                                         Saved                                                                    John Meiners, Jr.      The next morning Clarice rises early, makes coffee, and sits down. She is deep in thought, but surprised she slept as well as she did after last night’s bombshell. Clarice’s mind races as she reconciles the reasons Stefan kept his true identity from her. They met when they were 27. If you meet and fall in love, do you tell someone something so unbelievable that it sends them reeling and running away from you? Even now it’s too difficult to believe, and part of her still refuses to accept it even after Pamela changed into a deer before her very eyes. If Stefan had changed to God knows what to prove he came from another world, would she have accepted him? Maybe it was better not to know. Stefan protected her from something she couldn’t have handled and in the process filled her life with love. Shouldn’t she consider herself lucky?      Pamela walks in. “May I join you?”      “Of course. I’ll get you some coffee.”      “No, no… I’ll get it.” Pamela pours a cup while she watches Clarice. “Listen, I’m sorry I shocked you last night. I hope you’ll forgive me. What I had to say… I can’t blame you for not believing me. If I were you, I wouldn’t have. I thought it the fastest way.”      “You’re right. If you hadn’t turned into a… deer… You could have tried to convince me all night long, and I would probably have pretended to humor you then waited for my chance to slip away, thinking you all are insane, but actually seeing you change with my own eyes... well, pretty hard to ignore that. You have nothing to be sorry for. It sounds as though you saved Stefan years ago along with many others before your planet was destroyed. I should thank you. It’s…it’s just so hard to believe. I have never been a fan of sci fi, and now I find myself in a sci fi world.”      “I understand, as well as I can. I’m surprised you didn’t slip away after I changed.”      “I thought about it.”      “Really?”      “No…”      Pamela and Clarice share a small laugh for the first time.      Clarice is no longer angry and wants to learn more about how it affected Stefan. To say she is curious is an understatement. Clarice asks, “What was it like… when you left your planet?  Stefan was too young to remember, wasn’t he?”      Pamela tells her, “Probably… He knows what Bob has told him… I believe when he boarded the ship, Stefan probably was the youngest boy ever to witness the destruction of a world… and live, but I can’t say how it affected him.”      Clarice sees the melancholy on Pamela’s face and the sadness for her lost world, but she sees also her joy in discovering Stefan is alive. Clarice reminds herself that Pamela learned of this only days ago.      Stefan comes downstairs, followed by Bob just a few steps behind him. They both take a deep breath when they see Clarice and Pamela sitting having coffee, looking rather comfortable.  They seem much calmer now compared to the shock of last night’s revelations.

     Stefan prays, “Please let this tranquility continue.” He could use some tranquility.

     Cautiously Bob and Stefan pour themselves a cup of coffee, sit down, and they all begin to plan their day even though the ‘elephant is in the room.’

     Bob thinks if someone overheard their conversation this morning, they’re never guess what happened last night. He suggests, “Let’s go to the River Walk.  We’re visiting, and that is what visitors do in San Antonio. Lunch on the river will be fun.”      “You two go get ready,” urges Pamela. “Clarice and I will clean up down here.”

     Bob realizes Pamela wants to talk to Clarice without them so he and Stefan finish their coffee and go upstairs.      Pamela and Clarice wait until Bob and Stefan are out of ear shot then Clarice turns to Pamela and asks, “Please tell me how Stefan came here. What was it like for Stefan?”      “I brought Stefan to this world, but it was Bob who saved his life. If it were not for Bob, Stefan would never have been on board.”      “Yes, Stefan told me. He told me he was on the only ship that left the planet. Why didn’t more leave?”      “Alerts went out continuously. ‘Our world is ending! It is the apocalypse!’ The news went out constantly, but by the time it was supposed to happen, much like news on this planet, the sensationalism just wore off. Politicians slandered other politicians and ridiculed their warnings. Other stories though meaningless and not nearly as important, were given precedence. Accusations went back and forth. What was really happening? No one seemed to know.  People gave up on learning any reliable information from the news, and what warnings they heard, fell on deaf ears.   Then suddenly it was too late. The time remaining had been miscalculated. This news was devastating. An asteroid was headed toward our planet, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.  Our world was in denial; they’d lost belief in their government’s ability to save them. Lost belief in the leaders themselves. It’s a shame because so many more could have been saved. My father as a government official was able to commandeer a spacecraft with me in charge.  I tried to save as many as I could. Bob got Stefan on board. It was at that moment Stefan was given a chance to live. Bob and Stefan were both unknown to me. Bob really is the one who has all the information concerning Stefan and his upbringing. I know only what Bob told me on our trip here. My link to Stefan, as I mentioned last night, was Stefan’s mother. She was my dearest friend, and I was heartsick when I couldn’t reach her to save both her, her husband, and Stefan. We’d lost contact almost a year before.  My father was a government scientist, and he always knew the asteroid was on its way, but no one would take his warnings seriously enough. Suddenly in the last five months, the asteroid’s speed increased. New calculations predicted collision and destruction a good year earlier than was previously anticipated. There was no time for the mass evacuation that officials had considered. Clarice, I have lived for 60 years with the regret of not being able to save Stefan, and he has been alive and well all this time. You have had 34 years with him. He is the man you fell in love with and married, and he is truly part of this world…your world.”      Clarice nods and asks, “Your parents?”      Pamela shakes her head. “No… all gone.”      Stefan and Bob join them. While waiting on Pamela and Clarice to get ready, Bob looks out the front window. It’s a perfect San Antonio day for the River Walk. The sun is shining, it’s not too cold, and no chance of rain. Suddenly Bob notices a grey car driving by rather slowly with two men inside. The passenger looks carefully at their car. Bob calls to Stefan, “See that grey car? Have you seen it before? Maybe it’s one of your neighbor’s cars?”

     As Stefan looks, the car picks up speed and drives off down the street. “No, I don’t recognize it. Not one of our neighbors.”      Bob doesn’t want to jump to conclusions but the old adage ‘Better safe than sorry’ applies here. “Let’s keep this to ourselves. After all, they could have been looking at houses. It could have been as simple as they like the car or possible are looking at addresses trying to find a friend’s house. You all have Ring or some type of security cameras, right?”       Stefan nods. “Yes, but they could also be waiting for us to leave the house so they can follow us. What do you suppose they want? Worries me, but Clarice already has been shocked, and just when she may be coming ‘back to earth’, the last thing I want to do is tell her unsavory characters are checking out our house.”

          Arriving at the River Walk, they park on the street across from the stairs leading down to the water. As soon as they reach the river, Bob realizes dark clouds have come in. “Looks like rain after all,” says Bob. “I’m going to get my umbrella from the car.”      Stefan points at a bistro on the river, “We’ll get a table and meet you over there.”

     Bob thinks, ‘It looks like a good place to relax and enjoy a margherita.’ He goes back up to the street, pausing at the top to peer through the thick shrubbery overhanging the top of the stairs. Before going to his car, he checks the street for anything suspicious like the car he saw drive by this morning. ‘I’m probably overreacting,’ he thinks, but when you’re dealing with unscrupulous people who would just as soon see you dead, you just can’t be too careful.’ He worries mainly about Pamela Lawton. She’s such a well-known figure in Community and has a wealth of knowledge about serums and drugs such as Doesonear which facilitate the change in aliens. No doubt those behind the kidnappings and experimentations in their hometown of Community would like to pick her brain. If they try, they will pay with their life, promises Bob. He watches for one more moment, then satisfied that no one followed them, he starts toward his car. Suddenly he freezes as a grey car passes moving slowly. Bob steps back out of sight, watches and waits for them to make another pass to validate his suspicion. They do.  He takes out his phone, “Stefan, you know that grey car we saw drive by this morning?”                                                                                The End


"There you go, one large Pepperoni and one medium Carbonara! That'll be twenty dollars. Oh, and the Carbonara has the extra olives." "Perfect, thanks! That's her favorite", he winked while pulling out a couple of bills. The delivery man chuckled. "You can count on me, sir. Good evening!" He walked back to the living room, grabbing a knife on his way, put down the pizzas on the coffee table and plopped back down on his side of the couch. "Bon appétit!" he chimed, already trying to cut his pizza and look at the TV at the same time. For a moment, only chewing could be heard as the pizzas were being gobbled up. Daniel really was a great pizzaiolo, and these were a staple of their friday nights. Their dedicated "don't care" evenings, when they'd order pizzas, flop down on the couch and watch whatever movie she'd have picked. He wasn't much into movies himself and, in fact, she probably wasn't either. They'd already woken up more than once on this couch on saturday mornings, with no recalling of the film's ending whatsoever. But their unspoken point was pizza and snuggling, and they wouldn't have it any other way. "Oh dear," he let out as he glanced at her pizza box, where only a handful of olive pits and a grease stain remained. "You've already eaten all of this? I've barely made it to half of mine and I feel like I'm gonna explode!" He smiled. He might've been twice her weight, but it seemed like food would vanish around her before he had a chance to blink. She wasn't one to play princess, especially not on a friday night, and he loved her for it. He, on the other hand, had definitely overestimated his appetite this time. "Well, I'm full. Unless you want some more, I'm just gonna save it for tomorrow. Lemme throw the boxes away as well." He went to the kitchen, slid the remaining half of his pizza onto a plate and put it into the fridge. Turning around, he looked at the recycling bag, which to his dismay was already filled to the brim with empty pizza boxes. "Damn. Honey, I forgot to take out the trash, be right back!" He walked out of the flat, closing the door behind him, and began going down the stairwell. He wrestled with the door to the basement with his elbow, his hands occupied by the large bag and the two pizza boxes. After pressing the dusty light switch with his other elbow, he continued down the last flight of stairs, under the humming of the fluorescent tubes, to the trash bins room. The rattling of the olive pits inside the boxes went softer and softer as he slowed down and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. With a sigh, he shoved the recycling bag and the boxes into the nearest bin. Then he sat on the first step of the stairs, his head buried in his hands, and started weeping.


