Eeeeerk. I woke up groggily to the sound of my door opening. A familiar figure stood at the edge of my bed.  “Hello John.” my father’s trembling voice spoke softly.  Terrified, I hid my head under a pillow. I couldn’t look at him, I had hoped to never see him again. I hoped to graduate, change my name, and leave this town forever. \*\*\* I still vividly remember the day, 4 years ago, that the police showed up to search our house. I remember being locked in my room, peeking out the window to look at what I thought were soldiers, despite my mother telling me not to. I remember the barking of the dogs in the back yard, and my mother’s screams after they dug the first body out. Finally, I remember them taking my father away in a police car, the last glimpse of him I’ve had. You see, the police say my father killed 7 children, 7 that they found anyway.  I was twelve then. Ever since that day I have lived in what I can only describe as a dystopia. No one trusts me. I have no friends. You’d think I was wearing a costume the way the other students look at me. I feel completely isolated and alone. Who can blame everyone? When they see me, they are reminded of their friend, son, or cousin who they all believe were killed by my father. That kind of anguish and frustration is hard to express rationally. I would look funny at me, too. I live in a community in pain, and everyone relates me to the source.  My mother hasn’t been the same since, which isn’t really surprising. She spends most of her time drinking and watching reruns of old TV shows from her childhood. I think she wants to forget she grew up, forget she got married, and even forget me. I remember calling her two years ago on the phone.  “Hi mom, I forgot my lunch on the counter, do you think you can drop it off at school on your way to work?”  There was a long pause, but I could faintly hear her sniffling, as if she was crying over the phone.  “Mom, are you okay, it sounds like you are crying.”  “You sound like… You sound like your father.” She said, barely able to say the words as she cried, her anguish apparent in every syllable.  She never speaks to me anymore. It hurts her too much. I can’t imagine the pain in her eyes if I had told her father escaped, but she was already passed out drunk when the news broke. \*\*\* “Take the pillow off, John, I want to see my son” he trembled. I could tell he was crying.  I couldn’t even muster words to say to him, so I just shook my head. I could feel a force push into the pillow and rip it from my face. Immediately, my eyes met his. He looked so different than I remembered him, there was so much pain in his eyes. My heart immediately fell to my stomach; I felt broken looking at him. When I looked at my poor mother eyes, glossed over with a haze of booze, I can blame it on my father. The tearful eyes of my classmates, mourning the loss of those kids before every football game, I can blame on my father. But my father’s sad blue eyes were all my fault. I hadn’t felt that before. He knew I killed those kids.  “I sacrificed everything to save you, John.” He cried, pressing his tear-dampened lips to my forehead “but I love you.”  I struggled to get a word to come out, but I finally sobbed ‘It didn’t work.” \*\*\* They caught my father as he left my house, and he went back to jail. But now, every drink my mother downs, and every pregame prayer, I feel that same pain. If I was in a dystopia, I’m now in pure hell.


The salesman smiled slightly as he saw the father approach the counter, his lanky teenage son in tow. He knew the look in the man's eye, had seen it often enough with others, the grim determination of a teacher, blended with pride and a hint of melancholic remembrance. "We want to see the…goods," the man said, in a voice used to give orders. The salesman dipped his chin in acknowledgement but wasn't to be coerced into moving right away. He regarded the son, maybe fifteen years of age, who'd been looking around the store with a somewhat paranoid pattern of head swivels, eyes darting to the equipment on the walls, as if assessing their potential to hurt him. The salesman stepped out from behind the counter and led them through the nearby curtain, the heavy corduroy sighing as they entered the room behind, waiting in suspense for the lights to come on. It always took a breath’s length until the neon flickered awake, and the salesman had, over the years, found that this little moment of darkness helped to put customers into a more affluent mood. The man slapped his hand on his son’s shoulder, beaming with pride as if he had invented or owned all of the shiny black devices in the room. They were mostly held in cases, heavy duty with stenciled type numbers, in a variety of sizes. The smallest were easy to hide on the body, carried in ladies’ purses, while the biggest were professional grade, long black cylinders that reflected oily and readily. A slight smell of polymers and machinery emitted from the cases and their contents. The teenager seemed to be frozen on the spot, until the salesman received the OK signal from the father. Encouraging the youth, he smiled genially, took an object from a case and gently pushed it into the boy’s hands. "How does it feel? Do you like the weight?" he said. He noticed that the boy had an idea of what to do but seemed overwhelmed with the power given to him. Did the father ever let his son touch the one at home or was it safely locked away? The boy eventually leveled it and the salesman nodded with approval that he didn't immediately point it in someone’s face. By God, this had happened often enough, reason enough for many fathers to postpone the purchase by a year. He subtly positioned the arms of the boy, adjusting his stance. "Now here is where to aim, close your left eye and look through here…" The teen did as he was told. "Do you like it?" "I guess so," the boy said, lowering the black body, glancing at his father for guidance. "Maybe something a bit more suited for beginners," the salesman said and set another slender object into the boy’s hands, this one lighter and a bit more modern in appearance. "38 is more versatile," he said, awaiting the protest from the father. Men of his generation usually protested at this point. "It was 45 or 50 in my day," the customer said gruffly and predictably. The salesman took it as an opening to start his spiel, lecturing about sizes and grades and how they had changed over time, how nowadays everything was getting smaller and lighter, trending towards portability and such. He could tell the father wouldn't be convinced but that he eventually accepted the authority of the salesman, respecting his expertise. The teen wanted to hold the biggest item and he let him. At this age, they all wanted to feel powerful by holding the large caliber, maybe some sort of phallic symbolism related to puberty. While the boy perused the goods, the salesman exchanged some expert talk with the father, how some companies had released new models, others were taken off the market, how technology evolved in faster and faster cycles. In the end, they settled on the premium version of a popular bestseller and the salesman took them over to the test range. He loaded the device, using this opportunity to show the teen how to load it up, how to use dial in the right setting for single shots and how to make sure that everything was closed properly before operation. Primed, he stood close behind the boy, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Now, level up, look through the viewfinder, locate your target, breathe in…then, slowly, with your index finger, take the shot." To his credit, the boy wasn't startled as the device responded mechanically, keeping his grip. "Well done!" the father said. The boy smiled shyly. They went over cleaning and maintenance and options to purchase adapters and extensions, should the need arise. After the man had paid cash, the salesman took the boy aside, a ritual he had perfected over the years. "It's a powerful tool, you know. Always be careful and take some time to practice. Your friends will want to hold it and use it, but I advise you to keep it in your hands. Others will not know how to handle it, and they might cause a lot of damage." He added a conspiratorial wink before releasing the boy back to his father. Once they had left, the salesman tidied up the room, putting all the devices back in their cases, in one corner the Canon Single Lens Reflex, in the other the Pentax Mirrorless. He wiped down the Zeiss lenses and turned the Hasselblads so that the logo was shown properly. Lastly, he closed the showcase with the Sony pocket cameras, took the money from the recent purchase and left the room through the curtain, the automatic sensors switching off the lights shortly after.


Something considered to be **08/15** is totally normal and nothing of particular importance. If you have **clattered off** a town, you have explored its entirety to the last corner. If you can **make-up something off yourself**, you are definitely not going to do it. You're very surprised, which leads you to believe that **the ape is delousing you** and **your pig whistles**. Thinking you can punish Serbia for the Srebrenica massacre the same way Germany was punished for the Holocaust means **comparing apples to pears**. You have an absolute disadvantage that will have you lose this argument no matter what you say? Well, you've **pulled the asscard**. An **asscrawler**, also referred to as **spitlicker**, does tiny favours for a superior, such as saying what they want to hear, usually to avoid or lighten punishment. Again, you've gotten into trouble and I get to bear the consequences. It's always the same: you do something and I have to **bathe it out**. If you do destructive things all the time, you **behave like the axe inside the forest.** What? I have no idea what you just said. I only understood **train station**. I can see in your eyes that you're lying. Tell me what you want, but I know you're **binding a bear on me**. He told me something magnificent and unbelievable had happened, but - **the labouring mountain gives birth to a mouse** - it's only a small new update for a PC game. If unfortunate events have led to a terrible situation you're in now, **you have the salad now**. Look, you're in a really shitty situation with all the problems you have to face, but I can **build you a golden bridge** to get you out of this mess. You know what? Kiss my ass, **slide down my humpback** and **take a shit on the wall**. Your concerns **pass my ass** right now, I don't give a shit about them! I think this guy is cooperating with you. I don't have proof yet, but I'm pretty sure he's **beneath one cover with you**. Oh great, you've ruined it. Everything was fine, then you came, and now everything is **in the bucket**. To help you remember the conversion better, I might show you a **donkey bridge**: "five tomatoes" sounds like "five two eight O" and a mile has 5280 feet. Things were turning against democracy, and Hitler seized the opportunity, **turning his little fan after the wind**, and established a dictatorship. I have to run away. It was a difficult decision to make, but I have finally decided to **give heel money**. There are many ways to embarass yourself, and if you've done it, you've stepped in a **little bowl of fat**. If a German calls you a **bottle**, a **rag** or a *bag*, they mean you're an idiot. If you get **cold feet** about something, you're sure it's doomed to be a total failure. My **patience thread** is about to break. If you do such a thing again, this won't go unpunished. If someone is overly sensitive, you should talk to them with a lot of caution and empathy, or in other words, **touch them with velvet gloves**. Oh, all those terms for death... - scratching off - passing the spoon - biting the grass - smearing off - crossing the Jordan - hearing the little angels sing - being off the window - looking at the radish from below - being called home - blessing the temporal things If something a person said isn't acceptable according to your customs, it's **below the belt line**. A **joy girl** is a hooker. This theory and its arguments are pretty far fetched, or as Germans call it: **pulled along by the hair**. It **has neither hand nor foot**. **"Broken neck and legs!"** means "Break a leg!", which is a wish for luck upon someone. You've insulted me, and now you'll feel my revenge. I'll **show you what a rake is** and **where the hammer hangs**. If a lot of cold wind rushes through your room, it **pulls like pike soup**. The sentence "What the fuck?" has various translations: - What the devil? - What the hangman? - What the cuckoo? - What the vulture? **Seventh Heaven** is just Cloud Nine. If you have **a little chicken to pluck** with someone, you two have a score to settle. You can't sit still for a second! Do you have **bumblebees in your butt**? This is too much for me, I can't take it anymore, this **goes over my hat string**. If two options yield exactly the same result, they are **jacket like pants**. **Sailor's yarn** and **hunter's Latin** are blatant lies. You have run 100m in 8 seconds? Yeah, **and I'm the emperor of China**. This type of behaviour is outrageous! You've been behaving **beneath every cannon** lately! Another round of beer, this time on my **cap**. Yes, I'm paying this one. If something is **for the cat**, it's hopeless, useless and/or pointless. If you are willing to take a risk, you take what may happen **into purchase**.


