Kayla had always done things backwards. As a baby, she learned to walk before she learned to crawl. She learned to use utensils before using her fingers. She learned how to write before she could read.

         As a teenager, things weren’t much different for her. She had had sex, gotten pregnant, and had a baby before ever going on a real date. As a result of this, she had gotten married at a very young age. She was sixteen and her baby’s father was eighteen. They barely knew each other before having a baby and getting married. Luckily, he was loyal and supportive and had been raised to take responsibility for his actions.          Kayla was, overall, a good wife and mother. She kept the house clean, and the baby, as well. She kept Kip, her husband, fed and satisfied. Deep down, though, Kayla had never wanted this life for herself. Her mother, when Kayla had mentioned this once, told her to ‘suck it up and deal with it’.          In her heart of hearts, Kayla had always dreamed of being a doctor. She was fascinated with all things medical and watched every medical show that was aired on television, whether it was reality tv or fictional drama. Alas, Kayla had never even finished high school, having quit to have Stephen and then marrying Kip.          Kayla had just about decided that she would at least go back and get her GED when she sadly found out that she was, once again, pregnant. This broke Kayla’s heart, not that she would admit it to Kip. He was over the moon. He adored little Stephen, and was hoping for a daughter this time around.

         Kayla pretended to share his enthusiasm, but deep down she resented the baby just a little. When her beautiful little girl, Cheyenne, was born, she felt ashamed of herself because she felt nothing towards the darling little baby that they placed in her arms.          Kip would come in from work and immediately go to spend time with his ‘little crew’ as he called the children. During this time, Kayla would make dinner.

         One night at dinner, when Cheyenne was about three months old and Stephen was one, Kayla mentioned to Kip that she wanted to pursue her GED. Kip was in agreement – if it could be done from home and online. Kayla researched it later and found that it could not be done that way. Her town offered two choices – day classes or night classes.

         When Kayla mentioned that to Kip, he balked. He didn’t like the idea of her leaving the kids all day, even if it was with one of their mothers, nor did he care for her being gone for several hours at night. Kip liked their little life and their little routine. Finally, it occurred to him to ask her why she wanted a GED so badly.          Kayla looked at her husband. She cared deeply for him and didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but she decided to be honest.          “Kip, I want a better life than this. I want more money. I want a nicer house. I want fancier things. I want to become a doctor.”          Kip, although normally a very kind man, busted out laughing.

         “Kayla, do you realize that passing the GED is just the first step? You would have four years of college and four years of medical school. Not to mention the hours you would have to put in after that. My God, you watch all these medical shows. You should know better than I do what you would be looking at.”          This angered Kayla, but she didn’t let it show. She was more determined than ever to get that GED. After that, she wasn’t sure what she would do, but she was going to get that damn GED or die trying.          Secretly, she arranged for her mother to watch the kids while she went to day classes. Her mother wasn’t crazy about the arrangement, but she reluctantly agreed. Kayla went to her classes and worked hard, then rushed home and worked hard there, as well.          Finally, the day came when Kayla completed her GED program and received her certificate. She was elated! When Kip asked her that night what had brought on the fancy dinner and the romantic attitude later that night, she just shrugged with a little grin on her face.          Kayla secretly applied to several colleges and universities. She was determined to take the next step. When the day came that she was accepted, it was a bleak day, indeed. She had just come from a doctor’s appointment, where she had found out that she was, once again, pregnant. She opened the letter and found that she was accepted to a school across the country.

         Kayla was devastated by both pieces of news. She didn’t want to be pregnant again, didn’t want another little burden around. She wanted to go to college, but no way would Kip be willing to move across the country. She thought long and hard about her situation. She watched Stephen and Cheyenne play while she thought. Finally, Kayla made a decision.          Kayla picked up the phone and called her doctor’s office. Her doctor didn’t do what she was asking for, but he referred her to someone that would. She made the appointment for the next day. The next call she made was to her mother. She told her mother that she had to go back to the doctor for a test that they wanted to run, so her mother agreed to keep the kids.          Kayla got up after Kip went to bed that night. She wrote a long letter to Kip, and one to her mother. She also wrote letters for both kids. She slipped the letter for Kip down inside a pocket in the diaper bag, as well as the ones for her mother and the kids.

         The next morning, everything seemed normal. She made breakfast, talked with Kip over coffee, took care of the kids – all of the usual stuff. Once Kip left for work, she grabbed the kids, the diaper bag, and her suitcase and loaded everything into the car. She drove to her mother’s and dropped off the kids. Her mother insisted that she return directly from her doctor’s appointment and she assured her that she would. She had no intention of ever returning to her mother’s house again. She drove straight to the doctor’s office and had the abortion that she had decided upon. She then got back into her car and went to the bank, where she drew out half of their money. She had already accepted the invitation to the university that was across the country and she had a dorm room all lined up. She steered her car onto the interstate and never looked back.


 THAT GIRL FROM ZAMBIA I had a friend. Only one, growing up. She was my everything…

This was at a time when I didn't exactly have a reputation. I wasn't exceptionally good looking. I was dark, overweight by 15kgs, and tall. I was a whole feet taller than all those dumb bimbos that came to school in the name of eduction everyday. Their hair left out, skirts hiked up. Yet they had the nerve to call me out for being ugly. What didn't help was my inability to laugh at the names they called me- Shitnam, Gagnam, Shags… I complained to my teachers for a lack of a better comeback, but this only made it worse with me earning the tag of a "crybaby", "whiner" "weiner" (the last one doesn't even make sense). Anyway, coming back to the point. A new girl came to our school from Zambia a few years ago. She was pretty, fair, had long hair and was chatty. Everyone seemed to like her the moment they met her, probably because she had so much to talk about. She had these bubblegum flavoured lollies, that she'd share with everyone, constantly saying "try it, it's from Zambia ". Like I get you're from a foreign country, now get off your high horse. I thought of her as a show off and tried to ask a few people about her too, but they all thought she was lovely. I wasn't a fan of her, till she asked me if I wanted to join her as a partner for our school dance competition. This is the most prestigious event of the school, which all the popular people were a part of and it had been my longest dream to be in it. But I never found a group to be a part of, and I didn't need people to throw tomatoes at me for dancing alone. So I'd watch my bullies perform for over 3 consecutive years, simmering with anger as they enjoyed the popularity they didn't deserve, till this "girl from Zambia'' showed a newfound interest in me. Maybe dancing with her would boost my reputation in school too.

We practised for over a month. It was mostly her telling me what to do, while I danced along with her. When we performed together on D-day, she received all the praise for performing so gracefully, though I was just happy to be on stage. We eventually came 3rd. WOW… from never performing on stage to coming 3rd, was a massive achievement for me. So much that I framed my certificate in my bedroom. It was surprising she even performed with me. She could lose her reputation, she could have no friends because of me, she would be a loner just like me. She hung out with me occasionally, but had her own group of "cool" friends. She was polite to me when she met me and even stopped by to chat, even though her friends gave me the stink eye, as they waited to get her attention.

The dance competition came again next year and she performed with me again, choreographed the whole sequence and this time we came second. But she again received praise for it all. It was like I never existed to anyone but her. I was invisible, before and after the competition, but her fame spread from our grade to the whole school. Why did she perform with me, if she had better gangs to hang out with? Did she feel sorry for me? Did she think it was easy to get me to do what she wants? She wasn't toxic though. She wasn't rude either. She was like this 'nice narcissist'. She was sweet to everyone, yet got what she wanted, though I stayed exactly where I was.

Slowly my whole attention revolved around why she wanted to be around me..  Was I the antidote to her vanity? Is this a build up to something bigger she needed from me? I confronted her once, unable to keep my insecurity within me any longer. To which she gave me a kind smile, like she didn't know what I was talking about, like I was stupid for even asking, like this rapport we shared was completely normal- her ghosting me through the year but being a friend only in the one important month of that year.

The third time she came to me again, for the dance competition, I had a strong urge to say no, but it would be me who's losing, as she'd find someone else to dance with, while I'd miss out. So I said yes, but decided to set the ground rules. I would arrange the music and steps for the dance and this time she would follow. She didn't resist, which I was surprised by, in all honesty. I practiced real hard that year, tried to lose some weight to look pretty, and scavenged through the deep recesses of my brain to make our performance stand out and look creative. She kept quiet through the entire process and never complained once. On the final day of our performance, people were spellbound. They applauded so loudly we couldn't hear anything. Then everyone came running to her to appreciate how amazing the whole act was. It was me who compiled the whole routine, yet she earned the credit! She tried explaining to people that it was actually me, but noone would hear her. Everyone thought she was being modest. I was enraged at the lack of recognition, despite being awarded the winner.

After that year she left our school and moved elsewhere. I had no one to perform with again and I became a spectator for toxic people, once more. Till today I question myself, was I this girl's friend or was she mine? Did she even look at me as her friend, because we never did anything that normal friends did, like gossip about crushes, go to the movies, fight with each other, study together. She gave me the confidence of being able to perform in front of 500 people in school, yet left me feeling inadequate at the same time. I forgot about my love for dancing and got entangled in her love (or lack of love) for me...


