me like a lady.” “We crossed an ocean to get away from the Turk, settled in the Dardanelles among Armenians and Syrians and even Italians, and the first boy you bring home is a Turk. Didn’t you think I might be a little upset?” “I knew you would. If it was up to me, I would’ve told you I was going to the movies with friends. Sevi insisted he meet you and Poppa.”  “But he’s a Turk.” “Lucine, he chose to meet the family. He’s taking her to the Lincoln, and not the City Theater. Give him a chance. What’ve you got to lose?”

All three turned to look to the portal leading into the hall which led to the front door upon hearing the knock. Kristine turned to her mother and made one last appeal. “Fix your hair. Your father’ll show him in.” Kristine and Sarkis departed, the former to her bedroom; the latter to welcome their visitor.

Sevi entered the kitchen carrying a single rose in tissue paper. Trailing were Kristine and Sarkis.

“Momma, this is Sevi. Sevi, Momma. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Yaldizian. This is for you.”     Sevi handed his rose to Lucine; Sarkis noticed a trace of a smile on Lucine.

“Have a seat, Sevi.” “Yes, please sit down, and tell us about your family.” “No, we don’t have time, Momma. We want to catch the first show, so I can be home early. Okay, Poppa?”

“You look after our Kristine, young man.” “Yes, sir! I’ll have her home before eleven.” “Go!” They left; Sarkis rejoined his wife. “Let’s have coffee and cake.”

Lucine fetched the coffee from the stove and cheese cake from the fridge. Sarkis tried again. “This cheese cake’s from the Swiss Bakery?” “Yes.” “And you love it?” “Yes.” “And last night we had Italian pizza and enjoyed that?” “Swiss and Italian are not Turkish.” “You can’t fool me, Kristine.” “What are you talking about?” “You may be able to hide it from yourself, but you can’t hide it from me. You’re softening. What did it, the rose?” “But will I stay soft? Already, I’m thinking this man’s father may have taken my husband and son from me and killed them. When I heard he was Turkish, the image which came to mind was those soldiers arresting my husband and demanding I  undress the babies to see if either was male. Am I destined to revisit that scene every time I see that boy?” “What is the probability his kin destroyed yours? Even if they did, should the sins of the father be visited upon the son? What does your faith teach you: to forgive your enemies, no?” “You should talk about forgiving your enemies. He does seem like a nice boy, though?”  “And he’s taking her to the Lincoln, not the City.” Sarkis read the paper. Lucine husked an ear of corn. Kristine stood at the screen door listening to the surf, breathing in the salt scented air.

“Thank you, Poppa.” “For what?” “For this week down the shore. It’s the best graduation present you could’ve given me.” “I worked too, you know, to be here.”     Kristine gave her mother a hug and stepped back. “Thank you, Momma.”     “When’s Sevi coming?” “He said he’d leave after he helped his father put the baskets of fruit and vegetables outside the store. He should be here soon.”     Kristine turned back to the screen door, but instead of looking to the ocean, bowed her head and drew her mother’s attention. “Kristine. He’ll be here soon.” “Love is impatient you know.” “Momma, Poppa, I’ve something serious to tell you.” Sarkis set his newspaper down; Lucine, her ear of corn. “You two had a quarrel?” “No! We’ll never quarrel. Poppa, Sevi has something to ask you.” “What could be so important you have to pave the way?” “He intends to ask for my hand in marriage.”  “It’s out of the question. You’re both too young.” “He’s going to ask Poppa, not you, Momma.”

“Kristine, I’m only your stepfather. What your mother decides is what Sevi will hear.” Lucine advanced to stand a few inches before her daughter. “The answer is no. You’re both too young, and it’s too soon. You’ve known him only six months.” “Sevi’s earning a decent salary working for the Mahmarians. In September, he begins night classes towards a business degree. I start next week in the embroidery shop. We’ll do fine. And you like him. We know you like him.” “I do like him. God knows, I never thought I could like a Turk again. He does touch me. But, still, it’s too soon. I want to know him better. We need to know his family better.” “You’ve been to their store. You’ve met his father.” “Yes, for ten minutes, to buy pomegranates. I said less than ten words to the man. No, you need to wait.” “We can’t wait.”