I’m going to write. “Star crossed.” Bleh! Gah! Gross! What a teenage cliché. Are you there John Green, it’s me, (insert name here). But still. I mean, it works, doesn’t it? As a description. The timing probably *could* have been worse, but it was pretty fucking bad. Who would have guessed that…after never connecting like this in my entire life, after deciding a long time ago to settle, after being more or less content, resigned to my stagnation, that someone like *you* would come into my life? It became addicting, the “what if?” What if we had met as kids? In high school? At camp? Randomly or unpredictably, before it would have been too late for both of us? I’m going to write. I tried pretty hard not to think about it at the time, to not let it sink it…just exactly what I was doing, what *we* were doing. I was just trying to live in the moment. It’s a bad (good) habit I developed in college, after struggling to pull myself out of a depression. I tried to stop living in the past or the future. I tried to just live. I even remember my friend Rev asking me about it. The change he noticed in me. I told him about Taoism. He knew what I meant before I explained it. I’m not describing this very well. But it’s not going to stop me from going on. Because: I’m going to write. Is it a good thing or a bad thing we live in different parts of the country? Probably both. Two extremes. Is it a good thing or a bad thing that we connected so deeply? Probably both as well. Actually, you know what…no. Fuck that. It WAS good. It IS good. To be seen like that. To see you like that. To have experienced it, to know that it is real, it is possible. I hope it leads to change for you. It seems like it did. It would be arrogant of me to claim to be the only catalyst for your change. But I’d like to humbly think that I played a part in it. I’m going to write. Because that’s what you were to me: a catalyst. It’s what you have to be. If I was stronger, I think we could be together. If I was weaker, I think we could be together. But I’m too damn balanced. The two extremes canceling each other out. Constant internal war breeds constant internal peace, right? Am I at peace? When we said goodbye, I was sobbing quietly in the bathroom, hoping my coworkers wouldn’t hear. It was the most emotion I have felt in years. I won’t let it be for nothing. It can’t have been nothing. It can’t have meant nothing. I know it didn’t. So: I’m going to write. I’m going to write because you saw my potential, because you wouldn’t want me to be shackled by self-doubt anymore, because you wouldn’t want me to give in to the creeping negativity gnawing at me even now. I’m going to write. And I’m not going to stop. And my first book will be dedicated to you. For Kitten. “And one fine morning…” Maybe it will happen. A book tour. A sea of faces. And there yours is. There you are. I can imagine it now. The way my heart would stop. The way my chest would tighten. I’m kidding myself. Or am I? Will the stars align again? I’m going to write. And I’m not going to stop.


“Bloody hell, Mum, are we actually about to live in this palace?!” “Dylan, how many times do I have to tell you it is a mansion, not a palace ? And for God’s Sake, Dylan, will you stop cursing so much?! ” “Gosh, Mum, ‘bloody hell’ is not too harsh. I’m 14, Mum! This isn’t the 20 th century! Oh, and sure, Mum, but when a matchbox works for a home for a bunch of teenage twins and a tween, and they’re exiled to a glorious 10-bedroom , yard, swimming pool, private forest, meadow AND creek-inclusive mansion , it sure seems like that Buckingham palace we’ve trudged by our entire lives.” “Dear me! Why, son, doesn’t your tongue get the better of you! Rake it in like you rake the leaves in autumn! But, pray, this modest outhouse will make Queen Elizabeth go green with jealousy!” “Edward, do quit your sarcasm. First this munchkin goes about saying this is a luxurious palace, then you come along and call this a modest outhouse! You’re making your dear, recently-passed and much-beloved and missed mother go green with rage!” “Edith, sweetheart, it may interest you to know that once upon a time, my mother lived in a slightly-larger-than-the-Roseley-mansion house, and when I was a young lad, she would come along, bounce me on her knee, and tell me “Why, my dearest Eddie, did you know your old Mummy here once lived inside a cigar pipe?” In case I confound you, the cigar pipe she refers to is actually the Esforth Estate. So, it must be genetics.” “Well, do me pleasure enough not to say so in front of your offspring.” “Jeez, Mum! What’s with the sudden offspring fancy vocabulary?” Dylan wrinkled his nose in disgust. Mr.Roseley merely looked at Mrs.Roseley , slightly flushed, and said “Well, Edith, don’t say I didn’t warn you. I told you the munchkins would grow up someday and chastise you for being a show-off with your Oxford Dictionary.” Mrs.Roseley haughtily continued to hold her head high, and replied back “If the future generation of Roseleys dislike my extensive knowledge of the English Language, they are very well equipped to suit themselves.” With this, she turned on her heel and entered the house to start ‘moving in’, whilst Rebecca was barely able to stifle a laugh. Dylan merely shrugged, and Sadie remained standing next to the car door. Even though the rest of the family had taken leave from the stage, the littlest member of the family, who remained in the spotlight, who we focus on, did not move an inch and could not shake the feeling of an impending danger of some sort. Remind yourselves that though she stands only 4’4, her wit is larger and faster than even Mr. or Mrs.Roseley’s… Sadie’s little eyes quickly scanned the ‘large pile of sand and bricks’ which was to be her new home. Antique, old, crumbly, dirty, neglected, what was the word… ah, yes, from the Victorian Era, rather posh, at 3 stories, and was that a terrace she could see up there? The ivy creeping over the walls gave a hearthrobbingly countryside-outskirts-rich person look to it; Andrea would be sure to love it… Sadie quickly dismissed the thought before she threw a fit demanding to be returned to London. Nobody, not even Dylan or her mother, who knew her so well, would guess she was actually quite excited about the house. After the last person had entered the close-to-300 year-old building, Sadie ran her hands along the outer wall of the house, just under the reach of the ivy. She felt like there could be something… something, alive? Inside those walls…? Sadie shook the thought from her mind, though she felt it in her bones.  This was definitely Rebecca or Dylan’s fault for playing too many pranks on her and making her such a suspicious little kid. She smiled and simply shook her head when she heard an agitated “ Edward! ” from inside, followed by the unmistakable smell of something burning and a splash of water. Quick bickering completed the sequence, and Sadie giggled, amused at what mischief her dad had already got himself into. “ What now? Surely he hasn’t tried to cook already? God, I can’t wait for the burgers! McDonald’s binge, you won’t know what hit you! Or maybe we should go with Papa John’s? The pizzas are to DIE for… especially those veggie ones… good god, where are we going to eat, sleep, shower, play games? Is this going to be like a HOLIDAY? Ooooh, I can’t wait ! Maybe I do miss London, but one can’t be thankless for all the adventures we might have here!  Argh, dammit! If only Andi could be here as well ! Maybe Mum and Dad will let her come over for a week or two? What a big family it could be! But then Dylan and Rebecca will get all jealous, like spineless cows and demand for their friends to be able to come over, too. What fun might that be? Wait, how cool would it be if the three of us could have our friends come over at the same time?! That would be, gosh, heavenly, I fell like I’m already drowning in a heated pool of heavy caramel… Grow up, Sade! What immature thoughts you have! Such a baby , you are.”

The large train of thought she’d boarded was quickly brought to a halt by her Mum’s shrill voice, calling out crossly “Sadie! If you want to be kidnapped, burgled, and have your dead body thrown into a well, I would suggest you stay put right where you are!” Goodness gracious, if she was so worked up already, someone must have done something terribly exasperating in the few minutes they’d been here. Her mother never used such harsh words with her, and the curse jar was one less source of money for the Roseley children, because of their mother’s strict tolerance against profanity. Sadie couldn’t help but wonder, as she walked through the large, majestic, wooden door, if the things her mother had so quickly put out were actually possible scenarios for a lone girl of almost-10 standing alone, outside, in the night, in the town they’d moved to.

“Sade, Ribs, are we ever going to get over the fact that we’re living in a palace?” Dylan softly called. Bundled near him, Rebecca answered his call. “Mansion, not palace, Dy.” She softly whispered. Dylan chuckled and swatted her arm playfully. “Do you think we could invite our friends from London over?” Sadie piped. “Unfit for the situation, Sadie-bean. But, if it suits Mum and Dad’s fancy, I don’t see why they wouldn’t!” he said, slightly enthusiastic. “Dear sweet Sadie. Always thinking ahead, aren’t you, my own little spaceshuttle?” “Totally am, Caveman.” Rebecca giggled girlishly and turned onto her side, away from Dylan and Sadie on her left with a soft sigh and an almost-clamorous russle of the sheets. “Alright, weirdos, g’night, see y’all tomorrow…” she mumbled. Dylan sat up straight and said rather loudly “Hey, you stole the kid’s dialogue!” “I am NOT a kid…” Sadie mumbled in protest, but it went unnoticed. “Not stolen. Borrowed.” Rebecca grunted. “-without Sadie’s permission, which is stealing!” Sadie said, in a sing-song voice. The three of them laughed. “Har-har!” Dylan continued, in a pitch and loudness equivalent to Sadie. it had definitely been many years since Dylan had sang, or even said anything in that tone. “I’m never going to be able to suck up this glory. Even when I’m 80, I’ll boast to my great-grandchildren about how I was once a rich kid and lived in a house bigger than the Buckingham.” Dylan cooed, lying back down. “Good lord, Dylan, get yourself together in one piece.” Becca groaned, clearly disgusted to hear her brother’s future life plans. “What is that supposed to mean?” Sadie said, nodding off to sleep. Dy and Bex both said “Nothing!” in a cheery voice, synchronized, before pulling the covers over their little sister and kissing her good night.