That day as I was seated reading the news paper I called out to my wife who was in the kitchen, When she came I said “Reena it says here that the amusement park CALGARY has opened with a big ,roller-coaster besides other attractions. It seems it is the first such park in India.” She said “That’s at least 100 kilometres away.” “Yes. Our car is new and we could easily reach and return by the evening.” She said “You never let me drive the new car whereas I was free to use the old one.” “You see the roads here are narrow and besides there’re many potholes on the road. And I’ve noticed you drive very fast.” “Allow me to drive and I’ll go with you to CALGARY.” “Okay. Today is Friday. Let us go to CALGARY on Sunday.” It was now summer and we were close to the real dog days. I opened the garage and the car door. Reena said “I must drive first.” I allowed her to take the wheel. I said “You must drive cautiously as we won’t be on a national highway. Also there’re sharp bends at certain points. We’ve another disadvantage. Our car is very big and could block very narrow roads.” She said “Don’t worry. I’m an experienced driver since I’ve been driving for as long as you.” “It’s now 8 in the morning. We should be able to reach CALGARY by 11 latest. It’s already very hot.” She said “The ac is now on. In minutes it will be cool inside.” As we proceeded we came to an old bridge and a lorry was coming opposite. The bridge wouldn’t allow both vehicles to pass at once and we waited before we could proceed. I said “See the problem we face. We can only go slowly.” “Sit back and relax. Perhaps you would like to listen to some music.” “Leave it to me and concentrate on driving.” Soon we had crossed a village on the way and Reena was driving very carefully. Despite it a tyre on our car burst and we halted. I said “It will take a few minutes to fix the spare wheel as I’ve never used it in this model of car. Meantime the traffic on this road seems to be growing. Let us move the car to near that lane.” She said “That isn’t a lane. There’re a group of houses there. Still it would be safe to jack the car there.” We were able to find a sanctuary for the car and set about jacking it up. I noticed the vehicles going past at speed. It had become very hot. I got out the spare wheel and bolted it down. When I lowered the car on the road I saw the spare wheel was low on air. I said “Reena, this wheel needs to be inflated. Let me find out where the nearest petrol bunk is.” I asked a couple of passers-by and a man selling water melon on a cart, but they couldn’t give me the information. A passing lorry driver was kind enough to pause and say the bunk was about half an hour away. I got into the car and said “Reena, let me have a cup of coffee before we again set off. The changing of the wheel has made me long for some stimulus.” I took the coffee leisurely and threw the paper cup away. Reena was about to start the car when I said “Give me two minutes. I need a comfort stop.” “There seems to be no place for it. You should’ve exhausted your bladder before we left. You also had a long swig of cold water from the fridge before that. And now the coffee. And you men do it everywhere!” “Just don’t worry. See those bushes there? I will have enough cover as there’re no people around.” She said “Wrong!” I saw a group of women come together and stand exactly where I wanted to use. Reena saw my plight and going towards the women spoke to them. She was back and told me “Those  are employees of a garment factory waiting for the bus to take them to work. It’s expected in 10 minutes.” “Alright. Let us wait as this seems the most convenient place for my purpose.” I kept checking my watch and saw it was 15 minutes and there was still no sign of a bus. I noticed the women also seemed anxious and I saw one of them making a call. I nudged Reena who said “You should be ashamed. Getting me to find out when the area would be clear for pissing.” “Please Reena, find out what those women are saying.” She went, spoke to the women and returned. She said “It seems there was an accident on the way and the bus is blocked. The women have been told it would take another 20 minutes for the bus to arrive and they should wait.” “God damn!” I got out of the car and asked a couple of people around if there was any restaurant nearby. They didn’t know and finally an obliging lorry driver said there was a Wayside Inn about 20 minutes away. He offered to take me in the vehicle and I was tempted to agree. I thought I would call her from the Inn and tell her to come over. Meantime the lorry driver got a phone call and set off without me! I went back to our car and said “Reena, there’s no way except to go to a restaurant. You should drive fast....” She said “The spare wheel has less air. We would’ve to coax the car carefully along.” I said “Start and go without jolting as my bladder is almost overflowing.” She said “I sincerely hope you won’t dirty this new car inside!” On the way we saw the petrol bunk to access but I said we could come back. We reached the restaurant and running in at speed signed to a waiter seeking toilet access. He said “The gents toilet key is with the owner who is overdue. He has locked the room as some users had inscribed latrinalia!”  I signed to Reena and she came and spoke to a female staff. Reena came and said “The ladies toilet is open.” Seeing my drawn face Reena spoke to the woman staff and gave her tip. She allowed my using the toilet with Reena and herself guarding the door. I leapt in readying the fly! Luckily the toilet had only a single position. I was getting ready when I found there was no light inside and knew it was impossible not to make a dribbling noises with females just outside the door. I let go and it was some time before I could come out as I had been locked in! I was now breathing freely and was light as air. We quickly had snacks there and went to CALGARY. We had no other incident on the way. It was indeed a very memorable trip. END


I think it was the way you wrote so intensely that drew me to you in the first place. I had never seen someone focus so deeply on a school textbook before, furiously making notes, filling up line after line in your notebook. Most of my memories are a blur, but for some reason, that one in particular has always stuck with me. I remember you briefly looked up as I passed by, gave me your shy half-smile, and went back to work. That was the extent of our interactions in high school.  Throughout those four years, we never had a single conversation. Not one word said to each other.  And now, I know why.  What are the chances that we both just happened to stumble across each other’s profiles in a city of millions, 7 years later? And that we both swiped right? When I saw your photo pop up, it struck me as incredibly odd that we had never said anything to each other back then. I don’t believe in fate, but this seemed like an opportunity to finally get to know you.  The texts flowed back and forth, fast and furious. I saw a flash of your charming wit, subtly weaved into your words. I saw a glimpse into your life. And you seemed to take a genuine interest in mine, too. I wanted to learn more, so I asked to meet you for tea.  As I turned the corner and walked up the steps to that cafe, you looked the same as I remembered, except for your hair, which was longer. But I could feel right away that something was wrong. You looked up with that nervous smile, inched your way towards the door, and waited for me to enter first. When the waitress asked you what table we wanted, you looked at me instead of answering. When I asked you if you had a preference, you just shook your head. When we finally sat down, you said, “I don’t think I have any questions left to ask you.”  So I asked you some questions of my own. And you answered them, briefly, uncomfortably. After answering each one, you would look sip on your tea and gaze at me with those inquisitive eyes, as if you were waiting for a miracle to drop out of my mouth. Since you didn’t seem to want to talk, after a while, I tired to fill in the gaps of silence. But each time I spoke, you seemed to lose interest. Only in the moments of silence did you seem like you were interested.  It took a while, but when I finally understood, it hit me like a brick. From the look on your face, you wanted to say more. To talk about your life, adventures, your hopes, dreams, fears, and everything in between. But you never did, and I still don’t understand why. The texts you so beautifully crafted didn’t make it into real life. I spoke with just a shell of you, the real one hidden behind your carefully constructed walls that never came down. We never made it past small talk.  On the walk back, I began feeling like I was trapped with your shell, walking side by side with your body while your mind was far away. When we parted, I knew we would never see each other again. Your heart was always just out of reach. The next day, when you sent me that message, I felt a huge weight lifted off my chest. And then, I couldn’t help but chuckle.  *You’re a really good guy, but I felt something was missing yesterday.*  It sure was.


 The storage unit door rolled up. Eduardo stood with his elderly momma beside him and his wife behind them.    “Okay, momma, let me get a chair for you.” Eduardo took out from high a Louis XV style chair and placed it on the concrete for her. He got one out for Maria, but she waved him away and fumbled for her cigarettes and lighter. “Could you do that over there?” He pointed.    She gave him a look of outrage.    “The wind. The smoke will get in the chairs and the carpets. Maria, please, over there.”

