it was a damp, heavy day. A day who's air made your lungs doubt if they wanted another breath, the kind you get in summer evenings the day after a storm. Perhaps it was that very weather that compelled a tall, fair gentleman of about 30 to purchase a lottery ticket. Taking shelter from the light drizzle, hanging his coat on a rack, and browsing lightly through the aisles of liquor… no, it was that. The sheer unappealingness of the liquid that had nearly killed his father was what turned his gaze away to the lottery tickets. Perhaps it was luck that had made him win just two days later, but the common opinion was that it was, in fact, Luck. “and why in the hell is that proof?” said the man at his desk. “most of our targets are off the charts! this bastard only won a single lottery! It wasn’t even ours!” “yes, sir” replied the official, Jones. “but frankly, hes a white, fit man living in America, with a good job, no history of illness, and about a thousand other advantages. I’m not saying he’s a Lucky, I’m saying to investigate. Remember, Leave Nothing To Chance.” “I bloody well know how lucky he is, but I've got about 40 other cases cluttering up my desk and I'm not gonna let-” he stopped, rummaging through his papers to find something “This guy go! You really think he isn’t a Lucky? Wins powerball, commits a goddamn crime spree, and gets away with it without a single RAT DIME in fines because of a court technicality? “yes, but its not as if hes going to come into any power. He’s hated by the public, both for winning the lottery they think they deserved, and for committing murders and thefts, even if he got away. Besides, he’s low enough socially that he can’t be higher than a 7, but this guy has the potential to be a 9! a 9! the last time we let a 9 go loose we had to cover up the loss of a whole county!” The man at the desk, who was commonly called agent Hanson, did not agree in the slightest. But that was the problem with secretaries and officials. None of them felt it. None of them knew what it was like. There was more difference between knowing and Knowing as between him and a goddamn bunny! But it was no use. Get enough papers in your hands and you could contest any amount of knowledge and experience. “I'll get my coat”. The standard equipment of your average powerball agent is a 15mm pistol, some dog-ended cigarettes, a badge, and a cellphone. Like most things, these were not very useful. Most Luckies worth shooting were Lucky enough that your gun would jam, you never had time to call dispatch, and all the badge did was assure a couple of police officers you had a warrant. As for the cigarettes, well, Hanson never brought a lighter. While he was hoping that the rain would pick up and maybe strike his cigarette with lightning, or at least strike him and end his misery, he spotted a truck. Now, a truck coming down the road is not a problem for an ordinary man in ordinary times. Hanson was, unfortunately, neither. Hanson was a man closing in on the location of a persons who, knowingly or not, controlled chance, and he was on a fairly slippery road. “goddammit” he said, and threw away his cigarette. There was no crossing the road, and frankly no chance that it wouldn’t hit him. He wasn’t scared, but he felt a low dread of knowing he was in danger. It was getting too likely for him to die for Luck not to cinch the knot. Perhaps…yes perhaps all it took was to let the driver know he was there? No, too rainy, coat too dark. He wouldn’t notice anything that wasn’t drastic. Suddenly, an idea occurred. He crouched low, angled himself farther down from the truck and jumped into the road, waving his arms. Doesn’t matter how unlucky you are, no bugger will miss this. Unfortunately, broken break pedals don’t care what their drivers notice. You learn the sound of broken breaks in the academy. An agent who didn't know it would be road paste. And agent who did know probably would be too, but at least they might be able to get their dog-tag straitened before impact. Fortunately, the academy also taught aim. Probably this wasn't the best skill to teach either, but it was useful in the moment. Two shots rang out, two tires deflated, and one now very scared agent pulled up his hood and ran further down the road. “end wot the ‘ell waz oll that then!” shouted the driver. “yoo blooty well neah kilt me! Ye com back ‘ere efore I kick yore ass six ways from Sunday! And ye gon be there a long time, cos I only know bout fore kindsa hell”. He would stand there for about ten more minutes just puttering around in the rain, thinking very rude things about the man in the coat. *Dammit dammit dammit*, thought Hanson, *so he’s not just a Lucky, as I suspected. He’s a Chancer. That wasn’t just lucky for him. Had It stopped, I wouldn’t have slowed down any less than when I shot the tires, but I was in a lot more danger. Things aren’t just lucky for him, they’re unlucky for me. Just my luck.* And about a mile away, a stockily built man of thirty was feeling worried. He did not know why he was worried, as he had just won the lottery, and was not of the intellectual persuasion to view that as a subject of worry. It was an odd feeling of dread he often got near danger, and often danger came right behind it. He thought it wise to purchase a revolver, given his recent lottery winnings, and to leave it on the counter. It was the only unlucky thing in the last 5 years of his life: that he didn’t leave it loaded. Hanson, still rattled, gun left loaded, was closing in on the target, in the odd, shaking gait of one moving as steadily as he can despite fear. The rain pattered on his coat, slowly soaking coldness into his skin. The gun clacked and rocked in his holster, a technique he had learned to scare away any oh-so-lucky would-be muggers. He had a feeling of danger, quite accurate, and he was not aware he was sharing the feeling with a stocky blond man he was closing in on. Yet as he walked up the driveway to the large and lavish house, straightening his false badge and now concealing his gun, he became aware of a slight simpatico, knowing that the man inside felt as he felt. *Luckies are dangerous. They feel, they think, they don’t deserve this. But they are dangerous. Maybe we can contain him instead. But a Chancer...no, not a Chancer. It’s so bloody unfair. I mean, its almost unlucky! But we can’t let them go on like this. With a feeling of setting forth an axiom he thought, for the thousandth time: power is dangerous, no matter who has it, no matter if it is used.* Had the stocky man considered the danger of an armed agent walking up his driveway after he won the lottery sooner, he may have summarily killed him. But it was the little hesitation, the brief, mad stupidity of hoping that an obvious danger is fictitious that made him fail to load the gun. He did know to point it at the door, at least. And as the armed man approached his door- “Hello! I am your real estate agent, my name is Halbert, I look forward to our chat! I don’t mean to disturb you, you are quite a busy man I take it, but it seems you have a bit of a property issue with a certain neighbor of yours!”. Hanson hated the high, preppy voice, but he was eerily good at it, and it always lowered someone’s guard. Maybe, maybe it would bring him to the door, and then a quick movement and- he shuddered, and cut the line of thought. A gruff voice came from inside “and who the hell do you think you are?” “there is no need for obscene language, sir, I am just inquiring as to a property dis-” “yeah you can cut that shit right there” and there it was, stronger now. A feeling of intense danger. He clicked the gun. Agent Hanson thought fast. Hearing that click told him all he needed to know. He knew that he wouldn’t miss, too lucky, and he can’t shoot first. No talking him out of it, he saw through the illusion too quickly for that. He had no shield, and knowing the other man’s Luck it would go through anyway. Only one way, he thought, put his hands behind his head, curled in, and rolled down the steps, just as a shot rang through the door. He got up, pain shooting through his spine, and let out a shot. Bullets don’t work on Luckies, the gun will jam, or the bullet will ricochet, or hit some non-essential part of them. No, it was the lock he shot for. He heard a second click, and dove under the man’s car just as a rocket of dirt shot up, hit by a bullet the size of a large bee. *It’s not that you can’t leave it to chance. It was chance it didn’t hit the car, but that would be too unlucky now wouldn’t it. I may have some Unluck, but its less than his Luck. This might not be so hard* Hanson knew how little time he had before the next shot rang out, but he also knew staying under the car would just buy that man some time. He ran out, and in a leap of faith, grabbed the railing of the stairs, and pulled himself up, rolling through the doorway. He breathed a sigh of relief, now hidden in a side chamber of the house. But he could hear the man approaching. Bullets wouldn’t work, but it might hurt his luck. Worth a shot. He sprang out from behind the small wall and shot three times, and three jammed clicks came from the gun. “worth a shot”, he said, and the blond man charged. Seeing a man built like an ox charge at you with his bare hands is something Hanson did not wish to experience, but it certainly made him reflect very, very quickly. *can’t open a cupboard for a weapon, it’ll turn out to be his towel drawer. No go with a knife, it’ll be blunt with his Luck. Maybe his revolver...no, 3 shots isn’t enough of a probability stretch. Maybe I have a-* The man hit him. It wasn’t like a fist, it was like a small car hitting him square in the chest. Hanson coughed blood into the man’s face, and landed hard, cracking his head. Slowly, hand twitching, Hanson grasped his badge, feeling the sharp point with his thumb, and said into the rage-filled face: “I'm sorry, you don’t deserve this” in a smooth motion, his hand flung out, holding the small gold thing tight. The blond man’s grip slowly relaxed, and he slumped over, a long, red cut like the rind of a melon slowly widening on his neck. Hanson sat there, breathing heavily for several minutes, and checked the man’s pulse. Stone dead. He never even caught his name. He pulled out his cellphone and said “dispatch? I got him.