The impending challenges that burdened the trek across the border eased with timely reconciliation to my new land. Swept up in the migratory tide to Hamilton, Ontario, Canada and suitably ensconced two years later,   I now share the experience to assuage the many others in similar transit. I had been renting in adjacent Toronto and sought to purchase at hand, but real estate values hovering just north of the Pole Star motivated a search elsewhere. I thus set forth for “Steel Town”, the gritty, industrial neighbor to Toronto’s west. The boundary between the municipalities is as palpable as the mills upon which Hamilton was built, the cultures as different as chalk and cheese. How I have managed to flump nicely in said circumstance is best understood in context, so I wind back the clock to begin. My journey actually originated decades prior on the east side of meager Port Colborne, Ontario, Canada, in a very ethnic, working class neighborhood, essentially a ‘Little Italy’. Its laborers, factory and skilled trades workers, former miners and soldiers, all began their lives in poverty and hardship.. My father, for example, took to laboring at age twelve, eventually emigrating to Canada to work in factories. Though mind numbing, alienating, and soul crushing, never once did he complain about his toils. My father was a Man of Steel.  With that as a measure, his older brother was of Kryptonite. One day, the story goes, while working at his garden in Villa Santa Lucia, Abruzzo, Italy, Uncle Tony was delivered a draft notice. He immediately ceased and departed, only to soon find himself a prisoner of the British, and remained so for five years. Often near death by malnutrition, he survived by proving himself useful to his captors as a mechanic. The moment he returned home from the war he proceeded directly to his garden, picked up his shovel from where it remained untouched and proceeded farming, barely uttering a word thereafter about his ordeal. And then, there is my mother. At least as strong willed as her husband and brother in law, she to this day remains the only person in the world of whom I am fearful. Being of Italian heritage in Port Colborne east I was not alone, and felt safe in an otherwise intimidating environment. And make no mistake, it was a tough place, I mean, as Charlie Callas quipped about his town, you could walk ten blocks and never leave the scene of a crime.  But I was always alright, thanks to acquaintances, really tough guys, like Ape, The Bear and “Lucky” Tony Testadurra, so designated for one day while assisting at his father’s construction site had an anvil fall on his head and the anvil broke. I was tagged “Noodle” or “Joey Noodles”, in acknowledgment of my academic abilities and also because I was considered otherwise soft. So, the deal became that I helped the guys with school and they watched out for me. I marveled, for example, at how often disappearing bikes, hockey sticks or patio furniture would mysteriously reappear intact. They knew the neighborhood and the neighborhood knew us and me. All told, my parents, peers and immersion in street culture schooled me in vigilance, humility, respect and discretion, while my literacy skills primed me for analysis and rhetoric, a weave forging, among other things, an acute ability to size a person or situation at the drop of a hat. So now, decades later and in a cut throat housing market, my lawyer, not unfamiliar with my story, put me in touch with a “friend” of his that I would be “comfortable” with and who would “take care” of me in my pursuit of a home. Understanding that real estate dealing had become wildly lucrative I ventured that many were leaving their usual professions to become agents, and upon meeting Rico, replete with a Lanieri suit, Bruno Magli shoes and a Borsalino fedora masking eagle baldness, I figured him exhibit A. With Rico, everything was a drama or secret. A typical conversation would be; “ Interesting place Rico. What do you think about it?”  “Listen Joey”, he would say while looking suspiciously over each shoulder, “this is what we’re gonna do...” He was always telling me what we were “gonna do.” “You’re gonna walk out the door and turn right and walk down three blocks, see? Then, you’re gonna go into the back alley and go twenty feet and stop”. “What? Really?” “Listen, just listen”, he would direct me with a clasp of my upper arm while pointing at me with his other hand, “A black car’s gonna pull up after five minutes.” “Ya, your car.” “Never mind whose car, you just get in for a little sit down with everyone.” “Who’s everyone? There’s just us.” “Never mind, now that’s what we’re gonna do.” I humored him and respected his rituals and nostalgia. My suspicions on what his real lifestyle actually was were confirmed

 when after mentioning to someone my agent was Rico they rejoined with “Rico The Cue Ball? He’s out now?” Indeed. Anyway, just like the fellas from back home, Rico protected me from being taken advantage of but he was hardly proactive. So, when it came to prospecting homes I had to fend for myself, finally zeroing in on a property in the small neighborhood of Homeside in east Hamilton. It was love at first sight with an east side Portuguese beauty. Having more crosses than the Calvary, circumvented with the finest concrete this side of the Pantheon and finished upstairs and down, this masterpiece was my desire. Despite strict legal restrictions securing confidentiality during the offering process, Rico managed to advise with curious precision (“I like a thousand more...”) and she was soon mine. Homeside consists of modest size homes closely crammed on narrow streets and dating predominantly from the nineteen forties to the eighties. No two homes are alike, and there are small parks and walkways dispersed throughout making for interesting walking tours. All that, along with its numerous “mom and pop” businesses, give a Homeside an authentic neighborhood feel. Immediately upon arrival I made a point of it to circulate and get to know the locals. Handshakes, smiles, invitations, sharing of garden bounty and a beer or two now and again began that process effectively. Correspondingly, life was quite good for many months and then, well, a certain someone moved on to the street and here we come to the crux of this tale... “WOW! What is that?!” I shouted to myself in my inner voice one day. “Can it be a... Lamborghini ?” It was! A jet black Lamborghini, set directly in front of the most recent sale on the street, and on the sidewalk was our newest neighbor whom I approached hoping to introduce myself. Upon my nearing to within a few meters of him, his attention was instead drawn to Sal, our local councilor, approaching from the opposite direction and coming to welcome our new resident. I approached closely while the fellow addressed Sal. “Is this a dedicated parking spot?” he asked straightaway. A curious question, with a tone of expectation inconsistent with the absence of reserved spaces signage. I already figured what this guy was about and where he was coming from, and this first encounter continued to degenerate. Although we were already acquainted, Sal didn’t even look at me let alone do the introductions. His concerns were in politicking with someone apparently more important. “Fine, Sallie”, I thought, because I also understand the character and priorities of those with title and ambition. So, I left them only with the same information with which I began, that buddy had a Lamborghini, and he thus became “Lambo”. So, we have an arrival who is not interested in introducing themselves and feels entitled. If not checked, the course is inevitable and in a few weeks - not more because they wouldn’t be able to bite their tongue for that long, and not less because they need some time to accumulate evidence against others and let their anger build - they will make a poorly judged, selfish, arrogant move. Guaranteed. So I, and my neighbors, waited. Eventually, as my street sense prophesied, the day came. One afternoon upon returning from work and checking my mailbox as per usual there was, low and behold, a note: Can everyone take care when around my Lamborghini? And, can you better supervise it? I have seen some of you just walk away while people passing through the area stop to look at it. And, there have been marks on it - fingerprints and scratches. Please do this because it seems anyone can park anywhere and so when others use the spot in front of my house and I have to park elsewhere and cannot always watch out for it. Voila. Apparently Lambo was oblivious to facts like that in our neighborhood many can not afford to have a car, let alone have a luxury one. As for damage, well, welcome to life and public spaces.  Self absorbed and disrespectful, Lambo had erected a barrier between us and him. Could this just be jealousy on our parts? Not likely, for we are not communists, after all. We understand that some have more because they made their bones in good faith through education and hard work. We were once ready to hear Lambo’s story and celebrate his achievements, new home and fancy toys, but not any longer. As no one was going to respect Lambo’s letter he was certainly going to have follow up in likely an even more inappropriate communication. Sure enough, in due time, it also came. Lambo apparently escalated his concerns to Sallie the Councilman and Sallie, during a town hall meeting, says to us: Can you please not use the parking spot in front of _______’s house except as a last resort? A “last resort”? On a public street? So much for leadership. The last thing he should be doing is playing favorites. Well, that pretty much charted Lambo’s future and it wasn’t going to be bright. You see, Lambo’s and Sallie’s requests were unjust. Not in the legal sense, but socially and politically. That justice would be served there was no doubt, only its form was as yet unknown. . Objectively, a long time passed, a few weeks. However in the timing and logic of the street it was just right because you never want someone to see it coming.

One fine morning Lambo stepped out to his precious curbside spot only to find that someone had gone medieval on the arse of his beloved Lamborghini - and no one knew anything about what happened. Many years ago, in the initial days of my first full time teaching gig, I would tag along with three other male staff to a nearby mall for lunch and we would gather at a four-seated round table. Each day, they insisted I sit in the same chair, one facing a blank cement wall, instead of in one of the others that had a better view of the mall. So I asked colleague Bob, who consistently occupied the seat with the best vista, what was up with this and he said that over time my position would get better. Prying further, I asked how long it would be before I had his seat, to which he replied, “Ten years."

I understood that, you see, because of my upbringing and its immersion in codes of honor, respect and manners. Acceptance, respect and privilege are things earned, not just granted because you show up, or just taken because you want it or are used to it from having had it somewhere else. So, prospective settlers, we in the highly sought Homeside area await you with open minds and arms and we trust that you will bring the manners, care and appreciation worthy of our community.

See you soon!


Eleanor peeked around the corner of the palace's stone hall and gasped. She felt absolute rage at her mother for telling such a lie. There was no strange aura or mist. There was no woman with robes of satin and gold. Just two wooden doors were being guarded by two of her spelled family members. Eleanor shrank down along the wall and sobbed. It was hopeless. She would never be able to prevent the kingdom from being overrun by its spelled citizens. "Hark! Who goes there?" One of the guards, her father, fixed the holding on his spear. He turned to her aunt. "Hear that, Milan?" "No," her mother's sister replied, tossing her silver hair back. Her face bore no wrinkles, as a blessing from the sorceress of light and life. "But have I will, I shall notify thy at once, my dearest." "No, no, no, no, no!" Eleanor whispered to herself. "The spell... it's taken over them. The first sign of the Mindless... loss of personal accent." She decided that then she had to risk it and run into one of the rooms. How to do it, she wasn't sure, but a life-or-death situation awaited her as she thought up a storm. "Henri!" Eleanor called suddenly. "Milan!" Her family members slid their weapons out and scanned the premises. "Show yourself, intruder!" Milan growled, her freshly sharpened sword slicing the air as she spoke. "Come out now, and we will leave you unscathed and give you the privilege of serving our beloved king and queen! That is if we don't kill you like a dog first!" snarled Henri. Their Mindless accent had faded because of Eleanor's outburst, sliding into the last part of their minds that wasn't blocked out by the curse that she was their beloved daughter and was not to be harmed no matter what. Eleanor dashed out from the corridor and kicked open the door on the right, guarded by her aunt. It was made of dry, brown wood that broke down as soon as she rushed into it. Milan's sword caught a lock of her violet hair on her sword and nicked a bit of her ear in Eleanor's attempt to escape. A black void surrounded her and only a small, golden aura light up the area, although Eleanor couldn't figure out where it came from. Thinking that the sorceress of life was nearby, she moved forward slowly, her bare feet gently slapping the black void beneath her. She gently knelt. "O creator of life and spirit, where hast thou reside in this empty room, devoid of life or light? Thou bestowed a blessing on thy Aunt Milan, and I plead for help during this immediate time of crisis." Eleanor recited an old chant that caused the sorceress to appear to others, hopefully, in this same room. Sure enough, a woman floated into the vicinity. She wore a satin and golden gown and grasped a vivid-colored caduceus, the staff of Hermes. Her purple hair flowed and hovered inches over the floor. The mythological and legendary sorceress lifted Eleanor's chin ever so slightly so that she stared into the woman's sharp, crystal blue eyes piercing the irises of Eleanor's ones. "Yes, child?" her velvety voice coated Eleanor's insides and forced her to stand up. Reaching the sorceress's elbows, she explained that people of what once was a proud kingdom had been placed under a curse that allowed the person who cast the spell able to control everybody that they touched both of their shoulder blades at the corresponding moment. Then they acquired the name, Mindless. "You say you require my services, Eleanora?" Eleanor reddened. "Eleanora is-  was