   Maria stomped her heels away. Momma let go of her walker and sat. Eduardo got a bentwood chair for himself. He found a small marble top table to go between them. None of momma’s furniture ever matched. Among the overstuff storage was a box Eduardo recognized and removed newspaper wrapped tea cups and saucers from. He unwrapped and placed them on the table. From a picnic hamper he had brought he took out a thermos and poured milky tea in both cups.    “Where my paper?” Momma asked.    Eduardo took a laptop from the picnic hamper. “No more paper anymore, momma. We’re going to look on this.”    “She doesn’t know what that is. We did the same thing three weeks ago. She doesn’t remember anything anymore.” Maria said, punctuating by waving her cigarette around.    Momma turned and smiled at Maria. “I’m going to buy a new house. I’m going to have a home of my own again.” Momma turned to Eduardo. “I don’t want to stay in that place anymore.”    “I know, momma, I know.” He powered up the laptop and clicked on a familiar link. Houses began to appear on the screen. “Here we go. Look momma.”    Momma leaned within two inches of the screen and moved her eyes from corner to corner. She placed a finger on one of the houses on the screen. “Show me inside.”    Eduardo tapped and a video walkthrough of the house began to play. Momma smiled and her eyes widened in delight.    “She is not getting another house.” Maria said. ”Tell her she’s not getting another house. She can’t look after herself. I’m never cleaning up after her again. Do you remember what her bathroom looked like?”    Eduardo shushed her quiet.    “Don’t tell me to be quiet. Why are we keeping all this? Why are we paying to keep all her junk? Seven months now. That’s two vacations we could have had. We should sell it all and take a trip.”    “Why can’t you let her be happy? She misses her things. She wants to see them sometimes. This is her life in here.”    Eduardo moved up to Maria.    Momma looked away from the laptop. She grasped her walker and moved along the edge of the storage unit. Past couch ends, beds on their sides, end boards, end tables, and a dresser she knew well. On top were stacks of photo albums. She pulled a middle one without pulling them down on herself, or losing her balance. It was a good day for her. She shuffled back to her chair and opened the album. She rubbed her hand on each photo like they were good luck charms. She looked up at the sun squinting. Then she looked back down, surprised there was a photo album on her lap. She studied it again.    “Momma told me I should never have married you.”    “Yeah, well now she doesn’t even know who you are. And you’re no prize, either. She wants to buy a house? Sell her ours. We’re going to have to sell our house to pay for that retirement hotel you put her in. Why didn’t you marry her? Why did you have to pick on me?”    “When we took that trip to the Falls, I should have pushed you.” Eduardo said.    “I should have jumped.”    Eduardo marched away to sit with momma again. Momma put the photo album on the table and moved it towards Eduardo almost knocking the laptop off before he caught it. Momma held her fingers under a photo in the top corner. She whispered to him. “That’s my son.” She smiled and closed the album, then rose to try to return it.    “I’ll get it, Momma.”    He returned it and they sat sipping tea, and looking at the rows of other storage units across from them. It stayed sunny and quiet, except for Maria making a show of huffing and puffing while she chain-smoked away the afternoon.    Eduardo returned his momma to her care facility. Her next home was palliative care. Then momma passed.    Maria did not attend the funeral. Eduardo explained to friends and family that she had left him to travel the world. Discreetly, he let people know that she had detested him for years and could not wait for an excuse to leave him. The same people delicately let Eduardo know that they had also known she was not good for him and it was for the best.    Eduardo took one last trip to the storage unit. The owner followed him in. Eduardo opened the unit.    “I’m so sorry.” The owner said. Eduardo thanked him.    “About her things. We have an auction service.” The owner said.    “The lease is for ten years.”    “Yes, but it’s only been two. Such a tragedy. We can work something out on the lease.”    “No.” Eduardo opened his truck and dragged down a hope chest. “It’s the last of her things, from the home. I can’t bring myself to throw any of her things away.”    He pushed the photo albums back on the dresser and got the owner to lift an end of the hope chest and they set it on top. He pulled down the roll door and locked it. “I will keep paying the lease. I cannot deal with this now. I must grieve. When I can deal with this I will call.”    “How is your wife doing?”    “She left me.”    “I’m so sorry.”    Eduardo drove off, comforted that at least he would never have any more grief from Maria again. Well, at least she wouldn’t be found for another eight years.


there once was a boy with knives stuck in his voice. No matter what he said, it hurt the people around him, the boy just couldn't help it. Even if he didn't say anything offensive to someone, it still hurt them, just the sheer noise produced, a high, cutting pitch, something never heard by the likes of man before, would make the inner workings of your ears bleed, if you listened to it long enough. All he wanted was a little affection. just somebody, for once to actually love him. a mother, a father, a friend would have sufficed. he should have known the first time a whole village abandoned him in the middle if a woods; no one wanted him, or his foul remarks. but he didn't learn, he had the simple mind of a child. the boy would walk during the days, crawl in the darkness of night, just to find a home. but every town he found, just kicked him out again. but he didnt learn, he had the simple mind of a child. his cry's pierced the silence of the forest at night, birds flew away in fear, his shrill scream lured hunters to him, believing it was an animal, dying in their traps. but all they could hear when they saw him was, just as ghastly as his voice. the poor child, he was just an unidentifiable bulk. you could hardly call him a bulk though, he was nothing but a remnant of his former self. the boy hadnt eaten for days from the looks of it, his skin was peeling, hair grew in patches. his ribs, they were hypnotic, just watching them stretch the pale, brittle skin. scabs were beginning to form, at nearly every inch of his body. the two hunters felt pity for the boy. they left some food for him, and then left as fast as they could, they were horrified of the grotesque child. if they really felt pity for him, they would've killed him. the night the boy ate was the first night the forest heard true silence for so long, no one actually knew.that night the boy actually slept. the dreams were the sweetest thing he had ever experienced. the dreams gave him a new feeling of life, he didn't have the will to death any more. or was that the food? the boy learnt to fend for himself. he admired those hunters, he wanted to impress them, be like them. to him, they were to first people to show him any compassion. but the boy was as much a terrible hunter, as the villagers were terrible humans. he never learnt. his voice scared of every single one of his prey. except the fish. the boy was expert in catching fish from a river. the joy on his face was unmatched, as he pulled his first fish out of the stream with his bare hands. many nights passed after the night with the hunters, and many dreams accompanied them. the boy had found something to cherish. night after night he went to his den, night after night a scream let out, sounding so much like a childish laugh. his den was a crude piece of art. tightly packed under the roots of a relatively young oak in the forest of elders, its roots resembled aching joints submerged in the depths of the river, the boy used grass for a simple beading. old fish bones were hung up from the tops of the roots. oh he was proud of his fish bones. one day, the boy was out “fishing”. there was one fish he had his eye on. it was too fast for him, even heading upstream. up and up they went, the boy wasn't going to give up. before he knew it, night had fallen. the boy was scared, he had come a long way from his little den, so far upstream he was on a slope. that was the first night the forest had heard the boys crys for so long. he didn't sleep at all, he was scared he just wanted to be home, to be loved again. after the progress the boy made, it was undone in just one single, sleepless night. the following morning, he woke in a pile of golden red leaves. autumn had arrived. the ground was damp and boggy. he tried to set for home, following the river downstream. the boy dragged his feet through the mud. for hours, he walked and walked and walked, still no where closer to home. he was surprised at the distance he traveled the day before chasing the fish. Then he heard it, a scream,a cry for help. it was a sharp noise, but it didn't make the boy cover his ears, only pay more attention to it. at first he thought it was himself, but how could it be, if he was here, and the noise was over there. the boys childish nature made him curious. step by step, he trekked through the mud. it soon began to dry out as he made it closer to the noise the forest was thinning, the noise was increasing. he thought he could hear voices thrown in hear and there, laughing, tormenting. the boy had reached a clearing on a plateau. it was most likely the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, or will ever see. the field had patches of scarlet poppy's in between patches of long white grass. and in the middle of that, the noise. a black cloud, dancing around in a single fluid motion. the boy got closer and saw ravens, hundreds of them, words flying from their beaks, taunts and insults thrown to the centre of the mass. and in the centre, a single carrion crow, half the size of the ravens, and not able to fully form words like them, but screams, the same screams that caught the boys attention. he screamed. the child screamed, drowning out the noise of the ravens. the crow joint in. the boy started running in and out of the group, trying his best to scare the ravens off. but they laughed at his futile attempts. this made him scream louder and run faster. eventually the crows got bored with picking on the crow, and lost all interest in the child, waving his arms about like a madman. they were gone. it was just the boy with knives stuck in his voice and the crow that couldn't sing. the screams lessened and lessened, until all you could hear was the far of call of the ravens caught in the wind, and the slow steady breathing of both boy and bird. on closer inspection, the crow was actually much bigger, but in poor condition. still not as big as the others, it had fresh blood dripping from where the ravens talons took swipes at him. its feathers were torn out in patches. and it was weak, malnourished. they boy tried to pick him up as gentle as he could, but the crow struggled. finally the boy got hold of him. the boy could see he was hungry, but he had no food. he had the next best thing a carrion crow could wish for; living human flesh. the boy bit his finger, making it bleed, only with a small yelp of pain. he tried stuffing it into the crows face, but that didnt work. at long last, the crow got the taste of blood, and pecked at the boys hand until he was satisfied, all the while, the boy screamed. but he tolerated the pain, not flinching his hand away during the feeding. the path back to the river was a long and tiresome one, the boy was feeling faint. the crow wanted to stay with the boy, so he let it sit on his shoulder. they screamed at each other the whole way, having some strange conversation in the most bizarre of tongues. he had finally found someone to love, and to love him in return. the boys dreams had come true. that night, he fell asleep with a smile on his face, and blood on his neck from success. a dreamless sleep soon fell upon him. the boys body became entangled in the branches of a relatively young oak tree in a forest of eldars, its fingers submerged in the waters of the river. the crow was perched above. it flew down and landed on the corpse, pecking strips of flesh away from the bones of the bloated, floating body.


