The high school ball is getting closer. You should go. But Jenny you know I don't like parties. I'm not used to it. It's certainly not my thing. Betty, you never liked trying anything new until I forced you to. When you try it, you always develop an interest in it. It's not like that this time, Jenny. Those were not parties. If I were to go, I certainly don't know what to wear and I don't know how to dance. Betty, you behave like you have neophobia. If it's about what to wear or how to dance, you don't have to worry. We can hire a fashion designer or a professional dance teacher. You don't have to worry. Okay, fine but how will we afford the money?

Betty, so you finally agreed. Jenny, don't try to dodge my question. Okay, fine. The party is in four weeks. So, we can get enough money before one week. But first of all, we need to create a calendar and on that calendar, we will include what we’ll do first. Betty, are you with me? Yes! Just tell me the first thing to do.

Okay, first of all, we need to inquire about the designer, to know about the price. So, Betty please get your tablet, so we can search it online. Okay, I will be right back. Okay, let me see here. Yes! What Jenny? I found out about the designer. Her name is Annie. It says here on her profile, it is free of charge. Her only charge is the satisfaction of her customers. Wow, Jenny! Let's contact her immediately. Okay, I will give her a call right away.

Ringing... Hello, please, I saw your profile and it said that your services are free of charge. Yes, that's me, Annie. I am free anytime you need me just text me your address. Okay, fine I will do it right away. You can come tomorrow. Just bring an album of different designs along with you. Okay. Bye.

Jenny, have you texted her our address? Yes, I just sent it. Jenny, you truly are my best friend. You have my best at heart. What's all these compliments. Now, come on! We need to work. Ai! Ai! Captain! They both laughed.

What's next Jenny? We need to create a workspace for Annie in our apartment. I think we should use the basement. There is a lot of space in there we haven't used. Okay, let's check it out. Achoo! She sneezed. It's really dusty in here.

We really have our work cut out for us. Yes, we do. You get the mop and I will get the broom. Okay, let's do that. Wow! It really took a lot of effort, but we're done. And we have put out all the tailoring equipment. Now it's time for dinner. What would you like to have Betty? Toasted bread! What about you Jenny? Just tea for me! Okay, I will make the tea, while you make the toast. We earned it. Yeah, it's time for bed.

Ahhhhh! It's 9:00 am we only have one hour to get ready for her arrival. We better hurry up. We made it on time. Doorbell ringing! I think it's her. Let's check. Hi, is this Betty's and Jenny's house? Yes, it is. Is this Annie? Yes, it is. Okay, let's get to work. Okay, we'll take you to our basement. We tidied it for your arrival. So, where should we start? You girls need to choose the style and color of your outfit. Which color do you want? I would like silver with glitters and sparkles on top. How about you Jenny? Royal blue would do. Okay, we are done with colors. So, let's choose the style. Betty, let's play a game. Okay, what is it? We will both take turns choosing an outfit. You go first. You must choose a style of outfit for me. Okay. Jenny, please leave the room. It’s my turn. Okay. Jenny, is my best friend, Annie and I want you to make for her, her favorite dress and that is the strapless dress. She always dreamed of having one but she couldn't afford it. So, please... Annie answered, say no more, it will be ready this evening.

Thank you. Now, go and tell Jenny that it's her turn. Okay, I will. Jenny, it's your turn. Okay, I will be right there. Annie, Betty is my best friend. She doesn't like trying something new. It's her weakness. I forced her to come. Because I said she will love it. She agreed but only with two terms and conditions and that is we get her a dress and teach her how to dance. But we haven't found a dance instructor yet. Don't worry, Jenny apart from being a fashion designer I am also a dance instructor and it is also free. Wow, that's great. Jenny, what dress would you like to give Annie? A ball gown! Are you sure she will like it? I always force her to try new things and she always likes it. If you say so, Jenny. I will get it ready this evening and then we can start dance classes tomorrow. But Jenny would you girls mind if I slept here? Of course not! The dresses are ready but you won't see them until tomorrow. They replied. Agreed, yes agreed. I can't wait for dance classes, Betty. I wonder what dance she is going to teach us! Me too! Let's get ready quickly. Okay. Morning, Annie. How was your night? Fine and yours? We could hardly sleep. We were full of excitement. Okay, first of all, you girls have to learn how to dance in your dresses. So go and put them on. Okay, we will be right back.

Wow! Betty really knows me. A strapless dress? I hope she likes her ball gown. I wonder what Jenny has got for me. A ball gown! Why? I am not used to wearing heavy dresses and there is also jewelry. I guess I will have to put them on. Betty, I love the dress you gave me. Thanks, but why did you give me a ball gown. Because you weren't sure about going to the ball. I wanted to make your first ball memorable for you. Okay, but how am I supposed to dance in it? Relax that's what Annie is here for. If you couldn't dance in it, she would have told me before she made it. Betty. Jenny just wants the best for you, Annie said. She has your best interest at heart. So, please trust her. Okay, I will Annie. To be able to dance you need to dance with grace in all conditions, comfortable or uncomfortable. So, we will start with the basics both of you must stack two books on your head and repeat the steps I am doing.

These steps apply to each song. So, let's begin. Tippy toes, front, and back. Then turn around and curtsie. Then you fall back and let Jenny catch you. Okay. Okay, I will try. Yes, you’re doing it, Betty. Don't let those books fall. Jenny, you’re mixing the steps up. Now, see what happened, the book has fallen. Never mind, look at me, Jenny. Both of you will dance different dances. As for you Jenny, watch me. First and foremost, tippy toes front and back. Then turn around and curtsie. And for you, Betty, since you have mastered these steps, then add these to it. Hold up one side of your gown and spin, then you jump. Do you get it? Yes, I do. I found out that at this particular ball, there is going to be a fashion contest. So, you both must impress everyone. You must do the sassy walk then turn around, smile, and face your audience. Feel free to improvise at the last minute. You both are ready. I will just get some more pieces of jewelry to razzle-dazzle you. You must be well-rested tomorrow. It is the big day every moment counts. Morning girls, it’s 8:00 am and the ball starts at 10:00 am. So, you need to get your makeup on. I got a Tierra for Betty, and platform heels. And I got Jenny a bracelet, jewelry, and wedges.

I have applied makeup for both of you. Now it's time to leave. Remember what I taught you. Okay, we will. Jenny, I'm feeling nervous. Don't worry, your fear will wipe off as soon as we enter inside. When we arrived everyone was stunned to see us. Now, we started the dancing competition. Jenny, I don't remember what she taught us. Just try to improvise. Okay, I will try. Left foot up, right foot down. Slide to left, slide to the right. Spin and curtsie. Nice Betty. Looking good. Now it's time for the fashion contest. Betty, you are among the list of those nominated for the fashion contest. I never felt l could feel this nervous. I guess I will have to improvise, Betty thought to herself. Okay, I'll do the sassy work and then spin around and curtsie. And the winner is Betty. She has won the star of the year award. Betty, I'm so happy for you. I wouldn't have gotten here without you Jenny. Come on let's have some fun.


The mask swam elephantine and bug-eyed in the dark glass. After several years of passing the auto shop, whose empty windows were the only ones between the drilling fields and the motel left unboarded, Tommy still struggled to recognize the reflection as his own. He stopped absently to observe himself.

It was dawn. The sun pink as a freshly peeled blister behind its film of dust cast downtown into streaks of gray shadow and warbled rose. It accentuated the muffled slurp of the mask, the clouds of dirt rising from the shuffle of what feet were left in the city, the earth splintered by the heat and the long drought. The narrow and grimy windows set into once-white brick warped his image: his back bulged to an unnatural size while the plastic tubing of the mask stretched like the searching proboscis of a butterfly. His entire silhouette glowed with an aura. Down the broken sidewalks behind him drifted a procession of those who were like himself anonymous and headed in early morning stupor back to their living quarters. It was unsafe to loiter on the streets. But Tommy’s exhaustion and the strange fascination of the glass held him there.

Just before he tore himself away, the light snagged on something glittering like ice in the street behind his distorted reflection. Tommy stiffened and turned slowly. There were only a few others returning from the fields with ration bags in hand. All masked, all unable to care about his actions.

He tried to act as though he’d simply decided on a whim to cross the street — Tommy had nearly lost the faculty of spontaneity and could not remember how it was performed, or how to seem nonchalant now he no longer had a face — and landed by design some twenty feet up from the Object. Of uncertain color but certainly a species of bottle, it contrasted sharply with the gray silt in which it was partially buried. Tommy’s heart began to beat faster. He tried to slow down without the appearance of slowing. His sweaty palms chafed against the plastic bags wrapped tightly round both hands. As he drew level with the object, he feigned a stumble and dropped the bag from his right hand. Two bottles of water, a can of chickpeas, a box of replacement air filters and a small tube of toothpaste spilled and rolled in every direction. He bent and began collecting the items, staring directly down, keeping the Object just out of sight, burning a hole through the top of his head. Finally he risked a glance toward it. It was what he’d hoped. With a violent surge of adrenaline he scooped it up and dropped it in with the toothpaste. His fingers were shaking. ********** Tommy shut the door to Unit 108 and tested the lock several times before releasing the elastic strap and let the mask fall, dangling haphazardly from the bag tied round his rib cage. The scream of the filtration unit fitted into the window used to keep Tommy awake, but it didn’t bother him anymore. Just like the swollen, burning, angry throat and the ache in the southern tips of his lungs didn’t bother him like they did at first. The masks helped a little outdoors, navigating the perpetual dust of the air, and the filter screeched day and night, but sometimes he woke up sick to his intestines like he’d smoked a whole pack of cigarettes the night before. And now despite the obvious absurdity he worried the Object had disappeared, that like a fiery brand it might have melted through the plastic bag, rolled away and been lost forever. A quick paw-through reassured him: Baclofen Injection USP . 20,000 mcg per 20 mL . It was a miracle. He looked up. Pilar was standing in the middle of their dining table, sweeping the ceiling.