my

mother. She died when I was at least ten years old, and that was before the spell took place three years later," She confessed. The woman looked at her sympathetically. "I met your mother. She was a kind and pure heart, never thinking of herself, instead of others" she commented. "She came here with you to see her child's truthfulness, purity, and honesty. Of course, you had spectacular results. She was determined to protect you more than ever from the danger of the forces of evil." "But... can you help me with the curse?" Eleanor asked, half wishing that the woman would stop talking about the personal stuff in her life. She shook her head. "No, I cannot." "Bu-bu-bu-but

why ?" she worried. "Because... I

am  you." Eleanor fell back onto the hard, black void. It couldn't be true! She would have felt some sort of spiritual relationship with the celebrated sorceress who saved people's lives and cured plagues on a daily basis, instead of greeting her like a complete stranger who could kill her on a whim. "But... if you are me... then how did you meet my mother?" Eleanor questioned, suspecting that the sorceress was lying and was actually an adversary observer in search of a juicy story to reveal to the public about anything that would bring the morals of the few remaining survivors down to the point of surrender and betrayal. "I never told anyone about this before, but I am not just a mere sorceress. Sorceresses and sorcerers have a further unrestricted lifespan, but they are not immortal. I am a demigoddess. My father- your father- was a mere mortal, while our mother was an accomplished goddess. Eleanor is what many people call me, for I bring light to mortals who have experienced the anguish of wickedness for too long," Eleanor the Goddess confirmed. Eleanor's body formed a lump in her windpipe as she thought about the hopeless, sullen moments when Goddess Light, also known now as Eleanor the Goddess, had followers that cursed and shunned her powers and shuddered at the mention of her name so much that they torched her alter, and those who had died several days later, bringing up a generation of destructive descendants of the followers that caused the torching. No, she couldn't believe it. She was not a goddess. She was just ridiculous, proposing that explanation. "I refuse to accept your pitiful misrepresentation," Eleanor cast her shoulders backward and elevated her head in insubordination. Eleanor the Goddess nodded slowly. "Yes, I understand. I cannot annihilate you, for that would mean my own passing, but you must get rejected of me... for I am the one who placed that spell and made your life into a breathing nightmare and horror fiction." Eleanor gasped and noticed the goddess's hand gripped a dagger. An ensorcelled dagger. The weapon and the goddess are what was causing the powerful atmosphere that had lightened up the room. Suddenly, it appeared in her hand, and it pulled like a magnetic force to the goddess's, her counterpart's, heart. Before she knew what was happening, blood started trickling from Goddess Light's chest. As soon as she destroyed Eleanor the Goddess, the hollow void melted into the exhibition where Eleanor had fallen into the place where she had met her counterpart held the same room, but the doors were gone, and in their location was Milan and Henri, unspelled and leaned overhead her, observing her for any noticeable injuries or damages. "Nora, honey, are you alright?" Henri worried, whispering words in an extremely discouraging deep voice. "Ella, what occurred back in that vacancy?" Milan asked. There was nothing that Eleanor could do but sob and mourn the death of her counterpart.


