Endless corridors, elevators, and more corridors; every now and then, there were small empty office kitchens where the company had provided a modest table, a microwave, and a coffee machine. The carpet, with its strange zigzag pattern in a swampy color, was soft and even a little sticky, as if it didn't want to let go of your foot after each step. Or was it just the lingering effects of another sleepless night? Entering her boss's office, Susan slowed her pace near the panoramic window on the 70th floor: snow had long since covered the entire city and continued to fall from the sky. However, in the endless enclosed spaces that flowed into subway stations and electric trains, you barely encountered winter. "You've had an excellent performance this year. You think we don't notice?" her boss said gently, sitting on the couch next to Susan after she had told him she was planning to leave. "I'm just burned out, I want to quit," she replied quietly. "We have several thousand people working here, and among them all, I know you personally. You know, I've been here for twenty years, since the very beginning…" Susan nodded politely, listening to the story of the company, but she already understood she would leave empty-handed. Reflections of the company's logo, which hung just behind the large window of the top management floor, flickered on the glossy furniture in the office, on the marble-covered floor, on the walls with old-fashioned motivational posters, and on the strange mannequins displaying new season clothing samples. In the dim light, it seemed as if the mannequins had holes instead of eyes. "It's like he turned his enemies into stone and imprisoned them here once upon a time." "Where do you see yourself here?" The conversation was becoming uncomfortable. Susan wanted to end it, but she even found it awkward to hang up on scammers when they called her on the phone, let alone in this situation. The boss was polite, but his persistence was suffocating, as sticky as the carpet in the corridors of the top management floor. She remained silent. "Think about it, don't rush. Sleep on this thought, as they say. You can't beat me." "Excuse me?" Susan startled. "You don't need to leave, you're one of us." And so, Susan left the office with no avail. She walked back past the empty kitchens, through an elevator with a transfer on one of the floors, and past small office cubicles where the backs of people's heads were visible behind partitions. Susan sank into her tired, creaking chair and looked at the open spreadsheet on her screen. "I need to get out of here," she muttered to herself when she saw the clock in the corner of the screen. She said goodbye to a couple of remaining workaholics and, in the elevator descending thirty levels down, put on her coat she had bought from Zara a few years back. Susan walked out, skillfully navigating around the flow of people, and continued through the endless subway corridors. Overtaking pedestrians, she hurried to catch the bus: it was already past ten in the evening, and the last bus to the suburbs was at eleven. Time was running out. "Check this file," her phone vibrated. The next minute, Susan was sitting in the subway car with her laptop on her knees, editing a presentation for her team leader's status update the following day. "Ah, damn it," Susan cursed: she had missed two stations. She closed her laptop, grabbed her bag, and rushed through the closing doors. "I can't hear you, I'm in the subway right now!" But the approaching train relentlessly drowned out her attempts to answer the call, "Let's talk tomorrow, okay?" Standing by the door on the return train, Susan looked at her quivering reflection in the doors opposite. Her curls tensely bounced. Susan decided to remove her coat and scarf, remaining in a black sweater from under which a strict white blouse peeked out. She used to feel like she belonged at work, but now she wanted to shed the office style along with all the work devices that lay in her bag and rubbed her neck. The bus was nowhere to be found, but Susan was not used to giving up, especially since she could get home on the commuter train, after traversing seven