Lucine almost collapsed into the chair. “What have you done?”     Kristine looked guiltily at Sarkis and spoke barely above a whisper. “I’m two months pregnant.”     “Kristine!” responded Sarkis, shocked.  “You ought to be ashamed. Didn’t I teach you virginity is for your husband?” “I’m not ashamed. I gave it willingly, to my husband. Sevi loves me more than any man ever could, and I love him.

“He’s nothing but a barbarian.” “No, he’s kind, gentle; it was beautiful, and I’m not ashamed. I wish we could’ve waited, but love is impatient.” “Oh, Kristine.” “I’m sorry to disappoint you, truly sorry, but I’m not ashamed.” “Only two months?” “Yes.” “If it’s only two months.” “I’m having this child, Momma.”

    All three looked to the screen door when they heard a car pull up. Kristine hurried to finish. “We want to marry as soon as possible to save you any shame.”  “Sevi must not ask your father until this evening. We need to talk about it. Not until this evening, you hear?” “Yes.” Sevi knocked on the screen door, and Kristine opened it and welcomed him. He held in one hand a gym bag; in the other, a white cake box. He could sense the chill in the air. He stepped to the opposite side of the table to greet Sarkis, who neither stood nor offered his hand, but tried to bridge the gap. “Sevi, I know you wish to ask me something important. It must wait until this evening.”     The young man looked to Kristine, who managed to nod. “Yes, Mr. Yaldizian.“ He turned to Mrs. Yaldizian. “The cake’s from the Swiss Bakery; your favorite, a crumb cheese cake.” “Thank you. I think you and Kristine ought to go to the beach now. Mr. Yaldizian and I have to talk.” Sevi followed Kristine out of the room.

“What do you think, Sarkis?” “They think they’re Romeo and Juliet.” “You mean Adam and Eve playing at love.” “I don’t think they’re playing.” “They’re like mirrors reflecting each other’s love.” “Is not all love like that?” “Not all love.” Kristine re-entered the living room and for a moment exchanged stares with her mother.

“Kristine, put the coffee on.” Kristine left and quickly returned to set the table and cut the cake. “It’s not a bribe, Momma. Sevi truly likes you and wishes to please you. And Poppa, he has much respect for you.” “If Sevi respected me, you wouldn’t need to get married.” For the first time, Kristine displayed a sign of guilt, but was rescued by Sevi, who strode into the room in a swim suit, carrying a towel.

“Sevi, there’s a law in town prohibiting men from walking bare-chested in town. It could cost you three dollars.”  “Thanks, Mr. Yaldizian, I need to save all the money I can now.”     Sevi turned to smile at Kristine before leaving to get his t-shirt. Lucine stood visibly shocked, swooned, and almost feinted before grabbing hold of the table to support her.

“Momma, don’t worry. It’ll be alright.” Lucine sat down and looked up as though awaking from a nightmare. “What? No, I’m alright. It’s your news; it takes a little getting used to.” Sevi returned in t-shirt and swimsuit. “All set!” “I don’t know; Momma doesn’t feel good.” “No, I’ll be alright. You two go ahead.” “I’ll look after your mother.” “Okay, Poppa. I’ll be just a minute.” Kristine left to change and all was silent for a moment before Lucine spoke. “Sevi, I couldn’t help but notice the tattoo on your right shoulder.” “Oh? You mean my birthmark.”

“I thought it was a tattoo because it seemed shaped like.” “Like a butterfly? My mother said it was God’s mark of my transformation. I asked her what transformation; she answered God only knows?” Kristine returned dressed in swim suit covered by a knee high robe. “We’ll be back about five, then, okay?” “What? Oh, yes. You enjoy the beach.” Sarkis, less concerned with his stepdaughter’s indiscretion and more with his wife’s well being, questioned Lucine. “You alright?” “My unmarried daughter is pregnant, in danger of going to hell. She wishes to marry a Turk, and you ask if I’m okay?”