“Make sure you don’t pick a squeaky one,” he says as he continues forward into Walmart. I give a few carts a rudimentary test drive, avoiding any that make any kind of unpleasant noise, knowing it irritates him and ruins our shopping trip. Well, makes the shopping trip even less bearable. “If you’re good, I’ll let you pick out a treat!” he says. I roll my eyes at him and make my way to the shampoo aisle. “How are you on shampoo, soap, deodorant?” I ask. “Uh…” he says, hesitating, “shit, I think I’m fine?” “Andy, I told you to check before we left.” I say in an exasperated sigh. “I know, babe, I forgot…” “Well, if you end up with smelly armpits this week that’s on you.” “Don’t be sassy.” he says with a shit eating grin. “Come on, let’s move on.” I say, directing him to the pet supplies. “How are we on dog food?” We continue on like this for twenty minutes, picking up items we need, filling up the cart and stressing about the total. “Close your eyes, babe, we’re passing the books…” he says dramatically. “You said I could get a treat!” I exclaim loudly. “Fine, fine, pick one out.” He throws his arms up in a conceding motion, as if he would ever deny me the purchase of a book. I make quick work of it and pick one of the titles on my “to be read” list and grab an additional one, trying to sneak it behind the first book. “That appears to be two books, sweetie.” he says with a raised eyebrow. “Well, what if I read the first book super fast, I’ll need a second one as a runner up…” I explain. “Besides, one is ten dollars and the other is seven…” “Are you worth seventeen dollars?” he asks, bringing his hand to his chin as if contemplating my cash value. “You’re going to hurt my feelings!” I say, lightly smacking his arm. “You’re worth the world, baby.” he says with that infuriating grin I’ve grown to love with my entire soul. “That’s what I thought.” I said. “I’ll settle for seventeen dollars, today, though.” “Deal.” We make quick work of picking up a new pair of tennis shoes for him, a package of earbuds for me, and get side tracked looking at baby clothes. “Look at how freaking cute this is!” I holler as I hold up a onesie with dinosaurs on it. “Okay, that’s incredibly cute.” he agrees. “I can’t wait to have a little baby to dress up, I’m going to be ridiculous with it, I just know it.” I say. “Someday, babe.” His voice is full of love as I look over and catch him staring at me with those warm, dark chocolate eyes. I can’t help but smile as I think hopeful thoughts of settling down and having children with this man. “Someday *soon*, I hope.” I say. “Someday.” We make our way to the cleaning supplies aisle and grab some more products we’ve either ran out of or are about to run out of. “How are we on toilet paper?” I ask. “You’re the one who uses the most, I don’t keep track of it.” he says. “Oh, well, have fun wiping with your hand from now on.” I say with a glare. “Another sassy remark? You’re gonna end up bored with just one book.” he threatens. I let out an obnoxiously loud laugh and check myself, not wanting to be one of *those people* in the store. “I’ve missed that laugh,” he says. “What?” I ask, confused. Surely I’ve been laughing just as much as I usually do. “Nothing,” he says. “What else do we need?” “We’re onto groceries now. Let’s go get a pack of water and start back in that corner?” I ask. He gestures in front of him, “Lead the way, beautiful.” We argue over how many energy drinks he can get and whether stick butter is better than tub butter, how much cottage cheese is too much cottage cheese and which creamer to get. “Why *wouldn’t* we get the Rice Krispies creamer?” he asks me as if it’s a no brainer. “It just doesn’t sound good, babe. Let's get something we know we both like.” “That’s boring, baby. Let’s try something new!” “Fine, get it.” I cave. “Why don’t we get a small bottle of the Rice Krispies one and then something you like, too. That way you aren’t stuck with something you don’t like.” “Deal.” It's my turn to flash a huge smile at him. If there’s one thing I love about this man it’s his unwavering ability to make sure I’m happy and taken care of. We pick up a few different kinds of lunch meat, a few tubes of burger, a package of chicken thighs and a few other meats for the week. “Remember the time we panic bought like eight packages of cheese?” he asked. “Yeah, that was ridiculous.” I say before chuckling loudly again. “I didn’t think we were ever going to get through all of that.” “It’s always something,” he says “If not too many packages of cheese we get too many things to drink or too many snacks.” “We’re hoarders.” I joke. We then begin weaving through the dry goods aisles, picking out cereals and snack crackers, spices we’re low on and baking goods, a large bag of rice and a few cans of veggies. Both of us weave around each other in a delicate tango as we pluck items from shelves, careful not to bump into one another, laughing when we do. “It’s warm in here.” he says, handing me his flannel. I slip it on, reveling in the fresh warmth. I take a deep breath and smile as the notes of cedar, mint and *him* invade my senses, making me feel at home. “Looks good on you, baby.” “What can I say, I have good tastes.” I say. “In men or the flannel?” he asks. I shrug my shoulders and round the corner into the frozen food aisle. “Ouch!” I holler, jumping at the sharp pinch to my left buttcheek. “Andy, we’re in the store!” I holler. “Well, what did you learn?” he asks. “I’m not even sure?” I say. He replies by pinching my butt once more. I laugh and attempt to return the pinch to his posterior, laughing harder as he dances out of reach. I pretend to be preoccupied with a box of frozen corn dogs, waiting for his guard to be dropped. I “compare prices” on another box of the frozen foods as he steps beside me to see what has my attention, just before I reach over and give him a good pinch. “Ouch, babe! I hate being pinched.” he complains. “Well, what did we learn?” I mimic. “That’s it…” he says. He backs me up against the frozen cooler door and tickles my sides until I’m begging for mercy, gasping for breath. A wave of embarrassment washes over me as I scope the area to see if there’s any onlookers, relieved when I don’t see anyone. “I miss you.” I say to him. “I’m right here, baby.” he leans in and kisses me before wrapping his arms around me. “I’m always right here.” Emotion clogs my throat, I chalk it up to being overly grateful to have him. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I say. “Lucky thing for you, you’re stuck with me.” He kisses the top of my head. “Forever.” I smile and blink rapidly to clear my vision. It must be close to that time of the month, stupid hormones. Finishing up the frozen foods on our mental checklist, we continue to the produce section. We grab a few pre packaged salads, some garlic, onions and potatoes for a soup we have planned to make and some fresh herbs. “No, you don’t need to get any lemons.” he scolds. “You never use them, we pay for them and then they turn into science experiments on the counter.” “I want them for water!” I protest. “If you *used* them I’d be all for it, but you never do!” he counters. “It’s wasteful.” “They’re like sixty cents!” “Put a book back and you can get ONE lemon.” he jokes. I roll my eyes and put three lemons in one of the plastic produce bags. “Ooh! Look at these goodies!” he says, rubbing his hands together. He hands me a package of mini muffins with candied pecans baked into the dough. “Do you deserve these?” I ask, mimicking his raised eyebrow. “Yes. Yes I do.” he says. I laugh and continue to the bin with tomatoes and avocados. The store’s radio system comes to life with one note repeated softly a handful of times, I smile as I realize what song is playing. *When there’s nowhere else to run, is there room for one more son? One more son.* *If you can, hold on. If you can, hold on. Hold on.* Andy begins to belt out the first verse of one of our favorite songs by The Killers, completely unashamed and with absolutely no inhibitions. I feel my cheeks flush with heat, not nearly as self confident as he is. I begin peeking around us, checking for onlooking eyes or anyone outright gawking at us, at the scene before them. “Sing with me, baby.” he says before crooning into the chorus. “Andy, we’re in the store…” I say. “It’s fine baby, it’s just us.” he says, grabbing my hands to pull me into a dance. It’s just us… It’s just us… My head begins to spin, confusion insidiously creeps into my expression, muddling my comprehension and mental stability. It’s just us… “Andy…” I begin to question. “Shh baby, it’s okay.” he says before continuing to sing. It’s just us. Most shopping trips are full of stress, tension and dread for me. I hate running into people, zigzagging in a wild path to avoid being hit by carts or hitting others who stop without warning. I hadn’t felt so much as a second of annoyance or stress this entire time. Come to think of it, I hadn’t *seen* so much as a single person, not a single employee. It’s just us. Confusion takes the wheel full force as I spin in a slow circle, checking to see if there’s anyone else in the store. Was it closed? Did we break in? It’s just us. I glanced at the deli, no workers. I glanced at the checkout lanes, no workers. I glanced down the long aisle leading back to electronics, no workers. I glanced out to the parking lot and saw cars, but no shoppers or loiterers waiting outside of the doors or walking to their vehicles. I saw *no one.* It’s just us… “Andy…” “*If you can, hold on.”* “Baby…” “*If you can, hold on.”* Tears well up behind my lower lids, my eyes pricking with a burning sensation, threatening to spill their contents at any second. It’s just us. “You’re not…” I choke on emotion clogging my throat. Andy grabs me and pulls me into a tight embrace, his arms wrapped tightly around my shoulders as he rests his head on top of mine. I always love being held by him like this, his six-foot-four height surpassing my five-foot-five greatly, my head nestling between his pectoral muscles comfortably. Nothing has felt more like home than when he holds me like this as I breathe in the scent that is uniquely him. “I love you, sweetheart.” he says softly. “I love you, too.” I sob. It’s just us. The song slowly fades as it finishes, silence wrapping its cruel void around us once more. It's just us. “You’re not…” I try once more, taking a deep breath, knowing my next words are going to collapse everything. “You’re not actually here, are you?” I ask. It's just us. “I’m with you, always.” he says quietly, placing another kiss on top of my head. “You know what I mean…” I say. “I do, baby.” he says. “I’m so sorry.” I inhale deeply, the breath going nowhere, and let out a shuddering sob, not ready for this to be over. I cling to Andy as tightly as I possibly can, fervently praying for it to be tight enough to keep him with me forever. “I’m always with you, Allie, always.” he says once more. “Any time you close your eyes I’m right there.” The sobs are painfully ripping through my chest at this point, threatening to suffocate me. “I love you so much.” I say, plead. “I love you so much, too, beautiful.” he says. “I’m never far…” he says. I feel him place one more kiss to the top of my head. I release my arms and wipe my eyes, desperate to find some relief from the chasm ripping my heart into two. I wipe my wet hands on my pants and reach out to embrace Andy once more, panicking as my arms close in on nothing. I open my eyes and blink rapidly, hoping to will him back into place in front of me. “Andy?” I holler, panic gripping my voice in a chokehold. “Andy!” I spin in a circle, selfishly praying he’s playing a prank on me, hiding behind the bin full of avocados or in an aisle out of sight. I take off in a dead sprint, checking up and down every aisle, screaming his name as loud as I can, my throat raw from sobbing and screaming. I run through the entire store twice over, frantically searching every aisle, hiding spot and shelf. I look down and am comforted only briefly as I realize I’m still wearing his flannel. His scent no longer lingers on the fabric but feeling the soft material cover my arms and torso brings enough comfort for me to drag in a ragged breath. I sink to my knees as the depression takes over me once more, a process I’m painfully familiar with by this point. The shelves around me slowly disappear and morph into nonsensical things, a tree house, a dog house, a large cardboard box. The integrity of the dream slowly falling away after my realization. I wasn’t here grocery shopping with Andy, I wasn’t anywhere with Andy. I’m at home, in bed, unsure of what day it is as I’ve lost track. *If you can, hold on.* It’s been days- weeks? months?- since Andy passed away in the accident, taking him from this world and my life. I had no idea how long it had actually been, grief cripping any and all sense of normalcy and functioning. My eyes slowly open, damp with tears that had escaped from my dream and found their way into real life. My lungs struggle to fill with air, my chest heavy with sorrow. I wrap the flannel around me tighter, squeezing my eyes shut, begging to restart the dream. I know better than that. The dream comes and goes as it pleases, never allowing me to manifest it when I need it the most. Whether we’re grocery shopping, making dinner or going for a hike, the beginning is always bliss as I look into his eyes unaware of real life. The end always cripples me as it disappears from my subconscious. *If you can, hold on.* I know Andy is with me, always. From the random breezes that dance through my window on cool fall days to the rays of sunshine that kiss my skin as I read in the reading chair he got me, to the warm cups of tea in the eclectic mugs he always gifted me to the random wafts of his scent that come from nowhere. I know I’ll never truly be without him, not entirely. I know I should be grateful for that, welcoming of that fact, even. I feel selfish when I beg and wish for *more*. *At least you can still smell him from time to time, at least you remember the color of his eyes, at least, at least, at least.* I don’t want “at least”. I yearn for the future that was stripped from us, from the what-if’s and maybes, to the plans both spoken and yet to be spoken, for the somedays. I glance down at the ring on my finger on my left hand, the shine in the diamond either mocking me or pitying me, I haven’t decided which it is yet today. We hadn’t made plans further than “let’s get married”. At the time it was more than enough for me, just belonging to him more than being his girlfriend. It was mature, refined, *adult*. If only I had been a little more impatient to actually marry him, I could have his last name as a reminder of him and our relationship. *At least I had a ring.* I take a deep breath and sit up, knowing I need to at least do *something* today. *At least do something today.* I remind myself that Andy wouldn’t be content with me wallowing in despair every day, would be down right furious at even a single tear shed for him. I get up from the bed I shared with him, avoiding glancing at his pillow and make my way to the living room. Reading is a waste of time, I can’t focus on the words on the page, much less the story. I make my way to the couch and turn on a mindless program on Netflix, something about a tattoo competition. I avoid things like sappy romances and cooking shows- a regular tv genre we shared for watching with each other. I make it a total of five minutes before I find myself laying down on the couch, resting my head on a pillow, begging my brain to transport me to another realistic dream with my soulmate. *At least I got up from the bed…* If you can, hold on. If you can, hold on. Hold on.


I awoke with a startle. I was three minutes early to my alarm waking me up with it's normal, yet awfully loud ring. Looking at my calendar across the room I noticed it was the day I got to go out. Every third Monday of each month is the designated day. I used to be excited every time I got up in the morning and knew that at 10:15 A.M. I could open my door and see the sun. But that feeling soon faltered. After 12 years of a pandemic, and living on the same schedule each day, I practically forgot what it felt like to live. I hadn't seen friends, coworkers, teachers, or fellow peers since the 9th grade. I'm 27 now. There isn't anyone that is allowed to go anywhere anymore, unless they're some sort of authorized government official. I used to say that we should fight against what they were doing, but at this point it isn't worth it. There isn't anything we can get back now. They've taken everything from us. We don't have anything. They took our freedom. They decide what we can and can't have. They assign uniforms. They do everything to prevent us from being any different or being anything that is seemingly out of the ordinary. Although there is nearly 2/3 of the population that was wiped out, the pollution from factory made food, clothing, and the special suits we have to wear to go out has completely changed the environment. The sky that was once a beautiful blue is now an awful, dark purple. The grass is all dead, and I don't think the actual sun has come out at all in the last few months. Everything is created by the government now. I walked down the stairs, the silence of the apartment has become almost calming. I haven't had any kind of interaction with anyone since the pandemic began. I guess that's just the price you pay of living in New York nowadays. I turned on the coffee maker, and searched through my freezer in an attempt to find something that sounded even the least bit appealing. The clock struck 9:30, I rushed upstairs and got ready to gear up. First I put on my form-fitted, blue body suit. I heard that everyone has a different color that they are assigned. Of course, I've never seen any so I wouldn't know. I picked through to the back of my closet and grabbed the oh-so-attractive plastic hazmat suit. I put it on, grabbed an N-95 mask and a face shield, zipped up the hood and got ready to leave. The clock hit 10:15 and I went to my front door. I turned the lock and as the door opened I saw the bus. I got on and closed my eyes as I listened to the sound of the wheels turning. Finally the bus came to it's final stop. The person on the front row got up, walked through the door, and was greeted by a woman taking temperatures. I was in the very back, so I knew I had some time. Eventually it got to the person ahead of me, the woman taking her temperature paused. She took her temp again, and slowly reached up to her walkie-talkie. The woman who was presumably sick took off running as fast as she could. She didn't make it far before she was tackled and thrown in the back of a government van. I got up hesitantly, I walked off the bus and held my breath as the thermometer was held to my forehead. I waited for the beep to go through, the time felt as if it went by slower and slower each second. At last I heard the woman's voice through the ringing in my ears "...not clear, sorry" I tried to walk forward but suddenly my brain processed what she had said. I heard another van come up behind me, I tried to run but my feet felt like concrete. Finally I felt my foot come up. I started in a dead sprint in the other direction. I rounded a corner and threw off my suit. Today was the perfect day for wearing my running shoes. I heard the rumble of the van. I took a quick right and ran through a field. I saw the tree line creeping closer and closer. Finally I could feel my feet hitting the brush underneath me. I was free. I felt more alive in this moment than I ever had. A rush of memories came pummeling back. I first remembered how when I was in Grade 4 me and my best friend, Elaine were first learning to skateboard. We would push ourselves with our feet so hard that they were covered in blisters by the time the sun went down. I remembered how when me and my first boyfriend went to see a movie. We only payed for one ticket, but we would sneak out of one theater and into another. Half the time we didn't even know what was playing, but we did it because we could. I remembered how right before everything changed, me and my friend group of 7 all took a trip to Tennessee. The mountains were beautiful, the air smelled of trees and fresh water. Suddenly I tripped. I hit the ground and every bit of air was knocked out of my lungs. Two men came up behind me. I was hoisted by the shoulders and thrown into the back of the van. I felt them sticking needles into my arm, my body started to feel like it was floating. I knew it was over. I wouldn't wake up to hear my alarm. I wouldn't sit up and see my calendar ever again. I wouldn't put on my hazmat suit. Which wasn't all that terrible. I didn't know what was going to happen next, all I knew is that I wasn't going to live normally ever again. All I know is that I was just trying to get groceries.