stations back to the station. "Why do I have to rush even when I'm going home?" She wanted to relax and observe the subway passengers: a couple in their twenties, sharing a pair of headphones. Or a young man who seemed to have just returned from the army and hadn't yet decided what to do with his life now. But her phone vibrated again: this time, her boss was calling. "There's this ambitious task that just came in, and I immediately thought of you... The previous manager couldn't handle it. Tomorrow morning, come see me." When Susan joined this company ten years ago, the idea that her tasks would reach the boss seemed incredible. Even three years ago, a project of this level would have made her head spin. But she needed to leave. "Where are you?" A message from her team leader. After fighting her way through the ticket counter queue, a pointless bag search, and a malfunctioning turnstile, Susan burst into the stuffy commuter train car, unable to make her way past the vestibule. No worries, in half an hour she would be home. "Check out this version," another message came. Twenty minutes into the journey between two stations, the train stopped and showed no signs of life. "Please remain calm; the train will depart shortly," the indifferent voice of the train operator announced. "When will you send it? I need to check it too." The clock showed past midnight. Someone opened the doors, and especially impatient passengers started to climb out directly onto the tracks. Dangerous, but she didn’t care anymore. Susan ran a mile along the rails to her station, then to her home. Leaving the messages unread, she turned on 'Do Not Disturb' mode on her phone and set the alarm for 5:30 am. After another sleepless night, Susan entered the office changing room and sat on the couch to catch her breath. "Alright, time to take off my clothes," she whispered to herself. Susan removed her scarf and felt for the zipper on her boots, took them off, and stretched her legs a bit. Then she reached for the buttons on her coat, but her hand stopped halfway because she looked at her reflection again. Her hand involuntarily rose to the back of her neck, and with difficulty, she found the hidden zipper there. Struggling to grab the clasp, which she hadn't used for a long time, Susan pulled it down. It wasn't very pleasant; the zipper squeaked and dug into her skin. She hadn't taken off this attire for ten years, since joining this company. But now she wanted to get rid of it and take a refreshing shower first thing. She removed her tired face, her curly hair, which she diligently dyed every month, giving it a fresh golden hue. She took off her sad shoulders along with the Zara coat, the white blouse under the black sweater. The suit resisted heavily at the stomach, got stuck at the thighs, but Susan managed to get rid of it, and in the mirror before her stood the girl who had come here ten years ago and then decided to entrust her fate to the company. She carefully folded the suit of thirty-five-year-old Susan, with its hair, face, waist, hips, legs, heels, experience, network, achievements... "What is this?" she heard a voice and flinched. It turned out that a young intern, who had just joined the company a couple of months ago, was standing there. "Want it? Take it, it’s yours," the girl said, handing the suit over to him. She needed to hurry, so she left the changing room and took the elevator away from this glass tower. As she left the premises, she knew in her heart that she would never return. Peter, the intern who had looked up to Susan as a role model, was thrilled with the opportunity to cut a career path. He hesitated for a moment, and after a brief pause, he first put on her legs, which were in slightly tight jeans, hips, Susan's waist with a hint of extra weight, and her sad shoulders. Looking in the mirror at his head, as if attached to Susan's shoulders, Peter nodded decisively, put on her face, hair, and zipped up. Ten minutes later, Susan came out of the changing room and, looking around uncertainly, walked to the elevator to the boss's level, forgetting to take off the Zara coat worn over the white blouse under the black sweater.