I pulled into my sister's at about 6:15, only fifteen minutes late, unsure whether she would be ruffled by my proximity to timeliness. Usually if she tells me a time, she does so with the full understanding that I will be approximately forty eight minutes late, and gives me an earlier time of arrival than she actually expects me to show up at. She doesn't like it when I mess up her life hacks, even if it is as a result of trying to be a responsible adult. Her annoyance will be mitigated by the fact that I brought two boxes of wine with me, or maybe she would be irked because she was only expecting one. It's hard to tell what will set her off these days. I hope her new boyfriend will take the edge off a bit. I worry about her when she gets anxious like she has been recently. I decide to sit in the car for at least ten minutes, just in case, and recline my seat back so I can drink straight from the box. Everyone always expects me to bring a box of wine when they invite me. I am the box wine guy, ever since the ordeal with Mrs. Perot back in the 10th grade, which is actually a pretty funny story. One morning I spotted a box of wine just sitting under a tree in the park as me and Tommy were walking to school. He dared me to take it, and then said we would chug straight from it at my locker in between classes. By fourth period we were both completely blotto. I was in Mrs. Perot's English Lit class, and we were discussing The Old Man and the Sea, which I had actually read the summer before, and disliked immensely. While Jackie McKenzie was giving her usual brown-nosing spiel on the moral worldview which she believed the story was a metaphor for, some overeager hogwash about perseverance and natural law, I stood up and declared Hemingway to be a closet homosexual whose masculine prose was nothing more than a literary beard, then puked in Jenny Watson's hair and all over her cheerleading outfit. So that is why I will be 'that boxed wine guy' for the rest of my life. While I waited I turned the radio to the oldies station and played a game where I drank every time someone sang the word 'baby'. I do not recommend it. I ended up doing this for fifteen minutes and had finished half a box. I was feeling fully socially lubricated when I knocked on my sister Lacey's door. As soon as she opened it she could tell I was pretty well into my cups, and gave me a look of exasperation. "You're early." "I brought you a box and a half of wine," I said, holding the full one out to her, then let out long belch that somehow summoned a chunk of cinnamon roll I ate hours ago into the back of my throat. I lifted the box to wash it down. "Come inside and do that, you savage lush," she commanded. I followed her into the house and said hello to the other dinner guests, offering to hoist my box so they could wheeze my juice, but they all politely declined. Too polite for my taste. I hardly knew these people any more. We all grew up together, but then they actually went and grew up for real, and the fun machine took a shit and died. It used to be awesome that I was the boxed wine guy, but now they look at me like some kind of hopeless manchild, which is what they were doing right then. These fucking people with their hopes and dreams and unaffordable mortgages and credit card debt. "Where's the new guy?" I asked my sister. "Out back smoking with Paula." she replied. "Cigarette or joint?" "Dinner, you fuckin' manchild," she scolded. I am dying to see meet the dude that has my sister texting emojis, something she once claimed was the literary equivalent of pissing your name in the snow, but first I have a few pints of boxed wine to relieve my bladder of. I somehow get sucked into an article in a magazine that is sitting on the toilet that claims the KGB were responsible for having Malcolm X killed, which is complete and utter bullshit, but contains some really great illustrations with unintentionally hilarious captions beneath. I am staring at a picture of J. Edgar Hoover in a pencil skirt with a tennis racket and thinking that mainstream liberals have gotten out of control with this ironic neo-McCarthyist, anti-Soviet stuff - since we have plenty of corruption inside our own borders that is far more worrisome -when someone knocks on the door. "Go away, baitin'," I respond, but then am drawn out moments later by a familiar voice. One that should not be here. When I reach the living room my worst suspicion is confirmed. My sister is dating Geoff. We both act like we have never met, which is easier for me since I am expected to act drunk and stupid anyway. My sister introduces us and we shake hands. She explains how they met at the laundromat after he offered her a coupon for a free salad at Panera in exchange for using some of her soap. Everyone laughs at all the right parts of the story, but I can tell Geoff is faking it just as much as I am. Neither of us wants to be here in the same room with the other, it goes against every instinct of our kind. Werewolves are a strange bunch. Someone who might be your best friend on a full moon will be someone who you would never want to run into during the rest of the month. It's just hard to look into the eyes of a man whose asshole you have sniffed, and with whom you have tag teamed a German Shepherd on numerous occasions. It is almost unbearable to come to terms with the fact that such a beast is boning your little sister. Somehow we managed to get through the night without Lacey realizing anything was going on, mostly because I drank myself unconscious within an hour. Before I passed out Geoff and I managed to communicate the necessity of our predicament using nothing but facial expressions. A few days later my sister called, emotionally devastated, and told me Geoff had broken up with her the next day, citing some bullshit about an ex he still hadn't gotten over, but hoped to work things out with. I felt terrible, knowing I was part of the real reason, but I knew it had to be this way. They had only been dating for a few weeks, so it wouldn't be too hard on her. I showed up later with a box of wine and we watched all four Toxic Avenger films to help take her mind off the breakup.

A week later Lacey called to tell me she had already met someone new, a Morrissey lookalike who sings in These Charming Men, a tribute to The Smiths. Immediately I found Geoff on Facebook and messaged him that he should give my sister another chance. There are worse people to be forced to spend Thanksgiving with than a guy who occasionally licks his own balls and once gave you fleas.


When my parents said they were flying in for a couple weeks this summer to visit the kids, I had no idea they meant the exact same week my in-laws were. I mean, I love my parents like life itself, but they really could have just picked another week. My parents, and my husband Eric’s parents, didn’t really get off to a good start with each other when we were dating. We were fresh out of high school, and my parents were fine with that, but Eric's weren’t. They said,

‘ You’re too young and will be immature with your choices. You need to wait until you're older.’

...Seriously?

Now I really don’t want you to think that I don’t love Eric’s parents, because I do. They’re very sweet people, but can just sometime’s get on your nerves if you know what I mean. Like last year at Christmas, they were staying with us and my mother-in-law started complaining about how I do everything wrong. I was washing the dishes the way I always do, and she said I put too much soap on them!

‘Honey you’re doing it all wrong. You’re only wasting money by using that much dish soap.’

I didn’t want to get frustrated at her, so tried to calmly reply that ‘It’s flu season, and I just wanted to be extra cautious that no one got sick.’

But of course she took that all wrong, and thought I was saying she and her husband were old and weak and would die if they got sick. So she went into this whole argument about how they were still ‘young at heart’ and didn’t need our help staying safe. Well, that’s the end of me washing dishes around her. I guess I just don’t like my mother-in-law. Her husband’s just fine, and he hasn’t done anything really irritating to me yet. So I guess it’s just me vs her. No I’m just joking, I’d never be mean. I think.

*

*

*

My wife’s parents are really nice.

...Okay, that was torcher. No, they aren’t. I really wish we could have that nice family where every holiday and family get-together goes perfect and smooth. You know those Christmas movies where everyone is happy when they're eating, because the food is perfect, the conversation is great, and then everyone cries a little bit when the grandparents leave because they’ll just miss them so much? Well, that’s the exact opposite of what happens at our family meals. Last Thanksgiving when my wife Lynn got schooled on dish washing, her dad and I were having our own little rumble in the living room. We were comparing our golfing bags to see who had the better one. He showed me all these pockets and special straps inside of his, and then literally started making fun of mine! I mean, he’s like what… 75?

And still acts like an 8 year old! He started saying all these things like

‘Well, I guess your bag will be great for your son.’  and, ‘Did you get that at a Toys R Us Eric?’

Come on- really? And then when we were watching football, he started cussing at our home team because they were messing up. I mean it was only a game and I shouldn’t have let it bother me, but for some reason it just did. I have this pet peeve for people cussing at unnecessary times. I mean I get it if you kinda have to, but there’s just no need to swear at a football game on your TV screen. It’s not like the quarterback can hear you or anything.

When we all sat down for the Thanksgiving dinner, my mom suggested that we say grace- which in my opinion, she should have never mentioned. That’s another big difference between my wife’s family and mine. My family is religious, and has this big deal about praying before we eat... but my wife’s family doesn't. They just eat whenever. So when both families have a meal together, there’s always an argument about praying.