I am no fool. I know that my search will end in failure and yet I possess a stubbornness that cares not, for I accept that I will never meet Elizabeth again. Her friends are my friends no longer, and social media has provided me with an electronic wall of silence on the subject. With every passing month her rude invasions into my dreams are more vivid, her role in my thoughts more fantastic, and my development as an adult halted because of her absence. I assumed that the introduction of weed into my evening relaxation habits – introduced as a way of coping with the sheer heartbreak I was still suffering from - had increased the intensity of her image into my life, but even after giving it up, she remained. Were it not for a work colleague brushing her hair one dreary lunchtime, I would have been resigned to my Succubus for ever more. However, as I gazed across the office at Michelle’s long blonde hair dancing around her waist with every bite of the comb, I thought of those Sunday mornings in bed watching Elizabeth prepare for work, the bare bulb light saturating her hair as she straightened it with her battered brown brush. I snapped back to the present and realised that I could substitute my lost love with a simile, a mimic that could be my Elizabeth. Even a small percentage of Elizabeth could be enough! The challenge was to find a doppelganger that was Elizabeth enough to fool my obsessive heart. The next day I approached the woman who had inspired me and asked her for date. Sadly I was rejected hard; Michelle was married. I spent the next few days apologising whenever we passed in the office and, thankfully, she took in good spirits. Her role in my story was concluded, other than the occasional hair dance that sated my hunger for a few minutes. I was not one to seek romantic partners; it wasn’t that I lacked an appealing appearance, I just found it difficult to initiate a conversation from a cold start. Ironically my love for my ex-girlfriend was the catalyst for a romantic lifestyle. My first venture was online dating since I assumed that a passive list of people’s pictures would make for rapid and easy success. Unfortunately static pictures lacked the tiny nuances that I needed, for Elizabeth was an experience as well as a look. Regardless I began to contact those who had long blond hair and green eyes with a hope that they may possess other Elizabethan traits. My first potential candidate was a petite, bordering on frail, girl called Kammy who lacked Elizabeth’s height but otherwise was a general match. We met in a restaurant and talked about the bland vapid subjects expected between two people that knew little of each other. It was when the date was concluded that I realised I had hit paydirt; Kammy put on a pair of very large dark glasses as we went to leave, and suddenly I was looking at the face of Elizabeth. Her chin, mouth, and cheek were an exact match, and I stumbled out a request for another date. Thankfully she agreed. The next date took place at a local pub of mine, with the expectation that we would go back to my flat afterwards. We had flirted over text throughout the week, and I was certain she was as keen on me as I was on her. I took her to bed that night and suggested that she wear a blindfold to replicate the image of Elizabeth from before, but my eagerness to have sex diminished as I climbed between her legs and stared into her face; Elizabeth was not there, not anymore. I made a half-hearted attempt to please both of us but I could tell that we shared a disappointment afterwards. I did not hear from her again. My next Elizabeth project was a friend of a friend called Sarah. I use the term clone, as her physical attributes were perfectly Elizabethan, and I almost hugged my friend when he sent me a picture of her. We arranged to go on a cinema viewing followed by late drinks; a strange date, but one that she had suggested so I felt obliged to comply. We met outside the complex and exchange brief words before sitting next to each other in complete silence for two hours. After the conclusion of the by-the-numbers film we sat in a nearby bar and then talked about absolutely nothing until last orders, then got into separate taxis and headed home. In bed I smiled at the ludicrousness of the date and lamented the waste of a potentially-perfect Elizabeth mimic. That was until my phone beeped with a message from Sarah thanking me for the night, with a request for another date. During the second date I realised that Sarah was the perfect physical representation of Elizabeth, almost as if someone had created her from the same blueprint. However, the creation process had omitted a personality, for she was bereft of any kind of original thought. She had no opinion, no likes or dislikes, no hobbies, passions, or skills. At first I thought this to be a huge disadvantage, but then corrected myself; I was on a quest for an Elizabeth substitute, and here was an Elizabeth body with a blank mind. I sustained conversation with Herculean-effort, helped along by wine and beer, then asked her if she wanted to be in a relationship with me. She agreed without hesitation; I wondered whether she would say no to anything. I started her transition into Elizabeth, buying her gifts that Elizabeth would have appreciated and introducing her to the same interests that Elizabeth had. She accepted all of this without question, but without opinion either. I bought her horror books which she read but did not give any judgement on. I introduced her to the same computer games that Elizabeth played; she participated like an automaton, competed neither well or poor, and had no passion for winning or losing. The sex was surprisingly energetic, but again was methodical as if going through an instruction manual of positions and duration. I woke up one morning and watched my new Elizabeth brush her hair in the morning light of her bedroom. The blond danced, the comb scratched, the clips held, but suddenly I was appalled by the the skinwalker that had slipped into the Elizabeth-sized hole to forever remind me that she was not her. At that moment she turned to me and smiled with a horrific long blank face, the familiarity close enough to chill me to the nerve. I cried out and hid under the sheets until she left for work. I hurried out of her house and never spoke to her again. Post-Sarah was my lowest moment in my life. I had tried recruiting an Elizabeth substitute, and had tried to create an Elizabeth mimic, but neither had succeeded. The honest truth, the reality that I had tried throwing people in front of, was that the only Elizabeth that could satisfy my hunger was Elizabeth. This new realisation gave me a care-not attitude and I decided to indulge in a significant amount of MDMA; I needed to escape from my own self, if only for a few hours. I did not know what to expect or how much to take, so took all three of the pills, sat on my sofa and closed my eyes to await the effects. There was a growing euphoria that I began to enjoy which disappeared quite suddenly, like a beautiful song that had been cut short. I received an epiphany several moments after and I searched through Elizabeth’s old love letters until I found her parent’s phone number, which I didn’t think I had. Against my better judgement I called the number, aware that I was probably under the influence of drugs still, and was suddenly talking to Elizabeth’s father. I had the vaguest recollection of attending his funeral some time ago and yet he was at the other end of the telephone, the same warm and witty man that I remembered with some fondness. Time must have muddled my memory. I left a message and a contact number, with a breezy message in the hope that Elizabeth would not be disturbed by my sudden reappearance. I did not have long to wait and was contacted via text moments later. I retained my breezy demeanour and arranged a friendly catch-up at a bar in an hour. It was fortunate that the exchange was via text; I do not think my voice would have held out if I had been talking to her. I arrived early to secure a good seat near the entrance. My mind conjured up the next few hours and what would come of it. Did she hold dear the same memories as I? Did she too look at the same pictures and disappear into remembrance, listen to the same songs, and revisit the same places? And then she was there, the same almond face, long hair, green eyes, and slender gait that suggested casual athleticism. To my eye she had not aged one day since we split up. Her eyes met mine and my stomach spasmed. I went into automatic response, greeted her, exchanged default pleasantries that we looked well and that it had been too long. I took the opportunity to buy her a drink to gather my thoughts. My Elizabeth was here, the person who was the focus of both my waking and unconscious thoughts. I ordered a gin and tonic – still her favourite drink it would seem - and stole a quick glance behind me. She was poised on her chair looking back at me, seemingly-unfazed by our meet-up. What did I expect her to be like? A quivering repentant mess of emotions, or complete indifference to the situation? I took her drink to the table and sat opposite, studying the details of her to add to my faux Elizabeth of my mind. She was exactly the same as I remembered her; always with small earrings that glinted as brightly as her eyes; a thin gold necklace because thicker necklaces looked gaudy against her long thin neck; the eternity ring that I had bought her as a precursor for an engagement. I reeled from the recognition and grabbed her hand. It was without doubt the eternity ring I had given her, dull cheap silver with curled etchings running along its length. My panic wasn’t because she was still wearing it after 20 years, but because I had it locked up in my box of remembrance, ever-ready to bring out to reflect upon. I stared at her but she put a finger on my lips and would not let me speak. I tried again, my confusion escalating, but her finger was firm and strong. The pub dissolved around us and I was suddenly in her arms, her face filling my vision as she kissed me tenderly. I thought to fight this new false pretender, but her embrace was everything I had yearned for. I relented and sank into her, rested my head against her chest, listened to her slowing heart beat, her breath in my ear. At that moment I understood that she had returned to comfort me as I died, the remnants of her love my final protector against the terror of my overdose. For the briefest of moments, before eternity swept me away, I was content that she was mine again.