“Lucine, don’t take it out on me.” “I’m sorry, honey. Just give me a little time.” “You want to talk?” “I need to think. Then we’ll talk.” They sat in silence while Sarkis ate his slice of the crumb cheese cake and sipped his coffee. Lucine looked at the cake, picked up her piece, put it back down, turned, and looked toward the screen door. Sarkis tried once again to find solace. “It could be worse. He could’ve not wanted to marry her.” “Yes, it could be much worse.” “You know if we don’t give them our blessing, they’ll get married anyway?” “I know.” “So, doesn’t it make more sense to bless the marriage and keep them near than to not bless it and drive them away?” She turned again and looked to the screen door.  She seemed to be contemplating something other than the question Sarkis had just posed.

“I’m going to walk down to the bay. You want to come?” “No, Sarkis! I need to think about what you’ve just said. Sarkis took up the newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and left. Seconds later, Lucine dropped from the chair to her knees, lifted her hands clasped together against her breast, looked to the ceiling, and released the pent up emotion.  “Thank God! My son alive! Ari, alive! Right here in my house!” No two boys could’ve had the same birthmark in the same place. Ari had been given to a family to be raised as a Turk.  She had had to check her impulse to rain kisses all over him. “Because Ari lives, I thank God. But I also curse God. Yes, I curse you for a gift tainted with defilement. How could you have done this to me, to them?” Should she tell them you cannot marry because you’re brother and sister; because you’ve committed incest? Would they believe her? Her daughter had little joy in life; should she take away the sweetest she’s known? And should she condemn her son with forbidden knowledge? Would they respect her for deliverance or hate her?

But if she said nothing, they’d continue to live in sin. But is it a sin? They don’t know what they’re doing. They’re so innocent and so much in love. What if she told them and they refused to part? Then they’d lose their innocence and be damned. What if she told them, and they gave the child up and separated? Then, she’d be taking away their love; neither would ever find another like it. And if she did that, she knew they’d both hate her forever. But if she didn’t tell them, and they continued to love and have children, could she bear witness to what she knew was profane? What then would happen to her soul?

She needed to talk with someone, but whom? Sarkis?