A flicker of annoyance distracted Tommy momentarily. His wife’s bony, angular face was pulled into an expression of serious rumination, jaw clenched to reveal hard lines of bluish vein. She tried unsuccessfully to shake the dark hairs escaping from her headscarf out of her eyes. “Ay, Pili, give it a rest already,” he groaned. “It’s too much. You don’t have to do so much.” But she just shook her head harder and scrunched her mouth into the maddeningly stubborn expression he’d grown to understand was impossible to contradict. “What’s the point of staying alive just to live like pigs?” she replied. She’d made it her daily and Sisyphean task to purge the apartment of dust: dust that made it under the door, through the boarded windows or the infinitesimal cracks of walls, settling daintily on surfaces before the filter could catch them.

Tommy threw up his hands in disgust. “Okay, Pili, whatever you want. I guess you like this kind of thing, I don’t know.” He’d just let her break her back sweeping the broom into the oddest corners, wear out the rags she insisted on dampening with their precious water supply, sift through the flour jar with the fixation of a prospector. He sat on one of the folding chairs and picked up one of the tortillas she’d set out for them. As always he expelled a cloud of dust on the way down and grit his teeth against silt mixed in with the flour. All that for nothing, Pili , he thought with savage satisfaction, glaring at her feet still on the table and the dust raining on his head. He came home after spending the cool of the night drilling wells in the desperate search for water and this was what he could expect? With a lurch of guilt he remembered at last the drug. “Hey, listen, Pili,” he started, still chewing. He felt his voice shift low and rapid. “I found some today. I don’t know where it came from but it’s labeled and sealed and everything. Gabriel —” Pilar shot him a warning look and pressed a thin finger to her lips. Tommy glanced at the sofa bed. Their son lay still and silent among his pillows. For the first time that morning Tommy became aware of the scratchy music rising softly from Pilar’s disc player above the filter. One of her old movie soundtracks — the only music that could ever lull Gabriel into calm. “ I’m laughing at clouds so dark up above, the sun’s in my heart and I’m ready for love, let the stormy clouds chase everyone from the place, come on with the rain, I’ve a smile on my face …” Gene Kelly’s old-school croon seemed to Tommy like communication from not only a bygone era but a different planet — when had been the last time he’d heard laughter or seen clouds, let alone storms or rain? When (and again the lurch of guilt made itself felt) the last time he’d been “ready for love”? “He’s been listening on repeat all night,” Pilar whispered. “It’s his favorite.” Tommy stood and looked down at Gabriel. He was awake — his bulbous gray eyes blinked slowly in his gray enlarged skull, features common to all children born within the past decade of asthma. The skin of his face resembled paper pulled taut over his skeleton, positioned above a small and emaciated body. Born too soon — too small — too silent — spasming almost since his first hour. Like an alien ; Tommy remembered that had been his initial thought. But almost simultaneously he’d felt a constriction of the chest and a rush of nerves that he knew without rational decision had doomed him to devoted service for all eternity. This physical sensation had slowly replaced the careful reasoning and passionate emotion Tommy used to identify with love; sometimes he wondered if it weren’t a cheap substitution, but other times it seemed much stronger and better. Whichever was the case, he felt it now and felt it bad. “Look in the bags, Pili,” he murmured without looking away. He heard her jump to the floor with a grunt and the rustle of the plastic as she hunted through the rations. “Two waters, that’s good,” she muttered, “no flour, what are we gonna —” Pilar interrupted her own chatter with a sharp inhale. Tommy broke his concentration to meet her startled, almost frightened gaze. Between her fingers she turned the bottle of clear fluid. “Baclofen? But there hasn’t been — no one can get it — Lula told me that — not anywhere for months — but what if it’s not safe?”

“Hey, I don’t know, okay? There’s nothing else we can give him for seizures. I don’t want to watch him in pain if I don’t have to. It’s still sealed and everything, what do you want me to do, get rid of it?” “By injection though — I just don’t think —” Tommy grabbed her by the shoulders. “Think what? We don’t have time to think, Pili. If you stop to think you die. You choke to death or seize to death or starve or dry up like a dead lizard. We’re alone, do you understand that? All alone. Nobody else is gonna help us.” Suddenly he realized there were tears leaking from the corners of his wife’s eyes. Her shoulders heaved with suppressed sobs. He dropped his hands and took a step back. Bang bang bang . The room rattled. Dust overlooked in Pilar’s sweep or else accumulated since she’d set down the broom floated off of surfaces and tinged the room sepia. Gabriel began to cry. “Tomás Correa, open up.” “ Pachecos ,” he hissed. Pilar squeaked and thrust the drug into the front pocket of her soiled apron. The powerful knocking continued. The door shook on its hinges. Tommy lunged at the door, undid the locks, and yanked it open breathlessly. Oscar Fucho strode into the room. A tall, muscular man with pockmarked face and grizzled buzz cut, it was easy to see why the guerillas had been drawn to him as moths to a flame. Tommy himself only dimly remembered that they had been close friends once. Another planet. Like “Singin’ in the Rain.” “ What a glorious feelin’, I’m happy again … ” For a while neither of them spoke. Tommy looked Oscar up and down from the crown of his head to his combat boots. Past his shoulder Tommy saw two thugs standing in menacing quiet, rifles held crosswise over their chests, fingers over the trigger held still with the stillness of charmed snakes. Their repurposed patrol cars sat in the lot, “OKLAHOMA CITY POLICE” still legible across the Crown Victorias’ battered and graffitied exteriors. Oscar looked at Tommy and seemed to sneer at, or perhaps pity, Tommy’s tattered and colorless denim. Pilar was quaking, glancing between the two of them with a hand over her mouth. Gabriel’s weak cry subsided to a whimper. At last Oscar broke the silence. “You been mistreating her, huh?” he asked, indicating Pilar’s face streaked with tears. “N—” Tommy started, but Pilar yelped “ No! ” with such force that even Oscar seemed taken aback. God bless it, woman , Tommy thought, you’ll give us away . “Well, keep it that way, huh, Tommy?” Oscar stepped over to the table and sat down in Tommy’s chair. With unease Tommy watched him begin to poke through the bags as though listlessly. “Hey, what do you want, Oscar?” Heat rose in Tommy’s throat. “I’ll do whatever it is. Just get out of here and leave my wife and son alone.” Oscar left the table and joined Tommy, overlooking the couch. “How’s he doing, man,” he said. Tommy scowled. “Fine. He’s fine.” With courage he felt inspired to add, “His seizures have been real bad since the shortages. He got withdrawals.” “Everyone’s got palsy and no one’s got meds,” Oscar said meditatively, nodding, as if the two of them were still friends. As if cerebral palsy were a minor inconvenience like a hangover or bad weather. “ Come on with the rain, I’ve a smile on my face …” “Well, Tommy,” Oscar sighed, folding his hands behind his back. “Some of the guys told me you pick up something outside the old mechanic’s.” Tommy’s heart turned sick and cold. So the p achecos — the guerillas had proudly adopted the once derisive epithet — were watching, had seen him the whole time — you could never be cautious enough. “You didn’t report it to us? Why, Tommy? Come on. What’d you find.”

Oscar spoke quietly, almost soothingly. Tommy saw him for a moment as the best man at his long ago wedding. Then it was like his mind’s eye refocused and he saw him as a terrorist, the harbinger of torture and privation. He felt a sharp sting in his throat and began to cough. “You don’t have to talk. Just hand it to me.” Tommy’s mind raced. Maybe it was better just to hand it over. The Baclofen was the only way to soothe Gabriel, but amateur injections were dangerous. Maybe they couldn’t use it at all. And how long would it really last? Just a little more time, and all of it filled with pain and the sleepy dusty darkness and the solitude, the constant scream of the filters and the hazy sun always bloody pink and threatening. The curtains, always drawn. Not for the first time did Tommy wonder for an instant whether Gabriel were better off dead.

With a sudden motion Pilar flung something small and clear up from her apron pocket at Oscar’s face. Tommy lunged involuntarily, eyes bulging, to snatch it from the air, then checked himself and pulled back in surprise. “If you want it you can have it,” Pilar spat, the bitterness in her voice authentic. But it was a half-filled water bottle, not the Baclofen. Oscar caught it and turned it over in hands blackened by sun and grime. He raised an eyebrow and looked Pilar full in the face. She was ashen pale with rage and fear. Her lips quivered. Oscar turned to Tommy coolly. Their eyes met in full knowledge. He’ll kill us or something , Tommy thought in terror, don’t hurt them you can’t I will kill you first I swear to God I — “Thank you, Pilar.” Oscar did not break eye contact with Tommy. “Okay Tommy. Next time you turn it in as soon as you got it, got it?” Tommy blinked and opened his mouth stupidly. Oscar grimaced — with sympathy? embarrassment? the closest approximation to a smile he had left? — and tossed the water lightly back to Pilar. He signaled to his thugs, who grumbled and lumbered back to the patrol car.

“Hey man,” Oscar said so quietly his lips barely parted. “You be good to them, alright? Stay low, huh? I don’t wanna see you again.” Something very light rushed to the top of Tommy’s head. He thought he might pass out. Instead he laughed, high and hysterical. He laughed until he couldn’t see anymore. “Yeah,” he managed to choke out. “Yeah …” Oscar jerked his head upward in a familiar nod. He slammed the door behind him and went back to his pachecos . Tommy watched him through the peephole, warped and microscopic, swing into the back seat. He heard the tires screech on the way out of the lot. Instinctively Pilar went to him. They looked at each other. Then they looked at Gabriel.

