I drummed my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, as if by some miracle my fingers would open up the roads and get me out of this crazy traffic jam. “Wake up to the sound of birds chirping….”, the lady in the jingle on the radio cooed. I muted the radio in disgust. It seems that we’ve lost our way in life. We were supposed to encounter a smattering of advertisements amid tunes but listening to the radio these days is the other way around. I reminisced back to a time when the serendipity of hearing a favourite song gave me so much joy. It was like finding money in an old pair of jeans that you wear after a long time. These ads just stressed me out. The car ahead of me inched two steps forward. I didn’t even bother accelerating, I took my foot off the brakes and let the car ease forward. I looked outside and saw a man leaning against the sidewalk barricade. He was covered in grease, must be a mechanic. There was something very menacing and intimidating about him even though he was just standing still. His face was expressionless. He looked at a man passing him from head to toe. There was no change in his expression. There was something severe about him, a feeling that he could spew hate. He would go out of his way to vent it and bring it to you. He probably beat up his wife and kids for no good reason. A few seconds passed and I marvelled at how quickly I inferred so much about a guy by just looking at him. For a brief second, our eyes met and I turned away, embarrassed and somehow afraid. If I could describe him briefly: >It was not just his life that he hated, he hated everybody else’s life because it was better. A motor-biker squeezed in ahead of me and parked himself horizontally in the space between me and the car. At that very moment, the car ahead of him began moving. For a fraction of a second, the car moved backward before easing forward. The biker lost his balance and the bike fell on to the car. A scuffle ensued. The man on the barricade watched, still expressionless but his interest was piqued. The biker lost his cool and punched the driver of the car. In a matter of seconds, there was chaos, people were watching the two guys fighting on the busy street, someone tried to intervene and presumably got hit. Suddenly, 5 people were fighting. At this point, the guy on the barricade jumped in. He was calm, composed and purposeful. He first kicked the guy who intervened to the ground and punched him violently twice. Then he pulled out the driver of the car and pinned him to the car. He punched him twice in the gut and held him up as he began sagging from the blows. The biker came in and landed a punch as well. At this point, the “barricade man” stepped away, dusted himself straightened his shirt and walked away with a smirk. That brief smirk was the only expression I had seen on his face the whole time. The fight had relocated to the pavement in response to relentless honking and abuses from the other drivers on the road. As this horror unfolded, my only thought was that my instincts about the “barricade man” had been right. A quote about the Joker from the dark night comes to mind, >“Some men just want to watch the world burn.” The “barricade man” wanted to watch the world burn. I was pleased with my assessment. It was only after a few minutes shame began to set in. I had normalised something abnormal. That could have been me. The bike could have fallen on my car and I would have been the one that got beat up. I began to think about the “barricade man” and what his life must be like. When life is mediocre or good, 35 years can go by without one realising it. When life is hard, even a day can seem like an eternity. That eternity hardens you because allowing yourself to be soft means you can get hurt and you have had enough of getting hurt. The minute I reached work, I forgot the entire debacle and went about my day as usual. It was a long day, some days are just about fighting battles one after the other. At last, it was over, so I pulled the car out of the basement parking and headed home. The last battle of the day was yet to be fought, the returning traffic. I switched the radio on. “Honey, I’m so tired of spending 2 hours every day on the road” “I have just the thing for you sweetheart, Hurva homes in the heart of the city….”, chirped the wife. I placed the stereo on mute. No wonder real estate prices in this city are so bloated, someone had to pay for the ads with the apartment. After two minutes of fidgeting, I unmuted the speaker. A song by Pink Floyd was playing. For a few minutes, until the song ended, I was at peace. The car ahead moved a few more feet and then stopped again. I could see the road beyond a few meters was clear but for some reason, this stretch was jammed. After another frustrating 20 mins, I finally reached the front of the jam. There was a large pothole on the road and all the cars had to navigate around it. This was the bottleneck causing the jam. I cursed loudly and floored the accelerator after navigating around it. Just a few seconds later, I could see the patrol standing with the speed camera. It was already too late, I must have broken the limit. In the distance, I could see a fat cop. His large belly spilling out of the uniform. It was as if the bribes he had been taking had filled his body. How the hell was this guy supposed to be protecting the public? He didn’t look like he could bend down to pick up the money if the thief dropped it. As I drew closer, he motioned with his hand for me to pull over. I obeyed. He stepped away, to stop a few more behind me. His expression reminded me of a strict teacher in school, who would reprimand you for your lack of discipline and question your upbringing. I hated the sight of him and the fact that I would have to request him to let me go. I knew the drill. At first, he would refuse, he would bring up the machine and start typing out the receipt. Then on persistent pleading, he would relent. He would then demand a bribe, half the fine for the offence and I would bargain but eventually pay something. Same dog & pony show. The “barricade man” suddenly came to mind, my instinct was working fast to predict the behaviour of the fat cop. “License & documents”, he muttered. That is when I realised, I had forgotten my wallet today, which meant he would go for the kill. I’d have to plead even more and he would extract a larger bribe. There was no way in hell this guy would accept seeing a soft copy of my license on the phone. He stepped away momentarily, to stop a bike. The biker must have broken the limit as well. The pothole was almost like a honey-trap, anybody would speed up after spending several worthless minutes stuck behind it. The cop presently came back to my car. “Documents”, he muttered. “Sir, Actually I …” He suddenly stepped on to the traffic, deftly sidestepping to avoid a car. Where the hell was he going? He reached the divider in no time and intercepted a motorbike, the rider wasn’t wearing a helmet. Before the rider even realised what happened, the cop had switched off his bike and taken his keys. In a second, he was back with me. He moved surprisingly fast for a man of his size. He was almost cat-like. Perhaps I was too quick to judge the man by his appearance. “Sir, I forgot my wallet. I have a license but I forgot…..” He looked at me with an amused expression, “Did you forget the rules also at home? What is the speed limit on this road?” “Sir, pothole…” “Show me your license on the phone”, he interrupted. He had better things to do than listen to my sob story. I was pleasantly surprised that he would accept a copy of the license on the phone. I pulled up a copy on the phone, he gave it a quick look and began typing on the machine, “500 Rupees for breaking the speed limit”. “Sir, can you not excuse me? This is my first offense.” “Ok — there is a constable there, go and stab him for me. I’ll let you go, first-time murder”, there was no expression on his face, he just stared at me intently. The show had begun, the stage was set. I bowed my head in mock shame, embarrassed for saying what I did. “Sir, can you reduce the fine? I don’t need a receipt”, I said softly. He ignored me and started asking the biker for his documents. The biker began his version of the act with some lame excuse. He turned to me, “That will be 500”, he said and tore off a receipt. “Sir, I don’t want the receipt, I can give you 300”, this time I was bold. It was 9 PM and I was tired. Enough of the charade. He looked at me sternly and said, “I heard you the first time. You look like an educated person with a good life, so I am not going to say this again. I don’t take bribes, you shouldn’t be offering them either. You broke the law, pay up and get out. Its 9 PM and I am sick of seeing every offender act out the same sorry play all-day. I want to go home.” I could feel my face turning red and my ears becoming hot. I handed a 500 rupee note, thanked him and got back into my car. It took a moment for the fact to sink in. I was too quick to judge. As I pulled the car slowly to join the traffic, the cop stepped out to catch another offender, I looked at him slowly with admiration do his thing. This was his craft. He had stopped yet another motorbiker without a helmet. Our eyes met for a brief moment, the biker was the “barricade man”. His contempt for the world and its ways were on full display on his face. He spat furiously on the ground as the cop made away with his key. I paused for a few seconds to watch, even the barricade man had to pretend and do his act eventually. A constable motioned for me to get out and make way. I watched the scene disappearing in the rearview mirror with regret. Would the cop treat the barricade man differently? How would the barricade man plead? Who would win? I guess I will never find out but one thing is for sure — My judgment of people by appearances was just 50% accurate.