It is 1997 and I am 8, my father is in his 30s, what I'd later realize was slightly past the peak of his life. I am just at the cusp of building my own and realizing who I am. I'd grown up too fast; my earliest memories are of my parents fighting, screaming, threatening to leave over the stupidest thing. Google didn't exist and it is funny to think a search would have made some enduring peace between them, when in reality it would have driven them apart even quicker. Search results for "cheap divorce attorney" immediately come to mind, along with dating sites and strangely cropped photos on a profile page. My memory is good and even that long ago feelings are intense, if I close my eyes I can remember my brother in his wheelchair, crying out, straining to reach to feed him blueberry yogurt and oatmeal, fruit. He is older than me and strong, wiry from his lack of coordination, what he wants he muscles his way toward across the floor. I learned quick to avoid his hands, the softness or maybe the color of it lured him in and he'd grab, tangle it in his fingers and pull it, and the rest of you toward his mouth in a surge of pent-up energy, like a snapped mousetrap, no warning. Neither he nor my sister, who'd grow up damaged and hateful in her own way, were here today. My dad and I were close then, two people on different paths but still longing to get away, even for a few hours. The day is humid, overcast, cool. In brief patches the sun breaks through but in between those windows, the belly of gray clouds overhead grumble and it hisses a fine rain down onto green grass and gray water. Tires grumble over pavement and he parks, I get out of the van and grab a bait bucket full of silver fish, a white Styrofoam container of worms and a pole. We walk over the pavement onto grass. We both know where we're going. There is a dam with an artifical lowered outflow on the other side of an earthen levy and an overhead bridge that provides shelter from the rain. Underneath it there are boulders, cool and sandy to the touch, I sit on one with a flat surface and bait a hook. My father does the same and within two hours we have a wire stringer basket full of bony, wriggling fish with wide pupils and blue-gray flecked sides. Though he doesn't say it, each is another substitute for something more expensive we can't comfortably afford. I don't know what the daily limit is, and I doubt he knew either. It was abnormally good fishing. We pack up our things and as we do, people who arrived after us, start to move into our places, jealous of out catch. My father had remarked under his breath at some point previously they hadn’t had any luck, and I noticed now how quickly they picked over the rocks to cast into the dense school of fish and take their fill. He offers them our remaining minnows and they accept with a grumbling thanks. We walk back toward the van, watching out for goose droppings over the grass and struggling with the weight of the basket when I turn back and see the flashing lights on the road at the top of the levy. Some people have gathered at the edge of the lake but seem reluctant to go in. My dad turns to watch, but it is impossible to tell what exactly is going on. We later read one of the men, the oldest, had snagged a plastic bobber on a submerged log and waded in to retrieve it, maybe only knee deep. Whether he slipped on the seaweed, it grew thick there beneath the surface of the water, like moss, or was pulled in is unclear. He was pulled rapidly under the surface where he became pinned to the water outtake piping underneath the lake, we read it takes the lake engineer nearly 30 minutes to arrive and longer to turn off the flow and allow the man to drift back up to the surface. It is too warm to imagine the water's chill could have slowed down the damage, saved him in a strange twist of fate, and he cannot be brought back to death. We see many other things in other trips: a falling plane jumper with a faulty parachute, a meteorite falling into the Pacific, horseshoe crabs and haze over a Californian saline sea. Unprompted this day at the lake comes up so many years later, how it trumps so many happier moments can't be explained, but regardless neither of our recollections of the day have faded and the facts remain the same. Noteworthy: the fishing always tanked in that spot after the man’s death so it was rare we'd even consider it as a choice fishing area again, as did many other anglers and eventually it became overgrown with rose and raspberry canes, inaccessible and forgotten unlike that day in memory.


During college, there was an ordinary night that saw me come home from an evening study session in one of the academic buildings. As I entered the residential building where my dorm was located, I received a text. I fumbled through the contents of my pocket and by the time I had retrieved my phone and read the text, I had entered the large winding stairwell in the center of my building. I stopped to type a reply to the text I'd received. I'm no good at walking and texting simultaneously- some people can do it. I'm not one of them. As I stood in silence at the bottom of the stairs penning my reply, the door from the floor above me opened. Someone else had entered the stairwell. I don't think I even would have remembered that part if it weren't for the events that followed. My stairwell companion, from the landing of the floor above me, took a few steps and stopped, I presume to gauge if anyone else was occupying the stairwell at that time. I was directly below my companion, texting in silence, so it's reasonable to assume that they didn't realize I was there. Suddenly, flatulence. Like a bugle at dawn, a fart burst into the silence with the singular force, candor, and flourish that only a nasty big messy wet fart is capable of. For perhaps five whole seconds, blups and bops trumpeted out of my stairwell companions rear. Ben Franklin once said the only certainties in life are death and taxes. I can add that, with certainty, I shared a stairwell with someone who defecated (at least a little) into their pants. After the barrage of farts concluded, the mystery farter proceeded down the stairs. I remained glued to the floor, frozen with terror. Eleven or so steps beyond the first-level platform and the farter's identity was made known to me. She stood approximately five foot fine and she was an absolute knockout. I couldn't believe my eyes both in terms of the magnitude of her conventional attractiveness and associating that conventional attractiveness to what had just occurred. Immediately, her face blew past red and turned a smoke-on-the-water shade of deep purple. She took a step towards me- perhaps a gesture to see if I'd pretend that what happened hadn't. I wasn't having it. I said "nuh uh" out loud (something I still regret) and went back outside. She was NOT going to crop dust me in that stairwell, no sir. After that evening, I started to see her more frequently. In a cafeteria, walking to a class, in the gym- on multiple occasions we made eye contact and she'd scurry away in shame. I wanted to tell her that it wasn't a big deal. People fart! I regret overreacting, especially if it made her feel uncomfortable! This is something that we could laugh about! Alas, I never had the chance to try and smooth the awkwardness between us or acknowledge the events of that fateful night. Anyways, that was about 10 years ago and now we work in the same building. Still haven't spoken.


The two men are in the small house. One of them is slumped against the wall. He can’t move much. The one that stands has a black beard that has been stained with blood and puss. He holds a bloody axe in his right hand. His chest is heaving. It is the slumped man’s blood and puss that is in his beard. The sun is setting. The orange glow is bitter as it yawns through the old house. It is cut to shreds by windowpanes and door frames. “Hey,” says the one on the floor, “I got some cigarettes I’ve been saving for this shit. Still got your lighter?” Standing nods. “Where are they?” “Breast-” slumped over wheezes for a moment. His teeth begin to glint red. They are the colour of wine. “Breast pocket,” he managed. Once they’re both lit up, standing checks his watch. He breaths out. His beard feels heavy. It’s like some creature has crawled up his front and hooked onto his face. Slumped over cackles, “don’t forget the gun.” “I won’t forget the gun,” standing bares his teeth. They are yellow. One is missing. Standing is shivering. Then he says, “it’s only got one bullet left.” “Fine. Let’s…let’s use a different word. Don’t le-leave with…without giving me the gun. And it doesn’t matter. I only need one.” Standing’s hands are shaking now. The hatchet is still clutched tightly in his rectangular, dull fingers. It is like it is welded to his palm. He checks his watch one more time. He makes sure that slumped over can’t see the face. The orange glow begins to wither. The shadows begin to smother it out. Slumped over knows time is running low. His eyes drift to the gun lying on the nearby kitchen counter. He looks at standing. “Check the cupboards before you go.” “Already done.” Slumped over chuckles, and it becomes a strangled cough. Blood and puss leak through his teeth and stain his cigarette. “Nice.” Both men sit there. Standing doesn’t go to give him a new cigarette. Instead, he shakes. His exhausted, red eyes roll around in their sockets. At some point, he put the hatchet down. Clutched in his fingers is a golden crucifix on a chain. Slumped over said something. It sounds like a cars motor ticking. “What?” Standing looks at him. He doesn’t move. He sits. He shakes. “The world was easier when it was flat,” slumped over manages. He smiles again. His cigarette falls to the floor. It almost looks like the descending evening is cutting it in two. “Like…you remember, whe-whe-when you would read those picture-picture books as a kid,” his eyes are glassy now. They twist around the room, and for a moment, it looks as though slumped over can see ghosts. Standing clutches his crucifix tighter. “And those…those books, they showed the world…” he blinks and with strength that seems impossible, he lifts his hands like a half-assed Nazi salute, “flat.” Standing looks at the gun. He still shakes, and the gun is sitting there on the counter like a demon, like the devil that sits on your shoulder, mocking him. Slumped over’s arm is frozen. Finally, it drops. “Flat. And the sun would drift over everything, and then eventually fall over the edge. It was easier. Because you could…there was an end to it, you know?” The evening light is almost gone now. Standing clicks his neck. When he puts his crucifix back on, the little gold icon gets tangled in his beard. Slumped over is still talking, but standing doesn’t notice. All that he has left of is caught in the tendrils of this creature that crawled up his front and latched onto his face. Once it was black as night, but now it is bathed in the blood that he drank from another man, this demon that holds his faith in its crimson claws. He can’t help but moan, and he snatches at it, wrenching and pulling at his hair and the chain, and the orange light is almost gone, and his watch is almost at six o’clock. The chain snaps. The crucifix falls. “I have to go,” standing bursts out. Slumped over looks up at him. His skin is waxy, his lips are dried. They peel with scabs of blood and puss. Standing grabs his hatchet. Forgive me father. He turns to go. “The gun,” slumped over manages, “give me the gun.” For I have sinned. Standing turns around. He grabs the gun, and he drops it into slumped over’s lap. “Th-thank you…I know what this means. I know how hard it is for you.” Understand why I did this Lord; I had no other choice. Standing walks out. His crucifix is forgotten on the floorboards. It is stained with slumped over’s blood and puss. The door closes behind him. The night sky has coated the orange afternoon with darkness, and stars blink into existence. When he was a child, his mother used to tell him that the stars were angels. Until now, that had always filled him with such joy. Father, I understand that you test us mortals. He hears something hit the front door of the house. It thuds the same way that a slab of meat does on a kitchen counter. Seconds later, a second thud, then a third, and then the thuds are overlapping each other, and then the demented moans of the undead crescendo into the black night. They coat the silence of the night, like the blood of another man coating standing’s beard. The door collapses with an almighty sound beneath twitching, vindictive corpses. Whether it’s his imagination, or if he can actually hear it, the moans are punctuated by the sound of the gun being cocked. Understand father, I tried my best. I did everything lord, I tried to suck the infection from his body, I did all that a mortal man could. And then, the sound of an empty gun clicking, like a demon spitting venom. Standing opens his hand. The last bullet glistens golden in the moonlight, just like his crucifix used to glow. When he closes his hands over the bullet, his fingers look like the elongated claws of the damned in the dark. He remembers what his mother used to say: “God created your body for you. It is not yours to damage, to alter, and above all, it is not yours to kill. Suicide is a sin.”