“He’s okay,” she whispered. Tommy kissed her gently. She kissed him back. He moved to hold her from behind, burying his face into the gap between her jawline and collarbone and breathing her in. As if his embrace were enough to protect them — as if it meant anything more, or less, than her neurotic tidying. “Tommy? You're wrong. We’re not alone.” Tommy looked at their son and considered. It was true. It was true even though they were only three organic specks on a long-dead rock spinning with the reckless speed of despair. Three bodies hiding flickering warmth in the frozen expanses of empty space, dying yet still alive. The whole of the living universe resided within them — man, woman, and the life they’d managed against all odds, almost out of spite, to squeeze with fear and trembling from an unforgiving and hostile earth, alone together and never alone. “ I’m dancin’ and singin’ in the rain ... ”


It’s gone. Where the heck is it? He’s going to kill me. It’s gone. He’s gonna kill me. I woke up at 6:30 this morning and turned off my alarm. It was there then. Then I went to the bathroom, wiped myself, but I checked before I flushed, and it was there. Then, I went downstairs in my Mickey Mouse PJs (my nieces and nephews love these), took out the pots, sprayed them with butter, and cooked. The ring was there then. I poured coffee, took out the bacon, pancakes, and syrup, and ate. If it fell on the plate or in the sink, it would have gone clank, but there was no clank. I put my plate down for Izzy (our Golden Retriever, put the ring was there after that, and then I refilled his food bowl and water bowl. He, Izzy, licked up the syrup and I picked up the plate, put it in the dishwasher, and went upstairs.

Then, I already bought a special container for my night stand for my ring, so I put it in there. I went for my shower, dried myself off, put on the ring, pet Izzy, Izzy kissed me and I kissed Izzy and I drove myself to work and it was gone. Maybe when I shift gears it fell into the area between the shift and the seat, but I put the flashlight on my phone on both sides of the gear shift and it was nowhere to be found. Where is it? He’s gonna kill me.

We had the air-conditioning on in the house, so all the windows were shut, so it couldn’t’ve been stolen and if I dropped it, I would have heard the clunk. It doesn’t make sense. My fiancé’s on vacation in the Alps with his parents. They wanted me to come, but work wouldn’t let me off. I’m a real-estate agent. At least I know I lost it before I left for work or I would’ve had driveways and houses galore to go through. So, I meet my clients for coffee at Starbucks and we talk about how much they want to spend on their house, the type of neighborhood they want to live in, and they’re looking to start a family soon and their biggest concern is the quality of the schools, the size of the house, and the property tax. I look at the woman’s finger and she has on a two-karat, similar to mine, but not mine. Then, we start touring. I show them four houses. Then, I go home to walk Izzy.

Izzy’s usually asleep on his dog bed when I get home, but he’s not this time. For some reason, when I get home this time, his stomach is pulsing, so I get him outside, so he’ll puke out there and not on the carpet. He tries to puke, but nothing comes out. He tinkles but when he tries to go BM, he’s constipated: weird. I take him back in though and give him his Meaty and he’s happy again. Also, there’s an old wives tale that says if I give a dog yam, it’ll make‘em regular, so I give him some leftover yam.

I’m about to drive to work and he calls.

“Hi, Honey, how are you?” I kind’a want to tell him and kind’a don’t want to tell him. “Good. Wazzup?” “The weathers a little rough up here, so I’ll have to stay a few more days.” Thank God. I hope I find his ring by then. “That’s ok. I miss you, Baby.” “I miss you, too.” I think about it, though. “Honey, there’s something I gotta tell you,” I say. “Yea? What? What’s wrong? ” ”I lost your ring.” There’s a pregnant pause. “You what?” “I . . .” “Go back to every place you’ve been. Everywhere. Call up the city of Denver if you have to, to see if you flushed it down the drain,” he yelled. “I will. I’m sorry, Barry. I’ll find it. I promise.” “Call me when you do.” Then we said our goodbyes without ‘I love yous’ and hung up. I went back through my morning in my head while heading back to work and had a soft cry. I met the clients back at the coffee shop and they asked if I was ok and I told them; “Yes, I’m fine” and we toured more houses. The clients got out their iPhones and took pictures of the houses, but I made a lot of mistakes. I confused the prices of the houses, forgot where the keys for the houses were, and almost fell down the stairs in one of the houses. The clients smiled, though, and didn’t get angry. He might break up with me. It looked like a $10,000.00 ring. The time flied the way it does when I’m nervous. I asked the clients if they had any specific questions about the houses and they said they didn’t and asked to look at more houses the next day. I drive home and my body is shaking like someone with Parkinson’s Disease. I go home and see Izzy and I give him a hug and cry loud and hard. My whole future: Me living in his house, us getting married and us having babies, the car which he lent me money for, gone, because of my mistake. Darn it. But, after five minutes, I prepare the Mise en place for dinner and get Izzy’s leash and a poop bag. Maybe this time, with the yam, he’ll go. Before I open the door, I see my reflection: my face is red from crying and there are bags under my eyes. Little ones, but I still see them. Then, we exit and I close the door behind us.

    He pees in his usual spot (the oak tree on the corner) and he smells the plain in our backyard and he finds his perfect spot to poop. I pick it up, as usual, and go back inside. Izzy’s happy and I give him a treat. I then go to the side of the house where the garbage can is, to throw the poop out, but I feel hard things in his poop.  So, I open up the poop, separate the poop, and I see an ordinary rock. Darn it. But, as I dig deeper into the poop, I see a small sparkle, and it’s there. The ring’s there. A sigh of relief comes out of me and I take the poop and the pop bag inside. I put the stop in the sink, fill it with soap and water, and clean the ring off. I’m ready to call my fiancé.


My grandmother was 16 years old in the fall of 1918 and was going to school and was nanny to 3 children. She lived outside of Chicago at the time. The man of the house (I don't know his real name so I will call him Carl) worked in Chicago. One of the 3 children was a baby who was under a year old (think the child might have been between 2-6 months old). The child became seriously ill and died in my grandmother's arms. The cause of death was later determined to be the swine flu. A couple of days later Carl became ill (several of his co-workers also got ill) and a doctor came to the house and confirmed that he also had the swine flu. The doctor told my grandmother she probably would come down the flu due to her contact with Carl. She ended up taking care of him because his wife and the maid refused to go near him as they were afraid of getting sick. The wife, maid and the other 2 children stayed downstairs and quarantined themselves the best they could. The doctor wished both of them luck and left. My grandmother told me that the swine flu could be described as the worst flu you could get. She started coughing and felt like someone was trying to slowly choke her from time to time. She felt like this flu was trying to suck the life out of her. The virus showed no mercy. If this flu didn't get a foot hold into your lungs or settle in your lungs, you generally survived it if you were healthy, although sometimes a healthy person would die. In my grandmother's case, she had a cough for about 24 hours with difficulty in breathing. I'm not a doctor but it didn't settle in the lungs as my grandmother said it felt like her lungs were fighting the virus off for about 24 hours. Then by 48 hours, it felt like her lungs had won the battle but she was very tired. Within 72 hours, my grandmother felt fine. She was fully recovered in a 4 days. Once Carl saw that my grandmother got sick, he asked her what would happen if he died? What would happen to his wife, children? He said this over and over again. At this point he had a high fever was coughing and had difficulty breathing. Probably similar to what my grandmother felt, except his was a lot worse and lasted about 4 days. Never got any worse which was probably why he survived. My grandmother at one point had to leave the room for a while before she starting crying thinking about what he had said. He also was having a hard time breathing. At one point my grandmother wondered if he was going to survive because the flu was so bad. My grandmother prayed that she as well as Carl would recover and that this terrible flu virus would end. The next day my grandmother felt better. She was only sick for about 3 days and recovered very quickly. Carl took about 10 days to fully recover. My grandmother and Carl recovered and never suffered any permanent injuries from the illness. The doctor told my grandmother her case was mild and Carl's was a moderate case of the flu. From what my grandmother told me, I would hate to see what a severe case of the flu was. The wife, the maid and the two children never got the flu or got sick from it. I believe the reason why my grandmother and Carl didn't suffer more serious complications from the flu was because they were quarantined in the same house. They weren't exposed to others outside the home once the quarantine was imposed for 2 weeks. Again, I'm no doctor but I believe that this made a difference between Carl living and Carl dying. Everyone in the house had been exposed and they were also quarantined in the downstairs area of the house. They weren't in a field hospital where many sick people were and a doctor came every couple of days to check up on them, whereas in a field hospital, you wouldn't get this type of personalized care. This I believe at least in the case of Carl made a difference between life and death. It probably did with his neighbors as well. Also if Carl had died, the financial situation of the family would be in distress. Because they were upper income, they had a safety net to a certain degree. They wouldn't have ended up on the street as they had family who could help them. Those who were poor or just getting by didn't have any safety net and even if their family wanted to help them, it would be difficult if they were also in the same situation. My grandmother having grown up poor was more exposed to living conditions that today would be considered to be unacceptable. She had a strong immune system and I don't remember her ever getting the flu or a cold. She said after she got the swine flu, she never had another respiratory infection or illness again. I don't know if was everyone's experience but I imagine those who survived this had very strong immune system. Even when she was dying of cancer decades later (1984) in a nursing home , she never got a cold, flu or pneumonia which was common when someone is dying. She probably would have survived if she was in a field hospital. However, she lucked out being where she was when the flu hit. The family that my grandmother lived in were upper income (upper middle class) and most of the people in the neighborhood who got sick survived. My grandmother also had access to fresh air which also could have made a difference as fresh air was seen as being good if you were sick. Now we are facing a pandemic which is very serious. The description of the cornavirus 19 sounds similar. Please be careful out there.


“ Let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone ” That was the quote that Phillip had found several times in sundry websites while making his new investigation, it seemed to be the motto of some sort of club. He became obsessed with finding out who were the members of that group and how to stop them. Phillip was a hacker who specialized in discovering the dirty laundry of important people to blackmail them with that information. He knew that it was not the line of work his mother would want him to follow, but he found it morally okay so far. For him, threatening to reveal people’s secrets was, in fact, a good deed. It could go one of two ways: or the person got afraid and stop doing whatever he was doing, or Phillip had actual proof of awfully bad things to tell the police. His friend, Detective Molina, was always happy to receive this kind of information and look into it. Nevertheless, saying they were friends is a little exaggerated; Phillip considered him his friend, but they had never met in person; Phillip slid the envelopes under his door and detective Molina answered on an advertisement webpage with a secret language only they had knowledge of. This has been happening for four years. Each one of these messages from Detective Molina ended with “Let’s meet”.  Phillip felt that he could trust his friend, however, he preferred not to risk revealing his identity, in the end, it was the only thing that could protect him.