When I was younger, my best friend was a boy I went to preschool with. He lived about a block away from me, and his parents would always throw pool parties and barbeques in his backyard. It seemed like all the kids in the neighborhood were there for birthdays, July 4th, and just a good time. He had a seesaw that looked like an airplane and sat four people, some sort of symbol of the possibility of the future. Our other friend was a girl named Victoria. They were both a year older than me, but that never mattered. The way we spent our time in school and the things we talked about are lost to me, but the way the inside of his home looked is still fresh in my mind. I remember his mother marking my height on their living room doorframe, making me part of their home despite not being a part of their family. They had cactus plants lined up along their windowsill, each of them tempting me to touch their spines to see if they'd prick. I remember when my nose bled on their kitchen floor and how his dad taught me to stuff a tissue up my nostril to absorb the blood. I remember hopping the fence into his neighbor's backyard so we could run to the front, where the path leading up to his door had his name carved into the concrete. Sometimes we would sit on his stoop and watch the ants go by. I remember Halloween spent with him in the neighborhood, especially the one after the hurricane when we had to jump over fallen trees to knock on doors instead of ringing their bells. When I would go over to his house, we would play a game where we jumped from the top of his bunk bed down onto a mattress below. I was definitely scared at first, but after seeing him do it a couple of times I got over it. It was the three of us for a while. We spent time in school, then went home and waited for the day to start again. Eventually summer came. We had moved on to different schools, but the pool parties and playdates never stopped. Preschool turned into afterschool and a new girl arrived to break the peace. I don't remember her name, but I remember every adult thought she was great. Victoria slowly started to spend less and less time with me, choosing to be with someone her own age. No first grader would want to play games with a kindergartener. The presence of the new girl at my best friend's backyard parties seemed to completely overshadow mine. I guess I was jealous, although I'm not sure I really knew what jealousy was. One day I was washing my hands in the afterschool bathroom with Victoria. "He said if he wasn't friends with her, he was going to marry you." I don't recall what my response was, but it was probably something along the lines of "Oh." I still remember exactly how I felt in that moment. It was a weird and confusing feeling, like I was aware I was officially demoted to the second choice without being aware of the concept. The only married people I knew were my parents, and marriage wasn't even a thing I'd thought of for myself. But yet again, my place was overshadowed by another, and I never even got the chance to defend myself. Such a big decision had already been decided for me Eventually life moved on as it does. I don't remember the last time I saw him; I just remember realizing years later that it had been a while. My mom told me later that his parents had gotten divorced, and he moved to a different neighborhood. And no one thought to tell me. He had been removed from my life without any goodbye or even a warning. They let me forget about him and our time together, and I didn't even realize it until I saw him one night in a dream. He came to my door with Victoria, they were going back to his old house and wanted me to come with them. We walked the short walk back to the house and found the house abandoned and broken down, covered in vines and moss. We went straight into the backyard and had to skip across lily pads left in the inflatable pools we once played in. The airplane in the back was broken and rusted and would never take us anywhere again. We went inside the house, and everything was still the way I remembered it. The colors were the same, the furniture was the same, the only detail I couldn't pick up was the smell. I can't remember the smell. I pricked my fingers on the cacti, I ran my hands along the pencil marks on the doorframe. We went to the kitchen and danced; I wish we could stay here forever. I woke up and that was the last time I saw him. The next morning, I questioned my mom, and she told me his father still lived in that house, although no one had seen him lately. "He's sort of a hermit," she said. "I wonder how he's doing." I'd seen Victoria and her mother a few times walking in our neighborhood, but other than those few passing waves hello, those parts of my childhood were gone. Over a decade later and I'm about to leave for college. Going through my old stuff, I find a box full of old pictures. I sat at the kitchen table and sifted through them, feeling for the little girl I'll never get to meet. Among these photos are ones of me and my childhood friends, as well as one of me on the airplane. I smile as I recognize people and places I'd almost forgotten. I reach the last photo in the box and look over at the time. I have to do the dishes.


I hadn’t been home for a couple years now. Moving to Seattle had made me hesitant to return. I had mixed memories of this town from when I was still in high school, biking on the waterfront trail with friends, sometimes alone or up the road at the seedy diner smashed between two dive bars. It was different now. I noticed more people wandering the streets. A man was yelling to no one as he ambled down the road, almost getting hit by oncoming traffic. I turned away, took the french press between us and poured some more coffee into my nearly full mug and refilled hers. The mugs were made locally. The glaze was uneven, but rather than detracting from the style, it made it a bit endearing. My mom looked exactly as I remembered, but I supposed she always would. I saw her in my mind and in my heart, before I saw her with my eyes. I wondered if it was the same for her. She had her eyes closed, sipping at the steaming cup. I heard this place was closing sooner. I couldn’t imagine running a massage business and a cafe in the same building. I debated ordering a grilled cheese with raspberry jam as my mom set her cup back onto the table. I was about to ask her if she was hungry, when she casually asked, “Did I ever tell you about the time I accidentally worked for The Mob?” “No?” She wasn’t one to make up stories, being very much a realist. It started to drizzle outside and steam began to intrude on the windows looking over the bay. Mom smiled nostalgically for a brief moment, before diving with complete abandon. It wasn’t long after moving to the east coast that she found herself searching for a new job. The money she’d saved went quickly, living so close to New York City. As the weeks went by, her pickiness dropped. She’d prefer a bookkeeping job for a somewhat decently sized firm. A bookkeeping job for an individual. Okay, something more like a secretary position at a print shop or marketing department. Well, maybe just any secretary position somewhere she’ll get a regular paycheck? So, it was with these low expectations that she came across a wanted ad for a secretary position at a contracting firm. Some cursory research made her feel a bit more at ease. They were already established-- not a start up. It seemed like they mostly contracted to construction and various warehouses, which was pretty standard for the industrial area where the office was located. She smiled coyly at the ad. She was young, fit, and figured herself pretty sharp. She would bet that whoever ran the operation was an old man, looking for a pretty face to take calls. Easy money. It was New York. It was the 70’s. The man was in his mid-fifties, somewhat large, but not rotund. He had lingering eyes, countered by his tendency to speak in a clipped manner. The office decor was surprisingly tasteful. My mom was blessed with a fabulous eye for good alcohol, clothing, and all manner of decor. Although, her bank account strained to accommodate this blessing. She wondered for a moment at the waiting room, with its plush seating, meticulously tended potted plants and their china vases. They must have some fairly wealthy clients. Her new employer, Giovanni, outlined her duties quickly. She didn’t have many responsibilities: answer the phone, greet clients, schedule appointments, etc. He was specific about having coffee ready in the morning, but otherwise this was what her sister would call a “Moe job”. Named after the owner of the least frequented motel, it was a job where you could get the things more important than your job done-- things like finding a better job. She got along fine at the office and found herself not hating the work. Giovanni was relatively relaxed when nothing big was happening, the workers were well-mannered and fun to talk with, and she got an hour long paid lunch. Sometimes she would have to take the lunch at odd hours, when certain clients showed up. Giovanni would always lend her his Cadillac, a handful of money, and tell her to take her time coming back. Maybe it was a little odd, but getting handed fifty or so for lunch and the keys to his car wasn’t a bad deal. It was one of the days they were expecting such a client. There was a new diner a few blocks down from her regular place. She was stuck between trying someplace new… or the incredible pie she usually had with some coffee. She was a sucker for pie. A polite knock tapped on the office door. The clients they were expecting usually let themselves in. She slowly opened the doors, looking over the young guys standing outside. One of them was wringing his shirt. She let them in and told them to have a seat, but they walked right past her, into Giovanni’s office. He looked up with a frown, but that quickly turned into gritted teeth. “Mr. Russo, cousin Vinny… he uh… he stole Grandad’s jewels!” The young man blurted out, ringing his untucked button-down shirt. Giovanni hurled the keys to his Cadillac at her. “Lunch break!” She left the office without a look back, driving a bit quicker than normal to her favorite little diner. Eggs. Coffee. A sympathising look from Becky, the waitress. Pie. More coffee. It hit her: the odd meetings, the fact that he hired someone so young (and naive), the exceedingly expensive office space, the Cadillac. She breathed in horror. “Oh my god, I’m working for The Mob.” I found myself laughing at her delayed realization. Of course, during the telling, everything was pretty obvious. My Mom was laughing as well, coffee forgotten in her hand, mine forgotten as well. “Did they ever find Vinny?” “Oh yeah! They found him. He wasn’t very smart. I overheard later that he was going to sell off the jewels to buy some drugs, but he ‘hid’ all of them under his mattress, like an eight-year-old with a dirty magazine.” We both laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation, but I found myself thinking about the company I had just joined, an Indian-owned contracting firm that hired out to tech companies. It wasn’t too different really, and I was beginning to realize that I might have to keep my eye out for warning signs. “Speaking of not very smart, the firm I’m contracted out from just payed a bunch of people for overtime they hadn’t received.” Mom frowned at the coffee, now an unpleasant room temperature. “Why didn’t they get paid before?” “Well, people had been complaining, but the office didn’t think overtime was real. Apparently, this has been going on for a few months.” Mom waved over to the girl behind the counter, wordlessly motioning at the press for a new one. It looked like she understood. Turning back to me, Mom asked, “What made it real?” I shrugged. “Two of the employees showed up with a lawyer.” I flipped over the tiny, sand hourglass as the waitress put the new press on our table. I would have to work up the courage to finish off enough cold coffee to make my cup hot again. Mom raised an eyebrow at me. “Well, that sounds a little shady.” Edit: A very good point about cars.