She picked up the strip of paper lying on the footpath. It was a fairly ordinary strip of paper, white and slightly crumpled, not more than ten centimetres long. Her long bony fingers trembling, she twists the paper once and holds the two ends together. She watches carefully as her finger traces the surface of the strip. It starts out on the inside and soon, without warning, it finds itself on the outside, without having crossed a boundary. To our protagonist, this is not just a neat mathematical curiosity. It is a fact of life. At present, she knows that their is no reason for her to think that her home exists. It had seemed absurd to her at first, but the clerk at the city-council office had made it look trivial - “You see, Ms. Bose, our office does not have any paperwork pertaining to this, ..., this construction. So, I have no reason to believe it is at all there.” “And neither should you”, the man had added with a rehearsed smile as he placed a stack of paper riddled with circular tea-stains on the desk. “Apni Chaa khaben?”, he had gone on to ask. As she walked out of the office, the situation she had gotten herself into slowly began to get to her. At first it was just the sheer hideousness of it all. The idea that her house was non-existent was so inconceivable that it was funny. In fact she let out a short laugh, as if at a fairly good joke - perhaps something she would find in an R.K.Laxman cartoon. The thought of having herself in place of the dhoti-jacket clad ‘common man’ was vaguely endearing. As she walked further down the street, she sank further into the reality of her reality. Her house had been a half-decent place to live in. Had shegiven it enough thought she might even have liked the place. It was a year since her parents had passed on and, since then, the rooms had taken on personalities of their own. The paint peeling off from the walls, the stacks of books in shelves, the grilles on the windows had developed a strange intimacy with her. As she lay in bed at night, waiting for sleep to grab at her, words, spoken in hushed tones, would float about her. It was abundantly clear what the words themselves were, but the way they lingered on in the air made it impossible for her to make any sense of them. She would lie in bed, floating in a stream of consciousness monologue that the room had decided to present before her. The room had been much too loud. And the recollections that were crashing into her now were no good either. The house was gone. There should be no reason to think that it exists. This is when she saw the strip of paper. It was by no means out of the ordinary. Perhaps, in the not so distant past, it had been used to serve jhaalmuri. Looking back further, it may have been used to provide the citizenry with information printed on it in a dark, damp office. At any rate, none of this could be comparable to what came next. As her fingers twisted the strip of paper and joined the ends together, she was pushed into a distant memory. Her mother was standing by a window, a strip of newspaper in her hand. She stood by, staring in excitement as her mother’s finger traced the inside of the loop, went around and ended up on the outside. At the present moment, our protagonists fingers trace the same elusive curve. Her mind glides back and forth through time, like a pianist’s slender fingers trilling on the black keys. The notes alone do not make any sense, yet the whole is tangible, yet fragile. The truth flits around, delicate as a butterfly. It all makes sense, the council office, the paperwork, the paper,her fingers, her house disappearing. They all wind around each other and tie themselves in knots. As the fingers keep trilling on the keys, her mind finds itself reaching for the elusive state of peace that only cold reason can bring. She grabs wildly, clinging to whatever truths she finds, making desperate attempts to hold them together. Her spinning mind weaved a theory into existence:- The house which she called home happened to be on the edge of the city. The city, just like the piece of paper, was twisted in a way which ensured that it had no edge. And this was enough for her home on the edge of the city to be hacked out of existence. A measly, feeble attempt at the truth. The trills spell out a dominant seventh, begging for a resolution. In a crescendo, it all comes crashing down on her. She stands on the footpath looking across the street at the house. The house which she calls home, which also has no reason to exist, but which, strangely enough, does. She walks out across the ever-widening street.


Lightning Strikes “Extreme heat advisory is in effect until 9pm this evening here in the Valley of the Sun. Whenever possible stay indoors. The elderly and those with breathing difficulties should avoid going outdoors if possible. Stay tuned to this station for more advisories.” Gravel crunched under the tires of Freddy Jansen’s tow truck as he pulled up to the office of King’s Auto Parts Yard. He shifted the truck’s transmission into park, took his cell phone out of the front pocket of his work overalls, and dismissed the heat alert. The past twenty-four hours were like a dream swirling around in his mind: the storm, the girl, and those big brown eyes that betrayed her outward confidence. He tried to clear his head and concentrate on business. Hopefully, he would find a new hood for Miranda’s van out on his buddy Alonso’s auto parts yard.

King’s Auto Parts and Pull Auto Parts Station started here in the front yard of the little stucco house that now served as the office. Alonso Sr. was stationed nearby in his Army Air Corps days, and after the war ended he thought he would rather face the heat in the desert than go back to Queens and shovel snow in the winter. After marrying a local girl they began growing a business and a family; both from the tiny stucco home. After the birth of the fourth child – all girld – Mrs. King, who was known to have a fiery temper at times, demanded her husband build a larger home on the back part of the property beneath the shade of the cottonwood trees that grew by the creek. When her husband suggested waiting another year she took the shotgun from behind the counter, walked out front to the WWII staff car that sat beside the drive up to the property emblazoned with the word KINGS and shot it full of holes stopping to reload twice. She then calmly brought the gun back inside handing it to her husband and announcing “Thought I saw a rattlesnake.” The next day a crew began digging the foundation for the new house. Six months after moving into the new home Alonso Jr. was born. Both Kings were extremely happy.

 	Freddy ducked in through the front door of the business, quickly closing the door to keep the cool air in. Alonso sat behind the counter, a computer screen flickering in front of him although he seemed oblivious to the rows of auto part listings displayed. A wisp of thick blonde hair had fallen across his forehead just above deepset, blue eyes. One hand propped under his chin, fingers lightly tapping on his cheekbone. “Hey, ‘Lonso, you awake there, buddy?” Freddy teased.

“Oh, hey, Freddy,” he answered in a dazed voice as he stood to greet his long-time friend. At six feet tall he should have been taller than Freddy, but the dropped floor behind the counter made the two men appear the same height. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” he replied. “Yeah, I can see that,” he said while following Alonso’s gaze out the big front window to the tall saguaro by the fence.

“My mother planted that cactus there when she moved into this little house with my father in 1948. It was just a pup then, maybe a foot tall. Now look at how tall it stands. Cactus wrens build nests in its arms, Gila woodpeckers drill holes in the body to raise families out of the sun, and its flowers provide food for the birds and insects from all around. People think the desert is a dry, dead place but even here in the hot summer days there is beauty and life,” he pronounced boldly. Freddy walked over to the counter to stand in front of his friend. They had known each other since college days at NAU. He had been best man at his wedding, a godfather to his son, and a shoulder to lean on when his wife was killed in a car wreck 6 years earlier. He had seen Alonso in many moods, but this one was new. “And why are you waxing poetic on this hot, hellish day in the desert?” he asked. “I’m in love,” he said innocuously as if he’d just said, “It’s hot today.” Then he said it louder and more firmly, “Freddy, my friend, I’m in love!” “That’s great!” Freddy answered reaching over the counter to give his pal a slap on the shoulder. “When can I meet her?” “Don’t know,” Alonso answered matter-of-factly.

Freddy stared at his friend trying to understand what was going on with him. “Suppose you back up to the beginning and bring me up to the “don’t know” part a little better informed.” Taking a big sip of his iced coffee Alonso began his tale. “You remember when I had you watch the shop for me back in April so I could go to Texas for the eclipse?” “Sure, I do, but you weren’t gone long enough to meet a girl and fall in love. You were only gone 3 days,” Freddy answered. “Yeah, well, I was, and I did. I just didn’t know it at the time,” Alonso sighed. “My original plan was to run out the 10 to Kerrville, sleep in the back of my truck, and then be right in the path of totality the next day for the big show. Then hop back on the10 and head back home. My plan was working well up till about the time I got to Van Horn when a geocaching buddy of mine messaged me to see if I could take over hosting his eclipse event in Llano,” his voice less dreamy now as he recalled the details of the trip. Freddy was not a geocacher, nor did he understand why anyone would be, but he was becoming interested in the idea that geocaching could lead to finding love. “Go on,” he prodded “So of course I shifted gears and made a left turn at the Junction exit and headed up to the thriving metropolis of Llano, TX – population somewhere around 3,000 but on the eclipse weekend swelling to more than twice that. I found the spot and started talking to folks milling around at ground zero until I had about 20 geocachers there from all over the country. One couple had even brought a pop-up shade tent to share. Most brought chairs and blankets as well as coolers. Since I was playing host until my buddy got there, I tried to talk with everyone, but when I walked up to this one brunette and introduced myself as Nroadz, my caching name, she gave me a strange look. “That’s a unique name,” she said while giving me a look like I had spoken to her in a foreign language, Alonso recalled. Freddy understood that feeling. When Alonso started talking about his geocaching adventures with his buddies it was a bit like a foreign language to him too. But that hobby and those friends kept him sane after Lisa died, so he put up with it. “And let me guess. You looked into her eyes, then she looked into yours, and bam it was love!” “No, nothing like that,” Alonso replied, “I told her that we were a geocaching group but that she was welcome to enjoy the eclipse with us. Then I explained a bit about geocaching and invited her to hike to an actual geocache about a quarter mile away with a group of us. She signed the cache; we talked some more on the way back. By then Quarke was there to take over host duties so I found a place for my quilt and stretched out to watch the big show. The weathermen had predicted clouds, but they were wrong. It was a perfect day. While I was helping take the tent down later, I had a chance to give her my email address in case she wanted to know more about caching.” By now, Freddy knew it wasn’t going to be a simple story. “So, you meet a hot girl and instead of getting her name and phone number or getting hers, you tell her your name is Nroadz and you give her your email address? Buddy, you need a good wingman. You’ve been out of the game too long.” “Maybe I have been out of the game, as you say. I just wasn’t thinking about her in that way at the time,” Alonso patiently answered. “A week later she emailed and said she was going to be in Flagstaff in a few weeks and asked how to find geocaches in the area. I told her I was going to be there on the 27 th with a group doing a CITO. I explained how geocachers would meet at a trailhead and as we hike the trail looking for caches, we carry bags to pick up litter along the way. She said that sounded fine, and I gave her the coordinates for the trailhead. Then I told her how to sign up and get her account to get credit for her finds. She said OK and that was that until the 27 th . That day, my friend, that day my world turned upside down,” a wistfully smiling Alonso added. Freddy smiled too. He hadn’t seen his buddy look so happy in a very long time –just about 6 years. “And then? She was there? She said she really just used the geocaching as an excuse to meet you again, and the two of you spent hours walking in the woods and planning your future together? Am I right?” Freddy jokingly asked