It was not the first time that he had found some compromising information about someone who eventually ended up in jail after the detective conducted an investigation based on what Phillip had given him. Their partnership had paid off, some bad people were sent to jail because of their felonies, and some not so bad people disbursed their money to keep Phillip quiet. Nonetheless, this routine was about to change due to the last things, Phillip came across to.

Following a very well-known businessman who allegedly was having an affair with his secretary, Phillip was able to find disturbing content this man shared online with colleagues. It involved a series of pictures, videos, conversations, of horrible, unimaginable things, that even Phillip, who thought he had seen it all, had been left completely perplexed. He knew he was going through a dark passage and that he probably should just drop it, but he also knew this was something big, and that perhaps, and luckily, he could take down a high-profile organization.

“ Seek and you shall find ” Four months had passed, and Phillip was still gathering information. He had discovered the identity of other three of the members of that group and had constructed a concept map to illustrate all the associations of this group with disappearances and the dates they occurred. Lately, he happened to disclose that these men used to attend meetings to discuss or do God knows what. The secret meetings took place every four weeks, and Phillip had just found out where. He had planted a tracking device in the businessman’s car, it led to an abandoned building outside the city. If his suspicions were precise, this elite was committing horrible crimes, and he needed physical evidence to send to Detective Molina. At this point, Phillip was not sure what he wanted to accomplish, he only felt that it was his duty to do something. The date came and Phillip went to the building some hours prior to the meeting, to sneak around the guards and get into. He had been already there a few days back and noticed they were not any security cameras outside, there were only two security guards at the front door. A message could be read on top of the door: “ Let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone ”. With gloves and balaclava on, he got into the building jumping through a window and hid, he would have to wait several hours for the guests to arrive.

Men started to arrive at midnight, and they all directed to an auditorium on the underground floor. Phillip approached a small superior window and started to record. After a while, he was knocked by a huge hit in the head. He felt back, unconscious. … “Phillip, welcome to our meeting” said who seemed to be the leader. Phillip realized he was on a chair in the middle of the room. Around twenty men were surrounding him.

“Who are you?” said Phillip still dizzy. “Don’t you know already?” Phillip looked around, recognizing the four men he had been investigating lately. “No.” he replied. “Well, we know who you are and what you’ve been doing. As a matter of fact, we knew you were coming tonight, and we let you in” “Before you kill me, there is something you should know” said Phillip trembling. “Kill you?” said the man smiling. “Someone has been watching too many movies”. The laughter sounded like an echoed chorus intoned by everyone present in the room. Then he continued: “We don’t kill people, we straighten them, reform them if you will” “Ha, really?” said Phillip. “Why do they disappear, then?” “Phillip, Phillip, how could you think that? We are men of good, religious, we would not commit murder, ever! They disappear because they are given a new life, so they could be reborn, out of sin” “What does it mean? What are going to do to me?” “I know you consider yourself a good person, but what you do is nothing to be proud of. Do not judge, or you will be judged ” “Could you stop quoting the Bible? I am not proud of what I do, but at least I don’t disappear people!” he made a pause and then continued. “You better not hurt me, all the information I got from you is been already sent to someone, if something happens to me, you’re going down” “Perhaps we should take a visit to Detective Molina, shouldn’t we?” Answered the man. Phillip felt helpless. He feared for his life and his friend’s. The man got closer to Phillip and then uttered: “We do not judge people or their actions, since we are aware of the devil’s presence in their minds. We only help them cure through… procedures. Do you see? There are parts of our brains or our bodies that make us sin, so we remove them” “Please!” said Phillip crying. “I’m sorry” … Phillip woke up in an apartment he did not recognize.


Ali paces back and forth, tapping small black heals against a solid wood floor, second-guessing this decision. Meanwhile, her hands are doing this bizarre thing where they're freezing cold but sweating all at once. "Hi, Ali. Come on in," a silky voice breathes into the room. Ali's shoulder begins to relax, but her skepticism doesn't abate. The woman standing in front of her is a Cognitive Behavioral Therapist, recommended by a friend to tame her unrelenting jealousy of everyone around her. So, for her 30 th birthday, this is what Ali bought herself. A therapist. How 2022 of her. "Tell me a little bit about yourself, Ali," Dr. Aideen begins. "Tell me why you're here." "Well," Ali twiddles her fingers, glancing around the room. "I don't know, really. I feel stuck, and I don't want to feel stuck anymore." "Okay, let's start with that. Why do you feel stuck?" "Because no matter how much I give, I feel like I'm not getting anything back, I guess." "And why do you think that is?" Dr. Aideen's eyes meet Ali's, making her shift in her seat. "I don't know?" Ali says in a question. "It has always been like that, really." "Why don't you give me an example," she suggests, and although every pulse in her body is urging her to walk away, her feet stayed glued to the marbled rug tied down by the chair beneath her. "How far back?" Ali asks. "However far back you're comfortable with." "So, recent?" Ali asks nervously. Dr. Aideen nods slowly, unwilling to make the decision for her. Yeah, this wasn't going to be easy. And the word vomit that followed just confirmed that for Ali. "Well, let's talk about why after nearly a decade of good grades and academic achievements, a college degree, and a successful start to my career — I get it a 'good job, Ali,' and my sister starts college, and she's getting praised left and right. Tell me why when I worked my ass off for career success — as the first one to go to college and graduate in my family, mind you — it's my little sister that is bragged about to friends and family. My parents constantly talk about how smart she is, how much potential she has, and how freakin' great she is. What about me? Why am I not great? Why am I not praiseworthy?" Ali lets out an angry sigh. "I did it first, for God's sake. And what did I get? I got a generic, 'I knew you could always do it. Now, move along." Her heartbeat moves from her chest to her head, her fingers, her dang toes. She can feel the heat of her thoughts burning on her skin. And before anyone can think, oh how cute . It isn't. All she can think is it's not the pretty blush that paints the lady's cheeks in a perfectly drawn portrait. It's blotches of red trailing from the tip of her forehead to the bubble of her breasts being held in place by a black tank top. Breathe through your nose for three seconds. Hold it. Exhale for another three to four seconds. Repeat. Ali slowly opens her eyes to Dr. Aideen scribbling notes, doing that head nod thing she has seemingly perfected. She gives Ali another minute to collect herself before breaking the silence in the room. "Did you ever consider that maybe you're putting too much stock into how others perceive you?" "Absolutely," Ali answers honestly. "I know that's what fuels it. Everything I do is for someone's approval. And I know that's part of the problem. I just don't know how to change it." "Let's start with this," she pulls out a pen and paper and hands them over. "For the next 10 minutes, I want you to write nothing but positive things about yourself." Ali's eyebrow raises combatively, but she does what she's told. And when the timer is up, she's given homework. "Now, I want you to take this home with you, read this, and then look at the situation again. Separate yourself from it, and jot down ways to approach it from a better perspective." "You want me to journal about my feelings?" "I do." Ali refrains from rolling her eyes and decides on a smile instead. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Aideen. I will." "You can call me Jessica." *** Ali sits opposite Jessica, tapping her toes and holding onto the small book in her hand for dear life. She has gone back and forth about attending another appointment. It feels pointless, weird, and downright silly. Hell, even the stuff she's talking about seems so childish. She's a grown adult. She needs to act like one. "How did it go?" Ali shrugs. "How do you feel?" "I don't know. Like, maybe I'm overreacting?" An urge to leave is getting stronger inside her, and Ali finds herself twirling fabric in between her fingers to stand her ground and stay. Knowingly, Jessica says, "It's okay to be uncomfortable. In fact, you should be. This — let's call it the Green-Eyed Monster — has made you too comfortable with these thoughts and feelings about yourself and the people around you. Taking down this monster won't be easy. Do you think that's something you're ready to do?" "I'm here, aren't I?" "You are. But are you ready?" Ali looks at Jessica for a minute, initially annoyed by the question but simultaneously done with being annoyed. Fuck it. She's all in. "I'm ready." *** "Why don't we explore another incident?" Jessica asks. After a moment's hesitation, Ali jumps right in. "How about work," Ali starts. "I have been working on my art for decades, honing every detail, rolling with every creative spark that comes my way. Sure, I've got acknowledgments here and there. BUT... today," Ali's hands fly to the air. "A coworker comes to me, and some piece she drew for fun is getting noticed by some very important people. Even better, she doesn't even care ! I've hoped for this moment since I could hold a crayon between my fingers. I've prayed for just one important person to see a piece I've spent hours and hours of my life on. To notice my work. And she gets it without even trying? It's bullshit!" "I see. Now take a step back for a minute and consider why you feel this way," Jessica suggests. "I know why I do. I feel this way because it isn't fair. I want it and don't get it. She doesn't care, and she gets it." "Would you like to hear what I think?" Ali lets out a deep breath and nods. "It sounds to me like you may have let your jealousy cloud the situation here, Ali. Sometimes we perceive certain situations differently when we fixate on a feeling, especially one like jealousy. While you assumed she didn't earn it, it doesn't sound like you know that to be the case. Even so, her worth does not negate your own. Her getting that recognition you crave from your art does not equate to you being unworthy. It also does not equate to you being worthy. Do you see what I'm saying here?" "Uh, kind of?" "Look at it from a different angle and put yourself outside of the incident for me. What is the bigger picture here?" In response to the silence, Jessica pulls harder. "Why are you so mad at her ?" "Because I want what she has!" "And how can you get it?" "By working hard and putting myself out there," the words started flowing out of her like they weren't even her own, surprising her with how true they felt. "I need to stop prioritizing a career I only have to prove I am something to other people and start chasing my damn dreams." Jessica smiles approvingly, and Ali can't help to smile back. A small giggle even escapes her lips. "Damn doc, okay." *** "Have you continued your journaling?" "I have," Ali responds. "You're smiling today," Jessica points out. "Something feels different. I don't know." "Can you tell me what feels different?" Jessica asks, doing what she does best and tugging at those strings for something more profound. Ali lets out a deep breath. "I suppose that's why I'm here, eh?" "I saw an old friend today. She's got a beautiful family. Tyler and I always wanted that," Ali says softly. "We keep going back and forth between trying and 'seeing what happens," she air quotes. Thinking about the moment, Ali falters with silence. Jessica moves her along, keeping the momentum up. "And how did that go?" "Well, of course, the green-eyed monster perked its little head up. It wanted me to storm away and call her insensitive to my inability to have a child yet. How dare she be so happy with multiple? It wanted me to cry myself asleep, thinking about that curly-haired bundle. How dare her talk about how hard it is when I'd trade everything for it." Jessica's pleasant features falter for just a second, but she expertly pulls them back together. "And how did you handle those feelings?" "I acknowledged the source of the jealousy and let it go. It's not her fault that it hasn't happened for me yet. I know that. Instead, I practiced gratitude like you suggested," Ali shoots some goofy finger guns over to Jessica in appreciation. "I went to the restroom, reminded myself of all the wonderful things in my life to be grateful for, and believe it or not, I had such a great time talking to her." "I've hardly killed the monster, but I feel better about how I handled it," she added. *** "Today was your last session. How do you feel about that?" Ali let out a half-hearted laugh. "I feel like there's still a lot of work to be done." Jessica nodded. "Ali, we all have to work on ourselves. Constantly, in fact. The key here isn't to kill the monster. The key is to change how you respond when faced with those ugly Green-Eyes. Don't let it affect your happiness and relationships. Other people are doing great things around you. So are you. One does not determine the value of the other. Remember that." Ali nodded appreciatively. "One monster down," Ali said. "Many more to go."