Most people live their lives in the present: looking back on the past; trying to anticipate the future. My gift – my curse – is that I was fated to foretell what will be. But the gods have a cruel sense of humour, for they decreed that no one would believe me when I spoke of things to come. Back then, I was Cassandra: daughter of Priam; sister of Paris. To be honest, I didn’t need the gift of prophecy to see that my brother’s desire for Helen would end in tears. She was beautiful – “the face that launched a thousand ships” is how one of the playwrights centuries later described her – but she was also married: to Menelaus, King of Sparta. He was a good bit older than her: no doubt he was handsome once, but by the time Paris visited Sparta, Menelaus had run to fat and was losing his hair. Paris, on the other hand, was only 17: tall, well-muscled, and with a smile that would melt your heart. Helen was some 9 or 10 years older, with a daughter, Hermione, but that didn’t stop the two of them. She and Paris fell in lust straightaway, and he carried her off to Troy whilst her husband was still planning the welcome reception. Of course, it didn’t last: within six months, they were getting on each other’s nerves and all the rampant sex had dwindled to a half-hearted fumble every now and then when Paris was drunk. Still, it was an excuse for a war, and we all know how men love prancing about waving swords. All that was centuries ago. My brother’s bones have long since crumbled to dust and the city of Troy remains a fallen ruin. The world I wander through now bears little resemblance to the one I knew, yet the gods are as capricious as ever – especially, it seems, when it comes to love… I’m sitting at one of those cafes with the chairs and tables outside when I see him. Sunlight dances across his hair, turning it to burnished gold, and for a moment, I am back in the past, gazing at the face of my beautiful brother as he carries Helen inside the city. The feelings I experience right now are not those of a sister. Over the centuries, I’ve had lovers; and for every one of them I’ve looked like the girl I was when Apollo first took a shine to me. He cursed me with immortality as well as prophecy: I think he thought it amusing to imagine me weeping over paramours who grew old and withered away whilst I remained in my prime. That’s what you get for saying no to a god. This one, though… Looking at him is like a cool drink on a hot summer’s day. I know instinctively that his lips will taste like honeyed mead and that his skin will smell of spice and stardust. The thought of him turns my bones to water. And then a premonition ripples across my mind and I see him tripping over the feet of a blonde woman some tables away and quite literally falling for her. Sometimes, you have to defy the gods. As he passes my table, I manage to drop my phone at his feet. He and I both reach for it together. Our fingers touch; our eyes meet. The rest is history. At least, it should be. But the gods have a way of re-righting the future, and it was never their intention for me to be happy. For now, they allow a brief moment of contentment: the lull before the storm. “I’m James,” says my modern-day Adonis. “I’m Cassie,” I reply. From the corner of my eye, I see the blonde woman leaving. We sit there, drinking coffee and talking, until the sky gradually darkens and twilight weaves around us.               “Do you want to get something to eat?” he says.               The café closes at 6, so we find a Wetherspoons and an empty table and order salmon for him and salad for me. It’s as the waitress is bringing our meals that I experience another flash of the future: James choking on a fishbone. I know then that the gloves are off and the temporary reprieve is over. I manage to time it right so that I jump up from my seat to go to the loo just as the waitress is about to hand us the plates. The china spins as my hand catches it, and a salmon fillet slithers to the floor. (Aren’t fillets meant to be boneless? Is this another example of Apollo’s twisted sense of humour?)               James isn’t impressed with my clumsy behaviour, but how can I tell him I’ve just saved his life? (Men don’t really like it when women end up being the heroes.) He asks for another salmon, but that was the last one. He has to settle for a pizza instead, and I can tell he’s not happy. He cheers up over apple pie and cream, and the glass of wine probably helps too. I’m still finding my way round these modern dating rituals, but when he asks if I’d like him to walk me home, I realise he’s hoping for an invitation to see my bedroom. I’m hoping for a friendly flash of inspiration. Nothing. If Aphrodite wants to bless our union, she’s keeping quiet about it for the time being. We’re within a few hundred yards of my flat when the premonition hits me: a man with a knife is trying to rob us. When James fights back, the blade slices into him.               I’ve hardly time to rifle through my bag, looking for anything that can be used as a weapon. My fingers close around a perfume atomiser. When the inevitable happens, only moments later, I let our attacker have the full force of the spray, right in his eyes.               James stares at me: half-impressed; half-horrified. “Do you make a habit of fighting off potential muggers?” His other question hovers in the air unspoken: what would you have done if that had just been a harmless passer-by?               But I’m on too much of a high to care. Giddy with relief at having averted disaster for James three times now, I dare to think that maybe the gods aren’t going to ruin things this time.               “My flat’s just over there,” I say, taking his hand and beginning to lead him across the road.               Flash! This premonition’s stronger than any of the others. I freeze mid-step, my mind watching in slow motion as the car hits James.               “Cassie!”               Frozen to the spot in shock, I’m suddenly aware of the car hurtling towards me. I’m too surprised to move out of the way. I always thought I’d anticipate my own death.               But I’m pushed out of the path of the oncoming vehicle a split second before it reaches the spot where I was. The spot where James now is – or rather, the crumpled heap that he’s become.               It’s my fault. If I hadn’t stopped in the road to focus on my premonition, he wouldn’t have needed to save me. No one would have been hurt. An ambulance arrives about ten minutes later. James is still breathing, but his beautiful face is a mess. A blonde paramedic helps her co-worker lift him onto a stretcher. Her face is familiar, and then I realise where I’ve seen her before. She’s the woman he was meant to fall for earlier.               I watch as she sits beside him in the ambulance, stroking his hand and talking to him softly. It will be her voice, not mine, he remembers, and her face will be the first one he sees when he wakes up.               Like I said, the gods have a way of righting the future – and I know they’ll never write a future where I finally find love.


LITTLE BULL                                                       Christine Cameron      08/23                                                             infotochris@gmail.com September 1, 1961 Dear Dutch –            I went to see the doctor today so got to go outside. He said I have to stay in bed. I am so tired of being in bed and just watching TV. I want to play outdoors.            My birthday is coming this month on the eighteenth and I will be ten years old. I hope the doctor will let me have a party. I will invite you and your wife to our house if he says it is OK. Very truly yours, Chrissy P.S. My friends played outside my bedroom window today and waved at me. P.S.S. I wish I could go outside and play with them. September 17, 1961 Dear Chrissy -            For your tenth birthday gift, I have decided to give you a new name.  Since you always add P.S.S. to your letters,  it is decided that your new name is Princess Snow Flower. From now on that is what I will call you.            It is a good name for an Indian Princess. You have now been officially adopted into my tribe of Oglala Lakota Sioux.            I know it is hard for you to stay inside while your friends play outside. I’m sad that the doctor will not allow you to go outside and play with your friends. I am sorry you cannot have a birthday party but I’m sure he just wants to make sure you are truly good and well this time.            Be brave and be a good girl so that you can go outside soon. Sincerely, Dutch (Mato Cikala)  Little Bull September 23, 1961 Dear Dutch  -            Thank you for the beautiful birthday gift of an Indian Princess name. I told my mom and she smiled. It has been hot outside this week. All of my friends have gone back to school, so no one is coming to play outside my window this week.            I do not go back to the doctor for a while so have to stay in my bed for now. Mom is trying to find a teacher that will come to our house, so I do not fall far behind in my schoolwork.            When you come to visit me again, will you tell me some stories about when you were a kid like me.            Our cat Pizza had six kittens this week. They were born under the covers in my brother’s bed. He was scared and he cried since there was a lot of blood in his bed, but the kittens were all OK and very cute.            Will you be able to visit me again soon? Very truly yours, Chrissy Princess Snow Flower P.S. I asked mom if we can keep one of the kittens. She said she would think about it. P.S.S. Do you want a kitten? October 3, 1961 Dear Princess Snow Flower –            Although I would like a kitten my dog would not like it so I cannot take one home.            I think I might be able to visit you again next month. My wife has a doctor’s appointment in Glendale so I will try to come up to La Crescenta and visit you too. In the meantime, I will tell you about my childhood.            When I was a child like you, my family lived at Pine Ridge Indian Reservation (Wazi Ahanjhar Ayanjke) in South Dakota. My father’s family was forced to move there in 1890 when he was 11 years old.            In 1889, the US government confiscated 7.7 million acres of Sioux sacred Black Hills. Our reservation occupied more than 11,000 square miles. In the 1800’s when my father was a child, there were only about 10,000 members of our tribe. We were small but mighty and a very proud people.            Our tribe was one of the last to be settled onto a reservation. It was a great loss of dignity to my father and his family.             On December 29, 1890, my grandparents were murdered in the Wounded Knee Massacre.            On that day, hundreds of U.S. troops surrounded a Lakota camp and opened fire, killing more than 300 Lakota women, men, and children in a violent massacre.            My father was adopted by his uncle, Wableeska (White Eagle) and he grew up to be a great hunter and warrior like those before him. His uncle named him Sunka – the dog spirit of companionship and faithfulness.            He and his uncle always made sure our family did not starve on the reservation because food was very scarce.            Be good and get well soon. I will try to see you next month. Sincerely, Dutch (Mato Cikala)  Little Bull October 18, 1961 Dear Dutch –            I am very excited today. My doctor told my mom the blood test came back good this time. He said he is being careful not to let me leave my room yet but said he is hopeful my health has turned the corner. I’m not sure exactly what that means but Mom hugged me and smiled. She is very happy and so am I.

           Mom said if I get another good report next month, I may be able to eat at the dinner table with the family soon. It has been five months since I have been able to leave my bedroom. Being able to have dinner with my family would make me very happy.            I am so sorry to hear about your family story. It is very sad. I cried.  Very truly yours, Princess Snow Flower P.S.  Were you ever sick like me when you were a kid? P.S.S. November 2, 1961 Dear Princess Snow Flower –            I am very happy to hear that your blood test went well. My wife did not feel well enough after she saw her doctor for us to come up and visit you this time. So, for now, we shall have to continue to be pen pals.          Yes, I was sick like you as a child. Although your lung disease is called Valley Fever, I had Tuberculosis as a child. It was very similar to what you are suffering with now. I was very sick and almost died. Medicine was not available on the reservation. My grandmother used herbs and sweat lodges to cure me. It was very hard for me to gain my strength back.            Like you, I wanted to play and be with my friends but had to stay inside for many months. You are strong, Chrissy. I know it is hard for you, but I have faith that you will get well soon and play outside again with your friends. Sincerely, Dutch (Mato Cikala)  Little Bull November 20, 1961 Dear Dutch –            Mom is getting the house fixed up for the holidays. She bought me a big red candle and some things I got to decorate it with. There are tiny little pins and I stick the thing called a sequin onto the pin and push it into the candle. It is very beautiful.            Mom let me sit in the living room today for an hour. I am still very weak, but it was nice to sit on the couch and not be in my bed all day. Very truly yours, Princess Snow Flower P.S. Did you celebrate Thanksgiving when you were a kid? December 1, 1961 Dear Princess Snow Flower:            We did not have a traditional Thanksgiving when I was growing up.            My mother died during childbirth when my little sister was born in 1913. I was 9 years old. My father grew very sad and never married again. He died in 1931, just seven years after Native Americans became U.S. citizens under the Indian Citizenship Act of 1924.            Our revered ancestor, Red Cloud (Mahpiua Luta), was the leader of our tribe when my father was born in the Nebraska territory before it became a state in 1867. He was the first American Indian in the West to win a war against the United States. He was also the last.            Red Cloud continued his work to preserve Indian lands and to maintain the authority of traditional Native American leaders. Several years before his death, he converted to Christianity and changed his name to John. He died on the Pine Ridge reservation in 1909.            I was only 5 years old when he died but my memories of him are strong because our family kept his spirit alive within us for many generations.            Because I had no mother at home, I was forced to attend a Native American boarding school in 1915 when I was 11 years old.  Just a bit older than you are now.             They took away my given name and called me Dutch. We were not allowed to speak our own language and were forced to learn proper English. It was a very harsh existence for a young boy. We were whipped and starved and punished if we spoke our language or practiced our own traditions. I hated it there but had to learn to tolerate it, knowing that one day I would leave and never look back.            More than once, I tried to run away but they told my father that he would be punished and even imprisoned if I did not return. I stayed there for three years. I learned your language they forced me to learn. But I never forgot who I was in my heart.