Derek was snoring when I crept in into his bedroom a bit before 8 am. His sandy hair had tousled itself into one big cowlick. His eyelids clamped shut, fighting to keep the day at a distance.  “I’m going to look at your sketchbook, ready or not,” I announced loud enough for him to stir. He had sat past midnight on the floor in his room, scribbling on 15 by 15 sheets of paper. The oversized tablet and one black pencil laid on the floor next to his bed. He always refused to sit at a table. He drew, watched movies, and ate on the floor. Often all at once. I picked it off the floor and took a deep breath, dreading what I expected. The first page rendered a pudgy barista. She wore a heart pendant around her neck, a foolishly small boating atop her frizzy hair, and a coffee stain shaped like China on her light t-shirt. The second presented a rickety old man, standing at a near 90 degree angle while leaning on a cane. I remembered his painful shuffle as he passed us on the street. I didn’t notice Derek even looking at him. The third was a tall woman with regal posture and perfect hair. She carefully checked her reflection in store windows as she walked. Derek’s self-soothing guttural shriek scared her into a brisker pace. And on and on, page after page. Each drawing was as exact as a photograph, capturing minute details – an unruly swish of hair, a baggy polo shirt pulled taut by a bulging gut, even blemishes on hands. Yet each omitted one thing: a face. Below the hairline, above the neck, between their ears, there was nothing but blank white paper. I watched him wrestling with his blankets, hoping to return to slumber before I could grill him. His two-month-old hobby of drawing portraits stunned and unsettled me. First, he never seemed to look at anyone for more than two seconds. He hasn’t since diagnosed with severe autism 27 years ago. He rarely looks at me and I am with him all day, every day. Yet those two-second glances were all he need to absorb their features, even their essence. Derek was 3 when his language turned to mush and then disappeared. He stopped pointing and gesturing. Then he stopped looking us in the eyes. That’s when he became unmoored. Over decades, his mom and I chased every therapeutic lead from rote matching to electronic impulses, from mainstream to Hail Mary with no success. He’s 30 now and still doesn’t speak. His form and level of autism is severe and isolating, an amalgamation of befuddling quirks. Second, I didn’t even know until a few weeks ago that he could draw. Someone on an autism support group suggested I try to give Derek an outlet that connected him to others. He had never shown interest in drawing or anything else for that matter. The void, the vacuum, the black hole. His mother would use all these terms to recognize the disconnect between what he demanded and what he gave back. Until one day, a year ago, she left us. “I’m dying in slow motion, every day,” was about the last thing she said to me. And lastly, where were the faces? How could someone leave out the first thing most of us look at, the most connective aspects of a person? Raising him involved detective work, looking for clues. Why he did this or that, what is he thinking, where is he hurting? But this was a whole another thing. Did he not see the faces or were they just unimportant? He is a fulltime job and I have multiple sclerosis, which is akin to carrying around bags of sand. I have nobody to watch him, so I began looking to him for a group home. “Quite a pair, aren’t we,” I said to him, this time much louder. “It’s time to get up. The doctor Harris is coming to visit you.” He rustled, turned, stretched his neck, and rubbed his eyes. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t or wouldn’t answer me. I figured the more I talked to him and greater chance he might one day respond. I got him a squeeze bottle of water. “Time for the bathroom,” Derek. “Got to get going.” He sat up, still slumped and dazed. “Bathroom,” I commanded He followed me, the plastic diaper he wore to bed was plump with urine. He knew the drill, emptying his bladder, washing his hands, putting on a fresh pullup. He turned to leave when I put my arm on the door frame of the bathroom, blocking his exit. “Derek, I need you to look in the mirror.” He didn’t move at first. Then he tried to edge past me. “The mirrrrr-orrr,” I said. I rapped one of my knuckles against the cabinet mirror above the sink. He didn’t look. I grabbed both his shoulders, turned his body, and pushed up his chin until he faced the mirror. Derek is 6’4 and more than 200 lbs. He leaned on me to clear a path out. “C’mon Derek, can you see your face?” I watched his eyes, searching for a glint of recognition. It struck me at that moment that I had never seen his look in a mirror or linger on any photographs of himself or his mother. “That’s you, Derek!” I touch his face and then the image peering back at us. He looked toward ceiling. I grabbed his left hand, placed it on his face and then stretched the hand to the mirror. “That’s you! That’s your face!” He jostled his way past me and into the kitchen, meaning he was hungry and wanted to change the subject. “What’s with you? Why no faces? C’mon, help me understand.” He sensed my rising irritation and kept his eyes trained on the floor. He was never a performer. Decades ago, before he was a toddler, he walked up to a piano in an old bookstore and, instead of banging on the played like most 7-year-olds, played a lovely, lilting melody. Everyone in the shop stopped, rapt by his music. As soon as I stood over him, he jumped off the bench and never again touched a keyboard (even after I bought for him). Dr. Harris, an expert in autism at the local university, arrived early. She was striking. Tall and pretty despite oversized glasses dominating her prim features. I imagined her faceless portrait. She declined my coffee and knocked on the open door of Derek’s room. He watched an animated video while eating cut-up waffles. The drawing tablet sat nearby him. “Hi Derek!” She sounded like a long-lost friend. He glanced over his shoulder and turned back to the video. “Can I look at your drawings?” He didn’t move, so I grabbed the tablet and led her into the living room. She examined each portrait, shaking her head in amazement. “Have you ever heard of prosopagnosia?” I asked, her, knowing she did. But I pressed on. “Some people call it face blindness. About 40 percent of people with autism have it to a degree. They can recognize shades of colors, identify patterns, and see most things correctly, “just not faces.” “I think he’s the opposite,” she said. “Our faces bring expectations, unpredictability, and real life, like sadness and anger or deception. I think Derek feels the power of a look more than anyone.” She asked about Derek’s mother. How she related to him and why she left. “She was absorbed and obsessed by him,” I said. “She was his lifeline, but he wore her down. She just wanted… I don’t know… she would have settled for a second glance; an acknowledgement would have meant everything.” She looked down at the tablet and rifled through all the pages. “Notice that he doesn’t draw scenes or things?” she asked. “It’s always people and they jump off the page. He’s involved. I think faces pressure him. Being mute, he has few if any options to change a person’s mind.” “So, I’m not supposed to look at him?” She glanced at him sitting on the floor in his room. I often forget that he hears and understands everything. His silence made me sell him short. “Look, this is easy for me to say, but I suggest you appreciate his gift,” Harris said. “He is not trying to upset or unsettle you. He is communicating. After a few more minutes, she handed me his tablet, headed for the door, and just before leaving, said, “think I can get my portrait if he draws one?” After she left, I went to Derek’s room. I got on my knees and hugged him from behind. My eyes watered with each blink. I placed a photograph of his mother on the tablet. “Can you draw her?”