Night had felt even more desolate than normal, the air in my bedroom was hot, stagnant, heavy with dust suffocating me under my half removed blanket. Outside from the nearby window, I could hear nothing. The static searing of the empty void pounded against my ears as the damp, sweat covered sheets stuck to my body. I had been laying here for hours, but how many hours had it been? It was the period of night that you should be asleep for, the overbearing sense of disconnection, darkness, the only feelings surrounding you are those of the unwashed blankets encompassing your body, and the pain in your neck from the pillow that flattened hours ago. Tomorrow would have been terrible if the early morning had held anything for me, a few hours of oversleeping would hardly be a problem. The sleep did not come easily.

Visions of suffocation plagued my mind throughout the night. I felt the sense of time pass, how long exactly I had no idea. I felt existence in that void of reality, a reality of fever ensued machinations, of far off deserts and sweltering labyrinths of all matter of horrors that I could not remember, but experienced in every way. There was no other night that had felt so long, so lucid, surreal but impossible. I experienced every moment in those hours, reality becoming cross with the unnameable things that asphyxiated my mind and prevented any possibility of rest.

When I awoke my mind was overrun. Suggestions of dreams, memories of nightmares, my mind quickly forgetting them as I came to, repeating to myself what was real, what held consequence in this world and what was nothing more than a product of my overheated mind. I came to realize the sun peering into my room. Beams of orange light pierced through every crack in my blinds and curtain, each dust particle ignited like ash from a blazing fire. This was no cool morning sun, not a white drape to slowly wake me in its crystalline warmth, this light was blinding dark orange that signaled the suns peak. A fiery gaze looking down upon me. How late is it, how late had I slept? My mind was already fogged with the vestigial events of the night and I could not gather my sense of time. I understood that I would be waking up later, perhaps an hour more even though it would truly be an hour less. Daylight savings time had come, and the distortion of time could have very easily effected my sleep, but not to this caliber. The clock on my bedside showed late evening. Before sleeping I had set it only an hour forward, if the clock was correct, I had slept nearly 16 hours. 16 hours was unprecedented, and simply losing an hour would not have caused that. My stiff muscles and locked joints felt as if it had been days, my greasy, matted hair almost stuck to the damp pillow sheet, my blanket sodden with sweat. Was the night truly that stressful, to keep me asleep for hours on end only to gain no rest? Something else had pierced my senses, there was no sound. In the late evening the sounds of gatherings and day workers returning home would be blaring outside my window, but there was nothing. Not a laugh nor a shout, there were no roaring engines or horns blaring. It was a cause with potential outcomes startling enough to force me from my bed, to my window, and quickly after I had seen what lay beyond it, I would rather return back to my fever dreams and the comfort of false reality. It had taken me a moment to understand that this was not just another dream. I was truly awake, truly experiencing the physical senses lost in nightmares: pain, discomfort, hunger, all while the pressing sense of emotional turmoil came down on me from that one glimpse outside the window. It truly had not just been an hour, the clocks had not gone forward, nor backward, it had not been a day, a week, a month or a year. No amount of time within my ability to comprehend it could have done this. All sense of modesty was gone, and I stepped outside half naked, I had to know it was real. With my own eyes I saw it, and I truly believed I was the last able to. A forest of desolation, a desert enveloping the last remaining suggestions of the civilized world I saw not more than an hour before I slept. Towering buildings crumbled against each other, the red sun penetrating each broken window as it sunk down beyond the horizon, leaving nothing but a sickened orange sky, bare of any streak or cloud that might have filled it on a normal day. Rationality in my mind had left me, answers could not be had, it had been a no more than five minutes since I had woken up. I walked through the old street that sand and rock had all but tore away, the metal beams of posts and the bodies of the few remaining vehicles stood as nothing but shells of rust, each gust of wind tearing away another piece. Nothing could be heard but the wind and the sand it carried, tearing against my pale skin as I walked down the road into the city. My eyes burned in adjustment, black scars blotted my already blurry vision, squinting at every window, every door and every object that once suggested hospitality in the hopes that some answers would reveal themselves. Answers for questions I couldn't ask, and no man, woman, or any living creatures presented itself, nor did the remains of any. No bodies could be seen, not even the bleached bones of a long forgotten street beggar peered from the shallow sands. No bodies, no remains, no signs of destruction or war. Simply the wind, consuming everything. Feelings of hunger and weakness pressed upon me, but it did not stop me from traversing the city. Every street, every skyscraper, vehicle and shop was identical to the previous, an unrecognizable maze of rusting metal, and concrete shells. The city ended abruptly, where the highway would take you was now little more than an endless wasteland of stone pillars and metal rods. A desolate stretch of highway could be seen, black pieces of old road in a suggestive path that suddenly ends. Where the old road ended, I could see nothing beyond the horizon but the sky of orange, darkness slowly revealing itself as the sun fell out of sight. When the sun ended, a new light revealed itself beyond the old road. One that grew in intensity as I came closer to the end, a red beacon shooting up into the star filled sky from underneath a horizon that was lost to me in the darkness. Until I came to the end of the old road. I could see it there, a black pillar of no shape, projecting its beacon into the sky from the crater beyond the horizon. As I starred at it, my vision cleared and my anxieties dispersed, I could no longer feel the heat against my neglected body, nor the ache of hunger and the pain that once resonated from my every movement. All the answers to the questions I did not have presented themselves to me. The beauty of this thing brought me to it, it brought all of us to it, down into the crater where we could be close, where the sweltering heat was replaced with a resonating peace and indifference. Where we could all exist with it, with a singular purpose as the lesser beings to look upon it, and bathe it its eternal beauty.


When my father left it was a shock to us all. He and my mom were so in love, and I remember when I thought he loved both his daughters, me as the eldest especially. We played chess and cards and I would fall asleep on his chest as we watched the late-night sitcoms. I thought he loved me enough to stay. I remember him being strong and tall, and a deep black handlebar mustache that he said was Jimmy Buffett inspired. On the last day I saw him, he was making breakfast – a completely normal day. He had cut himself while slicing breakfast fruits and I put a Band-Aide on it. He rustled my hair and called me his little future nurse. Then he was off to the store to get milk for our morning cereal, kissing my mom on the lips and Bea on the forehead. He said he’d be back soon, but he never came home. At first, we thought he was missing, and after months of searching it seemed that he wasn’t lost, “he had escaped” the detectives said, another way of saying he left us. Mom had us tell our friends that he went missing, maybe she was ashamed that he ran away to start a new family or something… I’m not sure. I was 10 years old. I was raised the rest of my life by a single mother, stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. She was stoic, when my dad left, although Bea and I knew how much she hurt inside. She never remarried, because, “although Daddy is a no-good piece of dirt and left us high and dry, I could never love another man again.” Her strength was one I always looked up to. Having a strong female role in my life was the best thing I could have asked for. On the anniversary of Dad leaving she would always get quiet, and it became a somber holiday for all of us. As the years went by my sister and I grew up independently, and I inherited the family home after our mom died. I became the local newspaper editor, had a nice family, a good career, and retired with a husband who loved me in the comfort of my childhood home. The years had turned all of us gray, and our joints popped and snapped when we moved, it was deeply comfortable, and I was happy. Early one morning someone knocked at my door. I hobbled to get it, shushing the barking dog. When I swung open my door a man stared at me from the stoop. He was tall and strong, with a black handlebar mustache. This man was holding a gallon of milk. It looked like my father, but it couldn’t be. Possibly a sick joke Bea was playing on me. “Theresa?” the man asked, looking weak and desperate in the doorway. “No, I’m Samantha, Theresa was my mother.” I replied, watching his facial expression change into one of complete confusion, awe, sadness, then love. “Samantha?" he paused, "I’m… I’m… your dad. I know you won’t even believe me but I promise I have an explanati – ” I slammed the door in his face and stormed to the kitchen. How dare he, whoever he is, play this joke on me? It has been 65 years since I last saw my father. I stopped, and look at the calendar on the refrigerator. July 11th, 2083. The anniversary of my dad’s disappearance. I felt as if the reality had become far away, and I was faintly aware of a continuous knocking at the door. In the storage cabinet was an old SIM card of pictures, one of them had to be of him. I plugged it into our home system and sifted through the memories, looking for a picture that must be buried deep down of my father. I think my mom wiped most of the pictures of him out of shame and anger. Finally, I came across a one that looked hauntingly familiar, a picture of him laying in the sun, smiling, probably taken a month before he left. I transferred it to the telelens, so that the picture shined in my hand. Walked back to the door, I opened it cautiously. There the man stood, looking exactly like I remembered my dad had. I lifted the thin glass of the telelens up to compare the picture to the man in front of me. Age had not touched him a day, whereas I had become a woman, and *old* woman at that. He was indistinguishable from the picture, down to the curl of his mustache, and the scab on his hand. That scab… he had cut himself, the morning he left, the morning that had been burned into my memory. Dad had cut himself on a knife while chopping Mom’s grapefruit. “Who are you?” I tentatively asked, worried of the answer. He took a deep breathe, “We really need to talk, honey.” I let him inside.