You told me that we would be together forever, but you lied. You said that you’d never lie to me and that you’d always be there for me, and now you’re gone. You’re in the ground, and I’ll never be able to speak to you, cry to you, or tell you how much I love you. I’m so mad at you Summer, but I forgive you. I just can’t forgive myself because I lied, I didn’t stay with you, and now you’re gone. There were so many things that I wanted to tell you .

Our last conversation was so normal: Hey babes how are you? I’m doing fine, just swamped with homework and working on my capstone, and you? Oh…Uh just going with the flow, you know me living every day as if it’s my last. Summer, you always say that, just remember to take care of yourself okay? Yeah, yeah I know. I’m going swimming so gotta go babes. Okay, talk to you later. …………..Click I’ve gone over that conversation a thousand times since your passing and I just don’t understand. I don’t understand how you could sound so…normal and you knew…you knew you weren’t okay. Why…why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you ask me for help? Why didn’t you say “summer I need you here with me” God do you know how I feel! How upset I am at you, at myself! Do you know how badly I wish I could go back in time and save you, from everything but especially from yourself? I still remember it, you know? The day I got the call from your mom. The day started perfectly, I was so excited to have finally finished my capstone project on the effects of childhood trauma on the adult body. I had been working on it for months, interviewing people, and addressing my trauma and I finished it one week before our birthday. I wore my best dress, took myself to my favorite diner, and got a large order of fries with “zap seasoning” and a medium chocolate cake milkshake. I felt so peaceful and found myself wishing that the day would never end. I went to the library and stayed there for a few hours before heading back home. I was only home for five minutes before I got the worst call of my life. Riiiinnnngg……Riiiiinnnnngg……Riiiinnnngg. That’s weird I think to myself because hardly anyone calls my house phone. I take off the purple coat that you got me for my birthday before putting down my bags and walking down the hall to my house phone. The phone starts ringing again and I look at the caller's I.D to see who it is. I didn’t immediately answer because I didn’t recognize the phone number, so it went to voicemail. Not even a minute later the phone rings again and it’s the same number. Who the heck is this?!? I say out loud before deciding to answer the phone Summer: Hello, may I— Mrs.Matthews: Oh god Summer, she’s gone, she’s gone Summer: Mrs.Matthews are you okay?!?! What’s wrong? Who is gone? Mrs.Matthews: Summer is gone….. Summer: Gone where? Mrs.Matthews: Sweetie Summer killed herself they found her body in the lake. I don’t remember anything after she said “Summer killed herself”. Everything went black, and I couldn’t believe what I heard. How…how could you be dead, you were only 23 and filled with so much life. How could you have killed yourself, when you sounded so happy when we spoke to each other?

Your mom called my mom after I stopped speaking, she knew how close we were and she was worried that I would hurt myself. It took my mom thirty minutes speeding on the highway to get to my apartment, she used the spare key that I gave her to get in and when she found me I was inconsolable and wouldn’t stop screaming “it’s a lie” The next few days are a blur to me, one minute I was at my apartment in Denver, and the next minute I was on a plane back to Georgia then I blinked and there I was standing in front of your casket surrounded by your family. You looked beautiful, but then again you always looked beautiful to me. Seeing you laying there looking so peaceful, almost as if you were sleeping pulled me out of my dream like state. Your mom made sure that you were buried in your favorite dress. I still remember buying that dress for you last year, I was so worried that I wouldn’t be able to find a gift for you in time for our birthday. I had searched for weeks and racked my mind on what to get you and then one day when I was walking around downtown I saw it. A small dress shop called “Jane’s Boutique” I had never been there before but I was so desperate to find something for you that I took a chance and went in.

After looking around the store for thirty minutes I was starting to feel like I had wasted time because nothing that I saw “fit” you, and right when I was about to leave I saw it. Tucked away in the very back of the store were two dresses; One sky blue tulle dress with a ruffled skirt and flutter sleeves and a lilac version of the same dress. I was instantly drawn to the dresses because they sort of looked like homecoming dresses, and I knew that you didn’t get to go to homecoming so I thought it would be great for us to have a homecoming; just the two of us. I was so wrapped up in my memories that I didn’t notice the tears that were streaming down my face until I felt your mom’s arms wrap around me. Can you guess what she whispered in my ear?

She whispered “Summer loved you more than anything”

I couldn’t help but question that, because if that were true then why did you leave me, even though I was standing there at your funeral looking at you I still couldn’t understand how this happened. After your funeral, we all went back to the hotel, and your mom came up to me and told me that she wanted to talk with me. We went to the park, you know the one that we would always go “monster hunting” at. Mrs.Matthews hesitated a lot before speaking and I could see the pain that settled deep on her face. Mrs.Matthews: Sweetie did Summer tell you about her diagnosis? Summer: Diagnosis? What diagnosis? Mrs.Matthews breathed in sharply before answering: Summer had depression Summer: Depression? But she never mentioned it or even seemed sad on the phone Mrs.Matthews: I think in her own way she wanted to protect you from it. Summer: Protect me how?! I was her best friend, I should’ve been there for her, I let her down I said while choking back sobs