This is a spin-off (if thats what its called?) of a friend of mine's story. I took some liberties with the rules of magic a tad, but I hope it holds up to what he had originally imagined. Also, because I enjoy having stories read to me, I decided to read this one aloud: And lastly, anyone familiar with Chapter 1 of The Princess Bride might recognize a few familiar lines. I hope they seem more in homage to Goldman's (\*ahem\* I mean, S. Morgenster's) work than ripping it off. \ “IT WORKED!” I shouted with such force, my body was shot upright in the bed, my hands raised above me in fists of triumph and awe. Immediately after the minor celebration, a new, haunting realization came over me. “It …worked.” My arms lowered to my side and my eyes slowly began to adjust to the darkness. There was a window in front of me, covered by horizontal slats that let in different hues and strengths of light. They didn’t flicker like candles, but they did grow and shrink. Sometimes moving from left to right, quickly, sometimes flashing and disappearing. Each one illuminating the small space I was now occupying. Strange sounds I had never heard creeping in along with the lights. I slowly became aware of the two eyes staring at me, high up in the corner of the room. I was almost shocked at how long it had taken me to notice. Familiar in their shape and meaning, the creature was sat atop a solid structure with drawers and openings. *Of course, she would have a cat.* *But are you… are you* ***my*** *cat?* *One way to find out…* I slowly tried to exit myself from the bed, noting how immensely soft and delicate the fabrics and coverings and cushioning were. *Was she royalty?* *Surely not royal to have sleeping quarters so small…* I made a clicking noise with my tongue. “Here… little kitty.” I whispered slowly. “I’m sorry you’re confused.” The cat’s ears twitch backwards and its head lowered, slightly. *Amazing creatures, to recognize me as someone unknown so immediately.* “You probably miss her, don’t you? It’ll be ok, Kitty.” I spoke softly as I lowered my head toward the cat. *You’ll get your answers in time.* *In the meanwhile, you’ll discover I’m just as patient as you.* I could tell dawn was breaking as a familiar, slow-moving glow began to fill the room. And then, I saw it. I saw… me. A mirror from floor to ceiling was affixed to the wall adjacent to the bed, and my body gasped. She was… frail. Her hair, mashed to one side, most likely due to the softness of her pillows. Her chest was sunken in somewhat and her arms, weak. She had markings of different colors all over the tops of both shoulders that ran down her back and sides; drawings of woodland critters and flora. I ran my hands across her collarbone and I could feel how thin her skin was. *This…is me?* *How is this…pathetic creature …me?* Up until this point, I had assumed the spell had worked perfectly. The transportation of all higher lifeforms from my word to this one was supposed to be a …parallel move, of sorts. Technically, this body belonged to me. Just, not the me that grew up in *my* world. But how could any version of me seem so absolutely underwhelming? She looked tired. The type of tired that builds over time, as if she hasn’t known a normal routine of health and sleep for months on end. And she felt just the same - used up and worn out, empty, and short of breath on most inhales. Worse than physically inept, she felt powerless. I flexed her fingertips and felt nothing. No spark, no flash of ability, no electricity at all. This woman was wholly and utterly inadequate. Untethered to any strong form of elemental or etherial magic, I wondered if I had gotten something wrong. *Surely, there is no universe in which I am so disturbingly pathetic?* *This is not the body of Ardnaxela, Witch of the Wildes, Unchalleneged Sorceress of the Bloodmoon Mages, The Midnight Feline, The Last Dragontamer, Rider of -* I gasped as my eyes met hers, still ice-blue and yet somehow less alive. “Petrix.” His name left my lips as a whisper, but it fell so heavy, it brought me to my knees. “I didn’t get to say goodbye. I didn’t…I didn’t want to…” I kept repeating single syllable words and simple phrases. My mind hadn’t decided if I should keep crying or start yelling and somehow, I ended up doing both. *Would any goodbye have been enough?* *What would you have wanted to say, witch?* *Nothing could have changed how it was going to end, you knew that.* “I know…I know…I just… ” Her body convulsed as I sobbed, broken and alone, truly alone. Magic was gone. My own body was changed. The world I loved, lost, perhaps forever. And yet somehow, I knew I could live without those things. But I wasn’t sure how to hold up my own head knowing Petrix was out there, in *this* world, living a completely different life than the one he shared with me. “My Petrix, **my** dragon.” I felt my shoulders get hot saying those words. *Mine*. I was angry. I was possessive. But why should I have been? Are dragons ever owned? Certainly not by bewitched witches and the longings of my innermost parts. The secret things. The neediness. I had to let go. “Forgive me…forgive me, my Favourite.” I had told him to look for me. That was the last thing I had said to him. And yet I wasn’t even sure he would be capable of remembering. “Would my Petrix ever forget?” It isn’t a fair question to ask. I had no idea how this spell would work. I don’t know if it is possible for him to remember the old world, let alone the short years he spent with me. I buried my face in my hands and let myself feel the weight of his absence. I was unlinked. I couldn’t feel the wind under his wings, the heat of his breath, the strength in his scales. I couldn’t feel anything. When my tears began to run dry, I lifted my head and stared at my gaunt reflection, eyelids swollen with sorrow. *That’s enough.* *Let go.* It began to dawn on me just how little I understood this spell. If it was capable of sending me to this world, this undesired version of myself, what else went wrong? I knew others had made the jump with me, and I had tried to ensure that only the people in liege with the General had transferred, but now I wasn’t so sure. And suddenly, hope. “Is it wrong to be excited that the war might not be over? That someone…unwelcome may have tagged along?” Life without a dragon wouldn’t be worth it. But if I unknowingly placed an entire world at risk by bringing such a destructive force with me, then I had no choice but to set it right. My reflection smirked and I realized that as soon as I figured out how to pull magic in this world, I would fix her hideous snaggletooth. And then, of course, save everyone. Again.


There’s a vulture on my fence. It’s been there day-in, day-out for the last week, ever since I moved into my new house and graduated high school. Sometimes, I feel like it’s been with me longer but I can’t explain where the feeling comes from. There’s a vulture on my fence. His body is as dark as the night and he’s always quiet, patient, and watching. I know he’s been with me longer but I can’t remember him. I swear he’s watching me, but maybe it’s just paranoia. There’s a vulture on my window ledge. He’s watching me now. I know it. I was looking at childhood pictures upstairs and when I looked up towards the window, I saw his eyes staring back at me. I went back to looking at dreams and passions long-abandoned and he never left. When I went to sleep that night, he was outside my bedroom window. I think he’s trying to tell me something, but I don’t know what. His presence is eerie but comforting. There’s a vulture staring at me as I read my childhood journal. It’s 10 AM and I’m lying in bed thinking about what I’ve lost out on. I wanted to be a chef once, but the last time I cooked was in 8th grade. I wanted to be an artist, but the last time I painted was sometime in middle school. I cry over the unfulfilled dreams of an idealistic child, and the whole time the vulture stares at me. He looks bigger than he did yesterday. There’s a vulture on my fence. I’m eating dinner with my family, but my mind is elsewhere. I’m thinking about lost friendships, broken hearts, and what-could-have-beens. The whole time, he’s staring at me. I turn to look at him, and he keeps staring. My family looks at me oddly, maybe they just don’t care about the vulture. The Vulture stole my journals. I’d left the window open when it was raining to feel the drops on my skin when he swooped in, grabbed my journals, and flew out. He was a lot bigger than he was yesterday, and I fell on my back when he flew in. I didn’t get up for a while. Then I went to sleep. The Vulture is gone now. I hope he’ll be back, I want my journals back. I liked reading them. I’ll move into college in two months, and I’d like to reminisce a little before I move out and away from my family, from my what-could-have-beens. It’s been a week. I remember the Vulture now. He was there when I moved to Minnesota. He was there when I moved to Hyderabad. He was there when I moved to New Jersey and had my adolescent heart crushed. He was there when I moved south to a place I didn’t really fit in. When I switched schools. When I was stuck inside for a year. He was there then. He was there in January when I tried chasing my dreams again, when I wrote something, when I showed it to a girl I might have had a thing for. I remember seeing his massive body outside my window while I wrote. Now he’s gone, and he took my journals with him. He's been there a lot. I wonder why. His absence is haunting. It’s been two weeks. He came back today. The journals were left outside my window. When I went to grab them, he scratched my left hand once. It was the closest I had been to him, and this time he looked even bigger than before, about six feet tall and towering over my crouching body. I went back inside, closed the door, and he didn’t leave. There’s a Vulture on my fence. He’s watching me. I think he’s waiting for something. I don’t know what.