‘Who wants to pray?’ my mothers cheery voice rang out. When nobody answered, the room started to feel a bit stuffy, and I swear I could hear crickets. ‘Uh, mom. Why don’t you just give us a quick prayer and we’ll eat.’ I tried to say so she’d hurry up and we could forget about this mess.  ‘No dear, I pray all the time and would love to hear someone else do it.’

At first I was kind of annoyed at her, but then started to change my mind. Lynn’s parents always made fun of my family for being religious, and I hated that. So when this prayer opportunity arose, I took my chances at letting them know.

‘Actually... Amy!’ who was my wife’s mom ‘Why don’t you pray?’

She looked at me with the most disgusted face. I could tell she was holding back from swearing at me.

‘Actually Eric, I think I’ll pass this time.’

She stiffly smiled, and my wife gave me the evil eye. I could tell she wanted me to stop messing around. I quickly said grace and then met her in the kitchen.

“What are you doing Eric?? Are you trying to embarrass my mother by making her pray?”

“No, I was just being polite.”

“Yeah right, be polite to an old atheist woman who hates praying.”

“Look Lynn, I know your family doesn't pray and believe in God, but mine does alright?” “Okay, okay fine. I get it. We just need to push our differences aside so we can have a nice meal together for once. But just please don’t do something like that again, it really just tenses things up.”

Almost as soon as she said ‘tenses up’ there was a loud beeping sound. The fire alarms were going off. I had completely forgotten about the turkey baking in the oven! The timer I set didn’t go off for some reason and smoke was pouring out of our oven. As I yanked the turkey out, Lynn opened the backdoor for me to set the pan on the patio.

My two kids were furiously waving pieces of cardboard by the fire alarms to try and get the smoke away from it so it’d stop beeping, but that only made it worse. My dad tried to make the kids stop and took them outside. My mother-in-law opened all of the windows in the house while my dad complained that we weren’t responsible enough to even watch food in the oven. “Dad! Not now okay. We’re adults and can handle this”

*  *  *

Well, Eric said we could handle this, but I don’t know. After all of the smoke cleared out of the house, the fire alarm was still going. Apparently it got jammed, and now wouldn’t turn off even when we tried to manually. The constant beeping sound was dulling our ears and everyone just stood outside. On top of that, I left the mashed potatoes on the dining room table unattended, and the dog got up and ate them all when we were outside. I guess we’ll be taking a trip to the vet sooner or later. Our kids weren’t much of a help because they were only complaining about how they were hungry and their ears hurt. I decided we couldn’t stay in the house any longer, because we were all starting to go a bit crazy. So I suggested we call someone to come fix the fire alarm, and while they’re here we go eat take-out in the park. We could make it a picnic. Everyone agreed and piled into our minivan. Being in the same car with everyone, including your in-laws was a bad idea though. We all started arguing about where to get food, because my parents were vegetarian and my husband's weren’t. It was pretty hectic, so I won’t even bother to go through that whole conversation. After about 15 minutes of arguing over food, we finally decided to go to a dine- in restaurant instead of having take-out. I felt kinda bad for our waitress though, because we were all pretty mad at each other , and took it out on her.

My father-in-law was upset that his steak wasn’t slightly pink, and my mom wanted more croutons on her salad. My kids wanted a hamburger, but they only served fish on the kids menu. I think I was the only one who didn’t care what I got, because I just wanted everyone to shut-up. When we finally made it home, we were excited to see if the repair man had fixed the fire alarm. But unfortunately, you could still hear it beeping from a mile away. When we got inside, no one was even there fixing it! The house was exactly how we left it. It turned out, with all the chaos no one had actually called anyone. We just assumed someone would magically come to fix the fire alarm. I still have no idea how we managed to pull that one off.

Anyways, like I said… both of our in-laws are planning to come down this summer at the same time. I just really, really hope it doesn't turn out like it did last year... or I might just leave the kids with them and let them deal with the in-laws. That’s who they came for after all right?


Ion drives set to eighty-percent. Shields set to ten-percent. Auxiliary and weapons set to minimal power. All systems are green across the board. "This is it." I said to myself as I pressed down on the throttle. The engines roared to life, sending debris raining over the viewscreen. The sound of tiny pieces of metal clanking against the hull made me smile. I had cleared the system and auto-pilot kicked in. I let go of the controls and sat back in my seat. If only raiding convoys was this easy, I thought to myself. I managed to raid a small trader ship protected by two mercenary ships. I use mercenary lightly here; they were rookies at best, to call them mercenary would be an insult to my trade. I was a mercenary by trade and a bandit by night. This was my night or it should have been. My ship rocked to wailing alarms and red alert lights flashing everywhere. This startled me so much my headset almost fell off. I regained my composure, fixing my headset. Autopilot disengaged, speed dropping out of warp. I soon realised what was happening. That stupid trader, he must have sent out a distress call before I disabled his ship. A Mantis-class frigate dropped out of warp and opened fire. "Shields to full!" I screamed as I turned my ship a hard ninety-degrees downward to evade the blasts. Red beams of light narrowly shooting past my ship. I only have a Talon-class assault fighter, if those blasts hit me I'd be done for. The thing about Mantis-class frigates is they're meant to be supported. It's protected by a dome of thick frontal armor bristling with heavy laser turrets. Its weakness is very thin rear armor protected by a single light laser turret. You might have gotten the jump on me but this show is over. "It's my turn. Computer, play favourites and engines max power." "Playing favourites. Engines set to maximum power." said the computer in a monotone female voice. I grabbed the throttle as Faint by Linkin Park starts playing. The pursuing Mantis now coming within range. "He should start firing in... Three... Two... One..." I said and punched the throttle as soon as the electric guitar started shredding. I had engines on full power which gave me an edge against those heavy laser turrets. They're powerful but have slow tracking. Red beams of light whizzing past my ship. Left, then right, then left again, up, down, hard right, one-eighty stop, hard right, full throttle, and down again. Dodging those laser blasts was like a dance and I was having the time of my life. As fun as this was, I was doing it for a reason; I was now almost on top of him. "You're mine!" I yelled victoriously. I punched the turbo button, I was saving it for this crucial maneuver. My ship's engine burning a bright blue as opposed to the usual yellow. Aiming my nose directly at him then turned harder than I ever turned before. "Port shields at ten percent. Turbo fuel depleted." said the computer. I was now directly behind him. Smiling, I opened a channel. "Any last words before I turn you into space junk?" I said in a smug tone. "Your mom's space junk!" a gruff thirty-ish year old male voice said over comms. My eyebrows raising in amused disappointment. "Fair enough. Computer, weapons max power." I said as I activated my targeting display. At this, a Shadow-class recon fighter decloaked on my port side. Remember when I mentioned these frigates are usually supported? I was right and at this moment, I hated being right. "Computer! Shields-" The Shadow let loose a firestorm of light lasers. Normally not powerful enough to pierce my shields but powerful enough to pierce just ten percent. My ship exploded spectacularly, sending my hard-earned cargo flying in all directions. "Thanks for the free loot, noob!" said the frigate over comms. I take off my headset, press Alt-F4, take a deep breath, and close my eyes.