Mrs.Matthews: Honey you didn’t let her down. People with depression think that they are being a burden to the people in their life and that can cause them to hide it. Summer: I thought that she knew that she could never be a burden to me, I would’ve done anything for her. I would’ve run to her if I had to. Mrs.Matthews: I know baby, I know and she knew too. You both had such a special relationship, and I’m sure she knew that you were always on her side. Summer: I just don’t get it, why couldn’t she have told me how she was feeling? Heck, the last time we talked she was so excited to go swimming…..wait….Mrs.Matthews when did she die? Mrs.Matthews hesitated before speaking: The autopsy estimates that she died at 4:30 pm on Thursday. I dropped to my knees and just sobbed in your mom's arms. The realization came crashing down on me that you took your life twenty minutes after we talked.

Over the next two weeks, your mom visited me every day to check on me and make sure I was alright, and each time she came we would sit and talk; about you, your life, everything.

I’m not going to lie and say that I wasn’t hurt by all of the things I learned about you. I thought I knew everything about you but the more we talked, the more I became aware of how little I knew about you. Out of all of our conversations, one resides in the dark space in my mind. The same space where I lock all of my pain and hurt.

Summer: Why did she have depression and for how long? Mrs.Matthews sighed: My relationship with Summer's father was very turbulent, and plagued with abuse. I left him and thought that it would fix everything, but I was naive. I knew how abusive he was to me but I never imagined that he would abuse Summer, especially in the ways that he did. I didn’t find out about what had been done to her until she was seventeen and by that point, he had already died so she never got justice for what happened to her. Summer: Don’t tell me he….. Mrs.Matthews: Yes he hurt her in the worst way possible, he made her feel unsafe in her own body and caused her to feel disgusting and dirty. Summer: Why would she feel disgusting!? It was that sick bastard that was disgusting, she was perfect she couldn’t have been dirty even if she tried. She was everything good in this world.

Mrs.Matthews: It doesn’t make sense to people like us, but for her and people that have survived assault it’s sometimes hard for them to feel like they are worthy after being taken advantage of.

Summer: I just can’t understand how anyone could do that to their child.

Mrs.Matthews: I can’t understand it either but do you wanna know something? You saved her. Summer: How? Mrs.Matthews: I still remember the day that she came back from summer camp raving about her new best friend and how she had saved you from a bully. I had never seen her so happy about anything as I did that day. I think that a part of her just wanted someone to be there for her and you were there and became everything to her.

I couldn’t speak after that, so we sat in silence and comforted each other. I just wish that you would’ve shared your pain with me, I wish that you knew that nothing that happened to you was your fault, I wish you would’ve known that to me you were perfect and that no one could’ve told me otherwise.

I was so hurt when your mom came to my room carrying three books on grief because it made it clear that you had already decided that you were tired of fighting but I wish you knew that I would’ve gladly fought with you. After that, I decided to stay at your house, and your mom let me stay in your room and a part of me felt like you were still there. I knew that it wasn’t healthy for me to put all of my emotions on her because she was dealing with her grief so I started journaling and it helped to momentarily ease my pain.

You always loved my poems and always asked to be my muse so I wrote a poem for you but can’t seem to finish it. Summer love, summer blues, summer seasons filled with you, with all my love I held so dear, my summer joy no longer there, our days so long but also short… That’s as far as I got…I just can’t find the words. It’s ironic, isn’t it? I practically spent my entire life with you, enmeshed in your very being sharing a bond that was stronger than steel itself, and yet now…It’s like I can’t find the words. I can’t put all of my love into words without them spilling out and forming an incoherent mess. I’ve read all of the books that you left for me. “Surviving grief” “Thriving through grief” and “Healing a grieving heart,” They all say the same things. It’s always about thriving, healing, surviving, and releasing but what about living? What am I going to do now that you're gone? How am I going to live without you? Without my summer? It was always us. The two summers; Summer Joy and Summer Love. It’s like we fit…you completed me and I completed you. You existed in every aspect of my life, and without you, it feels like I can’t breathe. As if I’m drowning in a pit of grief and no matter how hard I try to fight it I just sink deeper into it. I feel shackled by those three words.