It wouldn’t be fair.  No! She’d work it out alone.  She looked toward the ceiling. “Yes, alone, because you, damn you, are silent again.”     Late that evening all four sat at table, having completed the evening meal. Sevi could no longer be constrained. “Mr. Yaldizian, I have something I wish to ask you.”     Sarkis looked to Lucine, who nodded permission. “What is it, Sevi?” “I ask for Kristine’s hand in marriage. I love her very much. I apologize for things as they are, but there are so because we love each other. I’ll take good care of her and our family. We wish to marry quickly to spare you humiliation. We want very much to have your blessing. But I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t add, whether or not you give your blessing, we will be married.” “Is there anything else?” “Only to repeat I will love Kristine all my life and take care of her and ours.” “Kristine is my step-daughter; therefore, my decision is to do whatever Mrs. Yaldizian says. Lucine?”  “Your father has been in favor of giving you our blessing from the beginning. I’ve hesitated.  But now I too give you my blessing.” Kristine began to walk toward her mother before the latter stopped her by raising her hand. “But there is a condition.” “What condition?” “Sevi, you’ve become dear to us. But a cloud hangs over us; I’m afraid it will hang over your marriage. It’s impossible for me to divorce myself from the past, to pretend you’re other than what you are. I can’t look at you and see just a fine young man who loves my daughter. I cannot help it; for me, you’ll always walk in the shadow of the past. So, I’ll bless your marriage on the condition you make and fulfill a promise.” “Anything, Mrs. Yaldizian.”  “You must promise, once you and Kristine wed, to take her and live away from Union City.” “Momma!” “Lucine, what’s come over you?” “But, Momma!” “Honey, I love you. It’s because I love you both I make this condition. I wouldn’t want anything to destroy that love, and I’m afraid, for me, the shadow of the past might do just that. Do you promise, Sevi?”     Sevi looked once more to Kristine, but she was not able to help him. “I promise.”     Kristine walked out of the room. “Lucine!  Do you realize what you’re doing, what you’re asking the children to do?” “It’s not something I want to do; it’s something I have to do.” “Sevi, do you have any idea where you’ll go, what you’ll do?” “Yes. My cousin wanted me to come with him to California, where he’s going to open a rug business.” “So far?” Lucine looked up at Sevi startled. “I know it’s far, but he said it’d be a great opportunity. Kristine and I dismissed the idea because we didn’t think the move would make you or Mrs. Yaldizian happy. Now, I’ll accept his offer.” “That sounds like a good idea, a good future.”     Kristine returned holding her small suitcase. Her mother was having trouble keeping up with the quick turn of events.” “Where you going? “I’m leaving with Sevi. We’ll drive home, I’ll pack my things; we’ll get married in Maryland. We’ll tell everyone we were married when I graduated high school. Our child will be born on time. And his grandmother will live free of the shadow of the past.”     Kristine started toward the screen door; Sevi followed behind. Sarkis stopped them. “Kristine, your mother loves you.” Kristine ran to her mother. They embraced. Sevi followed, and Lucine embraced him before reluctantly letting go.  Kristine turned to Sarkis and hugged him. Sevi followed and extended his hand toward Sarkis to shake his hand, but the latter brushed it aside and enfolded him in his arms. “Do not try to understand. Just believe we love you both.” “Yes, sir.” “You must write at least once a week and let us know how you, and the family, are. Do you promise?” “Yes.” “Now, you two go with our blessing and our love.”     Kristine and Sevi left the cottage. Lucine, after a few seconds, rushed to the screen door and looked out at Sevi’s car moving away from the ocean toward the long road that would carry them to California. She began to weep. Sarkis moved behind her and cradle her in his arms. “You know, when I was a small boy in Marash, I once came upon a beautiful butterfly in the wood. Its wings were a fiery pattern of reds, oranges, and yellows reflecting the blaze of the mid-day sun. I felt it to be an incarnation of God. It was perched upon the branch of a cedar for only a few seconds. It fluttered its wings and flew away, and I never saw it again. But it’s been with me all these years.” Lucine turned and rested her head upon Sarkis’s chest.