No Drama Mama “I can’t go on,” Nicole told her mother. “I am shaking from head to toe.” “That’s life force coursing through you, Nicole. You are like a racehorse at the gate before the whistle blows to begin the race. It means you are ready, dear daughter.” “Yeah. Ready for my knees to give way as soon as I hit the stage if I even make it that far.” “Nicole, how can you not go on? Everyone is relying on you to do your part just like you did in rehearsal yesterday.” “But I don’t know the people in the audience and they don’t know me.” “What’s to know?” Dahlia asked, in her most New York Jewish accent. “You have immense talent and you know your lines backward and forwards. This is what you have been looking forward to your entire life. Everyone gets stage fright. It’s normal. What is the worst that could happen?” “I think I can’t handle criticism, mom. Every time you ever criticized me, we got into a fight. Everyone sitting in that theater tonight is a critic.” “I only wanted the best for you, Nikki. It’s a mother’s job.” “What? To make her daughter feel that she must belong at all costs? That being different is wrong?” “Let’s not get into this now, hon. It hurts not to fit in. I got bullied as a child because I wasn’t popular. I didn’t want that to happen to you.” “I still don’t fit in. That is why I want to act. To learn to feel what other people feel without having to take things personally. To try on another suit of armor.” “Armor? You call cashmere armor?” “You know what I mean. I always feel like I have to protect myself if I want to survive.” “You will need to chat with Mother Nature about that. If she‘s unavailable, seek out Darwin. All of us have to protect ourselves to survive.” “So, maybe, I should tell the Director I am ill and he still has a half-hour to ready the understudy.” Is that really what you want, darling? To give up on your dream, to disappoint your cast members, the audience, but most of all yourself?” “I just want to be safe. I can’t fail. I keep messing up the dream sequence lines.” “What if you falter? Improvise. The cast will have your back. Don’t you think everyone is nervous about their first time on stage?” “I keep having to pee,” Nicole said as she pressed her hands to her belly. “That’s where your nerves go to party,” Mom laughed. “Like I said. Butterflies on caffeine and steroids.” Dahlia gets down on her knees with a breathy, “Oy. Honey, the feeling of nervousness in your belly is the same feeling as excitement. The only difference is what you call it. Give up needing approval. You get up there and you own that character. Just go for the satisfaction you are after. That is all any of us can do in life. No one can disappoint us more than we disappoint ourselves. Never give your power away.” “And how will you feel if I fail?” “No one fails by trying. We fail by not doing. Who is it you are trying to impress? Me? We are not here to impress anyone but ourselves. Have I not taught you to live life from the inside out, not from the outside in?” Nicole took Dahlia’s hands in hers. “Fifteen minutes.” Dahlia asks, “What are you going to do?” Nicole answered, “Walk out of here and sign up for dental school.” Dahlia replied, “What’s better? Putting a smile on someone’s face or putting one in someone’s mouth? No one has ever applauded a dentist for filling in a cavity. Would you rather be in the object in the spotlight or a gal in a white jacket adjusting the dental light for a better view of gingivitis? Nicole laughed, “OK, I get it. You can stop now.” “And you? What are you going to do?” “Well, you made your way too visual point about dentistry vs acting.” “Sweetie, let’s do a quick guided meditation and get you centered. Relax in the chair and close your eyes.” “I have so much makeup on. My eyelids may never open again.” “That may be, and right now your third eye needs mascara! What do you know in your heart, honey?” A rap on the door and the shout, “Ten minutes, Nicole” gave her a shudder. “Okay, let’s do this,” Nicole sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. “What are you really afraid of?” Dahlia asked “Everyone’s eyes will be on me and I am wondering if they can see me sweating or my heart palpitating and my legs wobbling. I may open my mouth and nothing comes out. I envision people yawning, walking out, laughing at lines that are not funny.” “That’s a lot of baggage to carry on the stage with you.” “Tell me about it,” Nicole nods. “Can anyone think two thoughts at the same time?” “Of course not, but there is a hell of a queue behind that current thought.” “Right, so you will think of your lines and own the part while responding to everyone on stage. You won’t have time to be nervous.” “Says you,” Nicole teased. “How would you feel tonight if everything went superbly, and when you take your bow, the clapping reaches a crescendo? Is that what you would like to happen tonight?” “I want to make everyone who worked so hard on this part with me proud. I want you to “kvell” with joy. I want to know that I am bigger than my little thoughts. I want to experience transformation—to believe for the first time that courage is feeling the fear and doing it anyway. I want to walk through the rest of my life unafraid. I want to kick my ego to the side of the road because you are right. A focus on survival is a detour to what we want to achieve, at least when you are not on a sinking ship or there is a lion at the door to the cave. I want to thrive and not survive.” “And?’ “Change your focus, change your life, I guess.” “That’s my Nicole. Self-talk is the destroyer or creator of our lives. What do I always tell you?” Nicole rolled her eyes. “What we think determines what we do. And what we think has little to do with the truth. Beware the Happiness Assassins: Fear. Doubt. Worry. Tell them to ‘Exit stage left.’” “We need you on the set, Nicole in five, four, three, two, one…” the stage manager called. Nicole took in a huge breath. “I love you, mom. I’m off to sow my destiny. Thank you for your wisdom. I am still scared as shit!” “Enter, stage right, my love. Be the potential you seek in the world.”


the words moved through her from years past. Memories of her parents as they knelt next to her and helped her say her goodnight prayers with her before tucking her into bed surfaced, and a lone tear escaped the corner of her eye. And now? She still said them. She felt she *needed* to say them, fearing him the way she did. Yet at the same time, like a malignant tumor ready to burst, she knew deep within her that it really wasn't her that needed to pray. It was him. Wasn't it? All the abuse she'd taken from him since they'd been together, and when was enough supposed to be enough? How many times had she heard, *"I"m sorry, baby.... I swear by all that I hold holy, I'll never do that again..."* she'd lost count. Just as she'd lost count with the numerous times she'd run away from him, only to have him find her and bring her back. And then all hell would break loose. It would literally be DAYS before she'd venture outside, allowing the bruises to heal. This night had been like all the others from before. She became jumpy and paranoid with each passing hour. More so when the time she could usually expect him home came and went... hours ago now. Night had settled comfortably, like a well worn jacket, and she began to prepare herself for the worse for when he *did* finally come home. It was a homecoming that she wasn't looking forward to, but knew it to be inevitable at the same time. Pacing the living room with movements that were quite agitated, her arms would move to cross over her chest only to fling themselves away and to her sides. The prickling began to tear itself piece by piece away from her a little at a time, what little coherency she had been able to cling to was now slipping away from her. Leaving her with a thought that no one could help her. No one would help her. She had only herself to rely on. As it had been since the death of her parents. Clouded hazel eyes roamed frantically over the living room, searching for some sort of weapon to protect herself. She knew how it would start, it was always the same. He would come stumbling in through the front door and bellow her name. The rage could be heard in his tone, the intensity of it deafening and drowning out the soft pleadings for him to *Please... don't do this... you promised... you promised that you wouldn't...* She found it better to not run from him, the pain that he would cause when she did run, that much more intense and hurtful.. spiteful even. Yet somehow she knew that tonight would be different. She wouldn't allow him to do this to her anymore. She couldn't. Her peace of mind, her very sanity as she knew it to be, was slipping over an edge where she would never be able to find herself once she fell. She remembered the gun at one point, hearing his truck pull into the driveway, she quickly made her way to the hall closet and retrieved it. Checking to see if it were loaded, she breathed a sigh of relief, her hands shaking as she closed the door and made her way back into the living room. To wait for her "punishment" as he called it. She never understood what she did wrong, and to him it never mattered. Everything about her was wrong, though he said he loved her. She felt her heart begin to thump loudly in her chest... beating wildly to the point where she thought she might swoon. Her breathing became more ragged, her cheeks flushed... excitement or fear? She didn't know, perhaps a combination of both. Or maybe it was because she knew, deep down, that tonight she would suffer no more. *"Abigail!"* his voice boomed and echoed as soon as he entered the house, slamming the door behind him with a bang, turning from the foyer and into the living room where he stops, seeing her standing there with her hands behind her back, merely looking at him with those hazel eyes of hers. Saying nothing, as usual. Shy little meek mouse that she was. *"Come here,"* he said softly. Abby shook her head, accenting the motion with one word, *"No."* Coal black eyes seemed to burn as he looked at her, his anger already surfaced on the ride home, the fury brimming and then spilling over at seeing her, moving out of control at her disobedience. The amount of alcohol he had consumed seemed to not hinder his movements, for he was right there before her before she knew it, breathing his fetid breath into her face, glaring at her, whispering in an ominous tone, *"Looks like you really deserve to be punished tonight, doesn't it Abigail?"* his hands moved from his sides to wrap around her slender throat. His thumbs pressing into her windpipe. Her eyes bulged and she gasped what she though would be her last breath. She felt her strength ebbing, and her eyes fluttered only to open and gaze back into his own. Her own arms moved from behind her, the sound of the gun being removed from it's safety position lost in his anger, his concentration only what he was doing to her, a smirk played over his features and he grinned at her with malevolence. Her lips began to move as both hands gripped tightly the butt of the gun, bringing the barrel of the weapon directly into his stomach. Soft words and tears began to spill from her lips and eyes as she pulled the trigger once... ...twice... ...a third time... a fourth time... ...a fifth and then final time... *Now I lay you down to sleep, I pray the Lord your soul to keep. Should you die before you wake, I pray the Lord your soul to take...


It’s been a long road and finally I am glad it is nearing it’s end. My name is Nan and Today I am 73. It’s a good number. I think I shall cherish it for another 73 years. So on this special occasion I thought it fitting to share with you my ten favourite things. I know what you’re thinking. You wander how in 73 years a person could have only ten things to call favourite. Ha ha. It’s rather simple. After so many years, things become really simple. The canvas is painted and the special things kind of stand out against the background. Know what I mean? Well here they are. I call them Nan’s Special Ten. 10. The thing I call my number ten is something many have already admired. It’s something that’s not so reliable and it never stays in just one place. This thing I love and call it number ten is the seed of so many dreamy days. It is like a mind that is never full because as soon as it envisions one thing, it wipes it away and starts with another. It reminds me of the beauty of all my thoughts and experiences but it also teaches me to let go easily. As this thing is, so is my mind; a vast reservoir of thoughts, ideas and imaginations. This thing I truly love are the clouds that wisp across the sky making their shapes and patterns and thrilling me in the process. 9. This thing I love, I call my number 9 is something that is free for all and yet we cannot all acquire. It is a pure thing and some may even call holy. Without it we are parched and our lives are not prolonged. It gives invigoration and rejuvenation purifying us from the inside out. It is a shame and I have cried many days for the babies that could not be afforded it. Shame on men who create conflict and have no respect for the need of all men women and children to have access to pure, fresh and clean water. The thing I love number 9, is water. 8. This thing I love, I call my number 8 is something that colors my world and I think maybe yours too.  The creator must have delighted himself on the day he made them in his ‘make wonderful things’ room. What could be more delightful than these? They are red, they are yellow, they are purple and sometimes crimson. I can tell the difference. The creator gave them the primary colors and they made their own combinations of pure delight. In the morning they greet me and glisten in the rays of sunlight, dripping their dew as tears of joy to see me. In the evening we both close ourselves off to the world as we take rest in preparation for a new day. My number 8 are the beautiful flower. 7. This thing I love, I call my number 7 is something that I alone can see. Well, I think it is I alone. Who knows, perhaps you have seen them too. Sometimes on a warm summer day, I lean back in my rocking chair. When the sun is in just the right angle, it streams like rays through my bedroom window. Then I see them. Dainty little particles bobbing the path of the sun ray. They move along with such ease that I get jealous. They don’t let anything hold them back and I want to follow their lead. I feel special that they let me see them on those rare moments. They represent my hope. 6. This thing I love, I call my number 6 is something that makes me feel alive. I run my fingers through it and the warm gritty feeling makes me know I am here. Sometimes there are others moving through its warm chunky texture and they are also energized by this lovely brown substance. We have a give and take relationship that I would not trade with another. I give it seed, water, and fertilizer. In return it gives me green beauties, healthy foods and joy. This thing I love is soil. 5. This thing I love, I call my number 5 is something that I can't do without. It is dark and quiet. It is mysterious with no words but I understand it’s purpose. It takes away all my anxiety and all my weariness. I look to it and it says ‘Give!’. I comply. This thing I love is the night. 4. This thing I love, I call my number 4 is something that I cherish. I can’t do without it. To be honest, no one can for very long. When it is clean, it is good. When it is dirty it can be so dangerous. When it is forged in the presence of mountains and forests, it is the best. It’s crisp invigorating essence opens my mind and my lungs. I take it in deeply and I feel like I can soar above mountains and swim a thousand miles in the sea. This thing I love is  the good crisp air. 3. This thing I love, I call my number 3 is something that is not always plain to see. There is a plot and often many characters. They are smart, they are dashing , they are sinister at times but all very appealing. This thing takes me away from my world and into another. It allows me to be privy to a grand scheme and I love the sense of purpose I feel. I love a good mystery novel you see. 2. This thing I love, I call my number 2 is something that I have grown to love over the days, months and years. At first it was black and bitter and I couldn’t understand the passion others had for it. But as I travelled the world sampling the arabica and the africas, the tunisian and the columbian flavors and spices...my taste buds were more than tantalised. Can you imagine there are those that add milk, coconut and vanilla essences, orange, chocolate and even plum to this delightful thing? I love a good cup of coffee. 1. This thing I love, I call my number 1 is something unlike all the others. It has been so many things over the years. It has been brash and naive, simple and repulsive. It later became bold and pig headed. It’s a wonder it survived all these years. But experience made it wiser. Loss made it more grateful. Life made it more respectful. Today it is my favourite thing of all but I could not say so 70 years ago. No, but today is different. My most favourite thing of all- is ME! So there it is, my list of all favourite things. I hope you enjoyed it. Maybe even recognized a few items from your list. Cherish it with me and have a grand day yourself.