I remember the first day that we met and the rich smell of dirt and moss. On June 3rd, 2008 at the “ Blackcreek Summer camp for special kids ” I was so upset that my parents made me go to summer camp. I had never been an athletic or sociable child and I knew that my parents hated it, they hated that I wasn’t as outgoing as my sister Autumn, they hated that I was the “ sensitive and quiet ” one, and they hated that I didn’t have any friends. I hated that I was being forced to stay there so I cried—in front of everyone which paired with being much smaller than the kids my age quickly made me a target for bullying. Sadly I was used to that; Used to the harsh words, cruel comparisons, and deafeningly loud silence. After the first day, I was shunned, bullied by all of the kids, and given the nickname “ cry baby summer ” by an older kid named Marshall and no one helped me not even the counselors. On the fifth day of camp, Marshall tried to force me to eat a bug while everyone else laughed around us and I just cried because I knew that I wasn’t strong enough to fight back so I shut my eyes tight and prayed for someone to help me and then you suddenly came like a hero to save me. Do you remember what you said because I do, you said “ Don’t touch her you pig-faced ass”. I was so shocked by that because I had never heard anyone use language like that especially not another kid and then I heard something being thrown followed by the sound of people running.

“ Are you alright, kid ?” you asked me and after a while, I was finally able to stop crying and answer you “Yeah I’m okay, but my name isn’t kid!” I shouted surprising myself and I was certain that you would be upset but you weren’t.

“ Okay, what’s your name ? you asked with a small smile and inquisitive look on your face “ My name is Summer, what’s your name ? I answered and saw your face instantly light up “ My name is Summer too! What’s your middle name ? You asked while practically jumping in excitement

“ Love. My middle name is Love ” I answered bracing myself for a negative reaction because that’s what happened every time I told people my middle name usually followed by “wow that’s such a cheesy name” “ Really? That’s a nice name, my middle name is Joy ” and the rest was history, we became best friends from that day onwards and you helped me learn to love my name in its entirety.

Reminiscing on that day now brings a tear to my eye because I didn’t know that I had found my soulmate after almost being forced to eat a bug.

After staying with your mom for a while I finally went back to my apartment. I didn’t want to leave her but she told me that she was okay and that she would call if she needed anything from me. It sounds cheesy but I genuinely feel like a part of me was buried with you, but I also feel a strange sense of peace knowing that now you forever have a piece of me.

Grief is such a mysterious thing because it sneaks up on you, one minute you’re fine and another you’re sobbing on the ground. It causes a blurring effect because days turn into weeks faster than you can even comprehend. They say that time heals all wounds but I just think that time allows you to process those wounds but they don’t heal in the way that people say they do. They form scars that reside with you for the rest of your days, and a cage in your heart. I’ll carry your memory with me, stored in the cage and I’ll fill it with all of your favorite things because now you permanently reside in my heart. I’ll keep you safe there until the day we meet again and I can tell you about all of the things that you missed out on, give you all of the love that I collected along the way, and we’ll laugh like we used to.

Guess what ? I was able to finish the poem I wrote for you and found the courage to say it out loud. I wanted to visit your grave and read it to you but I don’t think that I’m ready for that, at least not right now. I’ll just read it to you here.

Summer love, summer blues, summer seasons filled with you, with all my love I held so dear, my summer joy no longer here. Now with days cut short, I’ll carry you in the end, because you were my one and only best friend, but I have to tell you my beautiful Summer born in a world filled with blue, I wish I could’ve told you that I was in love with you.