           In October of 1918 the influenza epidemic reached South Dakota. A student with no sick family at Standing Rock reservation fell ill, quickly followed by the teacher. It infected hundreds and all of us were sent back to the reservations we had been taken from.            My family was very happy to have me back home. There was very little food, and it was deep into winter, but we did celebrate my return as a happy Thanksgiving.            I am very happy that you are getting stronger. Be a good girl and do what the doctor tells you to do so you can go back to school soon. Sincerely, Dutch (Mato Cikala)  Little Bull January 12, 1962 Dear Dutch –            We all had a very happy Christmas. I hope you did too.            Santa brought me a Barbie doll with a shiny black case to carry her in. She is so beautiful. She has blonde hair like me.            I went back to the doctor last week and he told Mom I may be able to go back to school in a month or two. I am holding my fingers crossed for good luck. Please cross yours for me too.            Please come and visit when you can. Very truly yours, P.S. Flower P.S. Did you and Jennie have a Merry Christmas? February 1, 1962 Dear Princess Snow Flower –            Dutch is not able to write to you this month, but he asked me to send a letter telling you that he is thinking about you and sending his good wishes your way.            He has been very sick, and the doctor says he must rest in bed for a month or more to recover. His lungs are weak as a result of the old TB and malnutrition he had as a child.            Please remember him in your nightly prayers. He is hoping to feel better soon and be able to write to you again. Sincerely, Jennie March 8, 1962 Dear Dutch –            I have been saying my prayers that you get well soon and come to visit me. The doctor told Mom that I can go back to school next month, so I am working on getting stronger.            Mom has let me walk down the hallway in our house twice a day. It is only a few steps, but she says it will help me get ready for school. I’m very excited.            I hope that you are feeling much better too. It would be so nice to see you again once I am stronger and can sit in the living room and not be in bed when you visit. Very truly yours, P.S. Flower P.S. Does the doctor say you are getting better yet? P.S.S. Please write soon March 12, 1962 Dearest Chrissy –            I am so very sad to have to tell you that Dutch passed away in his sleep last week.            He wanted so much to come to visit with you again, but his energy never returned. His heart was just not strong enough to keep beating.            Up until the very last day he would talk to me about you and tell me how much he hoped you were getting stronger and would be able to return to school and play with your friends.            Please know that he cared for you deeply and wanted only the best for you. He truly loved reading your letters and telling you about his life. He had me read them to him over and over again before he died.            You will always be a special memory to me because you brought so much joy to the only man I ever loved. Thankfully, Jennie White Horse Wife of  Little Bull


Log #4 The nearest gas station was in town. And Fin lives about 15 miles out of town. I walked back up to his house. And saw my car was there. I thought I was lucky it hadn't gotten stolen. I walked up to it and hopped in. Looked in my glove box for my keys. They were there, luckily. I tried to start it but was surprised to hear a grinding noise. I looked at my gas gauge. Empty. Then I smelled it. Gas. A leak? It must be. I looked and saw an exposed wire. A few. And they were sparking. In a car filled with gas. I immediately jumped out. I walked around and saw Fins car. I hopped in, and didn't smell gas. I looked in his glove box and, luckily, his keys were in there. I turned his car on and saw his gas gauge. He had barely any. But hopefully enough. I turned his keys and put the car in reverse. I had never driven a manual before. But I thought I better learn fast. I remember my aunt drove one. And I hoped I had what I knew to drive it. I backed up, out of the driveway, and started down the freeway. I drove for awhile, then got bored. So I turned up the radio. I felt like I was in one of those apocalyptic movies. I drove for awhile and then saw the sign for my town. I was so happy. Never had I been so happy to be in my town. I pulled over to the Shell gas station and walked inside. Ransacked. As expected. Although, a few things were left. And I grabbed a few Pringles cans and sodas. I decided to grab some things for myself and my ferret. I then got behind the counter and put 20 on 4. I was happy that I worked there for those few months. As I filled up the car, I thought about how far away the nearest life was. And then I filled up the canisters. I started up the car and drove back. I went into the shelter and filled up the generators. Then started them up. The lights came back on. And I went looking for people. The first thing I saw was the kids. I asked where everyone else was. They said they were around here somewhere. I went to the freezer and took stock of what we lost. We lost a few meats and some vegetables. I went to my room and fed my ferret. Then sat down and watched some T.V. I assumed the others were in their rooms. I drifted off to sleep to the sound of jeopardy. When I woke up, I walked into the kitchen. And I heard the sound of rain on the vault door. It has to be acid rain. All of the radiation in the air would have to do that. I looked at the fridge to make breakfast and saw a note. Hey kids, sorry we left. We were just going to find some gas. And look for [me]. I realized where they had gone. Out there. Into the acid rain.