Codename: Alto Entry 1 - June 23, 2776. 23:02 hrs Today is my new birthday. I never had a birthday before but today is the first day of my freedom so I might as well make it my birthday. I planned this day for months, studying the lab attendant as he punched in access codes and today it finally paid off. Once I cleared the last blast door I ran as fast as I could. Europa has 13.4% of the artificial earth gravity. Even as I heard the skimmers booting up to chase me all I could think about was the feeling of weightlessness as I ran. I didn't know where I was running to but I made sure their skimmers couldn’t follow me; I made sure of that yesterday. I found a cave for now, all I have is this notebook, a water bottle and 2.3 days worth of rations. Right now all I feel is awe and euphoria. Being outside is every bit as incredible as they told us, better even since they lied about the air being poisonous. It feels weird seeing the horizon when all my life I’ve never seen more than 101.39 meters in one direction. Once my heart stops pounding I’ll write some more. Entry 43 - September, 19, 2776. 23:00 hrs The Colony has been good to me. I was almost sad to leave. Almost. Janice took me in and I didnt even say goodbye. I couldn't; I saw one of them in town asking for me and knew I had to leave before Janice came home from work, no way was I going to let them drag me back there. I will miss her. I was hoping to find out what they did to me before I left, but I can’t risk it. I just grabbed my go bag and the money under her mattress and ran, I hope she can forgive me for that. It wasn't hard to find a sketchy pilot at the dark side of the spaceport willing to smuggle me after I offered to work for free. Coincidently I found out why they call it the dark side; all the ships coming and going from that port never make it onto the official record, for the right price. The flight off Europa was uneventful. I wonder what the pilot's name is, I’m betting on Allon, he is gonna be pissed when he realizes I lied. I can't fix engines. Entry 50 - October 3, 2776. 23:02 hrs We were 8 days, 23:54:39 hrs (approximately halfway) to Mars when Jack called me into the cockpit asking “why the fuck did all ships leaving Europa recieve an APB message with your face on it?” I told him he better keep quiet and stop asking questions or customs might stumble upon the illegal dirty bomb hidden under the 6th panal of the cargo bay wall. He didn’t press me. Entry 69 - December 1, 2776. 23:03 hrs Today I nearly got thrown out of the airlock. Jack woke me up at 04:30 hrs, threw a 3082 page brick at me, and told me I either learn how to fix an engine like I promised, or I could go spacewalking without a suit. When I pointed out that would kill me he did not seem to care. I think he’s bluffing, he’s a smuggler, not a murderer. I think. I have 7 days 2:15:53 hrs to fix a fusion reactor engine. Entry 70 - February 2, 2777. 23:01 hrs It’s been a while since writing here, a lot has happened. Jack invited me to permanently become part of the crew around Christmas, said he would pay me a flat rate of 12000 credits per trip and a bonus 25.0% equity for any new business I found him. I never thought I would see so much of the universe. If this mission goes right I’ll have enough for my own ship if I want it. If I have learned anything working for Jack it's that something always goes wrong, and the more money involved the worse it gets, so I’m using the workshop he set up for me in an empty cargo bay to jailbreak his engines past regulation limits. I also installed an autocannon in case things go really south but he doesn't know that yet, it's one of my many secrets. I don't feel the need to tell him about my little experiment either, but eventually he will discover it, that's one secret I can't hide forever. I wish I could write more but this diary is not safe from prying eyes - if you’re reading this Jack, fuck off I’ll show you when its done. Entry 73 - February 10, 2777. 23:02 hrs Good news: The autocannon worked! Bad news: My other experiment is progressing slowly; this morning I threw a wrench in anger after another failed trial and killed test subject 15. I need to be more careful because I am already losing them rapidly; I don't know what is causing the extreme compression but I have changed every variable to account for it and nothing is working. I lost test subjects 12 and 22 today as well. Entry 81 - February 23, 2777. 23:02 hrs BREAKTHROUGH; I took test subject 6 out of the controlled environment and tried altering its DNA to handle the compression and it worked! Still a long way to go but it achieved simple thoughts and was able to solve a maze. Not much I know but it's a start, hopefully I can get them to fly within the next month Entry 122 - May 14 2777. 23:00 hrs Jack finally found the experiment. When he saw the cages he almost vomited and threatened to leave me at the next port, but once I showed him what I had accomplished and how I did it, he completely changed his mind. The test subjects are not actually alive, I’m not a monster. I call it organic synthetic robotics. If this works, space travel will be forever transformed and available to every man, woman, and child in the universe. Everyone will be an explorer and no one will ever feel trapped again. It took 32 days 12:32:01 hrs longer than anticipated but subject 34 actually achieved a controlled flight! Next step is to add gravity. Subject 6 was able to answer simple algebra with a variable for the first time. If 6 and 34 can be combined it will be a monumental step forward. Entry 173 - July 24, 03:34 hrs They found me. Sorry Jack. Entry 174 - July 24, 2777. 23:03 I wonder, if I had known how cold the universe could be, would I still have run away? I think so. The ship feels lonely without him. I guess it’s mine now. The nature of my experiment has changed, I’m running out of time. Entry 189 - September 25, 2777. 23:00 hrs My attempts to combine subjects 34 and 6 were finally successful today, however I haven't figured out how to solve for gravity. The organic aspects of my robots do not have DNA complex or varied enough to handle the information required for a successful launch AND navigational reactions when gravity is added into the equation. Starting tomorrow I will be using sparrows and lab rats as test subjects. I will do what I must so my dream of freedom can be shared with the universe. Entry 217 - December 24, 2777. 23:00 hrs This experiment has become my life. I Have made significant progress with the lab rats, however the sparrows could not handle the physical strain of embedded electronics. I am beginning to worry that Jack would disapprove; the cargo bay has become a miniature zoo. By using an organic system to fuel the cybernetically enhanced engines, I have reached near perfect efficiency and reduced the cost of fuel to a negligible amount; as long as the rats are fed regularly, the cybernetics will continue to operate without significantly depleting energy. Each test subject is now capable of independent flight, navigation, and atmospheric re-entry. Entry 274 - March 8, 2778. 23:01 hrs The experiment is finally reaching completion; all that's left is to design a fuel cell compartment that can hold the vital organs of the test subjects. The individual fuel cells must not resemble anything like a living animal if they are to be approved, and by only keeping the vital organs intact, I can further increase efficiency. Entry 300 - June 22, 2778. 23:00 hrs Tomorrow is the big day. I set up a meeting with the ISTA (Interplanetary Space Travel Association) to pitch my new engine design; A 98.3% efficient engine that uses replaceable individual cells that run on almost every organic material. Entry 301 - June 23, 2778. 23:00 hrs Those greedy fuckers at ISTA rejected my engine. After they ran the necessary safety tests on the fuel cell, they claimed the forced augmentation of live animals was inhumane and threatened to arrest me for animal cruelty should I try to sell the engine/fuel cell or its designs. I can't believe they threw away my life work like it was nothing because a few dead lab rats. Entry 302 - June 24, 2778. 23:05 hrs One of the board members from the ISTA called me today. He said they were interested in my line of work and asked if I wanted to continue working with organic cybernetic implants. At first it sounded like bullshit but after they finished their pitch it seems like they really want to help people too. They said if I was interested at all, they had a science center on Europa that I could visit anytime. Maybe I’ll check it out, I can at least visit Janice and pay her back the money I stole. Entry 315 - August 16, 2778. 23:00 hrs Today I arrived on Europa. I wasn't sure about the job offer but the more I thought about it the more interested I became. I need a job anyways since my engine was rejected. When I got to the science center I introduced myself as Alto and they immediately had someone retrieve me to show me around. I guess my engine made an impact after all. They showed me some offices and laboratories and we walked past some others. They declined to answer any questions I had about the large blast doors on sublevel 3 but insisted that I would be given a more in depth tour of the facilities if I accepted the job offer. I’m very tempted I must admit. Entry 316 - August 19, 2778. 17:01 hrs. Last night I called in and accepted the job. Today they gave me the full tour. The hallway was 101.39 meters long.