True love is never a wasted effort. Be open to it, share it even in the darkest of times. As the sun set, he went to work doing for them in death, what he couldn’t in life, protect them. Grabbing a spade from the barn, he dug a grave for each. Deep enough to keep out the coyotes, each freshly tilled mound, capped with a fieldstone. He had watched in disbelief as Penny and the entire McCormick family were skinned alive by the ravenous horde of locusts. Their skin, clothes, hair, organs, all devoured in a rapacious cloud of death and destruction. Their screams of agony echoed in his brain, tormenting him over and over, on a reel of madness. Each skeleton lay upon the earth in repose, sculptures of bone portraying their final moments. Thomas collapsed out of physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion as the last rays of sunlight shone on his toil of love.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he wept in uncontrolled fits.

“I’m so sorry I was too weak to save you.”

The soil dampened by his grief, readily accepted his offering of contrition. Never having a deep faith in the divine, he vacillated about whether a prayer should be offered.

Couldn’t hurt. Up, down, left, right if you are real prove it tonight.

Rising from his genuflection to a higher power, Thomas brushed the moist clay from his knees.  The day had been long and full of travails, the night offered no solace. He made his way back into the house. Liberating a fifth of whiskey from the liquor cabinet, Thomas beseeched his heart and his mind for an armistice. Grabbing a pub glass from the dishwasher, he downed shot after shot of the brown liquor. Glasses still in the dishwasher, right that was Penny’s daily chore. Charity’s job was to load it, Marie would do the knives, Penny would empty it.

Gone, all gone.

Thomas poured another shot hoping to drown out the pain, it wasn’t working. A vibration under his foot startled him. He looked down to discover the Sally Speaks doll, Charity’s sleeping buddy. It was a stuffed dolly that spoke seven different sayings when squeezed. It had golden yarn hair, black button eyes, and a sunflower dress. One of the sayings was the soft voice of a child. Mama, it said.

Charity’s last words…screamed at the top of her lungs.

They were inseparable.

“Damn you, Sally! She’s dead! They are all dead!

Thomas tore the stuffed dolly in two, heaving each piece across the room in different directions in a fit of anger.

He didn't know what else to do but drown his sorrows in this bottle and hoped that when he rose tomorrow, this was all just a bad dream.

Everyone would be alive again, whole again. Not the bare skeletons, denuded of their flesh, of their life that he had planted into the earth like some underworld perennials.

Hope springs eternal Maybe I did die on that bridge, that night, maybe this is my hell.

Maybe, but luck and hope were foreign to his way of thinking. Faith was even more strange.

Even so, he prostrated himself onto the wide oak flooring, arms outstretched towards the ceiling, the sky, the heavens and he begged.

“Please, please, please don’t let them suffer for my mistakes, my failings, my weakness.”

He had no more tears to shed. He was tapped out and so was the bottle of comfort. Thomas trudged up the stairs to the guest bedroom, passing out fully clothed on the top of the flannel bedspread.

The sky is angry tonight. Dark clouds hang low on the horizon. Heavy rain starts to fall on the tin roof of the farmhouse. Loud booming thunderclaps followed by blindingly bright flashes of lightning; the heavens are in turmoil.

The newly turned earth becomes mud pies. It is as if a giant child has grabbed a plastic bucket, filled it with a soggy earthen concoction, and displayed their wares to the general public. A movement, a shifting of soil, a resurrection of unknown proportion. Lightning flashes. The acrid scent of chlorine hangs in the air. Two more blinding flashes. Puddles of mud form as the makeshift cemetery becomes inundated. More movement, slow and from within. The graves are collapsing, one by one. A hand, a child’s hand. Methodically, the recent tenants of each grave rise to the surface, shambling towards the farmhouse, a macabre parade.

A loud bang. Wind whistling through the open front door to the farmhouse. More banging. The front door is thrown open, then sucked closed by the ever-changing tempest. Thomas hearing the commotion, even in his besotted condition, rises. He stumbles down the main staircase, missing a few stairs, catching his fall by clutching the banister.