# 3. Another Hanging in Paradise The following month was hot, the sun’s scorching rays beating down on the packed earth and sending waves through the otherwise clear air. While neither Maggie nor Otis felt it, they did notice the stillness that accompanied the extreme temperature. Even the snakes, usually so fond of basking in the sun, crawled back in their holes for fear of being cooked in their own skin. Late summer was always that way, and brought dull boredom with it as the days went on. Adam looked up hopefully at the sound of every hoofbeat on the horizon. Whether it was a misguided prayer for rescue, or the promise of future company that wasn’t, Otis and Maggie found difficult to tell. In either case, the result was shit company and a disturbance of the tenuous peace the other two spirits worked so hard to achieve. Maggie sat in the higher bows of the hanging tree. Her ass hovered a few inches inside her chosen branch but was close enough to make the action feel real. Too much time floating through anything and everything was enough to drive someone mad. Pretending the rules of physics still applied was one of the many tricks she had learned to stay sane. From her perch, she watched the wagons and horses cut a wide berth around Hangman’s Hill and didn’t blame them – it was haunted after all. The sun made its way across the arid sky as she reflected on her death and the days that followed. Unlike the people hung after her, Maggie had been alone. Back then, the hill had been so quiet. While most of the deceased weren’t keen on talking, Maggie could hear their spirits rustling just beneath the crust of the earth. Most tried to find sanity, speaking with her and Otis for a day or two, but in the end, they all did the same thing. Six feet below the ground, thirty or so odd spirits lay horizontal with their eyes closed, pretending to be dead. Feeling particularly morbid, Maggie floated through the layers of the earth to peer in at the others, but there wasn’t much to see aside from dirt and otherworldly green energy. She and Otis had taken to calling them The Dirt Nappers. Neither of them was much for creative energy. They tried their best not to disturb them, but on the occasions they did, the spirits grew violent and became every bit of a poltergeist they could muster. One of them had moved a branch in a moment of particular passion, but Maggie had been the only witness. Maggie shook her head and floated back to the top of her tree. Watching the world slide idly by while sitting in the branches of her tree was as close to peace as Maggie had ever found. In life, there had been a profound calling for action every second to fight for every man, woman, and child on earth. In death, there was nothing to be done. Sitting and waiting for nothing was the best damned retirement she could have asked for, and Otis was right; the sunsets were fantastic. Adam on the other hand could find no such peace. He spent his days trying to break through the barrier, enduring the painful shock that went along with it each time and finding new and creative ways to curse. The sound of his cries broke Maggie’s calm and made it nearly impossible to appreciate the serenity that was her afterlife. Otis had always been good about knowing when to shut up. Adam always assumed it was his turn to talk and spewed a continuous string of unhelpful questions. One day, still sizzling from his latest escape attempt, Adam had fixated on the idea of pockets. “Why do we still have ‘em?” He pushed his hands through his pants for emphasis. “Have what?” asked Otis. “Pockets, why do we still have pockets?” Otis for his part encouraged the kid and didn’t make things any easier. “If you really want to keep yourself up at night, ask Maggie why she’s got a still-functioning pocket watch, yet I can’t fix my damned hat.” “Don’t start about the hat again.” Over time, Maggie learned that Adam wasn’t curious so much as eager for an opportunity to complain. “She has a what?” Otis laughed. “Oh, don’t worry about it, you’ll see it when we get to bettin’.” “Bettin’?” “If he asks another question, I’m going to run into the barrier myse—” Maggie stopped, going silent. In the distance, she heard hoofbeats, followed by whoops and hollers echoing across the desert. It was the telltale mix of excitement and testosterone that only came from impending murder. “You’ve got to be kidding me, another one?” Otis floated up to get a better look. Sure enough, a party of four men was riding toward the tree. “It’s that damned summer heat, puts the devil in men.” “Just in men?” “Oh, let’s not get into gender norms now, Maggie, there’s a hangin’ to watch.” Maggie glared at him but returned her attention to the riders. “I bet that’s Reggie again.” Otis scoffed. “Why don’t we just ask young Adam here.” Adam floated up beside them, struggling to maintain his balance. “Reggie?” he asked. “You probably know him by Reginald, the man that hung you.” “Oh.” Adam paused. “Yeah, he’s none too fond of me.” Maggie let out a slight whoop. “Told you, Otis. Could spot that man a mile away.” “Yes, and being right is such a lovely color on you. Now why would our dear friend Reginald want you hung?” asked Otis. “I may have…” Maggie turned toward him. “May have what?” “Slept with his wife.” Despite the circumstances, Adam still had a tinge of pride as he said it. Maggie scoffed. “To think, Otis and I were both unjustly strung up, and you’re just here because you couldn’t keep it in your pants. Well, The Hanging Tree really does take all types.” “Hey—” “Shut up, kid, it’s time to bet.” Otis watched the riders carefully. “He’s got a bag over his head, just like this one.” He jerked a thumb to Adam. “But he’s making a lot less noise, probably conserving oxygen.” Maggie looked down at the men, sizing up the victim. “This is a tricky bet.” “What are we betting on?” Adam hovered closer, still correcting for a constant, slow forward spin he couldn’t seem to shake. Otis ignored him. “You know he’s not getting enough air in that bag. Means he’s going to be quicker.” “Don’t think he does his core exercises?” “As a matter of fact, I don’t.” “What the hell are you talking about?!” Adam’s form glowed bright before settling to muted green. “We’re betting on how long it’s going to take this man to die once they string him up.” Saying it out loud made Maggie feel shameful, but not enough to stop taking mental measurements in her head. Besides, Adam would be a dirt napper before long; the crazy had already begun to eat into his brain. Adam made a disgusted noise. “Look, kid, we’re stuck, can’t do nothing about this poor bastard’s fate, might as well have a little fun. Think they’ll use a bucket, Otis?” “There has to be something we can do. No one should suffer a fate like this.” Maggie ignored him. “I’m going to say four minutes on the nose. Less if there’s a bucket, for obvious reasons.” “That is a long time to sway on the rope.” Otis thought it over. “I’ll take that action. The usual bet?” “Usual bet.” “You’re both pathetic. I’m going to do something about this.” “Have fun, kid.” Adam floated away from the other two spirits, towards the approaching party. Had they been able to see him, he might have cut an intimidating figure. The image of a spirit floating down from a hanging tree to greet bandits would have sent anyone running. Fortunately for the greasy men, confident atop their horses, they saw nothing but an empty tree. “Oh, this is perfect. You’re going to love this place, Larry” said the man in the lead with a hearty guffaw. “Bill, take his bag off.” “That’s not Reggie.” Maggie could tell immediately. The leader was too round about the middle, and Reggie only laughed once a job was done. One of the horsemen stepped down. Adam walked up until he was right between Bill and the to-be-hung. “Hey, get out of here!” he yelled. “Well this is new.” Maggie watched eagerly. Bill, a thick barrel of a man, took no notice, passing right through Adam on his way to remove the victim from his horse. There wasn’t even a shudder of acknowledgment or a cold chill. Adam yelled. “Screw this!” His spirit glowed bright once again. “How is he doing that?” asked Otis. Maggie didn’t answer, but was instead watching the horsemen, one of whom twitched when Adam’s form glowed. She couldn’t be sure, but it almost looked like the man had seen him. “Holy shit,” she muttered. “I don’t believe it.” Adam paid neither of them any attention and ran full speed at Bill. His spirit reached a blinding level of brilliance and then disappeared. Bill looked momentarily sick, his hand still wrapped around the rope connected to their prisoner. Then, his arm jerked out to the side, violently, snapping the rope taught and pulling the victim off the horse. Maggie watched as the bagged man fell in slow motion with a muffled cry. He twisted, trying to right himself, but landed firmly on his head. There was a sickening crunch as his neck cracked against the hard-packed dirt. Adam reappeared in the same instant, moving at high speed as if Bill’s body had shot him out like a cannon. His spirit smacked into the barrier, sending up a huge burst of energy, outlining the upper portion of the dome in its entirety. “What the hell did you just do, Bill?” The leader hopped off his horse and walked around to where the hanging victim now lay slumped. “Ah, Christ.” Bill looked around wildly, confused. “What just h-happened?” He ran his hands over his skin as if it were someone else’s. Maggie didn’t have to look closely to understand the position of the victim’s neck wasn’t healthy. It was slumped to the side at a forty-five degree angle, and the man gave no movement other than slight twitches of his feet. “Hell, he’s still alive. No point in hanging him now, Bill. He probably can’t feel shit.” In a surprising act of mercy, the leader pulled out his pistol and shot the twitching man in the head. At the same instant, an older man appeared, lying on the ground, right next to his body, neck still bent at an odd angle. “Holy shit,” muttered Otis. “Did Adam just possess someone?” “He sure did, and you lost the bet. Time to pay up.