We kids always called it The Last House in Town, but really it was just outside of town limits. With its old red brick covered in summer's ivy, its hot tin roof for the cats, and its perimeter fence of spear-topped wrought iron, it looked suitably forbidding. Especially at dusk on a foggy night. Edna Bligh had lived there since birth, and was now its solitary inhabitant, as far as we knew. She and her brother Herman had lost their parents to a vehicular accident some twenty years before. After inheriting the house free and clear, they had stayed there, never having married. Herman was the town's sole solicitor, and Edna had earned her keep by her skill as a dressmaker. In the spring of nineteen hundred and forty- nine, Herman was murdered by the father of a man he had sent to jail. Edna had seemed to be in perpetual mourning since that day. On her rare visits to town, she could be seen riding her Schwinn bicycle. Garbed in black, with lace-up leather boots, she wore a pillbox hat with a net veil covering her sharp features. We were in awe of her, not only because of what had happened. She seldom spoke, had the aspect of a dangerous bird, and seemed to rush wherever she went, as if in disdain for the whole of mankind. The large wicker creel strapped to her back fender reminded us uncomfortably of a certain Witch we had already heard tell of. In the first days after Herman's death, Edna costumed herself in the endless black of her future. For his burial, she paced slowly down the line of mourners to his graveside, cloaked in charcoal, even to the velvet mask that covered her eyes. Evoked were the bats of Dracula, and a wedding to the dead. Edna was not seen for ninety days from that stilted graveside walk. In that time, the fall of the year burned down to winter's ash. At the Last House, men and machinery could be seen. Men with hoods who did not speak to any outside of that boundary. We curious kids, with borrowed binoculars and too-big sweaters, skulked behind the poor brick partition of my front walk, making a nervous party out of the Watching. *** Our old town's Main Street business district was less than a mile long. It was intersected by First, Second, and Third Avenues, and many businesses had come and gone in its decades of history. Aside from the Post Office, there was one that remained in memory, and indeed it still occupied its rarefied space. Its plate glass window had once been destroyed by an angry but cowardly man and had been renewed with a double pane of "safety" glass. This had a slight tinge of greenness and was curiously embedded with many crisscross strands of wire. Brand new letters of gold leaf had been applied to its inner pane, reading "LAW OFFICE- H. BLIGH" Herman, after the first shock, and having to wait for the repairs to be effected, decided it would be a good time to "update" the office a little, and so he brought in painters, carpenters, and carpet layers. He was not long settling into the new place when he was called to represent the Crown in a case of armed robbery in a neighbouring village. It was one of the Baker Boys, whom he knew (and detested) from his younger days. Mark Baker was not one of the actual triggermen, but it was alleged that he had driven the getaway car. Evidence was largely circumstantial and the outcome was in doubt until Herman, who was very well connected within the town, managed to drum up two credible witnesses who would testify. In the end, Mark was sentenced to five years. Three days later, as Herman was locking up after a long night at the office, he was shot to death through the safety glass of his office window. Several tenants had remarked on the dark pickup that had sat in the rain that night, but they could not give a positive I.D. of the attacker. *** Howard Baker had been very careful. He knew that Herman had earned a few enemies in the county, and he knew also that he himself would be a prime suspect. To that end, he had stolen a pickup from a nearby farmer who was away at auction, and had waited in the dark downpour until Herman had decided to call it a night. He wore dark rain gear with a hood that shaded his features, and with his leather gloves, slip-on rubbers, and the heavy silencer on his .38 , he thought to leave little evidence of his presence that night. When the deed was done, he drove off into the darkness, ditched the truck in a wooded area, and, using the bike he had brought with him, pedaled through the rain to complete the nearly ten- mile journey to his house. It was not long before he had a visit from the law. *** Something curious was happening at the old Bligh house. There had been many comings and goings of workmen in the weeks that Edna had been gone. The heavy iron fence with its spears had been uprooted and taken apart in sections. Along its outline, a deep and narrow trench was dug. We kids were on watch every second we could spare. At last, the queerest thing of all took place right in front of our eyes. A truckload of stone slabs and red brick arrived, followed by a cement mixer. Into the trench, stone and cement were laid, and, over several days, a brick wall some eight feet in height and a foot thick took form. It surrounded the house completely, save for a heavy oaken door, which was domed at its top and framed and buttressed with black iron. When the wall was done, the old fence of spears was installed upon its top. The men and machinery finally left, late on a foggy and cold afternoon. Edna had not been idle during that time. It had been quite a while since she had paid a visit to old Verna, the woman who had mentored her in something more than dressmaking. Verna was another confirmed spinster who had lived, with minimal help, in the house of her birth, and was now alone. Twenty years Edna's senior, she had often looked after Edna and Herman when their parents had been otherwise occupied. Verna was delighted to see her, in spite of the circumstances, and insisted that Edna stay with her awhile. And so, from Verna's home, Edna made arrangements to have Herman's old office repaired and secured, once the Police had quit the premises. She also learned and partook in things that might give you and I a chilly feeling up the back of our spines. *** Howard Baker had never been an excitable man. Fact was, not much scared him. He was slow to anger, but when brought to that state he would lose all reason. It had led him to do murder, and in his self -righteous mind he was a hero for its doing. Guilt was an emotion somewhat foreign to him. When he slept, it was the sleep of peace. On that night in late fall, he had retired early after an exhausting day of haying and mucking out stables. The forecast promised a nasty storm, but that was no bother to Howard. By 9:30, after a couple of beers, he was snoring. A short time later, the rain came on with a vengeance, and distant lightning woke a muttering of thunder. A black pickup truck stopped at the entrance to Howard's long driveway. A tall thin figure got out and, not minding the streaming rain, walked slowly towards the darkened house. In his dream of accolades, Howard's heart swelled now that he was finally getting his due. He smiled and waved at the adoring crowd, and the happy ending brought him peace and the quietude of expiated sin. But soon a black hand, palm outward in token of rejection, disturbed and troubled his art. He awoke suddenly to explosive lightning and immediate thunder. In the afterglow, a face in his window. Raven-like eyes, sharp hooked nose, and a small tight mouth contorted with hate. Howard was paralyzed and thought with hope that the face was but a nightmare. Indeed, when the next flash came, the face was not there. He thought to get out of bed to collect his wits but found that his body would not obey. Hoping that sleep would take him, he tried to calm his jumping nerves by using a mantra that he had once heard a hypnotist employ. Something about intentionally relaxing your muscles, one by one, starting at your toes. Howard was just getting to his knees when, in the next strong flash of lightning, a tall figure could be seen standing in his open bedroom door. It was the owner of the face, and as they locked eyes, it was upon him. With its thin strong hands and sharp nails, it grabbed onto his ears and drew its grim countenance to his. All the while looking straight into his soul, it whispered these words: "Howard Baker, ye are the one. You gave to one of mine their own private Hell, and then their death. I am inside ye now. Your soul is mine. You will walk my walk for the time left of your life, and it will be long. I have sold my own soul for this, for I have rejected my God, who said that vengeance was given to him only." And then, dry crusted lips laid a cold kiss upon his trembling forehead. Howard had soiled himself. *** If one had awoken early enough, they might have seen, at the site of Herman's law office, a smart-looking and very erect old woman dressed in red. With a confident mien, she brought forth an iron key from her bag, and made entrance to her new world. In gold leaf, the letters in the window spelled out VERNA MARTIN- FASHIONS FOR THE TIMES. If one had stayed up late enough, they might have seen (if they didn't mind the rain) a tall thin figure in black who also produced an iron key from her bag, and unhurriedly gained entrance to the Bligh house. There was a booming slam as the door closed, and the sound of tinkling chains. One of the Bakers' neighbours had noticed that there had not been much activity on that farm for a few days and decided to pay Howard a visit. Along his dusty driveway, they saw some sick cattle, and became more alarmed. At last, they pulled up to the house. There was Howard, sitting on his front stoop, naked except for his socks. He was eating a cob of raw corn. He did not look up. The Police, who had been "keeping an eye" on Howard while "gathering evidence", arrived at the homestead, together with a paddy wagon. Howard did indeed have a long life. He was pronounced incurably insane. Herman's murder was never solved.


When Jeannie, Gil’s wife died, he stopped going to church. He’d take his son, Cliff, to the twenty-minute Mass at the French church on Christmas and Easter.

Gil preferred watching the ducks in the early light from atop the bridge in Cass Park. That was his place of worship. It felt more real. From that vantage he sensed the whole world arising as sunlight shone through the treetops. Before they married, he and Jeannie threw stale bread to the ducks and laughed at their jostling for morsels. Meadowlarks sang arias from the trees. It felt like heaven to him. He’d take Cliff to the bridge each morning, before dropping him to school, and working at the bank. Standing over the still water, they’d talk and watch the world awaken. He never forgot that Cliff was all he had left of Jeannie. Gil pointed. “See that ripple, out past the lily pads…?” “Yeah. What is that?” “A snapping turtle. I call her Hilda.” “Hilda? “She’s huge. Has a sharp beak and a ragged dinosaur tail. Wouldn’t want to swim with her.” “Wow.” “Been here since before I was born.” “She’s old!”

They’d watch Hilda make her rounds. The ancient turtle lurked beneath the dark water stirred by the ducks. The big old turtle terrified him when he was Cliff’s age. Now, they were old friends. The ducks dispersed. Gil said, “My dad used to tell me about hippos out there.” “Really?” “That’s what he told me.” Gil’s brother, Roger, called Cliff ‘the Wanderer.’ When he got lost in the woods, they found him napping atop a slab of granite. A sun beam shone down on him. A fawn was licking his ear. A few days later, Cliff and Gil visited the bridge for their morning ritual. A flock of ducks took flight and wheeled over the placid water. The boy admitted he’d given up. “I didn’t know what to do, dad. I wished I was a bird.” “Cliff, when you get in a jam, you can’t just fly away.” “Birds do.” “But you’re not a bird. Birds don’t think. They react. We buckle down and find a solution.” “But how…?” “Ducks swim. You don’t see crows swimming. Each does what’s intended. You’re not made to fly.” “What am I made for?” “Good question. What are you good for?” Wide eyed, Cliff had no answer. He felt Jeannie watching. He ruffled Cliff’s hair. “Right now, you’re made to run and play. Soon, ideas will capture you and you’ll chase them far as you need to.” Cliff needed structure. Gil signed him up for the local peewee football team, the Canucks. Cliff preferred soccer. But being old school, and the team coach, Gil prevailed. He watched Cliff sulking, but safe on the bench. Cliff chafed at Gil’s control but didn’t protest. Another kid, Frankie, and Cliff became friends. Frankie was agile and threw well. Cliff ran fast and knew how to catch the ball. Gil started using him in games. One game, near the end of the fourth quarter, the Canuck defense collapsed. Trapped, Frankie threw the ball away. Cliff made a spectacular catch. His touchdown won the game. Frankie said the priest at the French church, congratulated them for their Hail Mary. Cliff asked Gil about it. “Dad, why don’t we practice that play from the game?” “Because it’s last ditch. A miracle, desperation play… To keep from getting sacked.” “But it worked. We won the game…” “There’s no way to practice it, Cliff. It’s random, unpredictable. No one wants a Hail Mary play. If you need it, someone didn’t do their job. The defensive line failed.” “Why did we win if everything went wrong?” “Drills let us know what to expect. Follow the rules, stick to the plan. Don’t wing it. The center snaps the ball, and the quarterback catches it. Like at the bank, you don’t fudge the figures.” “I know, Dad. But Friday?” “Steady practice gets you to know each other’s moves. Then, if you need to improvise, you can. But you can’t plan it.” The next week, they stood on the bridge, huddled in their jackets. Their breath lingered in the chilled air. The ducks had migrated south. Gil watched for Hilda’s ripples. Cliff said, “Dad, I wrote a poem.” “Let’s hear it.” He unfolded a paper, “’They say hippos swim in the lake at Cass Park. And if you dive deep enough you could find Noah’s Ark. There the ducks live in trees, The crows do as they please. The light’s beautiful and it never gets dark…’ He looked up. Gil chuckled and said, “That’s awful.” Cliff laughed. “It is?” Gil felt Jeannie’s nudge. “Is it for school?” “No. I just wrote it.” “Then I love it.” “You do?” Gil nudged his shoulder with a smile. “You have a great future, kid.” The following Friday morning, Gil prepared for the day. He called out, “You ready, Cliff? Let’s head out.” The house was silent. Cliff wasn’t in his room. Something felt wrong. Never an early riser, Cliff always rode with Gil. His backpack was gone, but his schoolbooks sat on the table. He called Cliff’s friends. No one knew anything. Frankie’s mother said they left together, at dawn. “I heard them talking about the train.” “The train? They’re kids. Where would they take the train?” “Not sure. What’s three hours away?” Gil saw the newspaper on the table. He stopped at the announcement of the NY Jets’ planned appearance at Madison Square Garden. Their quarterback, Chase Hopkins, recently made news with a Hail Mary pass. Gil called his brother, Roger. “Drop everything, Rog. Need some urgent action.” “What’s up?” “Cliff and a buddy skipped school to go into the city. Need help finding them.” “Alone? To New York? What is he, ten? Crazy...” “That’s Cliff. I’ll pick you up in ten.” Traffic wasn’t bad until they reached the outer boroughs. Roger and his wife, Donna, rode along. They were regulars at church, Sundays, holidays and holy days. Donna attended Mass every morning. Sitting next to Gil, Roger yammered about kids lacking responsibility. Donna prayed in the back seat, non-stop and loudly. When the traffic backed up, Gil reached his limit. “Will you pipe down? You’re talking to yourself. Cut the volume.” “I’m praying, Gil. Asking God for help.” “And God can’t hear silent thoughts? I’m trying to think, here. Pray for an open lane.” Roger and Donna exchanged looks.