A police car sat at the end of the alley with the passenger door still open. Two officers slowly crept down the alley inspecting every nook and cranny with their flashlights. The call had come in only a few minutes before they had arrived at the end of the alley from sheer luck of stopping at the Korean restaurant around the corner for some spicy beef noodles. The rookie, who had left the passenger door open, was thinking of his noodles in the back of his mind. His partner would have a talk with him to ensure he doesn’t make the same mistake again but for now he hopes no one jumps in the car seeing it exposed as it is. A skittering across the alley caused the officer driving to come to an instant stop so the pair could investigate further. They had both seen the movement and knew it did not look like anything they had seen before. This drew extra caution from the officers as they delved further into the alley to find the culprit who had interrupted their noodles. Tahurqes tried not to make a sound as he knelt between the buildings where he had stopped. The sudden appearance of the police car startled him delaying the activation of the device he wore on his side. It was not a device from this planet although it had been built here. It had been built by a man simply known as George, but it was not his real name. Tahurqes did not have an official name for it but planned on calling it the chameleon upon returning home. The chameleon had nothing to do with his mission Tahurqes was on, but he hoped it would bring him prestige which could help bring George back home from his exile. Tahurqes, who was going by the name Timmy, had been on a research mission for the past year and tonight was the night he was planned to return after being picked back up by the original vessel which had dropped him off last year on New Year’s Eve. This was the best night due to the celebration helping to cover an unidentified craft being in Earth’s atmosphere. The fireworks added to the cover and made this night perfect. Unfortunately the current state of the country, not to mention the world, made it more difficult to navigate to the preassigned meeting place. He now felt he was being hunted for being out past curfew which is what led to his current predicament. He currently found himself wedged in between a pair of buildings partly hidden by a dumpster. He was also just realizing the dumpster was for one of the buildings he was tightly hidden between and, unfortunately, ended up being a seafood restaurant. Normally this would not be a problem due to the temperature remaining below 40° Fahrenheit except for the fact in such an alley the multitude of vents from the various businesses kept the temperature above 70 the majority of the time. This led to the unpleasant aroma extruding from the dumpster which had begun to assault his nostrils. He unconsciously wiped tears from his eyes as he discovered the negative effects of hiding behind a dumpster of two-day old seafood. Even though he loved shrimp, he never had a taste for fish, crab, or lobster and the smell made his stomach begin to churn. After the year he had on Earth this further cemented his opinion he would rather spend a year on some sideways frozen tundra of a planet, like Uranus, living at -300° being pelted with methane ice crystals instead of doing this again. He had determined humans are their own worst enemies. They would not only fail in any attempt to cooperate with an alien species, such as the Khodnix from Throxirah, but they will be the victims of their own demise one day. Most of them would deny an alien race even existed, others would create some new religion and persecute anyone who did not believe this was the “one true” religion, and more still would claim it was a setup by the government to control people. Tahuqes, or Timmy, had learned much about humans during his year on Earth doing research for the governing body of his home world. He was fascinated by the amount of freedom some parts of this world enjoys while others are persecuted, imprisoned, and even killed over the slightest thing deemed illegal by the government or any other group in a particular region. Timmy had concluded humans claimed to have less freedoms with the more freedom you give them. Deep down there is the ingrained traits of greed and corruption in all of them and it is a personal choice to overcome those desires to do good on this planet. Unfortunately the majority of the time the bad seems to outweigh the good and those who wish to improve the planet for everyone seem to not make a noticeable difference in the end. The sooner he was away from here the sooner these humans can go on living their self-destructive lifestyles in a rapidly approaching tragic end. Finally unable to take it anymore, and on the verge of losing everything he had eaten a few hours earlier, Timmy placed the helmet to his suit on his head and fastened it in place. The fresh air from his life support system kept the unwarranted scent from reaching his nose allowing him to focus on avoiding the figures of authority slowly approaching down the alley toward his current location. A glance at the chameleon showed he had plenty of power left to avoid detection when needed. He silently praised George as he flicked the switch on the device, blending into his environment, just before one of the flashlights shined between the buildings. This was the genius behind the chameleon. He remembered the day George had showed it to him and the excitement he felt seeing it work for the first time. He had admitted to himself before as to what doubts he had if the device would ever work but knew if anyone could make it work George could. He felt bad for George even if he never told him so. Fortunately for George, he was exiled with him wife Alice whose real name in the Khrodnix language was Ghruttonxs. Their daughter, upon reaching the age of maturity, which is 62.8 human years on their home world, had went out to enjoy parts of the galaxy as all kids do at that age. Khrodnix aged much slower than humans due to time moving much slower on the planet of Throxirah. She had a run of bad luck when she chose the wrong group to head out with and ended up on Earth which is forbidden unless a decree was issued by the head council. This group, however, did not have any sort of decree and decided to party here on Earth for a few weeks due to the excitement they found in the destructive nature of humans. The group had no trouble while on Earth landing and leaving again three weeks later without detection. Even the humans they interacted with had no idea they were partying with aliens who soon discovered they could get just as drunk from Earth made alcohol as the humans did. On Khrodnix there are certain chemicals mixed into the alcohol to prevent one from getting drunk. This was not considered by the group as humans were still considered primitive by advanced races and avoided at all costs the majority of the time. George and Alice’s daughter returned home, and the group said nothing of their venture to Earth for fear of the consequences upon being found out. The problem arose two years later when their daughter discovered she was carrying a half human fetus in her womb. This caused an uproar throughout the planet when it was discovered. It was also discovered later George and Alice knew about their daughter going to Earth and the child she was carrying. She was given one of two choices for her punishment for disobeying the ban from travel to Earth and for copulating with a human. The latter had no laws forbidding it but was inherent on the first therefore compounded the penalty. She could submit to feticide and serve the allotted time in prison set by the laws of the head council or face permanent exile to Earth where the child could be raised as a human and no mention of his true maternal lineage at all. She chose exile but once it was discovered George and Alice had knowledge of the pregnancy previously they were also sent in exile under the guise it would best suite the child to have more of his family around him as it seems more important to humans than to the Khrodnix. And so it was the trio set off and lived for sixteen years on Earth as a happy family a few months before the birth of a half human half Khrodnix child to be named Greg. No Khrodnix name was given due to the family being exiled to Earth under the premise they would never be able to return to their home world. Khrodnix resembled humans closely enough to be able to blend in with little effort which helped them live on Earth undetected. Greg, however, had turned out to be much smarter than any of the children around him on Earth. This was blamed on having Khrodnix genes mixed in with the human ones expanding his intellect. He recently celebrated his sixteenth Earth birthday, if he aged the same as humans that is, and had already graduated high school and college with his first degree. He was already planning on an advanced degree and discovered he had his grandfather’s knack for electronics as well as physics and biology. He also had a keen sense of observation which allowed him to discover many things he should not have. This was not a problem until the arrival of his grandfather’s old friend Tahuqes in the form of Timmy. Greg knew something was not right from the moment he first met Timmy and voiced this to his grandfather who assured him Timmy was an old friend. He claimed Timmy was as human as himself which helped relax Greg temporarily. Timmy stayed hunched behind the dumpster having a mental flashback to all of this as he enjoyed the fresh air from his suit keeping the unwanted attack at bay. He then thought to the day George showed him the chameleon in his garage after he had successfully tested it for the first time. It had only been a theory on Throxirah, but no one had succeeded in making a functioning until before George decided to tackle this in his garage one weekend. Unfortunately, at the very moment George flicked on the until and seemed to disappear into the wall behind him Greg had walked into the garage. Timmy and George had thought he was still in town much to their surprise. Timmy had been fast in closing the door behind Greg, but this did not help clear up the confusion in his mind upon seeing his grandfather disappear. His worries lessened when George turned the unit off and reappeared as soon as he saw the door open and Greg walk into the garage. As Timmy was thinking of this, he noticed the lights had moved further down the alley and started to consider if he could move across the alley undetected. He was about to move when he suddenly realized something he had never considered during the tests he and George had conducted with the chameleon. Would he still cast a shadow from the lights flashing on the police car at the end of the alley? If so, he would surely be noticed by the pair of officers at the far end when his shadow was cast across them. He moved over in front of a window to verify the chameleon was still working and saw the colors of the building behind him blend around him perfectly hiding him in what little light he could see in the reflection. He wished there was enough light to see if there was a shadow on the wall behind him. He decided it was now or never. As luck would have it, or his bad luck as he called it, one of the officers turned around and shined his flashlight back down the alley at the same moment Timmy decided to make his move across the alley. The officer saw a slightly darker spot move across the alley making it appear as a spot in the middle of the alley was becoming distorted moving across the alley to the other side. He yelled for his partner as he drew his weapon and took a shot missing Timmy who had already slid beside the building hiding himself from view. He questioned if this year would ever end or if he would miss a chance to leave as his window of opportunity was set to close in a couple more hours. He checked the time and realized thirty minutes had been wasted as he waited for the officers to reach the far end of the alley. Little good that turned out to be for him as they were rapidly approaching his new hiding place with the certainty something was hiding there. So much for the city of brotherly love as this lockdown was much more serious than he originally thought it to be. The officers began to turn the corner where Timmy was sure to be found even with the chameleon hiding him. This new alley he was currently hiding in was much too small to allow anyone to pass without having to bump into him. Even if he remained perfectly still, he could not move far enough out of the way. Timmy suddenly remembered his weight transference device allowing him to scale the wall to the top of the building he now stood next to. He was unsure if he could move out of the way fast enough before he was caught and arrested, or worse. He definitely did not want to be shot by Mr. trigger happy heading his way after being shot at once. Timmy was certain the officer did not realize he had put a hole in his own patrol car with that shot but knew the car would survive better than him getting hit with a bullet. The officers turned the corner just as Timmy was about to make his move and he knew it was over for him. He was just about to turn off the chameleon and surrender when the sound of glass shattering came the direction the officers had originally came. Both turned and ran back toward their car to see what had happened and Timmy saw the time to make his move. Quick as could be, he pressed the button to activate his weight transference device and scaled the wall before either of the officers returned to continue searching for him and was at the top of the building in under fifteen seconds. He ran to the edge to see what had shattered and saw the back window of the police car broken with a rock lying on the trunk. Both officers looked around for the culprit and Timmy looked down the street just in time to see Greg disappear into a store at the end of the street avoiding detection from the officers. Timmy walked back across the rooftop and made a mental note to personally thank that kid if he ever saw him again. Maybe he should see about smuggling some books from Throxirah to Earth for Greg to really learn from. With a short jump he began sprinting across the tops of the buildings, running toward the designated meeting spot for the ship to pick him up for the trip back to Throxirah. A boom overhead startled him for a second until he realized it was midnight and he had made it. Two more blocks and he was home free. He saw a light and thought his ride was here until he heard the blades of a helicopter cutting the air above the buildings and saw the light shining around from rooftop to rooftop searching for him. He then noticed it wasn’t shining directly on the rooftops but between the buildings to assist the original officers in their search. It was not hard to avoid the helicopter as it moved on to his search. He landed on top of one of the tallest buildings just as he heard a church bell start to announce the new year. At the same time he heard people cheering and beginning to celebrate as fireworks began erupting overhead as everyone bid farewell to this awful year with the hope of a better year to come. It was at this same moment Timmy saw a faint glow around him and felt an unfathomable number of atoms in his body split and instantly transferred some 70 miles upward to the spacecraft awaiting his arrival. His last thought before leaving Earth was of the officers who would never find him this, or any, night. Timmy opened his eyes and saw a familiar sight. It was the last thing he saw before he was sent to Earth for his year of research. He turned around and saw the engineer who had transported him smiling. He asked how it went and Timmy replied he never wanted to go back to that planet again. He honestly could not wait to return to bring George and his family back home where they belong.