“We spent a couple of hours on the trail finding caches and talking about birds,” Alonso answered. “Birds?” Freddy asked trying to keep a straight face. “Yeah, birds. It’s pretty interesting actually. Samantha, Sam to her friends, works for Fish and Wildlife traveling around the country doing ornithological studies,” Alonso explained. “You know there’s a lot we can learn about what’s happening in our environment by paying attention to birds’ habits and the changes in them,” he added. Freddy let out a deep sigh. He could see this was going to take a while, but what the heck. It’s too hot to be outside, he thought. “Did the bird lady get around to talking about bees along the way?” Alonso gave his friend a smart look. “No, but she did stumble over a log trying to watch some bird up in a pine tree. And that’s when it happened,” he announced with great enthusiasm. “What happened?” Freddy asked his curiosity now aroused. “Lightning, my friend,” Alonso said softly, and Freddy noticed that dreamy look on his face again. “I reached out to help her and when our hands touched…. I can’t explain it any other way. It was like this strong electrical current surging up my arm and through my body. Man, it was not like anything I can explain because nothing like that has ever happened to me. I looked at her to see if she felt the same, but she was looking away at another bird and saying something about nests and elevations. I figured it was just my imagination, so I played it cool for the rest of the hike. When we got back to the trailhead she left with a girlfriend before I could say goodbye. I figured that was that until I got her email that night.”

Alonso put his phone on the counter in front of Freddy and opened his email page where Freddy could read, “Sorry I had to run off after the hike. Had to get my gf back to her car so she could get home. Enjoyed the hike and the caching. Hope my bird talk wasn’t too much. BTW I had the strangest feeling when you helped me up over that log on the trail. Do you know what I mean? Hope I don’t sound too bold, but I would like to talk with you about that. I would like to talk with you about a lot of things I think.” Freddy looked up at Alonso behind the counter. He was standing there with the biggest grin on his face. “Frankly, I was stunned. As you said, my friend, it has been a long time. I wasn’t sure what to say or exactly what to do. I just responded with my phone number. And I waited.” “Waited? You waited by the phone like a teenage girl with a crush on the star quarterback?” Freddy was finding it hard to hold his tongue. On the one hand, he wanted to give him a hard time for not taking control of the situation. The girl was obviously interested. On the other hand, he had to remember that in the 6 years since Lisa died there had been no one. Alonso was still in love with the love of his life. He got that. But even she wouldn’t want him to live his life alone. He’s a good guy and he certainly deserves to be happy, but it’s starting to look like he will need some help. “You know I’m here for you if you need a little help getting up your courage.” Alonso grinned and taking his phone back he switched over to the texting app. “She called the next night from Socorro, New Mexico. We talked for 3 hours. The next day we started texting as well as calling,” he explained and turned the phone to Freddy again scrolling through what seemed like endless pages of texts, all of it scrolling by too quickly to read. Freddy winced a bit when he asked, “So where does she live? I mean you meet her in Texas, you see her in Flagstaff, she calls you from New Mexico. Does this woman actually have a home somewhere? Hopefully here in Arizona which would simplify matters a lot.” “I told you; she works for Fish and Wildlife. She travels around to refuges all across the country in a motorhome. She lives on the road, I guess you could say,” he answered. “This week she’s in Port Aransas, Texas checking out the Whooping Crane population.” Freddy tapped his fingers on the counter trying to decide how to say what he was thinking. He decided on the direct approach. “My friend, you need to go to her. Fly, drive, Hell, take a train if you have to! But you need to go to her. Don’t let this chance at love, at real happiness, slip away from you. You need to look her in the eye and reach for her hand and feel that lightning again.” Freddy was really excited for his friend now and he could see the excitement playing into this friend’s eyes. “She said she was heading to Wheeler Refuge in Alabama tomorrow and had a week to travel so she might route through New Orleans.” “Perfect,” Freddy almost yelled. Call her, or text her, or whatever you want to do, but tell her you’ll meet her in New Orleans. Get on the phone. Get yourself a plane ticket.” Taking out his own phone Freddy tapped his texting app. “My cousin Micki has an Air BNB in the French Quarter. I’ll reserve it for you.” He was smiling almost as big as Alonso as he typed.

Alonso hit send on the text to Sam then looked up at Freddy. “Hey, did you come over to pick up those parts for the 2016 Ford Transit Connect?”

Freddy shook his head,”Yeah, almost forgot what I came in for,” as he continued to type. “Sorry, Buddy, can’t get the breather regulator. At least not in Phoenix. I’ll look at some out of state suppliers tomorrow. Make that when I get back from New Orleans,” Alonso answered with a grin. “Not a problem,” Freddy answered as he read the reply from his cousin. Just then the computer on Alonso’s desk shrieked. SEVERE HEAT WARNING ISSUED FOR ALL OF PINAL COUNTY. EXPECTED HIGHS OF 110 DEGREES OR MORE WITH A POSSIBILITY OF AFTERNOON THUNDERSTORMS. INDIVIDUALS WITH BREATHING ISSUES ARE WARNED TO REMAIN INDOORS.


A hand emerges; enormous, colossal. Protruding, spiny tendons snake like oaken roots from strong, dexterous fingers into the damp, moss covered ground. Another, like sized hand surfaces to grasp a hardened willow, bark tearing as black fingernails dig deep in wooden flesh. Darkened muscle against darkened soil against darkened moonlight coils, surges, and onyx mass continues to galavant from the Earth. In this witching hour, by rock and stillborn wind, none awaken to the silent, seemless, ceaseless birth. Base notes pound, and the creature surfaces to the swelling orchestra. Glowering thunder lies dormant in its empty eye sockets, as the creature, blacker than a frosted winter night, stands level. Broken obsidian juts from its jagged jaw, and stretches across its peninsular-like spine, a shattered, cluttered exoskeleton. Wood chips collect under its fingernails. The surrounding woods darken and collect. The night lengthens. The music builds. * The muggy stench that exists solely in a single tent on a summer night drives me out to the moon and wind. Sweat beads continue to roll down my skin. Even outside the heat is inescapable. A lone boobook owl hoots, a soloist instrument amongst the concerto of crickets and cicadas. Moonlight cascades through the canopy of leaves. And so I begin to carefully place footsteps amongst the fallen undergrowth behind me. Tonight will be number 6 on the sleepless night count. Despite the heat I’m glad I’m away. It hadn’t exactly been easy, especially with work, but “challenge” wasn’t quite apt either. The conversation had gone smoothly with her. I’m still unsure whether thats good or bad. “One night is all I’d need really” “Just one?” I remember she’d had a tiny piece of avocado hanging off her chin. She wasn’t a messy eater. “Fair enough” Rachmaninoff’s “Concerto No.2 in C minor” filled in the rest of the conversation, the words disappearing behind the music. Rather a strange choice for dinner music. I’d heard the piece for the first time roughly a week ago, in the small coffee shop at the end of our road. Always playing records of the romantic period, I often visited purely to sit in a complete soundscape. The coffee often disappointed. Surrounded by the likes of Debussy, Satie, Ravel, the dramatic, chaotic cohesion of Rachmaninoff stood out like a beautifully enormous thumb. It emerged from its ambient atmosphere like a coil from its delicate eggshell. The building tension and base notes crash over me under the moonlight * 1900; Rachmaninoff decides he doesn’t like Russia. Sitting in his study, the cold naws into his exposed fingers, hands resting on the piano. Strings tiptoe through his mind and he feels his face downturn. Frowning always came easily with a hook nice like his. The taste returns to him, the same one that had first coated his mouth the night of March 28, 1897. A symphonic disaster, as the critics labelled it… He’d heard people laughing at him, or he swear he could have, as he’d rushed from the theatre. Shoving his fedora tight on his head and upturning his collar, his 6’ 4” figure struggled to remain hidden. Such a way to start a composing career. He knew it before he read it, how the critics would write. He knew, and he could taste it. ...The piano feels alien to him. So long has it been since white fell to black fell to white. His fingers tremble slightly. Outside he feels he can hear the sigh only brought on by early morning dishwashing. He begins to play. A chord, foreshadowing, soft at first. Another, accompanied this time with the dull thud of a bass note. Octaves build, dissonance rises, tension escalates. And then, his hands begin to dance: arpeggios, rolling, spinning, rising, cracking through the eggshell, a momentous outbreak. His fingers stop. A few notes more and the strings will come in. The orchestra stands ready in his head, symphonic swell at the ready, well rehearsed from the many hours spun through the theatre of his mind. If he so chose, the entire piece could be notated and ready for release: “Piano Concerto No.2 in C Minor” He hates it. His fist curls and with an enormous swing, he brings his gargantuan hand cracking down on the keys. A clatter of pained confusion fills the room. Another swing and his hand begins to bleed, red on white on black - He hates it. -another shattering swing, this time his left hand. His bones clack like keys as they break in his fingers - He hates the way it sounds, the way his hands feel on the piano. -both hands at the same time now, more keys break - Most of all, he hates that he loves it. Hates that he thinks its good. Hates the hope he has. -moving to the back of the piano, he lifts the lid, bringing his monstrous hands down on the strings - He hates his work, his incompetence at composition. -with an all mighty heave, he flips the piano, and it crashes to the ground beyond repair. A silent promise slips from his lips. Never again, shall he play Concerto No.2 in C minor - He hates the piano. * The creature is everything. Its empty gaze bores deep into me. Staring into that creature I feel as if I am in an endless library of infinite knowledge, except all the books face backwards, the spines impossible to read. The tendrils that spring from its features drag my view in, until all I see is the creature. It holds all attention in its obelisk hands, the upturned moon and choir of forests drawn closer. A silence settles. Yet I feel Rachmaninoff’s Concerto within me. It rumbles across my mindscape like unbroken thunder. Large hands strangle, as the world goes dark Finally, I sleep. Deep. Uncompromising. Fulfilling * Rachmaninoff sits at his broken piano. Some of the keys are out of tune. Others are missing. Only one of the three pedals remains, and part of the lid is chipped, lost forever. In the dark he sits on his stool. And his hands begin to dance.