Another loud slam accompanied by stronger wind, blowing into the living room, papers from the end table blowing around and fluttering onto the floor. He closes the unruly portal. Shutters rattle on the outside. Scratching his head, Thomas speaks.

“Must not have closed it properly.”

A floorboard creaks in the upstairs hallway. Silence. Creaking of ancient wood. More silence. Climbing the stairs to investigate the sounds Thomas slips on a muddy riser, smashing into the maple banister hard.

“What the hell?’, he curses.  “Creepy old house”, he mutters under his breath.

Probably some damn raccoon got in the open door.  Great, just what I need. Some rabid varmint hear to harass me.

At the top of the stairs, Thomas hears the front door slam open again. Hail pelts him in the face as he shuts the door once more.

“I know I shut that properly last time”, he grumbles.

He locks the front door this time. More creaking from the kitchen this time. As he heads to the kitchen, the floorboards in the upstairs hallway announce their presence again.

Great, a family of rabid animals.  A pack of squirrels or possums.

He collects the biggest kitchen knife from the butcher block holder. Slowly, he creeps up the stairs trying to avoid making his presence known. He gets to the master bedroom; this was Conner and Marie’s room.

“Ok, you little bastards! Get out of here. I don’t need this shit right now.”

A door opens down the hall. He runs out to try to catch a glimpse of the intruder.

Nothing.

He grabs the handle of the door to push it open.

Yuck, more mud.

Ok, maybe not a squirrel.

His heart races, feeling like it will explode out of his chest. His throat is dry as he swallows. He tries his best to sound tough.

 “Ok, I don’t know who you are but I’ve got a gun! So whatever game you are playing ain’t gonna end well for you.”

Nothing again.

He checks the adjoining bathroom. Gripping the knife handle tight, he slowly opens the door. His hand shakes uncontrollably.

Nothing.

Out of the corner of his eye, a shape, dark and foreboding stares at him from the corner. Another flash of lightning and a boom of thunder vibrates the house. He turns to confront this unknown, this mysterious intruder.

Nothing.

“I swear I saw something,” he says.

As he turns to leave, a tug on his sleeve startles him. He wheels to strike with the knife. Staring at him, a wee being, covered in mud, looks up at him with huge saucer eyes.

 “Tom Tom,” it says.

Inches from plunging the blade into this gremlin, he stops.

 “Charity, is that you? No, you are dead. I saw you die. I’ll never be able to forget it.”

Tom Tom was the nickname she gave me. How does this thing know that? It can’t be her. It is impossible. She was a skeleton. All that was left of her was bone and hair. This imp is trying to steal my soul or something.

He raises the blade again.

“Get the hell out of here, you aren’t real! You can’t be!”

“I’m cold, Tom Tom.”

He doesn’t trust this apparition. A creak from the hallway.

Shit, what the hell is this? Am I even awake?

His heart slams against his chest. Faster and faster.

The faucet in the master bathroom starts running.

No squirrel turned on the faucet. That is a person. Or what used to be a person. A spirit.

Ghosts can turn things on, right?

A cold chill comes over the back of his neck and tingles down his spine. A knock on the front door, a slight rapping. Like a limb of a tree blown in the wind. Scratching every so slightly and then tapping on the entrance.

“Thomas,” he hears in a draught of swirling wind.

Tapping ever so gently, again.

Keeping one eye on the tiny fiend, he steps slowly back into the hallway.

It steps towards him.

“I’m so cold, Tom Tom.”

“Stay where you are! I don’t know what kind of hell-spawn you are but don’t move!”

The hellion listens. It does not come closer. It starts to cry, a low whimper at first, then a sobbing escapes the hellish imp. Trying to catch its breath after each wail. Tears stream down its face, washing away muck and mire, revealing skin.

“Charity. Charity, is that really you?” The knife clatters to the hallway floorboards.

He races to comfort her.

Please let this be real .

Please don’t let me die some horrible death because a demon tricked me.