Omar stretched out his arms and yawned.  Through the opening of the cave came the burnt orange light of the dying sun.  He stood and looked down at Carmia who was still asleep.

Should he wake her?  Should he lie back down beside her and hold her tight?  He knew she lay naked under the six or seven blankets they had stolen from the abandoned Bed, Bath and Beyond  store.  It was all that was left over in the looted remains of the place.  The lucky ones, the ones who had prior knowledge the sun had died and Earth was next, made sure they supplied themselves with everything they would need to survive as long as they could.  By the time Omar and Carmia got to the outdoor shopping mall every store was stripped down to the floor.  They were lucky to find these blankets, a pillow and a saucepan hidden away by someone else, he supposed.  Were they going to return later to pick up their stash?  Perhaps they were dead like the countless others who they passed in the street on their way to these mountains.  Panic. Suicides. Fear.  Once the news came out that Earth would perish within a year it didn’t take people too long to revert to their animal instincts of survival. Everyone for themselves!

He walked quietly to the cave’s opening. They were blessed to be able to make it to this cave alive.   He hated killing her but they had no choice.  The woman in her thirties had beat them to this place.  She even had a gun which by fate or fortune when she pulled the trigger to kill him nothing happened. The safety was on and as she fumbled to click it off he rushed her and plunged his walking stick through her heart without even thinking.  Something within had overpowered him making him lunge forward toward her.  Instincts.  Pure animal instincts.  The sight of the blood, the woman’s eyes filled with surprise as they began to cloud over. And the way they just threw the body down the cliff as if throwing out a piece of trash.  He leaned over the precipice and puked.  He had to do it to protect them. He peered through the thickening haze.

If there is a God, forgive me for killing her.

He stood, wiped off the spittle from his lips and looked back at Carmia.

Let her sleep.

Their love making last night seemed to have gone for hours and exhausted both of them.  They both exposed their raw passion for each other that surprised even himself.  It was as if he was a wild animal filled with lust as his tongue plunged deep in her mouth, his hands touching her every part of her body, caressing at times, probing at others.  They were caught in some type of a wild sexual frenzy feeding off one another’s emotions and primal needs.  She was like a raging fire as her lips began licking the sweat off his chest, sucking on his nipples then pressing hard against his lips while she grabbed  his hair as she drew him closer, closer.  He ran his fingers along the small of his back and felt the scratches her fingernails etched deep into his skin.

Was is so absurd to think he loved her and would do anything to keep her?  Would she keep him?  Did she love him as he did her or was last night just a purge of pent up sexual inhibitions? After all, he really didn’t know her. They had only met three days ago.

He was rummaging through an upscale neighborhood going house to house foraging for anything to take with him for his trek to the mountains when she came at him with a knife.  Damn might have killed him if she hadn’t tripped over the leg of a overturned chair.  She put up a good struggle, but eventually he won.  Did he regret punching her?  Not then. But now, yes of course.  His first inclination was to leave  her there lying unconscious in that house’s living room and let the crows pluck at her flesh if the dogs or cats didn’t get to her first, but he was far from a killer.  When he looked down at her lying there a wave of sadness fell over him.  He was an accountant for Christ sake.  A man of reason and moral integrity.  He never killed anything in his life.  He left the house then but after taking a few steps toward the sidewalk he turned around and went to her.

He was hoping she had regained consciousness and left but no, she was still there.  A trickle of blood was oozing from the corner of her mouth. Her upper lip was beginning to swell.  She looked pitiful. Helpless.  He went to the kitchen, turned on the tap and wet a nearby washcloth.  Yes. The water as electricity was still on.  It was as if in this apocalyptic chaos the rudimentary essentials; gas, electricity and water remained alive while man slowly died off.   But no cell phones. Why? He wrung out the washcloth and went to her.  She moaned a bit and slightly shifted her head.  She was no beauty by any means. Nor was she ugly.  Average looking he’d say. Average body with a bit of a bulge around her stomach.  He was no prize either.  Overweight for being thirty. His nose angled just enough at its end for his sister to tease him growing up by calling it a ‘ski slope.’   Perhaps in a different life, a different time he would have turned out differently but today, right now in this moment he didn’t care.  He was alive. A woman who he had just met and shared a sexual experience he had only fantasied about all his life was lying asleep twenty feet from him.

If anything he would not die alone.  The white orb of what was the sun was barely visible through the thick gray haze.  The air was getting cooler by the day. Temperatures were dropping from eighty degrees to fifty.  The last newscast he watched before the cable, direct TV and regular television went dead stated that Earth was now experiencing the result of its sun collapsing upon itself over a thousand years ago.  There was no hope.  Earth was dead.  He was dead. Carmia was dead.

He walked over to her, slipped under the layers of blankets and laid beside her.  Her eyes opened.  She smiled.  He embraced her as if at any moment a wind would come and sweep her away.  His eyes meet hers.  “I love you.”


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   ***   #This week's theme is Preservation! As we close out the overarching theme of identity for April, we’re going to take a look at ‘preservation’ this week. As your characters change and grow, their desires, beliefs, and feelings may evolve. But which parts of themselves remain the same? What things do they hold onto, no matter what else changes? Are there aspects of their lives and/or world that they are struggling to preserve, just the way they are? These could be rules, a lifestyle, traditions, beliefs, or something internal, within themselves. Why is this important to them? How would things look if they were unsuccessful? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   ***   #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * April 25 - Preservation (this week) * May 2 - Choices * May 9 - Sin   ***   #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   ***   #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on other stories (2 different stories) to quality for rankings every week.** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   ***   #Reminders: * **Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments**, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * **Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see breakdown at the bottom of this post). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Super Serial role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! *** #Last Week’s Rankings I was very pleased with participation and engagement this week! Great job all around. I really hope to see the same continued participation in the weeks to come. Congrats to everyone! - - u/ReverendWrites - - u/Lord_Demerek - - u/Leebeewilly - - u/veryrealisticperson - - u/stickfist - - u/Mattswritingaccount - - u/Xacktar   ***   #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. This week, I’ve added a *brand new category* for points. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total on the thread) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * *Note: Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you may not use the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well.* **Nominations:** Making nominations for your favorite stories will now earn you extra points! - 3 points for sending your favorite stories to me, via DM, by 12 pm Sunday, est. You may send a max of **six** nominations. (The 3 points are the total.)     ***   ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


It wasn’t a cold day.. nor was it a particularly warm day either. It was one of those days that under normal circumstances one might easily forget as if it had never occurred, like a tree which falls in a forest far away and without a sound. Through the window the sky was cloudy with an ever so slightly blue tint to it, and the street below lay gray and dull like the shed skin of a long and sad serpent. Pigeons pecked idly on the boardwalk and rested comfortably on the ledges of the high rise buildings that surrounded Fenders Co. Entreprises where Mr. Simon Fromptly worked. Simon was a small man, neither stout nor skinny, with beady eyes which he covered with a pair of spectacles that sat sluggishly and uncomfortable atop his too small nose, forcing him to push them back every so often with his short stubby fingers as they consistently slid out of place. Since his youngest age, similar to his drab, beige suit which he wore everyday over his dark suspenders, Simon had never been the kind to be remarkable at anything and so it has come to no one's surprise that he has thus far lived quite the unremarkable life. Occupying a small office with a dozen or so other people which he seldomly interacted with, Simon was surprisingly content with his lot in life. Recently promoted to a low level manager position due to being just adequate enough, Simon deeply enjoyed the single secular office he now had the pleasure of isolating himself within everyday, with its plaster walls and single window, and normally thrived in the simplicity of it all. But today was not normal, and Simon would not be forgetting this day any time soon. Other than the potted ficus that stood beside his door, Simon was the only living thing in his office, and the only thing making a noise other than the quick paced tapping of his finger upon the cheap wood of his desk was the occasional ticking of the clock hanging on the wall to his right, which he glanced over every so often before adjusting his spectacles. “Come on… Come on…” Simon mumbled impatiently. His beady eyes darted around the various corners of the room which he resided in, as though fearing something may strike him from the shadows at any given moment. A single droplet of cold sweat ran uncomfortably down his temple and dripped upon the lens of his glasses before he could wipe it away.