** This story might be difficult for those who have struggled with family planning challenges ** “We’re running out of time.” Josie’s voice broke as she sat in a therapists’ office with her husband, Shawn. Josie and Shawn have been married for almost seven years. Their marriage had its ups and downs, but they have stuck by each other through it all. Josie and Shawn fit together like puzzle pieces. Josie thought that this was why they have managed to endure all of the hardships of their marriage. Josie was a strong woman who supported her husband through thick and thin, and Shawn was a funny and patient man who could make Josie laugh during the stressful times. Josie considered herself lucky enough to have found her soulmate in life. At the bottom of Josie’s heart, she knew that they would grow old together, but their lives won’t be without some regrets. Josie and Shawn are nineteen years apart. Josie was in her twenties when she married Shawn. Shawn was in his forties and already had three daughters from his prior marriage. Josie loved his daughters like they were her own. However, she was thrown into many parenting challenges since the inception of their relationship. The girls’ mom died, so their teenage years were difficult without a mother figure in their lives. Josie came along at a perfect time in their life when they needed someone to talk to regarding their many physical and mental changes. Josie was also young enough to “get it”. She was beautiful, young, and well-dressed. The girls loved it when she showed up to school to pick them up. She also knew how to film Tik Tok’s, and she could take them to all of the coolest concerts in town. The best part is that Josie had an awesome job in New York City. She had perks of traveling to the big city and having access to an awesome office building and nearby restaurants and department stores. Josie enjoyed married life a lot. She missed out on having a happy family unit as a kid, so she was happy to have a happy family with her husband and her stepdaughters. Despite the challenges of being in a blended family, Josie wanted to have one experience to call her own. She missed the “baby” stages of all of the girls. She never experienced the joy of raising the girls from day one. She also didn’t have those experiences of being in a delivery room with her husband. While they were as happy as they could be for a blended family, Josie felt like she was missing out on that aspect of life. The struggle came when Josie was in her mid-thirties. All she could hear was the sound of her biological clock ticking. While she still felt like she had time to have kids (women have healthy babies in their forties, after all), she felt herself being a sponge to the criticism of the world. Everywhere she looked on social media, she saw comments about how motherhood is for the young. She saw people question if she really wanted to be one of the oldest moms in the room at her child’s graduation. She saw children of “older” parents who lamented about how they were embarrassed by their older parents who were sometimes mistaken for their grandparents. Josie second guessed if she really wanted to put her future children through that. The additional problem is that her husband is in her fifties by now. Two of his daughters are legally adults now. One of them is graduating from high school next year. Was it really fair of her to expect him to start over – especially this late in life? Josie loved Shawn with all of her heart. Ending their marriage to find someone younger just wasn’t an option. She couldn’t imagine her life without Shawn. Josie wrestled with many questions that kept her awake at night. After months of not sleeping and having a war raging in her mind, she thought that it was best to visit with a therapist to try and make peace with her life. Josie poured her heart out to the therapist regarding her first session with the therapist. She didn’t expect the flood of tears and emotions that occurred during their first session. The therapist was kind and compassionate to hear her points of view. After her first therapy session, the therapist asked to meet Shawn. She thought that it would be best to hear his point of view about their marriage and relationship. The last thing that Josie wanted was for Shawn to feel that he was being guilted in to having more children, but she agreed to convince him in to come to an appointment with her. Josie, Shawn, and their therapist, Suzie, sat on the couch awkwardly after making introductions. With such a delicate topic, no one wanted to be the first to break the ice. The stress wore on Josie enough that she burst in to tears after a few minutes. Shawn looked at Josie with a mixture of concern and hesitation while he tried to find the words to say. “We don’t have much time,” Josie said. “I’m not getting any younger, and we need to make a decision regarding our future.” Some stress appeared on Shawn’s face, but he tried to be as sensitive to Josie’s pain as he could. “Honey, I know how much you have wanted to have a baby. I couldn’t dream of withholding that from you. You have been such a good mom to the girls, and they’re all grateful for you,” Shawn said in a kind voice. Josie couldn’t dream of making him start over, and she was afraid of the ridicule that he might receive from his friends and family. Shawn’s two siblings were younger than him, and they were already grandparents. What would they think about his situation? Shawn, Josie, and Suzie had an extra-long therapy session to sort through all of the topics that they wanted to discuss. A typical session was 90 minutes. Shawn and Josie sat in their counseling session for almost three hours. Suzie almost missed the pick-up window for her two children until she realized what time it was and called her husband to take care of it. Josie still didn’t have any clarity or peace by the end of their counseling session. She and Shawn eventually drove home. The silence was deafening during their 15-minute drive home to their brick house in the suburbs. The issue didn’t come up again for the about a month when Josie’s and Shawn’s life changed forever. About a month after Josie’s and Shawn’s appointment with the therapist, Josie thought that she had the flu. She was throwing up in the bathroom for the past week, and she was unusually tired. She didn’t think anything of it, because she was overworked and tired during the past couple of weeks. Josie tried to take on extra projects to take her mind off of things at home, so surely that was the explanation for her feeling unwell. The phone rang while Josie was sitting on the cold tile floor of her bathroom. Reluctantly, Josie picked up the phone. She didn’t feel like talking to anyone, but she thought that some external contact would help her take some mind off of things. Her sister-in-law was calling. “Hey! What are you doing?!”, Sharon bellowed on the phone. Her exuberant personality lifted Josie's spirits. “Nothing much….,” Josie trailed off in a monotone and exhausted voice. “Uh oh, is everything ok?” Sharon asked. Josie explained the situation to Sharon, and Sharon went quiet. Josie wasn’t sure if the call disconnected or if Sharon was just in shock. After a few seconds of silence, Sharon asked, “Have you taken a pregnancy test?’ Josie rolled her eyes at the suggestion. “I don’t believe that I’m pregnant, you goof. I probably just have the flu,” Josie responded. “Josie! You’re not listening to me. Do your boobs hurt? Have you been peeing more than usual?” Sharon asked. Josie paused to think it over. A few seconds later, she said, “Um, yes?” Sharon said, “I’m in Hoboken now. I’m swinging by the CVS and then coming over.” Josie sat on her couch with her heart pounding for the next 20 minutes. What would she tell Shawn? Could this be real? How would they handle raising a baby and planning for Shawn’s retirement? A flood of questions came into Josie’s mind. She hugged her cat to her chest and tried to stay calm. Sharon arrived at Josie’s doorstep with a jug of Sunny D and a pregnancy test. The next five minutes seemed to drag on until the end of time. Sharon sat with Josie and held her hand and tried to keep her calm. After five minutes, Sharon ran in to the bathroom to check on the test, because Josie didn’t have the heart to look. Sharon gasped and then started screaming, “Aaaahhhhh! Congratulations! It’s positive.” Josie sat there in shock and didn’t say anything. She didn’t feel excitement, just concern. She felt concerned about whether she really wanted to spend the next few years dealing with diapers and potty training. The next years after that would be pre-school drop offs and a potentially picky eater. How would this baby relate to her three sisters who are old enough to be this baby's parent? She also didn’t look forward to the emotions that come with teenagers and then saving for another kid’s college. “I’m not really that excited, Sharon. What does that tell you?” Josie finally said. She hung her head with the realization at how horrible it sounded and how maybe the grass isn't always greener on the other side. Sharon’s demeanor changed from excited to concerned. “What are you going to do?” Sharon asked. “I don’t know,” Josie responded. “Whatever I decide to do, I won’t have much time.”


The roar of a motorcycle in front of the bar drowned out the jukebox stuck on a classic rock song. Everyone in the place turned to the door. Living in a small town, you knew who belonged here and who didn’t. And we all knew no one around here had a motorcycle. When the door opened, I nearly swallowed my tongue. In walked my every fantasy. He removed his helmet, revealing eyes so dark they looked black from where I stood behind the bar. They matched his hair, brushing along his shoulders as he shook it out and ran a hand through it. He took off his leather jacket, and I whimpered. Tattoos ran from his fingers up his arms and underneath his white t-shirt, peeking out around his neck. He had bad boy written all over him, and I wanted to climb him like a tree.