. Silence invades the ancient forest, who is fresh in transition into winter. Fallen leaves have been crushed into the ground and snow begins to dot the landscape. The cold begins to bite at the flesh of the beasts that inhabit the elder ground. A herd of elk lie in a clearing, gifted with the bliss of ignorance, the reward of naivete. They graze upon what little grass is left with glee, oblivious to the danger that hides within the forest walls. A pack of wolves hide within the barren trees and evergreens, stalking the great herd. Unlike the fat bellies of the elk, the stomachs of the wolves remain empty and ready to feast. Unnoticed they step towards the elk, who are blinded with a false sense of security. *Step*. *Step*. *Step*. For days the pack has been hunting with no reward for their efforts. They starve, yet they push on with a thin hope of catching some food. Now, lo and behold, a plentiful bounty of meat awaits them. The wolves are desperate with their stomachs mimicking their growls, and their tongues wet with flavorful spit. But these wolves are nothing if not patient. They know their plan; they’ve done it a thousand times through the memory that lies within their blood. They creep on. *Step*. *Step*. *Step*. The aroma of the elk grows strong, invading the senses of the malnourished wolves. One of the younger, excited ones carelessly steps upon a patch of dry leaves. A loud crunch is heard around the clearing, and is echoed by the forest’s strange voice. The once carefree elk shoot their heads into the sky looking frantically in all directions. The pack sinks further back into the woods just in time. Their prey sees nothing, and go back to grazing more alert than before. The Alpha male looks over at one of his young sons with anger, but now is not the time for punishment so they creep on. *Step. Step. Step.* Once they have regained their position, they scan the entirety of the herd for potential targets. The wolves spot one who is elderly and moves slower than the others. Oh, but there is not enough meat on him to feed them all. Then they spot a group of calves big enough to feed the lot of them. Oh, but they are all protected by the whole herd, it will not be possible to take on the entire herd for one meal. Continuing to scan across the lot, they spot one great, big, mountain of a bull with antlers like branches of a mighty oak. The scars on his face say that he is experienced and ready for combat. Would it be worth it to take down this beast? Well fortune favors the bold, but so does death. They decide on their target, and continue on. *Step. Step. Step.* When they arrive at their vantage point, they stand still, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Their heart beats pound in their bodies, and anxiety is at a high. If they fail here, the fate of the pack is sealed. They wait for the herd to calm down, and when that same obliviousness from before is reached, the pack with power of lightning and twice the swiftness charge at the herd, barking and chomping their teeth. In a panic, the elk burst out with the wolves giving chase. That big bull is in the back running at full speed. Three wolves go between him and his herd, while the rest of the pack follow the bull at his heels. The herd separates themselves from the bull, and once he realizes what the wolves have done, he plants his hooves into the ground and swings his head with the might of an avalanche. *Woosh*. He barely misses the pack with his antlers. The bull stares at them to see whose will will break first, for this was not the first time he had met a pack like this, and would make sure that it would not be the last. However, he greatly underestimated the hunger that pilots these wolves minds. One of them tries to go behind the bull in some vain attempt at glory, and when he makes his move the bull predicts it and swings his head at the adolescent glory seeker. *Boom*. The antlers collide with young wolf, and goes flying behind the elk, unable to get up. He whimpers in pain, but the pack cannot give up their position, they can’t afford to quit even if it is for one of their own. Confidence fills the bulls head as he swings it around to assert to the wolves who is in charge here, when suddenly a sharp pain enters the back leg of the elk; he had forgotten about the other three wolves. As soon as the jaws around his leg let go, he gives a swift kick, only grazing a few hairs off the wolf, and runs off with the pack close behind. The bull is in panic having completely lost his herd, but he runs with a thin hope that he will escape. The pack is close behind, gnashing at his haunches. Pain seizes his mind, but all he can do is run. He grows weak with every stride, he begins to slow down, is there any hope here? He collapses to the ground, and looks to the sky with desperate eyes for something, anything to save him. Before the mighty bull can admit defeat, the alpha closes his jaws around the bull’s throat. He is gone. The ravenous wolves begin to tear him apart, ripping his tender flesh with the satisfaction of finally having landed a kill. In fact, they are so enthralled by this that they forgot about their fallen brother who lies dead on the ground. And so, with full bellies they leave the carcass with nothing for the crows to feast on. Silence invades the ancient forest.


Time stood still. George stared at his wife’s lifeless body on the floor just inches away. Blood soaked into the beige carpet. Her cold gray eyes held confusion and fear. The pistol in his shaking hand was still hot. George wept. His revolver crept up slowly to his jaw. He weakly mouthed the words, “I’m sorry” as he pulled the trigger. \- Ugh, not meatloaf, again. I hate meatloaf. I really don’t get why Dad likes it so much. It’s just massive hunks of slimy peppers and smelly onions smashed together with hamburger and ketchup. Yuck! The worst part is the mushrooms. Who puts mushrooms in meatloaf, anyway? Those things shouldn’t even be considered food for that matter. They taste like dirt. Dirt mixed with vomit. I *hate* mushrooms. Wow, I must really be in a pissy mood. I don’t know why. Today started off good. Dad made blueberry banana pancakes. Mom let me put a ‘modest amount’ of makeup for school. Even bratty little Trevor didn’t bother me as much this morning. He was too preoccupied trying to convince Mom and Dad to buy him the latest toy he saw on television or something. Trevor may only be seventeen months, six days, and seventy minutes younger, but he can be so annoying and immature. Sometimes I just want to hold him by the ears and scream in his face, ‘Grow up!’. I should stop getting so worked up. I’m starting to sweat a bit. Why did they have to make meatloaf tonight? It never turns out good. Most of the time Mom burns it and tries to cover up the dark spots with more sauce. Dad usually makes a wise crack about liking the burnt parts even more than the other. I know he’s joking because, ya know, who likes burnt stuff? I guess it’s okay though. It makes Mom laugh and I’m sure she feels better about ruining dinner. I don’t really mind, either. I *really* just want this to be over. I have so much to do. Okay, that’s not entirely true, but I just don’t want to be *here*. Speaking of which, is it hot in here? Did Dad turn up the air again to try to save a couple of measly bucks while we all suffer? I can see the thermostat. 74 degrees. The air must be broken again. I wish Mom *or* Dad had better jobs so they could fix this junk. Maybe they could even buy me a bike. I’m, like, the only seventh grader without one. So lame. I can’t seem to shake this bad mood. Ever since that stupid squirrel, or whatever, bit me. God, it still hurts. I was just trying to be nice. That little thing looked lost. It was gonna get hit by a semi or eaten by a bird, I know it. It looked all sweet and wrinkly. I fed it some of my Pop Tart and everything. I just put it back where I thought its nest was. I should have at least gotten a thank you. But no, the little jerk had to go bite my finger. It doesn’t look bad, but the throbbing makes it hard to eat. I hope we can finish dinner quickly. I’m really not hungry anyway. No Mom, I don’t want to talk about my day. Nothing happened that I want *you* to know about. No, Dad, your stupid jokes aren’t funny. They never are. I just want to go to my room. God! My head is boiling! What is wrong with me!? I could scream! Why is everyone looking at me like that? No, Mom, get away from me. Don’t touch my hand, I’m fine! No, it’s just a small bite. Stop pulling my hand. I don’t need a stupid band-aid! I just want to... Leave me ALONE! ... Wait... What just happened? Ugh, my head really hurts. It is really hot in here. I feel sweat dripping down my forehead. It’s so gross. I’m so frustrated. Everything is so gross! It feels like my skin is on fire. Wait, what’s in my mouth? EW! A raw pepper! And Ew! When did those carrots get on my plate? Mom, I told you I don’t like carrots. I don’t care how much sauce you put on them. They are disgusting. Hmm, this pepper looks almost like a fingernail. Ha-ha. Mom was wearing that same color earlier. Hey mom, look at this. Wow, mom, you really look like you’re getting sick. Is that ketchup all over your hand? Mom! MOM! Why can’t she hear me?! It’s so frustrating! I’m, like, almost right in her face! Mom? You really don’t look good! Why are you so scared? What’s wrong with your hand? Did you cut yourself? Dad looks pissed. You’d better clean it up. You know how much he hates messes. Ha-ha. Did you and dad get into another fight while I was over here choking on that raw, blue pepper? Is that why you are ignoring me? Geez, I’m glad your kid’s health has such a high priority. Well, cool, you two argue. Maybe we can clean up this mess and I can just go back to my room. Right mom? Dad? Trev? Why is no one listening to me? Why is everyone screaming?! Oh great, I think my finger is bleeding. Ew, it looks so gross. Kind of purple and green. It’s still throbbing, but I guess it doesn’t really hurt anymore, so that’s cool. Hey dad, come here. Look at this puss coming out of my cut here. Wait. Why is everyone still freaking yelling? So, what, there’s a little bit of blood on my finger. Chill the eff out. Hey, Trev, what are you doing with that lacrosse stick? No. We can’t go outside and play right now, it’s dinner time. Okay, listen, I don’t *want* to go outside and play right now. Ouch! Don’t hit me, Trevor! What’s wrong with you!? Stop, you little freak! Dammit, I’ll show you how it feels. Dad tell Trevor to stop playing! It’s annoying! Trevor stop. STOP! ... Geez, he finally stopped. Trev don’t be sad. C’mon, get up. I just... I’m not in the mood to play right now, okay? I appreciate the help, dad. Way to sit on the sidelines and let your kids beat each other half to death. Ha-ha c’mon Trev, maybe we can watch that scary movie later tonight. Trevor? Fine, stay there like a lump. Why is it so hot in here? Dad, why are you looking at me like that? Are you mad? We were just playing around. Where are you going? Whatever, I’m just gonna finish my dinner so I can finally go lay down. I don’t feel well. Hey Dad, whatcha got in your hand? Oh, are you gonna clean your pistol? You love that stupid thing. Don’t let Mom see you scuff up the table, you know how much she hates messes. Woah, I didn’t realize how hungry I was. Why are you looking at me like that? Please don’t watch me eat. This reminds me of mom’s meatloaf. I wish Mom was here. \- George’s hands shook violently as he loaded the handgun. His gaze leapt around the massacre that riddle almost every corner of the small dining room. His daughter, his sweet little Lily, was hunched over her little brother. The chomping sounds were unbearable. She gnawed on Trevor’s neck as if she hadn’t eaten in months. Her summer dress was soaked with blood and sweat. The click of the revolver’s cylinder startled her. She looked up as he pointed the gun. Lily smiled. He squeezed the trigger. A loud bang shattered the air.