“Did you find anything yet? I want something weird, something no one’s watching, you know?” “Yeah, I get it. I’m trying. Look, I’m on page thirty-two of the search, ok? First ten pages were all the same shit.” “Oooh, what about that one.” “Uhh, let’s see. Monster Boss. Some kind of show. What do the comments say? ‘Its like if The Office happened in hell.’ ‘Omg wtf is this?’ ‘Low budget arthouse crap.’ ‘I don’t get it. Is it supposed to be a joke?’ ‘How are there three seasons of this?’ ‘The monster is kinda hot, ngl.’ ‘Something about this sets off red flags, its too amateur to look that real.’ Huh, I don’t know, not a lot there to go on. I’m down if you are.” “Sounds terrible. Start it up.” ….. Happy sounding music starts playing. A shakey camera darts between a rows of trashed office equipment in what looks like a cave. Nervous people in torn suits scribble at crumpled paper on broken desks, one of them is typing away at a computer with a cracked black screen, mumbling something to himself. A hard cut to scenes from the show, people laughing and crying, some of them bleeding, most of them keep shooting wide eyed looks off screen. It flashes to a long table as the music gets happier. People sitting in broken office chairs, trembling smiles, the shaking camera looks at every face and then trails the length of the table and swings up to something wrong. ‘Monster Boss’ appears in block letters, with a happy chime above the wrongness. The camera shakes closer to what is obviously the Monster Boss. Someone whispers “help us.” The music cuts out and the camera stays on the Monster Boss for far too long. It’s all wrong. The thing is tall and stands on two legs with too many joints. Its skin glistens, like a frogs, but the muscles beneath it look strong. It must be ten feet tall. It’s wearing a suit. The ripped fabric of it is stained with dark watery marks. The suit is far too small, so it looks like it’s wearing kid’s clothes, the pants end halfway down its legs and the sleeves are stripped and fluttering, snagged on thorny protrusions that blotch its arms like a rash. The back of the suit is torn nearly in half, making room for what looks like a massive hunchback, except that it wiggles. Not a hunchback, a mass of tentacles. It’s like a huge anemone growing from its back, the semitranslucent appendages slimy and long, caked in bubbly mud where they drag on the cave floor. It has two arms, equally over jointed, that end in hands with six fingers. Fingers which are just too long, each tipped with jagged claws that seem to pop in and out like a cats. Its face is indescribable. Only features make any sense. A beak, teeth, the head changes shape constantly, it has a wig stuck to its head, dark matted hair smeared in grime with what might be a mushroom growing out of it. It’s looking right at the camera. Something that should be eyes stare into the screen. Stare through the screen? Or is it looking at the camera man? The frame is shaking violently now. Hard cut. A woman appears, sitting behind a desk. A cut runs down her cheek, rumpled and oozing, she smiles into the camera and the words ‘Human Resources’ appear under her. She’s shuddering as she speaks, her eyes never stay still. “I love it here, at work. It’s where I do all my work. It’s good work, because, I have a good boss,” she laughs then, a sound that is high-pitched and crackles at the edges. “Why did I choose to work here,” she asks, clearly repeating a question. Her smile is so wide and tight that a part of the cut pops open and red and greenish white strarts dribbling down her cheek. “Oh, you know. Same reason as everyone here. Met the boss while I was out at a club. We started talking in an alley, when I was getting some air, and… well, woke up and I was here. It’s a literal dream job.” She looks around, the clicking of a keyboard tip taps out something that sounds like the chorus to ‘I need a hero’. “That’s too obvious, Frank, it’ll know,” she whispers at someone behind her. “You think it knows music,” a man’s voice, quiet and jumpy. Hard Cut.  The woman is sitting very still, everything about her face is tight and carefull, except for the tears. Typing sounds come in like a kid hitting a piano, erratic, clumsy, barely covering the sound of whimpering behind her. “Oh, the boss? He’s the best. No, no I don’t think I’m his favorite. I don’t think there is one, really. It’s more like we’re a team, you know. Leadership? Oh, ok, sure. I mean he seems to like Doug; I think he’s trying to teach him the ropes, get him ready for management you know. And then there’s Tina, not really sure what’s going on there. She’s just, so lucky, to get all that attention.” Something cracks in the background and there’s a muffled scream. Hard cut. The cameras focused on knees, the picture looks upside down, the knees are rocking, and tangled hair keeps slipping into the frame, someone is whispering "nonononononononono". Hard cut. A yellowed, filthy base is dripping rusty ooz and holding up an upside-down water jug made plastic, cracked, and empty. Two young men with