I wasn’t the only one to appreciate this God who walked in. Quite a few sighs went around the room, even as someone kicked the jukebox to move it to the next song. “Holy shit,” I whispered. He raised his nose in the air and gave a subtle sniff. No one seemed to notice but me since I couldn’t peel my eyes away. His gaze locked on mine as he strode through the crowd toward me. People milling about parted like the damn Red Sea—whether by instinct or magic—as he continued his path toward me. Saturday nights drew a larger crowd than the rest of the week. Men and women lined up at the bar, hoping to catch the eye of someone, if only for one night. Some loved the camaraderie of the other bar patrons, playing a friendly game of pool or darts. Others just didn’t want to be alone. They all had a story to tell, and I listened to every single one when they spilled their secrets. “One more, Jamie.” Stacy plopped her tray on the bar, causing me to jump. She turned her exhausted eyes to mine. “Is it closing time yet?” The noise picked back up as everyone lost interest in the newcomer. “Two more hours. If the crowd dies down, you can leave early. I’ll close up by myself.” I grabbed a pint glass from the shelf and poured a microbrew from the tap.

I knew how she felt. Owning a bar had a particular set of challenges. One being staff. Cody called in with the flu, Marie had a sick baby and Michael refused to work Saturday nights. Thinking about him reminded me I needed to have a talk with his momma. I did her a favor by hiring him since he was down on his luck, but I needed him to work. “Excuse me.” Everyone within hearing distance turned toward the gruff, almost guttural voice, Stacy and myself included. “Can I have a beer?” “Where you from, boy?” William, one of our regulars, responded. He came in every Saturday and sat at the bar, nursing a Scotch until we closed. Only one, no more. It had been his weekly ritual way before my grandmother sold me the place. “William! You’ve no manners. Leave him alone before I tell Ethel to send Will Junior for you,” Stacy scolded. He huffed and took a sip of his drink. I glanced at the stranger. A feral smile spread across his face, giving him wolf-like qualities. His unnatural countenance only added to his looks. A shiver ran down my spine as his eyes followed a path up my body. I didn’t know whether to be scared or flattered by his attention. He looked like he wanted to eat me. Oh my! I shook my head to clear my thoughts. Sage, the town librarian, had talked me into one too many shifter romances lately. Especially since Officer Wilson and he started dating. “Coming ri-right up,” I stammered and fumbled with one of the beer taps. When I looked over at Stacy, she quirked an eyebrow at me, and I gave a subtle shake of my head. It took three tries before I could pour his beer with less foam and more liquid. I didn’t know why he made me nervous. It wasn’t like strangers hadn’t passed through town before, but something about him set off every alarm bell in my head—good and bad. I set his beer in front of him and watched as he wrapped his tattooed fingers around the glass and brought it to his lips. When my eyes met his, a flush of heat ran through me. I didn’t think I’d ever been on the receiving end of such an intense stare before. His eyes flared brightly for a second, like when headlights hit an animal’s eyes on the road. It could only have been a trick of the bar lights. Right? “Hmmm...good.” He licked his lips and stared at me, and somehow I knew he meant more than the beer. “Y-yes. It’s a local brewery.” What about this man had me in knots? I’d seen good-looking men before—even dated a few—but something about him drew me in like flies to honey. Or Red to the Big Bad Wolf. “Is there a place nearby to stay overnight?” Stacy chose that moment to pop her head up behind me. “There’s a bed-and-breakfast right down the road about two miles. Jamie lives right across from it.” If she wasn’t my best friend, I’d bop her on the head with her tray. The stranger pinned me with his gaze. “Is that so, Jamie ? Maybe you could show me the way. You know, since I’m new in town.” “I’ll close up tonight. You work too hard anyway. Take the rest of the night off.”

I whipped my head around and stared wide-eyed at Stacy. “Have you lost your ever-loving mind?” I whispered. A dark chuckle drew my attention back to the stranger. “I won’t bite. Much.” He snapped his teeth at me. My heart did a somersault in my chest. He tilted his head to the side in an animalistic fashion, as if he could hear it, and grinned. “Here.” Stacy shoved my red hoodie into my hands and pushed me from behind the counter.

The stranger stood from his seat and grabbed his helmet and jacket lying across the bar. “I’ll follow you.” I gulped, and before I knew it, he was leading me outside to my car. How’d he know which one was mine? He held the car door for me and shut it behind me, tapping the top. Every instinct I had was on full alert. My grandma didn’t raise no fool, but any intelligence I had flew out the window when I looked in my rear-view mirror at him mounting his bike. Oh. My. God. That was the hottest thing I’d ever seen. Even with the windows closed, the rumble of the motorcycle rattled through my car. Another shiver worked its way down my spine as I pulled out of the parking lot. He followed me to the bed-and-breakfast and parked alongside me. I rolled my window down when he approached. “Here you go. Have a nice night.” “You’re not going to make sure I get a room? They may be full.” That wolf-like grin of his spread across his face again. Sweat rolled down my back. What the hell is wrong with me? “I-I think you’ll be fine.” “Which house is yours?”

His abrupt question caught me off guard, and before I could get my mind and mouth in sync, the floodgates opened as I pointed across the street. “Right there. It’s my grandma’s house.” Seriously? I did not just tell a stranger where I lived. “Uh, I mean…” Quick! Think of something. “Used to live. She used to live there. Now I do.” I mentally slapped myself. How did he have me so addled? Usually I had my shit together. “Well, Jamie , I’m sure I’ll see you...around.” He grabbed a backpack out of his saddlebag and sauntered to the door. I reached over and turned the air conditioning full blast to tame some of the heat spreading through me as I watched him climb the steps. “Oh, man. I’m in so much trouble.” He stopped on the landing and looked back, grinning as if he heard me. I slammed the car in reverse and raced across the street to my house. When I got out and glanced over at the bed-and-breakfast, he still stood there, staring at me. I quickly rushed up the steps, unlocked the door, and ran inside, slamming the door behind me. What a strange night. ***** A noise startled me awake. The remnants of a dream I couldn’t quite recall sat along my subconscious. I closed my eyes and willed myself to relax. I’d almost drifted back off when I heard it again—a howl in the distance. Moonlight peeked through the curtains, lighting the room in an eerie glow. A shadow passed by the window, sending adrenaline rushing through my body. My pulse raced, and the blood whooshed in my ear even as I strained to listen for any noise outside. Just as I convinced myself it was my imagination, another chilling howl rang out closer to the house. I couldn’t decide whether to make a run for the bathroom and lock myself in, or stay perfectly still and hope it was only a wild dog passing through. I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing and tried to relax. ***** The first ray of sun slipped across the bed and warmed my face, waking me. At some point, I’d drifted off with dreams of sexy men and wolves hunting me through the woods. My sweat soaked sleep pants clung to me, and the sheets lay pooled at my feet. I groaned and turned over, glancing at the clock.

Since I worked late on Saturday nights, Sunday was my lazy day, and I usually took my time getting out of bed. But the early hour this morning was a testament to how poorly I’d slept the night before. The stranger was probably long gone now, and life could go back to normal. I chalked it all up to my wayward dreams. As I headed to the bathroom for a quick shower, a motorcycle revved its engine outside. I rushed to the front window, pulling back the curtain for a peek. The stranger from last night cruised into my driveway. Oh shit! He was still here. A knock on my door sent my heart racing. I debated whether to answer or ignore it and pretend I wasn’t home, but his low growl through the door pushed me into action. “I know you’re in there.” How did he know? Could he hear my heart trying to break through my chest? Could he smell my sweat soaked body? I took a tentative sniff. Yuck! He could probably smell me from across the road. “I saw you peek from behind the curtain.” Could he read my mind, too? “Come on, Jamie. Answer the door.” He knocked again. A few deep breaths later, I opened the door. He looked as good as he did last night, still ticking all my boxes, even if he was strange. In the daylight, he looked more human. He flashed a radiant smile at me. “Good morning.” I flushed when he scanned my body. His smile got wider. I looked down and realized I was still in my damp pants and no shirt. “Rough night?” “Uh, I didn’t sleep well. I had a lot of strange dreams, and thought I heard an animal.” He cocked his head to the side. “What kind of animal?” “I’m not sure. A wild dog maybe? I heard howling.” “Like a wolf?” He smiled again, showing more teeth, and I gulped. “What a big mouth you have.” He leaned in close to my ear and whispered, “The better to eat you with.”