There is a place in the darkest part of the forest where no one dares make a sound. A place where the shrill call of the crow is muted by the soft leaves of the blunt tree branches. In that forest, there was a house. In that house dwelt a stalwart wood cutter and his three daughters. I would tell you that they were all happy, that the town ten miles off was not in a famine, that all the daughters were dutiful and kind, but I never said this tale would be the happy sort. Our story begins in the winter, the long kind of winter that holds the world in an oblivion of icy winds and tea colored skies. That winter has the power to imprison torrent streams and drive a stalwart woodcutter into town in search of food. “Three days”, the woodcutter told his daughters with a furrowed brow, “three days and I shall return to you with food”. The youngest daughter, Anne, was not worried. She had only seen seven winters and still thought the woods beautiful and secretive. The second daughter, Meg, was pernicious and could only think of the years of hunger and privation her father had brought upon the family. The eldest daughter, Beth, was the wise one and took this to be portents of some ill fate. She begged her father to stay in the modest cabin. However, when the sun was still rising the next day, the woodcutter left. The small cabin suddenly felt large and hallowed to the young girls. On the first morning, they played, spinning wool and trapping their fingers in the yarn. They sang long forgotten songs and danced until they were warm in the cold, cold cabin. They sat and watched as the snow fell faster, and thicker, covering up the last remnants of their father’s footprints. The day slipped by faster than dirt through loosened fingers. When the second day came, the girls did chores, sweeping the cabin floors until they gleamed with the bristled broom that hung by the hearth. The three daughters remade the small beds that rested in the corner of the room and watched the birds that were oddly silent in the trees. That day was quiet and still, gone before they could look back upon it. When the third day came the girls waited, they watched from the small window for the shape of their father to appear from the woods. Anne tried to fill the silence with chatter, talking of how the woods suddenly called to her in way they never had before. The third day passed too quickly. “Where is father”? Anne asked, a question that lingered on all three of the daughter’s minds. “Three days”, he had said, his eyes worried, his voice gentle. Three days had come and passed, where is father? The questioned hummed and thrummed through the little cabin. The fourth day arrived and with it came conflict. Their father had only left enough wood for three days, he had to take all he could to sell in town. The house was darker and the cold bit mercilessly at the young girls. Meg shivered and brought the thin woolen blanket closer to her shoulders, “one of us must go out and fetch some more wood, or surely we will all freeze”. She spoke what every girl had been thinking, but what none had the courage to say.Beth had her qualms when little Anne left the cabin and ventured out into the thick wood. Meg was fearful as well, if Anne did not return then they were sure to freeze. The two remaining sisters watched as young Anne’s figure disappeared into the silent, watchful forest. The hours slid by slower than wax off a candle, Meg tried to fill the silence with talk of how bright the birds’ calls suddenly seemed to her. Darkness swept down upon the cabin, crushing the hope of Anne’s safe return. With shaking fingers Beth begin to prepare for the woods, pulling on father’s old pair of thick boots, and stuffing dried grass in her gloves. Meg’s eyes stared at her through the dark, bright and cautious. Just as she’d buttoned up her coat, the small cabin door ripped open. Little Anne stood in the doorway, a bundle of wood jutting out of her coat. Beth embraced her, feeling relief course through her body. As Beth warmed Anne’s hands and feet, Meg took the wood and started to heat the small room. On the fifth day, Anne was different, she did not frown as the other two girls did, she did not watch the window for father. The youngest daughter sat on the floor humming a strange melody, expectantly watching the cabin door. She talked of the woods, how the trees seemed to stretch up and block the sky. She told of the most beautiful music she had heard there, haunting and hypnotizing. The music that had pierced her soul and left her frozen in hope of hearing more. Anne’s eyes lit up when she whispered of the man she had seen playing that music, of how he had promised to come for her and keep her warm for eternity. Beth felt Anne’s cheeks for fever, checked her tiny, frail, wrist, and sent her to bed. The snow swirled outside the window, spinning secrets and deadly riddles in the dark. Beth dreamt of a man shrouded in darkness, who whispered kind, dangerous words in her ears. She awoke the next morning to find the cabin still and Anne’s perfectly made bed empty; all remnants of their youngest sister gone with her. The morning came like an unwelcome guest, bright and cheerfully ignorant of what was truly happening. The sun shone on the snow outside, covering the woods in white, crystallized blankets. Inside, the cabin was frigid and dark. The last log had burned out, leaving wisps of smoke throughout the room. The two remaining girls hugged each other for warmth and felt the tears freeze on their cheeks. Meg had to pry herself out of Beth’s grasp to go out for more wood. She watched as Meg neared the clearing, turning back once to meet her gaze, before letting the woods swallow her. The birds watched as well before flying west, their wings beating madly until they were out of sight. Beth sat in the silent cabin, as far away from the window as she could be. Night came, and just as Beth was preparing for the woods Meg returned, arms full of wood and a smile lighting her pale face. The eldest sister watched the flames dance, and hiss from the hearth, filling the cabin with ill-favored warmth. On the seventh day Meg curled in the pallet by the hearth covering her ears while Beth sang a strange, haunted tune and waited by the door. Dusk covered the forest and the cabin, Meg still sat in the chair upright and eager. Beth focused on the fire, willing her heavy eyes to stay lifted. But the hearth’s shifting flames tricked her to sleep. The eighth day arrived, heavy and still. The last daughter sat in the cabin, tears spent and eyes weary. She carefully pulled on Meg’s coat, straightened Anne’s hat, and fastened father’s boots onto her little feet. She walked where the music called her, to the darkest part of the forest, and waited.


I died and when I got to heaven my dog, Bear, was waiting there for me. I could feel a light breeze on my temples and smell salt from a nearby ocean. I was back home, on the beach, just a few yards from the house I grew up in. Though I knew I wasn’t there in reality. Somehow, deep in the center of my being, I could sense that I was dead and it didn’t bear any more analyzing than that. Dead was dead and here I was. Bear lumbered up to me and even though it had been 20 years since we’d seen each other, he greeted me the same way he always did, with a bow and a pounce, reaching for my face with his long tongue. His tail made a familiar swooshing sound that I remembered hearing as a boy when it batted the air with enthusiasm. Dead was dead and here we were. That time on the beach was forever and yesterday. I looked forward to it tomorrow and fondly remembered it in memory. Heaven was truly a magical place. Bear and I settled down in the sand, it was wet to my toes but dry to my rear as I sat down. Heaven apparently liked to edit the little things that reality didn’t get right the first time. I looked around and found children with small iridescent wings helping them glide through the air playing with other dogs. And then there was a man beside me. “He’s been excited for you.” Said the man, taking Bears head into his hands and scratching just below the ears. “He told me everything about your walks here.” The man turned his gaze to me and I could see fondness in his eyes. A kindred pet owner, I assumed. “Thank you, I didn’t know he’d be here.” I said, unable to turn my own eyes away from the man, he was a new form of captivating. “I didn’t know how much I missed him.” “Well, dogs are my favorite, it was no problem for me.” I realized then that I couldn’t define the man beyond him being a man and being kind. Everything else was supplemental and not worth registering. I couldn’t tell you his clothes, the sound of his voice, or even the color of his hair. “The dogs, are they all waiting for owners?” I asked. “Not all of them. Some are strays that met an end somewhere. Turns out life is just life. Sometimes it’s not fair for any creature, dogs included.” He pointed to one a ways off playing with a child. “I do everything I can to make them feel whole again. That one there, Walt is his name, only had one leg his entire life but here, he could have eight legs if he asked! I wouldn’t mind.” “And what about the boy he’s with, is that his owner?” I watched as they chased each other round and round. The boy couldn’t have been more than 6 years old. “Oh no. Like I said, that rascal was a stray, so I had to find him someone to bond with.” “That’s nice of you.” “Dogs are my favorite, they get what they need here.” The man reached out for Bear again. Bear responded by rolling over and exposing his belly, leg cocked up, tail brushing the wet sand back and forth. “You see, dogs were the last thing I came up with and I like to think I perfected the formula at that point.” I realized then that this man wasn’t a man. He was everything. The sand particles, the water, the air, the wind, and even the bond that Bear and I shared. Upon this realization, I suddenly found myself out of words. What do you say to Heaven? We sat for a spell, neither party needing to fill the silence. We just existed next to each other; me, Bear and the everything man. Then a thought occurred to me. If there ever was a thought I wish I could unthink it was that one. “I know what brought Bear here, I know what brought me here,” I lifted a finger and pointed at the child with little wings in a gleeful game of tug-of-war with his own dog using a piece of driftwood. “But may I ask what brought that little boy here?” “Oh that little boy?” The everything man, with a twinkle in his being turned to me. “Walt there needed someone, so I brought the boy here to help him find his way.” “Yes but, what caused the little boy…” I trailed off, I didn’t want to be insensitive. “To die?” The man sensed my thoughts. Of course he did. He chuckled to himself. “My dear friend, I did.” He didn’t wait for me to register any astonishment. “A dog needs a friend. A little cancer here, an accident there, all dogs have a companion that I brought to them. A few children here and there won’t leave the world empty.” I watched the little boy and the dog lay back on the sand together. Exhausted but happy. “All dogs need a companion.” The man said as he patted Bear on the head “After all, dogs are my favorite. They get what they need here, no matter the cost.” Bear nuzzled the man’s hand and we continued and still continue to sit there in Dog Heaven. Where dead was dead and there we all were.