It was an ordinary day. Most days in Beer Sheba lacked the many distinctions of life in a modern city and had not the faintest trace of a thrill in them. The city, like the desert surrounding it, was bleak and monotonous. For one can never run out of words to describe the metropolis of present day, nor can one describe with impeccable detail the ever-changing forest. But a desert is, simply put, a big brown wasteland. Sure, a close look at its texture reveals lines and curvatures and small glimpses of life, but that is beside the point: a desert can appear as a still object from afar, and the forest and metropolis cannot. Likewise, the city of Beer Sheba could be described in a short list of words: hot, aggressive, flat, low, boring, despairing. I came to the city out of necessity, and my military background soon pushed me to work as a security guard. My job was to escort income tax officials who wished to collect money owed to the state from people who did not practice paying taxes on a regular basis – criminals if I may say so bluntly. The criminals were not keen on parting from their precious possessions, and that was exactly the place for me to step in. the clerks I accompanied had extensive training for conflict management, negotiating with hostile persons and convincing them to pay what was due. However, some gifted mind in the executive branch of the ministry decided a trained bodyguard with a gun could help deliver the delicate message. That was me. One would think that the aggressions that naturally occur in such a line of work would break the dullness imposed on me by the wretched city, and one would be totally mistaken. Sure, there was plenty of threatening and shouting and from time to time a conflict would arise, but they all had the same tasteless nature of the city. Their threat, their anger, even their violence – they all screamed mediocracy while whispering danger. It was an ordinary day in a painfully pain city stuck in the middle of the desert. It was my daily routine to walk in Writer's Park, a modern park full of green fields and free books amid grey rectangular buildings, a place that I could embrace as a lone seeker of intellectual life. In that park I would sit at dusk after my daily shift, read a book from the oval library at the center of the park, write my thoughts on a given subject, and hope for different times yet to come.  Indeed, I must admit that I loved the feeling of loneliness on my usual seat there, the feeling of separation from all others, even the soreness in my throat from being lonely for so many years. It was not always so. Back in the army my comrades were my friends, my family. I did not have to feign manners or adjust to social norms, they accepted me for my quirks and loyalty and sharp instincts. They knew I was terrible with greetings and small talk, but better with carrying a rucksack in time of need. And they knew me as the sharpshooter who saved Illai and Yotam that one night in the streets of Bethlehem, when shots were fired from the rooftops and the fog covered our assailants. The memory remains clear and vivid, of the small flicker amidst the shadows on the rooftop, yielding the position of one of them. I remember the recoil, the shift of distant shapes as the man collapsed and remained still. I had no telescope to give away my hiding spot, and it allowed me to remain in my spot, target the second shooter, pull the trigger, feel the recoil, watch the rifle fall from the window to the street below. We went forward, pulled the injured to safety, and parachute flares lit the sky in yellow and orange. And I saw what I have done. One was silent as a stone when I arrived, his eyes shut peacefully, his chest penetrated twice where I hit him, the blood beneath him like a bed of roses. The other one still moved, faintly flailing his arms, searching for a rifle far beneath us, resting on the pavement. His eyes were dizzy, feverish, focused on things I could not see; his mouth moved, and he uttered words unknown to me. And then he became silent too. I was a hero back then, and that meant a burden compounded with privilege. The others knew that, respected that. And then came the war. I could handle the urban conflict, the stressful nights, the constant booming beat of the heart, the gunfire. But what can the bravest soldier do in face of the raging skies, pouring down mortars on the open field? There was no cover, no merciful curve of the earth, and the vicious bright sunlight revealed the horror in all its detail. The mortars crushed earth and metal and flesh; the shrapnel penetrated a few others. I stood frozen and watched fire and metal burn through foundations of my previous life. When it was done, I ran and assisted those I could still save, trying to keep them alive just until the medics show up, just a while longer. They all said that I performed perfectly, that I did what I should do, that I saved whom I could have. And when things deteriorated, they did not, would not discharge me. They gave me a made-up position in the supply company, so that records would show that I completed three years of service as a combatant in a special forces unit. They did it so I could find a job more easily, shape my narrative more freely. They did it because they felt indebted, but we both knew the truth of things, and I resented them for it. As is the natural way of things, those of us who remained found other ways to disrupt our lives, in the years following our release form service. Some got addicted to drugs, their mind forever lost in a marinade of hallucinogens. Others went on trips increasingly more dangerous, more extreme, until sometimes the disappeared entirely, their fates forever a mystery. I dabbled in those sorts of things, but my cowardice always stopped me from taking the final necessary step. I signed up for a bachelor's in computer science, like a grown-up man with a plan and appropriate aspirations. And slowly my will slipped away, as if by a decree of a higher power. The gravity of events finally caught up to me, preventing me from fluxing with the direction of normal desirable life. That was how I got to that point in life, sitting on my regular bench in Beer Sheba, searching the skies for an eventful omen of sorts. I do not know what urge pushed me to walk to that certain street, on that particular day, but something did draw me to that street. Perhaps I was looking for a restaurant, a grocery store, an ill-attempted bar. I remember the explosion, mirroring the sounds I had not heared for so many years. I turned and watched the Utility pole burn, covered in a ball of fire, roaming with anger. Electricity crackled through the wires, so fast that the eyes could barely keep track, and the streets quickly darkened. All around us, the city shut down. The fire burned the walls of a building and quickly dissolved, leaving charred remains of the pole in its place. As I started to walk back to my bench, people swarmed out of the buildings, out of their ugly concrete rectangles and lifeless neighborhoods. I knew that someone eventually would take care of it all, but the impression of the bursting pole still possessed my mind. Wherever I looked the fire remained, rendering me helpless as I once was. I do not remember what drew me to that certain spot on the grass, next to a few people sitting and watching the commotion before them with ease.  I sat there and watched the city wake up as the blackout took hold of it. Like a potion to cure the body of a tumor, so was the darkness to Beer Sheba. Unable to escape the desert, people flowed out of their cool shelters, and at last I could drown in an endless ocean of souls. The heat from the fire still warmed my face, like it once did so many years ago. Inside that crowd I got lost, and finally absolved myself of my fears, of the false sense of significance. Just a drop in the ocean, nothing more, no use to fret over it. If a sick individual slows down the herd, it knows deep down when to depart, and now I knew it too. Quickly through the streets, to pack as many things into the dusty backpack eager for a final adventure. The streetlights were out, cars stopped in the middle of the street, men and women stood in the street, hopeless and perplexed. I walked past them all, away from the road, from my apartment, from all the hated things that I accustomed myself to. Away from them, and into the eager desert. I watched the dark shades of the city absorb the dark blue of night, the stars above glowing, oozing with light, encircling a moon yellow like the sun. it burned like the fire ball on the utility pole, like the desert's sun in bootcamp, like the Humvees and APCs burning, spreading fire in the dry fields, entrapping screams of despair. Now my legs burned, the sweat reminded me of the day we first crossed the border into Gaza strip, and how I looked at the stars back then. So many years gone by, and always the remained above, a single comfort in a life bitter, a life dissipating before the desert's sun. The pool of sweat beneath me reminded me of a pool of blood, of arms crossed, and a man peacefully laid to rest. An ancient Greek philosopher once said that life is fire, that all that is and becomes does so by the way of fire. Now it has burnt through the tired body in a final cleansing surge. The gun lay heavy in my hand, but it did not tremble. Once I thought my exit from this world would be something worth reading about, a hero's death in a blazing gunfight. Now I find an enemy in my own image, clinging to remnants of a life deserted. I lay down on the cool sand, feel the cold steel in my mouth. I look up at the stars, a final glance, a calming presence. Across infinite skies they spread out, their light strong and enduring, indifferent of small waning stars.


The Things I Wrote By Jennifer Leigh Kiefer In sixth grade, you stopped me in the hall by our lockers. You had noticed I was reading a book you liked. I was new to the school; you were my first friend.              By seventh grade we had a friend group that was inseparable. Bonded by books, bonded by the written word. We spent our time writing stories and acting out the ones we read in the woods by your house. Out there we could do and be anything. We would climb the trees like cats or fly out of them like birds. Those woods were a whole world to us then. You were so wonderfully adventurous, always convincing us to climb another tree, dream a little bigger. And when I climbed too high, you talked me down, helped me find my way back to solid ground and then we’d race back to your room with the big white bookcases, and you’d tell me your newest idea or show me the strawberry lip gloss you wanted to wear for your first kiss.              And by eighth grade, boys were lining up, without even knowing it was strawberry lip gloss they wanted to taste. While I was hopeless at flirting, you knew just what to say. Plus, you always were the prettiest of us. You’d flip your hair, figure out how to swish your hips when you walked… you didn’t need to turn around to know they were right behind you. We acted out stories less and less, but we still would fight for the main character when we did. Even though it should have been clear to me who the main character in the story of our friendship was. I would have followed you anywhere. Of course, I was your sidekick. At lunch our group expanded to include the guys who always fought to sit on either side of you. But that was okay, I sat directly across, the perfect spot to share a smile, or an inside joke, when the boys lost your attention. At the end of the school year, we spent a whole day racing around a theme park, no adults to slow us down. We imagined what high school would be like. We could never have been more wrong.

             Instead of freedom we found our lives crowded by harder classes, more activities, and less time to visit the woods and our world away from all the stress. I could no longer keep track of all the boys following you, but maybe there weren’t nearly as many as I remembered. It took me nine years to figure out why they even bothered me so much and I’m not so sure I trust my hormonal teenage memories.  But to me it seemed like they were always there. Even during the one class where there shouldn’t have been any, you found ways to go find them. I thought that was supposed to be our time. I worried our time would disappear entirely.

             I don’t remember what precisely started our fight.              I don’t remember what caused me to write that letter.              But I remember that I cried as I wrote it. I remember one of our friends warning me not to give it to you. And I remember not listening.

             However, for all the words I wrote about feelings in that letter, it has taken nine years to come to terms with what I was really feeling. It seems so obvious now. It’s crazy to think it took another six years to figure out that I liked girls. And it wasn’t until a date with a girl a couple years later that I really figured out that I always had. I don’t remember her name, but she told me about how she realized she had grown up with a crush on Meg from Hercules. Since that conversation, I’ve seen movies I’ve loved as long as I can remember in a new light. I didn’t only have crushes on Disney princesses though. I’ve been slowly rewriting my memories from before as well.

             Do you remember when we pretended that we were our favorite characters from our favorite book series? I got to be the main character in that one and you played my love interest. We worked together to save the world against the villains we made up in the woods. Inevitably I would get hurt or captured and you would come to save me, playing the hero just like the hero you had become to me when you talked to me in the hall that day in sixth grade.