I hadn't written anything in a long time. This story came out of a conversation I had with someone in my life that hates their job. I had recently watched American Psycho, and this was the combination of thoughts between the two moments. “Pizza for none” It was as dark as the city could be that night. The lights of the buildings shone down on the street, the cars lighting up what they pointed at, and the street lamps hovered their halos above the sidewalk; it was still dark . Nobody pays much attention to a pizza delivery person, and tonight was no exception. People continually bumped into him as if he wasn’t there. He wasn’t a small person either. At around 6 feet, he stood above many of the people on the sidewalk that night. His hat was pulled down, covering his face and revealing the familiar company logo. There was not much of a chill this night, but the delivery man still wore a long sleeved shirt under his polo, as well as gloves to match. Not everyone was warm blooded in this town. He continued his way down the sidewalk with his head down, as if he was accepting that he was just a “nobody.” This was his hope at least. He found the building he was looking for and stood outside. He saw the buzzer box to call up to the apartment, but didn’t use it. He just waited. Ten minutes went by before someone made their way out of the building. He made his way to the door as they came out, holding it courteously as they exited, then made his way inside. Nobody questions the pizza guy. Two flights of steps later, he was in the correct hallway. He had never been in this building, but had a vague familiarity of where he was. He had studied this complex. There was a calmness creeping over him as he walked down the hall, but there was an anxious excitement accompanying the feeling. This was the moment he had waited for. He approached the door, held the warm bag up high, and knocked. Karen heard the knock from her couch, where she was enjoying watching the local NFL team maintain a minor lead for once. It was rare she had anyone come by at this hour. She stood up and made her way to the door. Looking out the peep hole, she could see the pizza bag, which covered the face of the person who knocked, and the hat which displayed the well known chain’s logo. She hadn’t ordered a pizza. “Who is it?” she asked through the still closed door. “I have a pizza for Karen,” she heard in response. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t order a pizza” she announced, confused already by the interaction. “The note says ‘To Karen, enjoy a slice of my love,’” the delivery driver chuckled. Though slightly repulsed by the cuteness, she appreciated the fact that her boyfriend was sending her dinner from out of town, and as a surprise! “One second,” she said, as she reached for the lock. She opened the door and saw mostly the bag, which was held up at eye level. She noticed, shortly after, the pistol pointed at her from below the bag. “Don’t make a sound,” he said, pointing he gun discreetly into her lower torso. “Keep your hands at your side and quietly back inside the apartment.” He followed her inside and the crept backwards, arms stiffly at her side. A look of terror washed over her face as she did. He knew she would not recognize him, yet, but that she would likely follow every command he gave. “Lie on the ground, face down, with your hands on your head,” he commanded. He watched carefully as she did what she was told, then turned and latched the front door behind him. “I’m going to tie your hands,” he warned her, before removing two pieces of silk fabric and two thick, leather, straps from the bag with the pizza. Soon, her arms were locked behind her back, and another piece was tied around her head, obscuring her vision. A fourth piece of cloth was removed from the bag, along with a sock. The sock was wadded into a ball and placed in her mouth; it was secured in place with the cloth wrapped around her head and mouth. She was now completely helpless. The delivery man made his way to the windows, closing all of the curtains to the outside world; he did not want to be spied upon while he worked. After securing the windows, he made his way to her mostly-bound self, and picked her and dragged her to the couch. She was sat down carefully. He produced two more leather straps and two more pieces of cloth from the bag. As he had done with her hands, he wrapped the cloth around her ankles before securing them with the straps. She would not be going anywhere without his help. “I’m going to remove your gag,” he told her, “and if you make a sound when not prompted, you will feel a sense of immediate regret.” She nodded with understanding. “I want you to tell me where you keep your valuables,” he stated, as he removed her gag. “I’m not here to hurt you, but I am going to be leaving here with some of your things.” “The bedroom,” she responded, with a shake to her voice. “I have jewelry in the box on my dresser. Please take it all, just don’t hurt me.” Her voice pleaded with a tone unfamiliar to her day to day life. She was a manager; she was a person of power. People feared her and respected her. She was not used to having anything less than the upper hand. A combination of fear and anger had swept over her from the moment she saw the pistol. “How dare he do this to me,” she thought. “Don’t move,” she heard him say, before replacing what she thought felt like a sock in her mouth. She thought of the ways she could possibly escape on her own, and realized quickly that she had little hope. She could hear him in her bedroom now, violating her possessions. She loved her jewelry, and was hoping he wouldn’t notice the compartment on the side of the box which held her grandmothers ring. The sentimental and literal values were likely similar, though she hadn’t had it appraised. Her heart beat with ferocity as she felt his footsteps vibrate the floor closer and closer again. “Cash,” he said, with a cold emptiness. “Where is it?” She thought about not responding. She thought about lying. She thought about the nice bonus check she had recently cashed out and kept with her emergency cash in the shoebox in her closet. “I don’t have anything else than what is in my purse,” she responded, after he removed the gag once again. “Please take it, it isn’t much, and leave.” She felt him lean in, closer and closer, to the point that she could feel the warmth of his face next to hers. “I wouldn’t play games,” the driver whispered to her. He asked her again, and she told him about the shoebox. She felt the dampness sock around her mouth as he forced it back inside and once again tied the gag. In the bedroom, the driver had already taken a few pieces of jewelry from the box, but it was cash he was really hoping for. He didn’t want to raise suspicions. People would notice if all of her jewelry was missing, but would likely not know about any cash she had stashed away. He pulled down the box and opened it up. “Jackpot,” he thought to himself, as he looked at the stack of bills. He knew she had cash here, as she had once mentioned that she kept an emergency fund. “I’m sure she never expected her ‘emergency’ to be so close to home” he chuckled. He took the box with him out of the room, placing the small pile of jewelry he had left on the bed into the box first. The box went into the pizza bag, where there was no pizza on this night. He took a look at her, tied up on the couch, and saw that she was behaving quite well. This was going very well. He turned his head in the opposite direction of the bedroom and saw the kitchen. Part two of his plan was here. Karen heard him rustle in the bag he brought before wandering off to the kitchen. “At least there isn’t anything of value for him in there” she thought, hoping he would just leave now that he had her money. She could faintly make out the sound of a glass being removed from a cabinet, followed by a bottle placed on the counter. “Sure, make yourself at home,” she thought with irritation. She was keeping to the anger as much as she could, as she was well aware that he may come for her body next. The idea was upsetting, so she pushed it aside. She felt him approaching from across the room once again. “Drink this,” he calmly demanded. She felt a straw placed into her mouth, replacing the sock he had just removed. Tequila?? She slowly drank. It was mixed with the grapefruit juice from her fridge, but it was mixed very heavily in favor of the Tequila. The straw was not removed her mouth until she was done with the glass. She was no stranger to drinks, but did not typically drink them this quickly. She felt a momentary nausea, but felt it was best to fight it. She was starting to worry this was the first step into her being assaulted. “I want my mom,” was her following thought. He pulled the drink away from her after she finished it. He could see the fear and confusion, even through her blindfold. “I’m going to have you drink more,” he told her, “and if you do as I say you will continue to be kept safe.” A few moments later he returned from the kitchen with another similar drink. She did as she was told once again. “The drinks are to make your memory of my robbery hazy,” he told her. She believed it. Karen was starting to feel the drinks already. He had fed her three strong drinks already, and was getting another. She wasn’t a lightweight, but she was going to be on her way to being drunk very soon. “Whatever gets him out the door,” she thought. “Even if he gets me blackout drunk, I will remember the little bit I have,” she mused. “He will not be getting away with this as easy as he hopes.” He knew how much she needed to drink before she started to lose her control. This wasn’t the first time she had drank in his presence, but she wasn’t aware of this. “One more should do it,” he thought, heading back to the kitchen. He had a plan, and every step thus far had gone to perfection. He was going to get away with this, he knew it. He approached her with her final drink. This was it. This was when he got to have real fun. The revenge already tasted sweet. He smiled as she sipped down the last drink. She winced forcing it all down. It was time. He placed the gag back in her mouth, tied it tight, and reached for her blindfold. She moved back, slightly startled, but relaxed as she seemed to realize she was going to see again. She would not stay relaxed long, though the alcohol would help his cause. As she felt the delivery man remove the blindfold, she acknowledged the idea that this was bad. If he was going to be casual with his identity, she might not be walking away. He did explain the drinks were to mess with her memory, and she wouldn’t be having these thoughts in the state she was reaching if she hadn’t been thinking them for the past hour, if it had been that long. Her eyes adjusted to the light as the blindfold dropped. When the blindfold dropped, so did her stomach. “Hello Karen,” Jason spoke calmly. He saw by her eyes that she recognized him immediately, once he had removed the hat with the fake, shaggy hair. He didn’t know how quickly she would be processing through the inebriation, but knew it didn’t matter, as he was planning to explain it all. “How perfectly cliche” he muttered, before addressing her. Karen knew Jason right away. She had fired him months ago, but he had left without problem. She knew, as well as he did, that she had been less than kind to him. “A disgruntled employee,” she thought to herself, “how is this really happening?” “You made my life hell,” he stated to her, with a fire now burning in his eyes. “I trusted you. We trusted you, and you continually shit on us behind our backs.” This moment was perfect. “I’m not going to draw this out more than it will be naturally, but I am going to humiliate you tonight,” he said to her. “Its time for a shower.” She watched in horror as he removed a knife from his back pocket. “Was this it? Will my cutthroat corporate ways be my undoing? What is he going to do to me?” Thoughts raced, as quickly as they could as the alcohol continued to process. He leaned forward, and started to cut away at her blouse. This was what she dreaded. Nobody should have to experience a sexual assault, and she never thought it would be her. Her hands were still bound, as were her legs, and soon these binds were the only articles overing her body besides the blindfold. She noticed a pile of clothing next to her now shredded outfit. “Why did he bring me a change of clothes?” Her head was starting to spin. The drinks were hitting her harder now. “Follow me,” Jason said, as he lifted her off the couch and led her to her bathroom. Jason had always been attracted to Karen, and seeing her bound, gagged, and being led naked across her apartment gave him a strong level of arousal. He was sure she was speculating, but rape was not something he was capable of. He wanted her to be afraid though, so he had no intention of clearing this up. He sat her down on the toilet and started the shower. As the water heated up, he wandered back into the previous room to gather the pile of non-torn clothes. He tossed them on the floor near the shower, and turned back towards Karen. He helped her stand back up, and motioned towards the shower. “Time to wash away your sins,” he said to her. Karen was having a hard time standing between the restraints and the drinks. “Jason will be regretting this,” she thought to herself, as he stood her up in the shower. The warm water danced off of her as she stood underneath the spray; this was the only thing she could do with her arms bound. “I’m going to remove your arm restraints so you can shower proper,” he told her, “if you try anything, I will hurt you.” She didn’t doubt this. She knew from working with Jason that he was smart. She also knew that he was a little bit nuts. He removed the restraints and the cloth beneath each one. Her hands were free again. It was good to have them back, though she was not in any pain from them. With the cloth wrapped around her wrists first, she didn’t even have marks from the binds on her skin. She watched him toss the straps to the floor. “Grab the body wash,” he said, looking at her intently. She reached down to grab the bottle from the corner. “Lather your hands and start cleaning.” She opened the bottle and emptied some of its contents into her hand. She leaned forward to place the bottle back down when she felt his hands grab her her head. She was falling backwards now. She hit her head on the edge of the tub with an audible “crack.” Darkness. Jason watched as she started to bleed from the laceration in her skull. She was no longer moving, nor would she move again. He removed her gag and leg restraints. He left the bathroom with everything besides her set of clean clothes, and placed everything he had brought with him into the pizza bag. He walked back to the bathroom and took one more look at her, lying in the tub with streaks of red washing down the drain as the shower continued to run. “Well done,” he thought. He made his way to the door, putting his hat with the fake hair back on and turned low. He grabbed the pizza bag, peered through the peep hole into the hall, then opened the door. A quick glance out the door showed the hall to be empty. He turned the lock on the inside before shutting the door behind him. Nobody noticed the pizza man as he left the building. Nobody noticed the pizza man as he disappeared down the street. The newspaper said she had been in the shower for two days before they found her. Her boyfriend became worried after not hearing back from her. She hadn’t been showing up to work. Karen was found in the tub, with the water still running. The tequila on the counter told the story. The autopsy confirmed the story. The story would go that she had a few too many drinks, slipped in the shower, and had a massive head injury as a result. She would be missed by many (though not really). “There is no suspicion of foul play.