The day started like any other. I woke to the sound of Steve Miller’s "The Joker," the opening drumbeat sending a jolt through my spine. I jumped out of bed, ready to tackle the day. I’m a writer, a damn good one, and this damn good writer has deadlines. After going through the usual routine of bathroom, breakfast, teeth and shower, I sat down to return to the chapter I’d left unfinished. It gnawed at me all night and I was eager to dive back in. Writing was my passion, my religion. It wasn’t easy and it sure as hell didn’t pay well but this novel is the one that would be different. This one would make me a legend. I didn’t care about the money. I wanted the glory. I wanted the name Mark Radcliffe to mean something. I wanted to see my name next to the great American writers. Edgar Allan Poe, Ernest Hemingway, Mark Radcliffe. Now that had a nice ring to it. “Radcliffe!” A voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I blinked, disoriented. “Are you with us?” The man at the head of the long conference table was staring at me, as were a dozen others around the room. Slowly, it started to come back to me. We were in a meeting about the kidnapping that broke last night. The Bedfords, the wealthiest family in town, found their three-year-old son taken from his bedroom. Beat cops got there first, then me and my partner. Shelly. Detective Shelly Johnson. We’d worked together for three years and I’d trained her myself. This morning we had a theory that someone inside the family took the Bedford kid. “Mark? You okay?” Shelly asked, but her voice was softer now. It was different. I blinked again. I wasn’t in the conference room anymore. I was at a kitchen table facing a blonde woman with striking blue eyes. She was staring at me, her face clouded with concern. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice gentle. Confusion hit me like a wave. One second, I was in a meeting about a kidnapping, and the next, I was… here? At a kitchen table, with a woman I didn’t recognize. “Hi, Daddy!” I turned to see a small child in a highchair. He looked back at me, wide-eyed. The recognition was instant, primal, but it didn’t make sense. “Mark, are you sure you’re okay?” the blonde asked again, her voice tinged with worry. “I… I think so,” I said, though I was far from certain. “Maybe I should lie down.” I stood up, heading toward the hallway. The first door I found, I opened quickly and stepped inside. The bathroom. Good enough. A few splashes of cold water might clear my head. But before I could even reach the sink, everything shifted. This time, I could feel it happening. I seem to be more aware of the change. The bathroom began to disintegrate, the walls crumbling into white nothingness. Even the sink disappeared right before my eyes. In a matter of seconds, everything was gone. I stood in a void, completely white, the kind of blankness that made time feel irrelevant. For a moment, it was peaceful. No sound, no pressure, no confusion. Just silence. But that didn’t last long. The tapping started. It was loud and incessant. It was possibly one of the most annoying sounds I had ever heard. Black ink blots began to spread across the white void, transforming my surroundings. The tapping grew louder, morphing the scene around me, until I was standing in a living room. It looked old, the kind of place that hadn’t changed since the ‘70s. There was a floor model television, wooden with beige mesh sides and big silver dials. A record player sat on top, spinning a record. Alfred Hitchcock’s Music to Be Murdered By filled the room, the scratch of the needle looping, Hitchcock’s voice slowly creeping in. “Do you like it?” The voice wasn’t from the record. I turned to see the blonde woman approaching. She looked different. Her once concerned face now twisted into something darker, more sinister. In one hand, she held a hatchet. In the other, a small black revolver. “Do you like it?” she asked again, her tone playful. “Do I like what?” I asked. I could feel the dread building in my chest. “What I’ve done for you.” she said softly, taking another step forward. “I did it all for you, baby.” My heart pounded. The music from the record player seemed to swell, growing louder as her fingers tightened around the revolver. She lifted it, slowly, aiming it at her own head. “You don’t have to do this.” I said, backing away. “Put the gun down.” Her eyes never left mine. “It’s for you.” Before I could respond she pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot was deafening. At the same time, the world around me began to blur again saving me from witnessing the devastation of the woman committing suicide. The living room, the woman, the hatchet, they all melted away, faster this time. I braced for another shift. Suddenly, I was back in the conference room. “Mark!” Shelly’s voice cut through the fog. “Are you with us or not? We’re talking about the boy. This is important.” I blinked, the weight of my badge grounding me in this moment, this reality. But something wasn’t right. In the corner of the room was the record player, spinning the same Hitchcock track, as if it had been there all along. “Mark?” Shelly repeated, her eyes narrowing. “You’re scaring me. What’s going on?” I stared at her and again felt the dread in my chest. “Shelly, the boy… he’s, my son.” Shelly frowned. “What are you talking about? The Bedford kid isn’t your—”. The lights flickered and the hum of the record player grew louder. In a blink, the conference room vanished again, and I was standing in the Bedford family home. The curtains fluttered from the broken window. The child’s bed was empty. And in the corner of the room stood the blonde woman, the revolver still in her hand. “I told you, Mark.” she said softly. “I did it all for you.” The revolver in the blonde’s hand gleamed under the dim light, her fingers tightening around the trigger as her gaze remained fixed on me. The room seemed to breathe, the shadows flickering like living things. The air felt thick, heavy, as if reality itself was straining to hold together. “I told you, Mark.” she said softly, her voice steady, almost tender. “I did it all for you.” I took a step back, my heart racing, but no matter where I looked, I couldn’t find a way out. The walls seemed to stretch and curve around me, a white-noise hum vibrating in the air. I couldn’t tell if the gun was pointed at her or at me anymore. Her eyes, though, the same blue eyes that once looked at me with concern were now cold, distant. She wasn’t the woman I thought I knew. Or maybe she never was. Suddenly, the lights flickered. Everything blurred at the edges, like ink running off a page. I blinked, and the world around me shifted. The room fell away, and I was back in my bed. Steve Miller’s The Joker blared through the speakers, the drumbeat pounding like an alarm, rattling me awake. I sat up, gasping, drenched in sweat. My heart hammered in my chest. My eyes darted around the room. Everything looked familiar. My room. My life. Just a dream. I tried to calm my breathing, but something felt wrong. Déjà vu washed over me in thick waves. The beat of the song seemed too loud, too sharp. My hands trembled as I rubbed my eyes, trying to shake off the unease. But there was a knock at the door. I froze. Slowly, I turned toward the sound. I knew what came next. It’s what always came next. The knock came again, louder this time. My heart sank. I stood and moved toward the door, feeling the weight of dread crawling up my spine. I opened the door, and there she was. The blonde woman. Those same piercing blue eyes. "Radcliffe," she said, her voice carrying the same strange mix of affection and detachment. "You ready?" “I… I thought…” My voice cracked as the words tumbled out, but my brain couldn’t form a coherent thought. Everything felt like it was slipping. She smiled softly, almost sympathetically, and handed me the badge that I didn’t realize I was missing. “We have to get to the Bedford case. The kid’s still missing.” The weight of the badge in my hand felt too real to be a dream. But I knew that somewhere, deep down, I had experienced this before. The scene in the conference room. The missing child. Shelly asking if I was okay. The sinking feeling I couldn’t shake. It all circled back. I blinked again, and I was sitting in the conference room. Shelly was across from me, frowning, concern etched into her features. The room felt cold, clinical, the tension palpable. “Mark, you with us?” Her voice was firm this time, but that same edge of worry lingered. I didn’t answer. My mouth was dry. My thoughts spun in a thousand directions at once. The record player was still in the corner of the room. Spinning. Alfred Hitchcock’s Music to Be Murdered By played quietly, its eerie melodies weaving into the background. My mind tried to grasp for something solid, something that could make sense. But the harder I tried, the more it slipped away. “Mark?” Shelly’s voice again, snapping me out of my fog. “What’s going on?” I stared at her, then at the people around the table. They were all looking at me, but their faces seemed to blur, warping into one another. My breath quickened. “I think I need to step outside.” Before anyone could respond, I bolted from the room, my hands shaking as I reached for the door. But the hallway wasn’t there. It was the kitchen again. It was the same kitchen with the blonde woman. The same highchair. The same child with the wide eyes staring back at me. "Daddy!" The boy chirped happily, his voice light and innocent. “Mark? Are you okay?” the blonde asked, her voice soft, the same concern clouding her face. My pulse raced. My throat tightened. No. Not again. I turned and stumbled back down the hall, desperate to escape the suffocating loop. I grabbed a door handle and flung it open, but instead of a room, I found myself standing in the Bedford’s home again. The curtains swayed, the child’s bed was empty. The broken window gaped like an open wound. In the corner, the blonde woman stood. The revolver glinted in her hand. Her eyes, the same, dead, blue eyes pierced through me. “You can't escape it, Mark.” She whispered, stepping forward. “You never could.” The walls began to close in. The air thickened, and the buzzing grew louder, vibrating in my bones. The scenes shifted faster now. Quick flashes of the conference room, the kitchen, the empty bed, the spinning record, Hitchcock’s voice looping and looping and… The day started like any other. I woke to the sound of Steve Miller’s The Joker. The drumbeat sent a jolt through my spine. I shot up in bed, my heart pounding. And I knew, without even getting up, that the knock on the door was coming. This was how it always began.