empty cups stand around it with Monster Boss looming over them. The word ‘Intern’ appears below both of them. One of them is laughing, the sound seems nervous, almost questioning. The other man smiles and stares at his cup, his eyes painfully wide and unblinking. The laughing one keeps shooting glances at Monster Boss, the towering figure is statue-still and unreadable. Then Monster Boss looks like it bends its head back and its mouths go wild, several going at one and overlapping, “kaa kaa kaa/hosh hosh hosh/ reeegrsh” the laughing intern’s voice stumbles and the one staring at his cup tries to smile harder. Then the boss grabs the not laughing interns’ arm and pulls so hard the man barely flinches. He doesn’t look at the mangled stump, he giggles and blacks out, falling off screen. The other intern is hysterical now, pointedly trying not to look at anything as he becomes more and more manic. Monster Boss is still again, only moving when it slurps at the end of the arm in its hands, like it is a glass of water. Hard cut. “You know what it’s doing, right,” a middle-aged woman ask’s, her filthy dress somehow tight and tidy and her greasy hair tied back into something closer to rope than a braid. She’s in a dark corner, her arm is twitching uncontrollably and she’s holding it to herself with her other hand. “It’s fucking playing house with us.” The words ‘Tina’ and ‘Secretary’ appear under her, somehow skewed and off center. “It’s acting it all out.” She bites her lip. “No, no. It’s smart. It’s too fucking smart. Right. It looks at us like we look at pigs. You know. Fun to play with but tasty too.” Her whole-body shakes, she listens to something off screen. “Like me,” she laughs, and the sound is hard and grating. “Fucking great, are we really doing this shit? Are we even sure that this is what it wants? Does it even matter what we do?” A bundle of translucent tentacles floated into the shot, slowly, almost teasingly, and brushed against her face. They turn the skin pink where they slide. Another twist of tentacles appears at her shoulder, twisting up, snaking around her neck. Monster Boss’s face slides into view then, head height, inching straight at the side of her head. Before it gets to her ear, one of its mouths explodes in sound, “brwahahaaaa!” Her face is contorting, twitching into a dozen half decided expressions, it almost looks like she’s growling for a moment, as Monster Boss screams spittle onto her face. Hard cut. The woman is back. Snail trails outline the places the tentacles touched with raised red sores along the outside edges, the skin between is a valley of oozing yellow-green. It’s clear it hurts to talk, but she does all the same. “Evil,” she laughs, and the laugh is hard and hurts, and turns into a scream. “No, it’s not evil. The world’s not that simple. We’re just a game, to it. Barely toys. I think it sees what we do, and it thinks, well, that could be fun. And this is the closest it can get. No, evil doesn’t come into it. This,” she says, sneering around at the cave, “is the same god damned thing as outside. It comes down to power. More specifically, it’s about power imbalance. Right. The boss,” she freezes, yelling erupts off scene, someone laughs and yells “good work everyone,” and then there is silence. “You can’t fight it; I don’t even know if it can die. There’s no escaping it. Yeah, it hurts us. But I don’t think it really see’s us. It’s like a little kid grabbing at a bug. Always surprised to see the mess in his hand. But no time to think of what it means because there’s always more bugs. Right. You know we’re all going to die here, right? Hmm? Oh, Doug… Doug’s a piece of shit.” Hard cut. “Hey, Brady, right? Yeah, new guy, great. Let me grab you for a second,” a tall man with slicked back hair and a bloodstained suit grabs at another man’s crotch and laughs. The other man is shaking hard, he gives an empty laugh and asks, “what is this place, why are we here?” The man with the slicked back hair moved his hand to Brady’s shoulder, “that’s adorable. Where are we? Work my man! The great American dream! This, this is the company of the future. That man right there,” he says, pointing across the jumbled desks and neurosis ridden ‘employees’ to Monster Boss, “is the visionary man that will carry us all to greatness.” He sighs like he’s looking at a work of art. “Are you crazy? This is hell, isn’t it? Why is this guy recording everything, what happened to his face man? That thing is a fucking monster.” The punch came in hard, followed by another, and another. The man with the slicked back hair kept hitting Brady, even after he fell to the ground. Brady kept screaming “where are we,” in between the blows. Hard cut. The man with the slicked back hair is sitting casually on his desk, arms folded, oblivious to the blood spatter on his face. His suit is the cleanest disaster in the cave. He smiles at the camera. The words ‘mnager n train ing’ and ‘Doug’ appear around his waist. “What do we do here? We work.” He laughs and shakes his head. Listens for a moment, and scoffs at someone