She ‑‑ my sister, Peggy -- had been to every carnival for every year that they held them in our town since she was 7 years old. She knew exactly where all the rides would be placed, all the games, and knew all of the faces that would come each and every year for the past 10 years. The carnival would only last for three solid days -- Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. The carnival workers would pack up on Sunday night and be gone by morning leaving debris all over the area where they had set up. Me and my sister loved going through after they were gone to find treasure that might've been left behind. We found money, jewelry, cigarettes, and much more. This year, however, on Saturday night, Peggy didn't come home after the carnival shut down at 10:00 p.m. She usually came home by 10:15, but it was now nearly almost midnight and there was no sign of her. I packed my backpack up and told my mom I was going to look for her -- it was only just down the street from our apartment. When I got to the location, the only visible movement of any living person was within the campers on the sides of the rides and games. There were TVs playing, a few people standing outside smoking cigarettes or whatever, and a few drunks leaving the park. There was nobody that I could ask where she had gone or if they had seen her except one man. I had brought a picture with me just in case and walked up to him as he took a deep drag from his smoke. As I approached him, he blew it directly into my face as I attempted to speak, which cut me off vocally as I tried to utter out my first sentence while holding the picture of Peggy. "What?" He said as he looked down at me from the steps to his travel trailer. "You need somethin', boy?" "Yes, sir." I coughed. "My sister didn't come home and I was wondering if you had seen her." I held the picture up to him and he swiped it from my hand. "Ah." He paused a moment and looked down at the picture for what seemed like ages. "Yeah, I seen her tonight. Pretty little thang, ain't she?" "Did you see her leave with anyone?" "Nope. Left like she does every year -- headed that a-way by herself hours ago." He pointed in the direction of my apartment. "Well… thank you." I took the picture from his hand as he flicked his cigarette over my head and turned back and went inside his trailer without another word. I stood there a minute as I looked in the direction of our apartment. Where could she have gone, then? Did somebody grab her? I was so confused and was starting to get even more worried than I already was. Just as I was beginning to walk slowly in the direction toward our apartment, I heard a faint laughing coming from one of the rides -- the Zipper. It was a giant ride that stood out from all of the rest and even though we rode it every year, it still gave me terrifying butterflies before I rode it again. As I got closer to the ride, I heard the laugh again -- this time louder. It sounded just like Peggy's laugh. When I got to where the area of the ride where the man would let you on, I heard the laugh again and was certain now that it was her. Everything looked the same except there was something out of ordinary protruding from the ground -- a door of sorts that looked like it opened up to a stairway that went underground. I opened the door and sure enough, there was a set of stairs that seemed to go on to the center of the earth. I called out Peggy's name into the darkness and waited for a reply. "Yeah, Charlie? I'm down here! Come down here, it's fantastic!" I started down the long stairway toward her voice. I lit my lighter to see where I was going and noticed these were concrete steps. How on earth hadn't we known about this door leading down into the earth long ago? Surely after 10 years we would've seen something like this poking out of the ground. "Hurry, Charlie. It's almost over!" Peggy called. "I'm trying!" I picked up my pace a little, but all while trying to be as careful as possible as I had no clue what could be at the bottom of these stairs or even if that was really my sister calling to me. I finally saw the landing at the bottom of the stairs and turned to look back up at the door I came through at the top of the stairs. "Where are you, Peggy?" "Down here. Just come a little closer, Charlie." It was dark and dank inside this place, smelled of dirt and -- and popcorn? At that point with the smell of the popcorn, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to look who was grabbing me to see no one. "I'm right over here, Charlie." I could hear her starting to get farther away each time she spoke and there was an echo that made it seem like she was in different areas of the underground structure. After a few minutes, I finally saw a torch lit in the distance and what seemed to be another doorway. "Just beyond the door, Charlie." I stood there at that door and started to become very nervous of what might be behind it. Was it really Peggy? I put my hand on the knob and turned it slowly, then pushed it open. I was shocked to see my apartment with my mom sitting on the couch watching TV, and Peggy telling my mother something I couldn't hear. I walked in and tried to get their attention, but they acted as if they didn't see me at all. "Mom! Peggy! Don't you see me?" I finally could start to pick up sound from their voices as I tried to gain their attention. "Mom, just let me go look for him. It's getting really late and I'm worried something has happened to him." "No, you stay here. He'll be back, he's a big boy. Probably out with his friends and lost track of time. If he's not back by morning, I'll call his friends' parents." "Mom, I just feel like something is totally wrong. When has Charlie ever not called home to say he was going to be late?" "Fine. You come right back after a walkthrough of that carnival. Don't talk to anyone, I don't trust those carnies." "I won't, mom. I'll be careful." "I'm right here, guys!" I knew it was useless trying to talk with them, I was invisible. I watched as my sister went to our front door and opened it and looked back over her shoulder before walking out. Her face changed as she now was looking directly at me. My mom took her attention from the TV and looked over at me, too. They both changed and I stood there horrified. The room started to change, too… we were no longer in my apartment and my mother and sister were no longer themselves, but fat carnival workers from this carnival. "Now you get to be one of us, Charlie. I think you'll be a great ride conductor. Don't you think so, boss?" The man looked down at the other tiny man that was once my mother. "Yep. I knew we'd get a good one this time!" He pulled down some curtains and all of a sudden we were back outside of the Zipper ride. "Don't bother trying to leave, you were chosen, buddy. We don't choose -- they choose for us. We all had to do it just like this." I looked around and noticed that nobody was close enough to stop me and I began to run as fast as I could. I got to the edge of the park where the rides began and came to a dead stop as I hit some sort of barrier. I couldn't get through and the men appeared at my side once again. "We've tried, Charlie. It sucks, I know. We can't leave either." The little man said. "Just go with it, it's not that bad after a while. I turned and sighed, then went with the men to another set of stairs. I could hear Peggy off in the distance calling for me, but I knew she couldn't see me. The next year, we came back to my town. I let people on and off of the Zipper ride for over 12 months now and finally, we were back home -- my home. I had changed in that year -- my gut got large, I grew a beard, and my voice became deep and heavy. My attitude changed, too. I was no longer the fun-loving Charlie I once was. Then there she was -- Peggy. She stood in line for the ride I was controlling and my heart started pounding. Would she recognize me? She got to the front of the line and stood and stared at me as I held the gate open for her to enter the car of the ride. "Are you -- are you Charlie?" "Yes. I'm stuck here now." We both knew at that moment that that was how carnivals got their workers. They were chosen by the carnival itself. The end.