By Alwyne Ashweth. Comments gratefully received. \ His world was a thin sliver of reflection. He could only see the mirror, as a plastic cage squeezed his head so that he couldn’t move. Lying on his back he faced upwards, but his view was of his feet. The angled mirror allowed him to see out into the white room. “You alright in there, Mr Ionnides?” The woman’s voice came over the headphones jammed on his ears. He presumed it was rhetorical; there was no way for him to answer her. The top of her head bobbed up and down beyond a large window on the far side of the room. It looked as though she was at a computer. She looked up and smiled at him. She seemed a world away, and he felt disoriented. It was as if she was both above him and across from him at the same time. “Remember you can press the button if you get into trouble.” He fingered the device in his left hand. He supposed it was reassuring, but he felt that he wouldn’t need to use it. This whole MRI thing was turning out to be a breeze. He had been to the doctor only the week before. On giving him the list of his symptoms, he had expected a quick diagnosis of acute migraines. That was what all his friends were telling him that they were, anyway. A numbing of his right hand that soon went away. Then a visual disturbance would creep into view. It was like looking through drops of swirling oil. And then the pain. “Just to be on the safe side, we’re going to send you for an MRI,” the doctor had said. He must have looked startled, as the old man had hurried on. “It’s probably nothing, Alex. But when there’s tingling hands and headaches involved we had better be 100% sure.” His best friend Judy had then proceeded to inform him of the horrors involved in having an MRI. “It’s really claustrophobic. You sit on a metal tray thing, and they slide you inside of this *gi-normous* machine. You’re held down with straps so you can’t move or the pictures they take would end up all fuzzy and shit. But the worst thing is the noise. Loud thumping bangs all the time you are in there.” So, he was a little nervous by the time he arrived at the hospital. He asked directions to the MRI lab at the front desk. A porter informed him to follow the yellow line painted on the floor. “If you reach Psychiatric you’ve gone too far,” he had said. Alex had grinned to himself, hoping that it wouldn’t come to that. Nurse Hanover had met him in the lab’s reception area. Her cheerfulness put him at ease straight away. “Please call me Gillian. Just doing your head today, is that right Mr Ionnides? No need to get fully undressed then. Just leave your jacket in the changing room.” She had taken him through the proceedings with practised efficiency. She places a set of headphones over his ears. They were already playing a Beethoven piano concerto. There was a small moment of panic when she placed the plastic cage over his face. It seemed too tight as she pushed it hard into place. It was necessary, she explained, as his head could not move during the scan. Then she had pushed a button and he had slid into the belly of the machine. Alex stared up at the small mirror. The white cylindrical walls of the tube framed the image. He could see his feet at the end, but he couldn’t work out how much of his body was inside the tube. Nurse Gillian’s voice broke through the music in his ears again. “OK, Alex. We’re ready to start. Thirty seconds of noise now.” *Thump thump thump thump thump…* The loudness startled him. Even with the protection of the headphones, a deep sonorous banging filled his head. It drowned out the music, and he began to relax. It stopped after the prescribed time, jarring him back to the present. “Now about eight minutes,” Nurse Gillian said in his ears. *Thump thump thump thump thump…* It was faster this time, and he soon felt himself drifting off again. Was it womb-like, him being so completely cradled and unable to move? And the machine’s heartbeat was overpowering. He wondered if he could move his head at all, but stopped himself from trying. He might ruin the scan and incur the wrath of the good nurse. *Thump thump thump thump thump…* His eyes fluttered closed. The ever-present noise kept him from falling completely asleep. Disjointed dream images filled his mind. He lost track of the time, dozing in the cradle of this unfathomable machine. And then it stopped. The banging was gone, and he came awake into his locked down and limited world. He looked up at the mirror, expecting more instruction from the next room. The nurse was still there, sat down at her station. The angle of view allowed him to see only the top of her head. Her prim ponytail swung into sight as her gaze shifted from one thing to another. She stopped what she was doing, and looked to her left. A door had opened into the control-booth, its back resting against the window. He thought at first that she was talking to another nurse or a doctor. Her head had risen, and the top of her mouth moved as if in conversation. Her forehead creased in a frown, and she turned from the door back to her desk. She picked up a phone and began to make a call. He was about to close his eyes again when a hand appeared from behind the open door. Its fingers curled around the edge as if their owner was trying to pull themselves inside. And like a stalking cat, the visitor came into view. His face appeared first, unshaven and wrinkled. A mop of greying hair stood up from his forehead as though shocked to attention. Even from his distant and prone position, Alex could see the blank look on the newcomer’s face. The ancient head turned this way and that as he moved further into the room. He was wearing a hospital gown, and a plastic I.D. tag adorned one bony wrist. A patient? Still turned away from her visitor, the nurse did not notice his advance towards her. Alex watched as the scrawny arms stretched out, reaching for the back of her neck. He had a moment of disbelief as the patient told hold of her forehead from behind. The wrinkled fingers yanked her head backwards. Was he dreaming this? Both Alex and the Nurse now shared an expression of upturned terror and surprise. Then the cracked and dirty fingernails bit into her skin. Alex could tell that she was screaming. Sinew and muscle stood out on her attacker’s limbs. Alex watched the man strangle her and his brain finally caught up. “Shit shit shit…” His body tried to react now. His legs thrashed around, banging into the walls of the MRI tube. His arms slapped at the smooth cylinder, trying to find something to grab on to. At the same time, he was involuntarily trying to sit up, but the cage around his head stopped any movement. His neck muscles strained as they tried to pull his skull free of the thing, but it did not budge. And all through this his view of the world was a fixed rectangle floating above his eyes. In it, he could see the dying woman through the gap between his flailing feet. He couldn’t even look away, let alone help her or raise the alarm. The old man pulled her to a semi-standing position, still wringing her neck from behind. She faced the window towards the MRI, and her eyes pleaded with him through the glass. A gaunt, jaundiced face appeared beside hers, and a large tongue pushed out of its cracked lips. It slathered up and down her ear and moved along her jawline. He was tasting her! Then she slammed forwards. Her nose crumpled squirting blood to either side. Finally, Alex had to close his eyes. His heartbeat drowned out the piano sonata now playing in his ears. He panted like an animal, panic seizing him by the balls. His neck muscles cramped, and he forced himself to calm down. He concentrated on slowing his breathing. As he regained control, he realised he had been punching away on the emergency button the whole time. He stopped himself from clicking at the thing. It would only be signalling the nurse’s station, not anywhere else. He realised with dread that the only person he had been alerting was the psychopath next door. His eyes flew open. The nurse was now gone from the window. A trail of smeared blood down the glass marked her exit. Behind this stood the mad-man. He held up a hand to his forehead as he tried to see into the room with the MRI. Alex began to panic again. The creep must have heard the noise from the emergency button. And here he lay, all trussed up and waiting to be butchered; a psycho’s free-lunch. He had to find a way to escape this wretched machine. He watched the monster in the tiny mirror for any sign that he had been discovered. The old face there held rheumy eyes set back inside folds of wrinkled skin. But such eyes. They stared through the glass, wide, and without any kind of emotion. Dead eyes, Alex thought. The eyes of death himself. When it came, the movement was quick. He sprang to the side with a gleeful vigour. Yanking open the door again he disappeared through it. Alex’s stomach sank in a wash of sour adrenaline, and panic took control one more. His arms twisting, he clawed and slapped at the sides of the tube, trying to move the tray-table he was lying on. When that failed, he shuffled his buttocks down as far as they could go, trying to dislodge his head. His exertion left him panting, and he stopped cold when he realised he had not been listening to the room. Had he missed the sound of the door opening? Was the killer already in here with him? *Thump thump thump thump thump…* For a moment he thought the MRI had turned back on. But there was a different quality to the sound. Someone was banging on the outside of the machine. He froze in terror. Prey caught in a trap. *Thump thump thump thump thump…* There was the smallest of giggles. It was an insane sound, and Alex tried to cry out. He produced a loud groan that squeezed out between rasping breaths. All he could do was watch the mirror. There was no more thumping, no more sounds of any kind, and he existed in a limbo of horrified anticipation. When would the haggard face of the madman appear at the end of the tube? His breaths became shorter and quieter as he tried to make as little noise as possible. His fists clenched against the side of his body, his bladder and bowels loosening. The ends of his legs felt exposed, and he tried to draw them up inside the tube. There was a snort of breath on his right calf, and then his ankle was given a long, slow lick. Alex screamed. The face appeared and moved into the gap between his legs. He screamed some more as he saw the look of death in the eyes of the man, and the wry smile on his lips. He watched in disgust as a thread of drool emerged from his mouth. Between his screams, there was time to be amazed. There wasn’t enough room. Even so, the creature was making his way inside the tube with him. Alex closed his eyes and clamped his mouth shut. For a while, he drifted away from reality, unhinged and carefree. But he was flung back from this bliss by the touch of a tongue against his chin. He smelt the fetid breath of death’s kiss upon him. An intimate whisper tickled the skin of his ear. Just three words: “It’s your turn…” Alex screamed some more.