off camera. “What are you talking about, pay? Man, you work to live. Same thing here. Some people are just better at it than others,” he says, straightening his suit and smiling at something off screen. “Look, this is a great job. What do we make? We make the business work, that’s what we do. And yeah, just like any business we have loss, we have workplace accidents, we have to make cuts sometimes, that’s just business.” He smiles at the camera, faint scars crisscross his face, glinting in the low light. Hard cut. Doug stands over Brady where he lies on the ground and screams, “why,” into the room. Brady’s a mess, his clothes are torn and full of the dirt he’s squirming in. Doug is breathing hard, his arms hanging at his side, he’s looking at the man on the ground with wide eyes and a smile that shows every tooth. Monster Boss walks up behind him, and stares down. The man on the ground is screaming now, no words, just sound. Monser Boss leans down over Doug’s shoulder, its tentacles reach around from the back of Doug’s head and caress his face as it reaches one finger towards the screaming man. One of the claws comes out, and he paints a line into the man’s leg with it. Doug smiles and laughs, one eye closed as a tentacle slides over it. “That right there,” he says and chuckles, “that’s why you’re the boss, Boss.” Then Doug grabs a jagged broken pen out of the dirt and carves ‘WORK’ into the screaming mans head. Hard cut. “Look,” Doug says, still sitting on his desk and smiling. His face a tangle of red trails and oozing liquid, his eyelid swollen and red. “Some people are just born better, that’s the truth.” he says, nodding at his own words. “I’m just a leader. And what this place needs is strong leadership. We need to stop coddling bad workers. We need to make them strong. Because strong workers make a strong company. And if you can’t cut it here, well, you don’t deserve to be here. It’s all about the bootstraps. All these people are just meant to be workers. But me,” he straightens his jacket again, his knuckles red and split, “I’m here for the job. I deserve this position.” He fingers guns the camera. Then frowns. “Tricked, trapped, abducted? Please, everyone plays the victim. No, I responded to an ad on Craigslist. Said something like, ‘workplace training, with the possibility of a full-time management position if everything went well during the trial period.’ And, I got to say, it's going pretty well.” He listens. “Of course, they do. Everyone loves me here.” Hard cut. A black screen appears, the same happy tune from the beginning is playing, a string of random letters, white on a black screen, start scrolling down as the music plays. Nonsense letters, a few words appear here and there. Then there are a few paragraphs that just say ‘work’ over and over again. With the happy final note a giant white word fills the screen, ‘HELP.’ The episode ends. ….. “Ummm…” “What the fuck was that? Was that real?” “What? No! no way. I guess special effects are just more affordable these days, any idiot can get good monster effects now.” “Good? That thing looked real. Real real! And the people? I haven’t seen that good of a performance from Emmy winners, did you see them?” “Come on, really. Look, no. This is the real world, there are no monsters. This is just someone’s twisted fantasy, or maybe a bad joke. It’s tasteless. Right. A little too obvious. Probably some rich kids’ art school project. No way something like that could be real. What are you doing?” “Something was really wrong about that whole thing. No, I don’t care. I’m calling someone, I’m calling the cops.” “Jesus, they’re going to laugh you off the call. You remember that movie Cannibal Holocaust? All those people thought it was real. Or that time that guy did a radio show about a story he did, and people really thought aliens were invading. You want to be one of those people?” “You saw that, you saw it. That thing wasn’t CG, those people weren’t acting.” “Look, look. If it was real, you think it could have made it into three seasons? Huh? You think no one would notice something like that, here, on the internet? No one would allow this online. It’s here because it’s not real. Its garbage, it’s not my thing, so what? We’ll watch something else.” “…fine. But you have to leave a warning in the comments. At least do that.” “Ok, great. Look, writing it now. ‘This is a steaming pile of horse shit, and no one should have to watch it.’ There, good?” “Sure whatever. I want to watch something stupid now, something fun.” “What about that one with pug and the robots?”            “Ooooh, I love that one. Yes.”            “Perfect, let me find it.”            “I think I’m going to have nightmares about that shit…”            “Not if you’re head’s full of whacky sci-fi family hijinks you won’t!”            Rainbows and stickers flash in bright colors and a peppy voice-over fills the room. The cartoon fills the space, washing out everything else, dulling memories and softening edges until laughter cracks through the dark room in a world where monsters aren’t real.