They have put you in this box with me. A casualty of commons. Death by our own tax money. They have put you in this box with me. Three walls of cement with one large glass pane so that we may watch the anthill world below us. I wanted you to see this place. This less than perfect side of me. My anthill. Where the rules are only as firm as your will and where your tribe is the real law. It is as dis/honest as it is un/flattering. You are here now. And this is the truth of it. We have given everything to come here. Our tidy little home among the Angels has been rented by another hopeful couple. It was once an empty box, but we made it ours. May they treat those walls with as much love as we have. I hope they remember to water the plants. I hope they love our tree the way you and I did. We have left everything and come here. Traded a nuptial bed for two pieces of paper marked 41F&G. That bed was the only thing I had to my name in the early days, besides that overused duffel with its broken strap which carried my whole life inside. You helped me build it, back when you were my first friend in a foreign country. I thought I would need a hammer and you laughed. Apparently everything in your country is built with an Allen wrench. That bed followed me to every new box. Each time, we took it apart and rebuilt it together. It was there for us, at the end of every long day. As you were for me, whenever I felt the walls of that strange land closing in. Whenever I felt foreign and less than. You seemed, somehow, to understand, though you had never lived anywhere else but among the Angels. I will never forget how it felt to take it apart, one last time. Piece by piece it went, out the door, down the stairs (all three flights), out to the lobby and into the garbage. First the legs, which held us up for so many years. Then the frame. Then the headboard. As I carried it in my arms for the last time, I imagined your fingers gripping the edges, the way they did every night when we were finally alone again. I wish I had kept a piece of it. One screw or splinter. I wish someone or something else could make its home in that bed. I suppose we left it for the flies and the worms in the landfill. Nothing ever really disappears.

And now we are here. Come all this way. To live in a box in the sky. I wanted you to see this place, and I suppose that's my wish fulfilled. From this view, my anthill looks so different. It sprawls until it meets the horizon in every direction. Our greatest structures touch the sky and the neon billboards flash unyieldingly into the night. It looks grand. And terrifying. I watch you as you peer into the streets below, curious about life in this new world. And I wonder if we will ever really be a part of it. My anthill can be a savage and unforgiving place. Once upon a time, you would have been welcomed here by a band of singing men and dancing ladies as we walked the carpet out of the airport. But today… today we are treated with sterility. Today we are carted off by strangers in hazmat suits, ushered hurriedly into a van and delivered to our box to await judgment.

There was a time when you would have been seen as an Angel. A welcome visitor. And my people would bend over backwards to speak your language, accommodate your whims, treat you with kindness and offer you the best of our meager anthill. Today you are a stranger, and carry with you a foreign scent that sends my people into a scramble. Today you are to be contained. Hence, the box. They tried to take you from me. How have you come here, they asked you. Who are you with, in the rough tongue of my people. They can see that you are different, but they don't lend you the courtesy of speaking your language. That time has passed. I must translate. They resist, they are suspicious. They do not want you near me. I bear the mark of one of their own, but you do not. You are a threat and they place partitions between us. I must yell over the barrier. I must summon the will of my people that has lain dormant for years. I must assert my will over the rules. No, I say. This one is with me. This one is my tribe. They are skeptical. I insist. They scramble to call a superior. And you… are terrified. You cannot understand our words, but know implicitly what authority looks like. It takes a strange new form here, doesn't it? We have all the right paperwork and yet somehow that does not matter. In the land of Angels, that's usually all that matters. Welcome to my anthill, darling, where one must wield their will and invoke the power of their tribe like a sword and shield, or in your parlance, a badge and gun. Here I am, your chthonic knight, come from under the earth to defend you. In your land, you would have resented me for it. I would have resented it myself. But here and now… it is necessary. Or else they will take you away. They have put me in this box with you. The bed is not our bed. The walls have no love. We watch the man across the street with envy as he tends to his roof garden, missing our tree. But we are here. We have made it. And now you see this side of me and have begun to understand the first rules of this earthly place. I watch you as you stare out the window, too ashamed to touch you, to speak. I have brought you here. Have made you feel trapped, less-than, foreign. You turn around and meet my gaze. I feel as though I have been caught watching you, and I turn away in shame, but you take my hand. Placing it on your chest, you smile and say, so this is what it's like.


I stepped off the plane with a feeling of resentment. Throughout the flight I thought of thousands of different ways to escape, to find my way back home.  Many ideas floated through my head like diving out of the fire escape and parachuting my way to freedom, or pretending to throw up so they would have to take me off the plane. But, considering all of the butterflies that were, and still are, in my stomach, I doubted that I would have had to pretend.The i thought I could have locked the pilot in the bathroom and turned the whole plane around, which actually doesn't seem that bad…no that's crazy… yeah, that was crazy. It was stupid to think of an escape plan when it was my own fault that I was coming here. Because I wanted to. I pick up my luggage at the baggage carousel. I find it easily, as it is the only bright floral print bag with a neon yellow tag. My parents bought it for me so I could never lose sight of it and find it easily as it moved along the conveyor belt. I drag my bag behind me and walk through the airport always as slowly as possible, taking small turtle steps and stopping at literally every airport magazine shop to flip through the magazines. Anything to delay my arrival into this city.

Toronto, the place where I was born and the place I am trying so hard not to enter right now. It is not, however, the place where I grew up. I grew up in London, England. My parents moved there right after I was born because my dad got a job offer there. He’s a pretty successful businessman. In all these years, I never left London. I’ve lived in the same house since I was a baby and I’ve been attending the same school since kindergarten.

I stop by the food court and stand in line to pick up some McDonalds. I’ll probably get a classic burger and fries and eat it really slowly, and maybe by the time I get outside it will be dark and I can get straight to my hotel and go to sleep... ughhh no! I know I shouldn’t be complaining because I wanted to be here. After high school, a lot of my classmates and friends got accepted into these amazing English universities like Oxford and Cambridge, and some other fancy ones I don’t know the names of. While they were getting acceptance letters left, right, and centre to become doctors and professors and Michelangelo-type artists, I decided to study photography right in the city. Since I was a kid my parents would show me pictures of their life before London, when they used to live in Toronto. I would look at the photos all the time and admire the way the CN Tower blinked red over the whole downtown scene, and I always wanted to visit, but never really got the chance. I’ve never really felt at home in London, for no reason in particular, but it always just felt like an extended stay that would soon end. Which I guess in a way it was. In my last year of high school, I realized nothing was really holding me back in London, so I decided to move to Toronto to study photography. I picked up my bag and put my phone in a basket. I watched as my belongings rolled through the black curtains into the scanner. I took off my shoes and my ring and waited to step through the arch. The lady called me to come forward but I did not move. Why was I so reluctant to join the city that I had admired for years? Miss, please come forward. I join reality again and step through the scanner and pick up my things. The decision I made was quite rash. I had no plan, I wasn’t promised to any Canadian university, and I didn’t have a job either. I guess I was so excited by the prospect of living out my dream I hadn’t stopped to think logically.

What if everything failed and I would have to move back to London? My grades would not support any English university I wanted to go to, which I really don’t.

What if I can’t find a job? Or how long will I have to live in this hotel? And how did I travel across the world by myself with no plan? Maybe these were just dreams, only dreams. What if - Whoosh My cloud of worry and overthinking is blown away by the crisp and cold Canadian air as it hits my face. I soon realize that I somehow navigated myself out of the Toronto airport and I also realize that I’m very under dressed for the cold weather. I zip up my jacket higher up to my face and look around. The snow is lightly falling all around, making the sidewalks splotchy and damp. There is a white billboard to the far left with an ad for the new iPhone 12 which provides splashes of colour to the grey-blue monotone building it sits on. To my right, a woman is singing into a microphone, her voice echoing out on the streets with a drummer and guitarist playing their accompanied music behind her. A small group of people crowd around while one person drops a bill into the hat on the floor and then another person does the same. Turning away from the music scene I look in front of me, and look up. There stands a tall tower, that is round and pretty thin, but gets wider to the top, then thins again. A blinking red light on the top of the tower hits me square on the face.

It was like how the sun shines on a new day. The light is comforting and reassuring. All of my anxious questions and worries feel a mile away, almost as if it hopped on the plane and flew back to London. A new sense of hope and motivation grows inside of me. Maybe I’ll find a new apartment to stay at and I’ll walk along the city passing out my resume to any restaurant I see. I’ll take photos all over the city, and I will take a photo of the place I always admired in my parents' picture. And I know not every day will be perfect and my battle with this city is far from over. There may be days when I hate this city and days when I love it. But I guess you can experience all different kinds of days when you are at home.

END


Ghosts are just like any of you. We say “good morning” and “have a lovely day” like any normal person. We wave and smile, or at least try to. In conversation, I’m barely there, but trust me, I’m listening. My voice box has recently gone out of order, so you won’t be getting any participation on my end. It’s always a pleasure, though, to hear the latest rundown of the news or stories about your weekend. I’d love to connect with you, but you should know we’re from different dimensions. The life of a phantom ain’t so bad. I’m unbothered and do whatever I want! Floating above you all, I get a wonderful view. Sightseeing has been my newfound passion. During my subway cruises, I get to see a bunch of funny faces. And if I’m lucky, a drunk wacko will dance in the streets. It’s moments like these where a smile feels genuine. On weekends, a seat by the ocean with a good book fills the void that my day-to-day doesn’t. Since my death earlier this year, I’ve lost touch with my emotions. I don’t get scared or excited like I used to. Sometimes, loneliness will creep up, so I look back over old pictures with the kind of fondness a mother has for her child. Memories of my past life give me a sense of accomplishment. Like I truly meant something. But, now that I’m dead, I know I won’t be making souvenirs anytime soon. One day, I hope I can live again. For real this time. Maybe I could meet a girl that’ll spark my heart. I’ve always wondered what it was like to hold someone’s hand as you run off in the sunset. Inspiring! I could only imagine. If I’d magically revive, I would take over the world. I’d fix up my act and save enough money to move to LA. Then, I’d join a band and live like there’s no tomorrow. But let’s face it, I’ve always been one with wishful thinking. This is my life now. Cold and empty. And there’s nothing I could do about it. All the action lies in the underworld. Here, I’ve made friends with millions of bizarre characters. Mummies fall in love with sirens, witches cast spells on tin men, hellhounds give the best cuddles, and demons know how to party. It’s a shame they can’t access the surface as I can. They’re having fun down here, so why would they want to anyway? The burden’s mine. I sail through both worlds but don’t have the strength to pick up a drink in either. I’m just a sad pair of eyes. I like to think I’m a good soul. I have the ability to possess human spirits, and whenever I do, I try to uplift the host’s brain. When I control bodies, I tap dance or sing profusely. It makes me happy to believe I make a positive impact, even if it’s just for a short period. By the end, I’m fulfilled and the mortal is entertained. It’s a fair trade if you ask me. If I can’t live for myself, then I will live for others.