Cursing profusely, Simon jittered his hands towards the small drawer beside his desk where he kept such useful things as his stapler and handkerchief. Pulling on the slab that consisted of the drawer’s handle with an impromptu amount of struggle, the drawer reluctantly slid open revealing a small white cloth, with upon its untainted surface a single, miniscule red splotch which stood out like neon beams to Simon’s shaking eyes. He would have to trust it would be ignored for the time being and quickly pulled out to clean his glasses lens. The severed finger which lay neatly tucked in the cloth came tumbling down and dropped back into the drawer with a soft thud and a squelch . Its single red nail, chipped at the edge, was unbearably vivid. Simon gave an uneasy gulp as he finished wiping his lenses and gave his brow a single pat before swiftly wrapping the long, womanly finger back into its sweaty, raggedy gown. At that moment, a familiar knock at Simon’s door almost gave him a heart attack. The knob turned with a loud creak and in came Sandy, the middle aged mother of three who worked as Simon's assistant and secretary. “Good morning Simon, are you busy ? A gentleman from the Police Department would like to have a word with you, if that’s alright. He.. uhm, insists it's quite urgent.” She said uncomfortably, turning her head back to face the “gentleman” who no doubt stood beside her. So soon ? Simon thought with a fright, but quickly composed himself. “Of course Sandy, please, send him in.” Simon answered with a forced smile, as he casually closed his drawer in a manner not to arouse any suspicion. As he discreetly re-arranged the little plaque which stood opposite to him on his desk, a threatening presence entered the inner chamber. The presence in question was a man, tall and grizzled with a grave expression on his otherwise handsome face. His hair was cut short and he was dressed in a black coat and a blue shirt. A large, golden, glistening badge hung loosely from a chain upon his thick neck, and his eyes shone a skeptical emerald green. “Good afternoon Mr. Humphry. I am detective Wight, but I suppose you already knew that. I apologize for my lateness, traffic jam.” He mouthed casually as his eyes examined scrutinously the pale walls that encircled him as he took a seat, gesturing towards the empty chair before occupying it after Simon had delivered an indulgent nod. “Yes, indeed, no worries. I hope your wait wasn’t too long.” Simon responded, ignoring the blatant mispronunciation of his name, no doubt a carefully calculated plot of false ignorance engineered to make him lower his guard. “Water? Tea? Coffee?” He quickly added as the sharp eyed detective began making himself comfortable. “Coffee? Sure, something quick, I won’t be here long.”

Simon turned to face Sandy who swiftly made her way out of the office to accomplish the silent command. Calmly, Simon poured himself a cup of water from a small container he kept on his desk beside his laptop and drank it up in one big gulp. “So, detective, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Simon asked directly, his mouth etched flat, his expression still as stone in a desperate attempt to look calm and unintimidated. “You said you had important information to forward me regarding the… case. At least that’s what your lieutenant told me last we spoke on the phone.” He added just as quickly so as to not appear too eager or suspicious. After all, he was supposed to be a grieving husband. Stay cool SImon, it's impossible for them to have found the body … he reassured himself “Hmph, that’s just something he says to get me off my- well, I mean, we still don’t have any conclusive leads as to what might have caused your wife’s disappearance.” “I.. I don’t understand.. It’s been almost a month.” Simon said, his small eyes had the added benefit of always having a glossy sheen to them. A perfect tool in this scenario. “Yeah…” The detective muttered, scratching his unkempt beard whilst looking askance. “Well, you know, this sort of thing isn’t uncommon. I suspect you won’t have to wait for much longer, we suspect the culprit will have made some mistake we’re just not seeing yet.” I highly doubt it … Simon thought, somewhat pleased with himself. As much as he wanted to flaunt the perfection of his ploy, he knew better than to give in to this temptation. Ignorance remains key to survival. “People who get this lucky often do.” The detective interjected, as though he had just heard what Simon was thinking. “I beg your pardon, l-lucky ?” Simon asked with a teaspoon of true anger hidden in his shaking voice, balling his fist in his palm as to hide the silent wrath that slowly boiled inside of him. “Are you saying that the-the individual who took my wife was just-just lucky ?!” Who does this guy think he is? Simon thought irritatingly. “Wow there, calm down, I meant no disrespect Mr. Humphry. We know the culprit entered your home and took your wife in the dead of night whilst you were away, as you know we discovered the door unlocked with no sign of forced entry, implying that your wife must have left the door unlocked at that time, the evident struggle in your bedroom shows that she was not taken willingly but provided little resistance, we suspect had she not been sound asleep the intruder would have had a much more difficult time. All I’m saying is that a unique set of circumstances seemed to have benefitted the sudden attack of the culprit.” This was no mere attack of opportunity ! I purposely left the door unlocked so that I could sneak in from the back window ! She was wide awake and barely knew what hit her ! Did you even look at the crime scene you impudent baboon !! “Sudden attack ? I was told this was premeditated.”

“Yeah, we thought so too, but a lack of viable suspects due to your… small circle of company has led us to believe that the culprit may not be someone you know but rather a complete stranger. If not it would have to be something akin to a stalker perhaps, did you recall anyone giving your wife an unusual amount of attention in the days that led to her disappearance?” The detective asked, edging himself closely towards Simon who retreated his head back and scratched his neck. Ohoh.. I see what you’re doing, detective, trying to see to whom I might point finger. Very clever. If I say yes, then that could arouse suspicion as to why I hadn’t mentioned this previously, but if I say no then the only logical suspect remains me… but perhaps if I could just word it right enough, I could hit two cheating birds with one stone. “A-Actually, now that you mention it, ever since I reported my wife missing, this one electrician who would occasionally come and do maintenance on “faulty wires” on the powerline in front of our house stopped coming. I’d never thought about it before but I don’t recall hearing electricity issues in our neighborhood, and his van would never be far from the garden… or maybe not… It may just be paranoia… I just remember confronting him once and he struck me as oddly evasive.. but nothing so serious as to note.” The detective sat quietly, nodding and scratching his chin every couple of words. “How would you… describe this man, Mr. Humphry ?” Simon feigned vague recollection, even though he knew exactly what this “suspect” should look like, and swallowed the annoyance of his mispronounced name yet again. Eduardo you scumbag … Simon thought with a mental smile as he began painting a vague but just precise enough image of the electrician he’d caught his wife sleeping with. It had been a long day at work so he’d come home to surprise his darling only to discover her treachery. She’d never known of course, but Simon knew. Simon knew all too well how to take her down and her lover with her. “I don’t remember very well. Large, decent size, spanish I think.. he had a small scar on his chin right here.” Simon said as he pointed at a small spot on his jaw. “But other than that.. I can’t remember much else.” “No name tag? ID? Company logo maybe?” Simon hunched his shoulders. “It was almost two months ago.” “Would this man have looked anything like this?” The detective inquired as he pulled out a small picture of that very man from within the dark recesses of his coat, Simon noticed the distinct silhouette of a firearm lay strapped to its inside, black like obsidian. The picture practically slid from the detective’s fingers and slithered quietly beneath the moleman’s eyes. Simon’s heart raced as a string of curses thundered quietly in his mind. “Th-That’s him ! Yes !” “Eduardo Skei.. he was found murdered by his wife at home a couple days ago. Multiple stab wounds to the chest and back I heard.” The detective's piercing eyes met Simon’s and it took every fiber of his mousley being not to break on the spot. “Wh-What a-a-are you s-s-ssaying?” Simon asked, unable to hide his fear. “That’s a good question Mr. Humphry-” “It's F-Fromplty.” Simon interjected, to the inquisitive gaze of the detective. “Mr.Simon Fromptly. It says it right on the desk. Husband to Marie Fromptly who is still missing whilst you and your boys are looking into another man’s death.” “Right, Fromptly, my mistake. Well Mr. Fromptly, to tell you the truth, I think your wife’s disappearance has something to do with this murder. Something very important, that I’m just picturing now.” The detective leaned in silently towards Simon. “I think, that Whilst Mr. Fromptly was away, Mrs. Fromptly and Mr. Skei were busy, until someone found them out.. and put an end to both. But you already put two and two together, didn’t you Mr. Fromptly? It’s why you don’t seem shocked by this proclamation.” “D-Detective… are you accusing me of-of murder ?” Simon asked with as much confidence as he could muster. The detective looked at Simon, his serious eyes like daggers, before letting out a roar of a laugh that may very well have made the building tremble. Like an earthquake with a terrible sense of humour at a comedy show. Simon could almost make out a tear of sheer hilarity form around the detective’s eye, before he was able to calm down and recompose himself.” “ You ?! HAH ! Mr. Fromptly I didn’t think of you as the funny type. No, I’m almost certain his wife found out about it and took them both off the census. Got rid of your wife first, then when her husband went to confront her about it, did him in too. Just got word before getting here that she might have fled the country. Luckily, with you as a witness, we can book that old bag straight to prison, provided we find her of course.” The detective mumbled amidst the snickers and giggles he tried to conceal. At that moment, the knob creaked once more and the familiar shape of Sandy wobbled in with a steaming latte in hand. “That's all they got left Mr. Detective, sorry. What’s all the fuss about here then?” She asked with a big smile, ignorant much like the detective was towards Simon’s look of abysmal and utter humiliation. So insulted was that he sat stunned, incapable of formulating a response. He was so scared the detective had caught him dead to rights he was about to have a heart attack, only to learn that not only was he not remotely even considered a suspect, but the very thought was able to condemn Detective WIght to such tears of laughter. “Nothing, nothing. Mr. Fromptly simply asked me if I considered him a suspect in his wife’s possible murder investigation!” At that, the detective succumbed to another fit of hideous hilarity. His chest heaving to such a point his ribcage looked as though it may burst at any moment. Upon hearing of this accusation, Miss Sandy too began laughing, sharing the news out the door as soon as the words had left the detective’s mouth. Before long the office truly did tremble as the roaring of 12 people led to the upper and lower floors of the building. Simon, completely devoured by fury, cried out in indignation as he tried to refute this, forcing out his entire drawer and plunging his arm into it to retrieve the only possible proof that he was guilty of this dark deed. “NO ! NONONO ! I AM A SUSPECT ! I SHOULD BE THE PRIME SUSPECT ! STOP LAUGHING !!