He felt responsible. ‘I’m under water, here… What if… I’d let Cliff play soccer? Or Jeannie’d stayed behind instead of me? The kid would’ve thrived with her.’ No answers came. Nothing could solve this. ‘Why? Why? Why…?’ Gil took an exit and made his way to Madison Square Garden. ‘So many people!’ He pulled over, got out, and gave Roger the keys. “Drive around. I don’t know… Look between here and Grand Central… I’ll scout the Garden.” He ran up the steps and across the plaza to the entrance. A maintenance man came out. Gil stopped in front of him. “When will the Jets be here?” The guy brushed by. “This morning. Been and gone, man… freakin’ tourist…” Dead end. He had been so sure. Now what? Gil fell to his knees. Putting his hands together, he did what he hadn’t done since he was a kid. And never in public. He prayed. People milling about stared at Gil kneeling by the Garden’s entrance. “Mary. I barely know you. It’s been so long. Too long… I need help finding Cliff, Jeannie’s and my son. He’s a good kid. But lost. I don’t know if… or what you can do. But please, help us find him. Keep him safe… You can’t… please don’t leave me alone. He’s all I’ve got… I’ll return to church. Do a rosary every week… every day. Just bring him back safe. Please…” Sobbing, Gil slumped against the wall, head in hands. His cell phone rang. It was Roger. “We got Cliff and his friend. Safe. They crossed right in front of us on 42 nd , at Bryant Park.” Gil couldn’t speak. Tears ran down his face. Roger said, “You there? Pick you up in five.” The kids denied knowing anything about the Jets event. “That would’ve been cool. Should ‘a done that…” Cliff said, “Always heard about New York. Wanted to check it out…” The ride home was relaxed, once they got past the scolding. Cliff got a clue. He wasn’t much trouble after that. Gil faithfully said his rosary every day. When tempted to skip it, he’d tell himself, ‘Follow the rules. Stick to the plan. Don’t wing it. Keep your promises…’ He kept his promise. Standing on the bridge every morning, he’d feed Hilda and the ducks. He’d think of Jeannie and tell her all about it.


I stop dead in my tracks. I’ve heard that the place is huge, but the rumors couldn’t prepare me for what I see. Neat, yellow stalls fill the space as far as I can see, their counters cluttered with goods from all around the universe, walls decorated with banners, garlands, and illusions. Between them hangs a silken cloth, shielding merchants and customers from the scorching light of two triangular suns. But the worst thing is, most of the people here are not even humans. It's hard to say which species is the most abundant since there are so many! Furry kas’shams with big eyes and expressionless faces strolling leisurely, browsing silk clothes and carved combs. Stumpy chavikii with eight spidery eyes, trumpeting for attention. Tiny, reptilian miyangua slithering about, twitching their fleshy whiskers, their vocal sacks working like bellows. There, a ssothian is barging through the crowd, a mountain of orange fur with horns curling down and dropping almost to the ground. I’ve never seen a nonhuman before. I am Tarvissi; our people are considered speciesists and shunned by other species. Now I am surrounded by others and I don’t know what to do. For a moment I’m taken by a sense of alienation so strong, I feel as if I am the only Tarvissi in the world. Then something soft and wet touches my shoulder and I whirl around to what looks like a giant snail, its front half raised above my head. It’s bright yellow, with red and dark blue ends to its flaps and two additional, smaller flaps in front. I step aside and the u’xui-shi slithers past me with surprising speed. I glance back at the market. The nearest stall has a silken banner, red with golden margin, and covered in writing I cannot read. The counter is filled with jewelry of gold and sapphires. Despair wells inside me. What right do I have to be here? I’m just a simple farmer. Where I come from, the jewelry was made of leather straps and carnelian. But then I collect myself. I’m not a simple farmer anymore. Yesterday I got my first Mespanian pay and I could probably afford the gold if I wanted to. But I don’t; Varxi, a Xzsim who trained with me, told me it was the place to go to buy food and I am sick and tired of Dahlsian rations. I clutch my bag closer and enter the market. The ground is covered by a soft, spongy pavement, the same material used to line training grounds. I thought the cloth above our heads would offer respite from the tropical heat, but the proximity of a thousand bodies makes the market feel like a steam bath. I spy another ssothian, crouching, with three miyangua dancing around them with scissors, trimming their orange fur. I feel sorry for the big guy. Or gal. Or whoever they are. The scent I detected a mile away is stronger here: human and inhuman sweat, fresh wood—the market was only finished a few tendays ago—fur, spices, perfumes. The air resonates with the voices of merchants trying to outshout one another, customers, and caged animals. Above them carries a song and as I follow it, I see a besheq singing, tentacles whipping above their heads, weaving a basket of silvery willow. The goods on display are as varied as the people who sell them. Jewelry and weapons; silks and linens; utensils of wood, ivory, and plastic; books and parchments; obsidian mirrors. The u’xui-shi that passed me before is now standing at one of the stalls, flapping their frilly fins over a selection of colorful powders. The first food I see is sold by chavikii and comprises dozens of plants—fruits, vegetables, or other parts—I don’t recognize. They’re bright and shiny, but I give them a pass; chavikii are naturally resistant to plant toxins and their foods could prove deadly to me. A bit further, a kas’sham offers a selection of sausages, and a familiar scent of naya spice reaches my nose, but the predatory look of the merchant’s face scares me away. I keep walking. The place is like a maze, the stalls identical, the crowds oppressing. My head starts spinning and the images blend together. So many goods I’ve never seen before, many I wouldn’t even know what to do. Fabrics that shimmer like beetle-shells; tools I didn’t know how to use; clothes made for inhuman shapes. Instruments emanating unheard of sounds and flowers that danced to their rhythm. Half-birds and half-fish with fantastic plumes, locked in cages of gold and glass. Tableware carved from single pieces of jade. What am I even doing here? A procession of chavikii pushes past me, each carrying a basket full of fruits that look like human eyes leering at me. A vhariar tries to sell me a potion to increase magical potency. My heart is racing. I struggle for breath. Are there no humans on the market? A few times I catch a glimpse of human skin, hairless Chaarites, or brown Varpulians, but they vanish before I can even see if they're merchants or customers. And none of them is Tarvissi. Am I the only one of my race here? I lean onto one of the pillars supporting the silken roof and try to calm my breathing. Despite my light clothing, I’m drenched in sweat and my insides churn, I’m not sure from hunger or anxiety. “Are you lotht?” I jerk and look around to see the kas’sham manning the nearest stall eyeing me. Their face is almost animalistic, but their big eyes shine with intelligence. Their body is lean and supple, covered in short slate fur, large hands hide claws long and sharp as daggers. I feel a cold shiver running down my spine as I realized they could jump over the counter and rip my throat open with their bare teeth before I knew they were coming. Mechanically, my hand rests on my wand. “I’m fine,” I murmur, not letting my gaze off the merchant. They look at me for a moment longer, but their face is unreadable. Finally, they flick their tail. “Tarvithian merchanth gather around the dome-thide gate,” they say and I can glimpse their canines, each as long as my hand. They must be the reason the kas’sham struggles to pronounce s . Then the meaning of their words finally worms its way through my apprehension. Embarrassment washes over me. I let go of my wand and drop my gaze. “Thank you,” I say. I pick up the trek, but suddenly the place doesn’t seem so scary anymore. It’s different. Probably bigger—and busier!—than our entire colony. But it’s just a market. And no matter how the people look or how they speak, they’re just that: people. I spot a small clearing and walk towards it, hoping to locate the dome and find the Tarvissian quarter, but the smell of flowers gives way to smoke and roasted meats. The square is surrounded by food stalls, manned by Chaarite humans. There’s a large grill with a wide assortment of roasted meats and a big pot of some kind of soup. To my left, a woman in loose robe sells steamed buns. Behind her, a chavikii fries some vegetables, the banner at the side of their stalls portrays a human with thumb and index finger raised in a Dahlsian gesture meaning everything is all right. My mouth fills with saliva. I realize I may not need Tarvissian merchants anymore.