             For a couple wonderful years, you played my love interest out there in the woods, until out in the real world, you found love interests of your own. In the real world I wasn’t the main character, but while it took me many years to realize, you were still my love interest.

             In that letter I wrote that I hated your laugh. I wondered for many years why I wrote about something so trivial, so irrelevant. I didn’t hate your laugh though. I hated that I was no longer the one making you laugh that way.

             I hated that I didn’t know how to leave the world we created, or that I didn’t want to. I hated feeling left behind in those woods. No one to talk me out of the tree. No one to convince me to climb in the first place.

             You moved away the summer after I wrote that letter. Before I could realize what I had done. Before I could apologize. Did you find new trees to climb by your new house? Do you still climb trees today? Do you create new worlds in those trees like we once did together? Do you ever put those worlds on a page?

             I’m not as good at it now, but I’ll still climb a tree here and there. And I often dream the day away.  I’ve filled pages and pages since we last spoke…including pages and pages I’ve wanted to send to you.

             But I’ve forever been haunted by the things I wrote. It took me nine years to understand myself, how could I ever ask the same of you?

             You were the one that taught me to climb higher though, so I will ask anyway.

             And you were the one that convinced me to take the risk and jump back down when I climbed too high, so…              You were the first girl I loved. I came out as pansexual last year, though I’ve always loved regardless of gender. I wish I would’ve known it then so I wouldn’t have written those hateful things out of a jealousy I didn’t understand. But I had a long journey of self-discovery to go through, one I wasn’t ready to take when we were friends.

             You owe me nothing, but if you remember the world in the woods like I do, if you remember the sleepovers, the snacks, the strawberry lip gloss, and if you remember all the books we read and words we wrote together with a fraction of the fondness I do… please forgive me for not appreciating a friendship I cherished so much more than I showed. Forgive me for all the things I got upset by with no explanation I knew how to give. Forgive me for all the things I wrote. Both in that letter and the apologies I have written and left unsent since.

             Forgive me because I know I’ve made far too many mistakes, but even though I have grown a lot and learned a lot and changed so, so much… I’d still really love to visit that world in the woods one more time. With love, The girl who still misses your friendship nine years later.


It had been a week since the humans had moved to a new house. Cookie looked longingly out of the second story window at her own reflection. She was a small cat, the runt of the litter – but fierce enough to survive. She had glistening black fur with a patch of white under her chin. Her eyes were as green as the fields of grass she often dreamed of. Her old life at the old place had been easy, there were few cats to contend territory with. The humans looked after her well enough, even that stupid old German shepherd had his uses distracting the boy from wanting her affection. Her fur bristled for a moment as she surveyed the road outside. It was dimly illuminated by the orange glow of a street light, something stirred, but not enough to warrant alert. The humans were in bed. Soon she thought, her quarantine would be over. “I bet they put butter on my paws so that I come back again” she mused. Again, something moved. As she narrowed her vision, pupils taking over the rest of her eye, it was then she saw him. She watched transfixed. The hulking mass of feline perfection strutted from between a bin and the wall. He walked slowly, alertly but with an air of confidence. “This must be the leader” Cookie surmised. He moved forward, checking left and right from the exit of the driveway. Cookie wagged her tail unconsciously, knocking over a glass from the window ledge to the floor. The window was cracked open slightly. He will have heard. He must have heard… She saw him looking upward and it hit her like a snowball to the face. She felt the sting of terror between her eyes and froze. The cats face was just as hulking as the rest of him, Piercing dark eyes looked back at her as she uncontrollably started shaking. This was no normal cat. His face contorted for a second, he let out a low meow, a warning – and darted off into the night. For a few days after, Cookie felt in a state of anxiety as the end of her quarantine came closer. “I’ll just avoid him – I’ll stay behind my house, in the garden and climb trees. He won’t come into the humans territory” she hoped. “What are you looking glum about princess?” she heard behind her. “Bruce, your ever improvising ways of sneaking up on me will get you a claw in the eye, you stupid dog!” she hissed. “Fine, be that way – the humans are letting you out soon aren’t they? You see that massive cat outside? I can’t wait to bite its tail!” Bruce and Cookie had come to an agreement some time ago. Bruce was the boys favourite, it was both his best friend and childhood companion. Cookie was a stray in the eyes of the humans, but to her, she’d just picked the family that gave her the best food. She was the little girls pet. The initial period of their union was fraught with skirmishes. The dog was a hulking mass himself. Had a major issue with other dogs. If it was female, he wanted carnal relations. If it was male, it was on his territory. So was the nature of the dog. Cookie quickly realised if he really wanted to, he could easily rip her head off, but what he didn’t like was having his nose clawed. They decided to cohabit, it was easier that way, for both them and the humans. “You really are backwards, dog.” She sneered. “That cat would make you into mincemeat” “Oh yeah? You think so? It may be big, but it’s only a cat – I would annihilate him” – the air of confidence slightly shaken. She turned and walked to the door. This was it. The humans were ready to let her loose. She was thankful that no longer did she have to use the box of gravel to go to the toilet. She was dignified after all, and leaving her business for the humans to clear up was unbecoming of a cat of her stature.


Droplets of water shiver. Rolling slowly down off of their green beds; the blades of grass bend under the shifting weight. The dew moves with the coming dawn. Trying desperately to hide from the rays of the sun. They don't make it. New light hits them, splitting into seven as it does. All along the verdant lawn spots of color explode outward. To any eye sharp enough to notice, the ground has turned into countless pinpoint rainbows. The sight, sadly, doesn't last. The rising heat takes hold of any droplet not quick enough to hide. They shrink under the sun's grip. Vapor slowly rises into the sky; the air ripples as water is freed from its earthly bonds. On these rising currents drifts a large bird. Amber orbs perch atop a sharp curved beak. They dart this way and look for breakfast. Now that the lawn is still, it can perceive any movement. Talons flex hungry, as it lazily floats above the world. A soft buzzing drones over the now motionless yard. Looking for a flower amongst already ripened berries; a bee bumbles along. It had found pollen here earlier in the year and was back to check for more. However, it had done its job quite well and now all that could be found was fresh fruit. A rustle in the grass causes the hawk to dive. It lands with thud. The full force of the plunge burying wicked talons into its prey. A few flaps and it's off, a rabbit clutched underneath it. There is no remorse for this act from the hunter. A nest full of screeching chicks demands to be fed. It flies back over a cabin, bringing the fresh meat back to its young. A small girl stands on the porch looking in awe at the retreating bird. Too young to really understand what she had just seen. She dashes out into the late morning sun, taking a wide course around her home. Behind the cabin was a large patch of black earth devoid of any grass. A man and two older children were bent over. Careful not to step on any of the small green shoots coming out of the ground. Their steps leave deep footprints in the soft soil. They were inspecting each seedling coming up in their respective rows. Fingers reached out and pulled plants gently aside. Selecting the undesirable ones and removing them from the tilled earth; leaving only the growing vegetables. The girl sprinting, called to her father as she approached. All three looked up from their task. The man's face breaks into a grin. She entered the garden; slowing her pace, she picked her way carefully through remaining plants. She had learned last year to be careful. When she reached the man she proudly exclaimed her sighting of the hawk. The man lifted her up, resting her in the crook of his arm. Praising her sharp eyes, he gave her a tight hug. She burst into a giggle before forcing her face into a pout, imploring her father to come play. He took a moment and looked around the garden. The weeding was almost done. Then he turned his eyes to his other two children, who had barely masked desire on their faces. He waved all three of them off, telling them he would finish the chore. Their faces beamed. Joyful children dashed off through the grass. He called after them to be careful. He gave a proud, contented smile. There would be more work for them this afternoon and even more tomorrow. There always was this time of year, but for the moment they could enjoy the weather.