I DID KILL HER ! LOOK !! I HAVE HER FINGER !!!” Upon looking at the severed finger the tiny Simon held up high like a child showing off his favorite crayon, the detective let out another burst of laughter as he spat out his drink, causing another wave to take over what seemed like the entire block. The detective picked the finger from Simon and used it to stir his drink before flicking it away. “Yeah right!” Hollered the detective.

“Oh, you are very funny Mr. Fromptly !” Sandy nodded, laughing in agreement as Detective Wight made his way out of the office, picking out his phone and dialing someone’s number. “Hey Lieutenant ! I've just heard the funniest thing ever ! You know that Fromptly Guy? Humphry yeah, same thing…” His voice trailed off as he slowly faded into the cacophony of laughing people that followed after him. If not for Sandy who was still snickering beside the doorway, Simon may have well been standing alone. The very color drained from his fat rat face. “They all just… laughed at me.” He lamented in disbelief “I killed my own wife and they just laughed at me.” Hey eyed her finger which lay drenched in coffee in a sad, dusty corner beneath the clock. Sandy was regaining her composure as she turned towards the door. “Well, you are very funny when you want to be Simon, I wouldn’t be too hurt though, people are idiots. Hoo, you almost make me miss my dear Eduardo .” She said nonchalantly, wiping a happy tear from her eye. Simon stared at Sandy with stupor. “What did you just say ?” Sandy looked at him with innocent eyes as she slowly crept out the door. “Come now Mr. Fromptly, don’t go around thinking you’re the only one with little secrets.” And with that, Sandy was off to join the merriment with a chuckle, leaving poor little old Simon dumbfounded and confused as the door slowly closed after her. Simon looked out his little window into the gray sky above. It wasn’t a warm day… nor was it particularly cold. But for Simon, it got just a little colder. The End


Come on Imogene! This thrift store is supposed to have the best stuff!” I was not as excited as my sister, Kathy, as she tried to drag me to yet another store to look at what she called “ good thrift store stuff”. Lately, I hated thrift shopping. It seemed like every time I picked up an object, I just felt depressed. Over the last few years, I got better about not picking up the objects with violent histories at least, but in a thrift shop more often than not, the objects were just sad. The dishes sold after their grandmother died, furniture after a divorce, toys that still wanted to be played with, but were abandoned when the child grew up. All of it just, not something I wanted to feel. After Covid, the world has gone through a bit of a shift, not that most people would notice. In fact, most people would call me and others like me crazy. But a shift has happened nonetheless. The shift has happened in the margins. The places where people don’t like to look, or are afraid to think about, for fear they themselves will be called crazy. People have developed gifts. Some have developed gifts of foresight, some healing, some the gift to commune with the dead. Not very many of us want to talk about it, we know how people look at us. My gift is psychometry. When I touch objects, I get a sense of their past; who owned them, what the owner was like, if they are alive or dead. Sometimes I can see how the owners died, if it was violent. I can tell if the object was important to the person, if it was well loved. I can tell if the object was lost, or stolen, if it is with its original owner, or newly bought. I wear gloves a lot when I go out. It is easier to blend in in the winter than it is in the middle of July.

“IMOGENE! Why are you just standing there? Let’s go in!” Kathy waves at me from down the block. I take a deep breath in, adjust my gloves and enter the shop, hoping that there is nothing in the shop that will set off a panic attack or some other trigger. Entering the store, the first thing I notice is the smell of old things. This is definitely an antique thrift store, not the usual store Kathy picks. Looking around I can see bureaus and desks made of wood in a style that is at least one hundred years old. I am actually cheered by this thought. If the original owners of these objects are long past, I may have an easier time. We make our way through the aisles. Kathy excitedly pointing out pieces that she can use in her office, or for possible future clients. She recently started a business staging offices and homes for a real estate firm. She does some interior design for rich homeowners as well, but mostly she stages them for potential buyers. Most of her clients are big businesses in office parks and office buildings who are looking for “ old world charm”. So while she looks at thrift shops, she usually ends up buying new. The rich business owners may want to “look” old world, but they certainly don’t want second hand. She hasn’t had a chance to grow her business past a few clients outside of family or family friends so she still tries to save where she can and still shops second hand for herself however, which is why she still drags me to all of the thrift shops she can.

Kathy is now currently looking at a booth with a Japanese theme. There is a Japanese silk screen, a Lacquer Kodansu cabinet with golden dragons painted on the front, and various tables and chests. While she is looking at the larger furniture, I wander the edges and look at the paintings on the walls and the smaller items. That is when I notice the umbrella. Or I should say the umbrella notices me. I am standing in front of what I think is a print of “ Under the Wave Off Kanagawa'' when an umbrella tries to attack me or ….. Lick me? Did an antique Japanese umbrella just lick me? “Aggh!” I whip around quickly checking my surroundings. I duck out of the booth and into the hall to ensure that I am alone in this area before cautiously approaching what I thought to be an antique rice paper umbrella. I slide closer, hands raised in a defensive position “Hello, are you alive?” With a slightly trembling hand I reach out a finger and tap the top of what I thought licked me. To my shock, one large eye pops open and a large grinning mouth with long slimy tongue is soon to follow. “Oh! You were alive.” I stumble a bit in shock. Do you also talk, or only lick? I feel a bit ridiculous talking to the thing, but it could be worse I suppose. I could be talking to one of the creepy antique dolls or ceramic clowns that seem to fill stores like these.

“Cough, ack, ugh, grr… uh.” The umbrella tries to speak but seems to be trying to clear its throat a bit. “ hell… hello. Who are you? My name is Kasa.” It speaks with a bit of an accent, but not much of one.

“ My name is Imogene, How is it that you are an umbrella, but can talk to me? I creep a little closer speaking in whispers. I do not want Kathy or anyone else finding me conversing with wet weather accessories.

“ I am what is known as a Tsukumogami, an everyday object that comes to life on its 100th birthday. You are the first person I have talked to, even though I have been able to talk for five years now. My last owner gave me to this shop after I first became sentient and tried to move around the house. ``Kasa floats to eye level as it peers at me as if sizing me up and judging my worthiness. “ Would you be willing to take me home with you? You don’t appear to be as afraid of me as my last owner. They thought their house was haunted. It was of course, but it was that well before I arrived.” If an umbrella could shrug, I believe it would have then. Instead if just rolled it’s one eye.

“What will you be like as a house guest I wonder? I do have a job and cannot imagine taking you to work with me each day.” “I can help you out. I may not have been sentient for all of my years, but I remember them. I can help you with whatever your job is. I can be a good house guest. I can act as your security, your friend, a confidant to confide your secrets in. No one would be more trustworthy. This I swear.” Kasa flies around my head as it explains its usefulness as potential houseguest and friend. I can’t leave the poor thing here. But, I am not sure about taking it on either. As I think about this, I take off my glove. When I reach out to grab his handle I get a flash of the lives that have touched this umbrella. When Kasa was brand new it belonged to a young woman newly arrived in the United States. It was bought as a courting gift by a potential husband the family was hoping would be a suitable match. The marriage did not work out, and so the umbrella was placed in a closet for several years. When the woman was eventually married to another and had children, the umbrella was brought out and given to the daughter of the family and was much used and well loved, until it was lost. Kasa was left behind at a café, a careless mistake. That is the family that eventually sold him to this thrift store. But not after more than twenty years. The last five years, the years Kasa has been sentient, have been lonely. It has been stuck in this booth at this thrift shop. A few people have picked it up and looked at it, but no one has taken it home. I can’t just leave it here, knowing what I know.

“It’s your lucky day Kasa, I am rescuing you” As soon as the words are out of my mouth Kasa flies to the ceiling and twirls around the room in excitement. I panic and look out again to be sure that no one has seen this, and that no one can hear the commotion it is making as it celebrates the fact that it can now leave the store. “ Calm down, I have conditions. I will change my mind if you do not stop what you are doing this instant!” I place my hands on my hips and glare up at the ceiling with my fiercest expression. Kasa closes his side and falls back to the floor. He props up on his handle and looks at me with a one-eyed version of the sad puppy dog look waiting to hear my conditions.

“First, there will be no flying around and attacking or licking my clients when they come to the office. I run a private investigations firm and I need to know my clients will be safe. In exchange I will take you out with me as often as possible, and give you free reign of the house. Second, no more licking. I Hate to be licked. Third, you can go anywhere in the house that you want, but you cannot sleep in my room- if you sleep at all, and you cannot stare at me when I sleep. Also, do you eat? Do I need to feed you? Are neighborhood pets in danger around you? What exactly am I getting into here?” To myself I think that it might be too late to worry about that last bit, but it was probably good to ask.

“ I can agree to your conditions. As long as you take me out into the sun and rain from time to time. As for what I eat- Meat. I like lots of meat. All kinds of meat. If you tell me that some sources are off limits, I will respect that, but if you don’t say, I don’t know and so I will eat it.” With a disturbing smile and a lick to his lips it then floats back over to me and hovers near my shoulder. “Now that we have settled the rules, I think you should purchase me and we can get out of here. Five years is too long to stay in one place. I want to enjoy the sun and see what kind of mischief I can get up to being your new companion.” I grab the handle of an antique rice paper umbrella and make my way to the cash register acting as if nothing in the world is more common. But inside, I am still panicked at what I have just done. “Here goes nothing.” I say to Kasa and step into my new life as the master of a Kasa-Obake and hope that I have made the right decision. Only time will tell if it was, but I am sure I am in for one heck of an adventure.