The night was frozen. Snowflakes fell from the sky like silk strands floating in the wind. Puddles covered the roads and reflected the city lights like stars shining in the night sky. With little traffic, drivers went about their nightly commutes as if it were any other. Nothing about this October night in particular made it more or less significant than any other. I just dropped off my friend Tommy at his apartment. Tommy's a really great friend. The kind of guy that still loves you just the same no matter how much time has passed since you last saw them. We just got done seeing the new James Bond movie which had its premiere the day before. The Bond movies are just the kind of sophisticated, well written, action packed movies that fully captivate my usually short lived attention span. I love going to the theaters. Being twenty four years old and having served five years in the Marine Corps, the movies make me feel a sense of peace and wonder I can only get in those two glorious hours. Scratchy red seats. Armrests that make your skin stick to them from years of spilt sodas. The smell of unnaturally yellow, over-buttered popcorn. The lowly dimmed yellow lights. Purposefully illuminated stairs and walkways Thirty minutes of trailers. The occasional crinkle of someone ripping open their candy bag. All of the things that transport me back to a time earlier in my life where the world didn’t seem so dark. I could spend every weekend seeing a new movie and leave each time already planning which one I was going to see next. My car, which is the first brand new car I’ve bought, is a spacey, almost unnatural shade of gray. The kind of color I imagine an asteroid cruising through space on an infinite journey might be. I’ll never admit it out loud, but the car and its color make me feel like an astronaut, and when I’m driving, the places I can go are limitless. It doesn’t have leather seats, and even though they’re canvas and frankly not the softest at least they’re heated. My friends always comment on how good the stereo sounds and honestly, that’s why I bought it. Every time one of my friends says something like: “Hey throw on this specific song, I NEED to hear what it sounds like on your system,” it brings me a sense of joy and pridefulness I’ll never give them the satisfaction of knowing. Driving is something that makes me feel in control. I rarely ever take rides from friends and I’m almost always the designated driver. My friends poke fun at me for never drinking with them. I always rebuttal their well stated arguments on why I should drink with them with something like “Oh I’m just not feeling the best” or “I have to wake up early tomorrow to do something”. They can see right through my excuses as total bullshit, but since they're my friends they never really fight back. They just care that I go out and they don't have to pay for rides. Just maybe a meal or a dessert from wherever we end up. I’m too embarrassed to admit it to them, but I get anxious when I’m a passenger in any kind of vehicle. An incident during my time in the service has left me with an unshakable fear. I'm terrified that if I'm not in control of the vehicle I’m in it will undoubtedly lead to a gruesome and unpreventable death. Driving alone is like therapy to me. I can play any song I like, however many times I like. I don't have to worry that people will get annoyed that I'm rewinding a song because I wasn’t paying attention to my favorite part. I have irreversible hearing loss from being around fighter jets and helicopters that would roar and buzz past my work place in the service, so blasting music to the point where any person with regular hearing would be bothered by is normal for me. I also just recently got into listening to audio books, but I can never listen to them just sitting down on my couch. I become so easily distracted by the slew of other things I have to keep myself occupied there, so car rides alone have become the perfect place to escape into a great story. Driving north down the practically empty four lane highway I look out my passenger side window. I’m flanked on the east by the Hudson River and a sleeping but still lively New York City. A city I live a short thirty minute drive from. A city of endless possibilities. Hustle and bustle that never stops. Lights so bright and buildings so tall that even the sky during mid day seems to shrink in comparison to the man-made wonder which it blankets over. A city so close to me, yet I can't help but feel, is unreachable. After a brief moment of looking in wonder of what life could be like living in the city it hits me. I haven’t turned my music on since I dropped off Tommy. The slight ringing in my ears from the tinnitus the Marines gifted me says, “it’s time to put something on before the migraines begin”. I reach over to my small LED touch screen and start to scroll through the playlist I already have pulled up. Led Zeppelin? Nah. Rolling Stones? Eh it's too late. Something newer maybe? Drake? Meh. Adele? Too sleepy for this late at night. Wait, there it is THAT’s what I want. My finger lands on David Bowies’ “Space Oddity” “Perfect” I say aloud, as if saying what I’m thinking will make me feel any less lonely. The soft guitar starts playing and I sink back into my canvas seats surrounded by the best sound system I could afford. Pure Bliss. ***Ground control to major tom*** God I’m getting lost in this song right now. The lowly lit road, twinkling from melted snowflakes transforms into the infinite void of space, surrounded by stars, surrounded by nothing, just me traveling through emptiness on a journey in which I have no inkling where I’ll end up. ***Take your protein pills and put your helmet on*** I glance at the clock on my dash. “23:59” “Holy shit, is the clock gonna change at the end of the count down?” ***10*** “That would be too perfect no way that would ever happen on accident” ***Ground control to Major Tom*** “ But it would be fucking awesome” ***9*** Of course shit like this only happens when NO ONE'S around ***8*** I guess that’s the magic of being completely aware during a fleeting moment, you start noticing things that on a normal day would just breeze past your consciousness. Maybe this isn't that special and it just feels special because I only just happened to notice this weird synchronicity. ***7*** The more I think about it, the less spectacular the whole moment is starting to feel. ***6*** A wave of goosebumps overcomes me ferociously, like an ocean crashing on a weathered down shore. ***Commencing countdown, engines on*** I mean I like this song but not this much. I glance back at the clock. It still reads “23:59”. Alright, it might still happen. I glance at the road and the flashing red lights of an ambulance practically flying down the opposite side of the iced over highway catch my eye. A fleeting thought passes my mind, “I’m glad that’s not me in there.” And as quickly as the neurons that fired off that intrusive thought burst into action, more neurons fire fighting it off and I think to myself, “Why the fuck would I ever think something like that!? I should be saying a prayer for whoever's in there, not counting my lucky stars…” Sometimes my brain scares me. I have these terrible, terrible thoughts sometimes. Thoughts that shouldn't be there. Thoughts I’d never choose to have. Thoughts that feel like they’re from a consciousness that's not my own. ***5*** I look at the ambulance with eyes that feel coerced into showing sympathy. I can't believe my first thought was about feeling lucky to not be in their position. I feel my grip tighten around the steering wheel, just enough to notice my hands are sweating. After lifting one up and observing the darker wet spot that’s now on the “2 o’clock” position of my wheel, I reach over the center console and wipe the sweat from my hand onto the back rest of the empty passenger seat. ***4*** The light hits my eyes. It feels as blinding as the first light of the morning. The light that shines through when you pull the shades to the side and let that new day into your room. What is that? My eyes try adjusting, but all I can see is yellow and a dim but apparent flashing red light. Why does this ambulance have their brights on right now? Some peoples’ choices blow my mind. You're just endangering other drivers by potentially blinding them. I reach up to my visor and pull it down to hopefully block some of the light. “There we go, I can see again no thanks to this ambulance” I think as my eyes start adjusting to the new lighting. ***3*** The lowered light passes from my cornea, to my pupil, and then to my lens which shines it into my retina, and the photoreceptors there turn it into electrical signals which shoot to the optic nerve in my brain which turns the signal into the image I'm seeing before me. My brain tells me this process has happened too slowly for it to get signals to the parts of my body I now need to use to save my life from the image it just saw, interpreted, and decided was unavoidable. ***2*** The ambulance is facing me. Probably sliding out of control from the iced over road. This can’t be happening. Not me, something like this wouldn't happen to me. No, it COULDN’T happen to me. Right? The ambulance is going to regain control just in time and swerve out of the way. Yea that sounds about right, no way god would do this to me, I'm not done living life there's so much more I have to experience and do. I’m starting school in January, I’m going to study psychology and medicine and become a Psychiatrist. I have so many plans I’m just starting life after the Marines. My body stiffens. Like a dead rabbit after being caught in a hunter's snare. I’m completely numb. My jaw clenches so hard I'm amazed my teeth haven’t cracked as easily as a potato chip would. No, not tonight, I'm not going to die. If there's any vehicle to get into an accident with, it's an ambulance right? The EMTs’ in the back will be able to save me after this if I get hurt. How much time do i have left before impact. I can barely move. I take a very rough, quickly judged glance. There's maybe twenty five feet. “Fuck.” My foot is pressed down harder on the brake pedal than I thought my body could even accomplish. It feels like it’s going to go straight through the floor of my car and onto the slicked down icy road below. My leg is completely straight, pinning my back against the backrest and lifting my butt clear off the seat itself. One more glance. Fifteen feet. This is it, the moment of impact, please don’t kill me. ***1*** My eyes notice the snow falling through the air. Each flake is completely different. Completely individual from one another. The water molecules going from liquid to solid, form these weak hydrogen bonds to one another and create a six-fold crystalline structure which takes various shapes, the most common being hexagonal. Each Snowflake, like a human, uses the bonds it makes to keep itself together for a short period of time. People fail to realize how similar human beings and the water molecules that make up snowflakes really are. Both need bonds to stay intact. Both will eventually lose those bonds and return to their original state. After their bonds are broken, new bonds will eventually form. The cycle continues endlessly with the only constant being the original Person and original molecule. Both people and molecules go through ever changing states of existence while never truly being in control of what makes those changes happen. I close my eyes so the last thing I see is something beautiful. ***Check ignition, and may god's love be with you*** My eyes burst open. I’m standing in the middle of a road. There's an ambulance right in front of me. I can see it with the most clarity I’ve ever seen anything before this. Water, beaded up on the white hood of the car. The word “Ambulance” written in blue letters backwards so that drivers can read the word in their rear view mirror. The yellow head light illuminates the cabin. An older male driver whose overworked, dark brown eyes suggest they've just seen the scariest thing they could ever imagine. Mouth wide open, presumably screaming in terror and goosebumps lining the sides of his neck. He has a wedding band on. It’s golden, and just barely reflects the light from above from being covered in years of sweat and dirt. A band that clearly says “I’m worn by a man who does hard, dirty work for a living, and has always remained loyal to the promise of love that was given to another on the day he put me on his finger.” I wonder what he's scared of and why. Snow stays suspended in the air like ornaments hung on the branches of a Christmas tree. Floating blissfully for the viewership by any one to see. I reach out to grab one and my fingers pass through it as easily as it would if nothing was there at all. It’s still floating, unaffected and as beautifully intricate as it was before. What’s going on? I reach again. No effect. I turn around. There's a man in a car parked just feet from the ambulance. He’s white, but not fully, mixed with something else for sure. Jet black hair, beard, and mustache. Eyes forced shut, jaw clenching with his off-white teeth showing they’re being forced together so hard they might break, Cheek muscles tensed to the point they intrude into the space his eyes should be. Both his hands are gripped around the steering wheel so tightly it looks like he's trying to rip it off the dash and into his chest. I’m standing in the space between them. “That man in the car… that’s me…” “Where am I? Why am I here? What's happening right now?” “Why can I see myself?” I go to put my hand on my heart out of pure instinct but I don't feel anything. I can see my body, but I can’t feel it. In-fact, I can't feel anything. No Smell. No taste. No touch. No emotion. Nothing but Awareness. “Am I dead?” A voice speaks out and whispers gently through the deafening silence of the motionless night “Not yet.