Jack slowly meandered out of his kitchen, barely raising his feet off the ground as he moved. Coffee in one hand, and running the fingers of his other across the granite-top island still sparkling from his cleaning lady’s recent visit, he sulked towards the nearly panoramic wall of glass separating him from the rest of the world. The planet’s slow rotation had just begun to reveal the center of the solar system, illuminating Jack’s view of the just-waking metropolis far below. How appropriate he mused, as he looked out over the city that never sleeps, that he had been up for hours, unable to find solace in any slumber of his own.

He took a deep sip of his coffee and winced. Freshly imported from Tanzania and spiked with a blood-pressure threatening dose of sugar, his coffee tasted nothing but bitter as he gulped it down. He stared, watching still dim streaks of light mix with tropospheric wisps of condensed vapor, which culminated in a golden white and periwinkle-tinged blanketing over the horizon. But the beauty was entirely lost on Jack. Such a powerful scene tends to lose its magic after seemingly endless repetition; at least it had for him.

Jack set his coffee mug down on the mahogany table to his right then, exhaling a shallow sigh, slumped into a nearby lounge chair, kicking his feet up on its matching ottoman. He took a moment to think about his schedule, realizing that as usual he had little more than a vague sense of his day planned out. Jack closed his eyes, exhausted though his day had not yet started, confused though nothing particularly puzzled him, and conflicted without a clear reason for his latent sense of distress. Exhaustion, confusion, conflict; other than the unceasing everyday numbness that he couldn’t shake as of late, these feelings were most familiar to him. Mindlessly, he stood then paced to the center of his two-story, penthouse apartment’s open concept living room to entertain his mind with anything but the dispirited thoughts that normally occupied it. The walls that his dwelling did accommodate collectively housed an impressive collection of high-bidded-for artwork. Warhol, Rembrandt, Basquiat; Jack curated their pieces in his home not so much out of reverence for their talent and creativity, or even for the quality of the art itself, but as a shrine to his own opulence and exhibitionism. Of the lavish frames in Jack’s apartment, few bordered pictures that actually elicited any joy from him. Instead of photographs of loved ones or sentimental snapshots of nostalgic scenes from his earlier days, Jack’s walls displayed only the distorted and abstract expressions dreamt up and rendered by overpriced visionaries. Were there so few people, places, or points in time personal and dear to him that he had nothing to flaunt but the work of strangers ? Thoughts of his past, laced with dull nostalgia for a time before receipt of his cash windfall, tugged at his heart. A faint tickle from his pocket accompanied by a dull humming sound alerted Jack that someone wanted his attention. Reflexively, he pulled out his cell phone and woke its display with a touch of his thumb. Notifications of unread text messages and missed calls assumed the entirety of his device’s screen. Apparently a few people wanted his attention. After a quick scroll through the names responsible for his phone’s list of alerts, he discerned that he was uninterested in responding to any of them. “What do these people want anyway?” Jack said aloud, his words echoing through the expanse of his home. But he already knew the answer. His greasy siblings and emotionally bankrupt parents were constantly pestering him for handouts, and his so-called friends were even worse. The vapid egotists that comprised the entourage of company that Jack kept were only interested in money; money and status. Then again, so was Jack to a large extent. The irrepressible repulsion he felt for his fake friends that nagged him was likely an outward projection of his own self-loathing, an idea he pushed from his mind. He didn’t want to think about it. Jack didn’t want to think about anything.

A sudden wave of claustrophobia swept over him, paired with an even stronger sense of isolation. How could it be that in an apartment as cavernous as his, and in the most densely populated city in the country, Jack could feel so simultaneously confined and alone? He needed to get outside.

Once out of his building, Jack decided that he would go for a drive. He unconvincingly believed that a ride with the top down would help him to regain some sense of peace. So after a brisk, two-block walk and a quick interaction with his garage’s valet, he comfortably sat himself behind the wheel of the convertible BMW that he recently bought as a present to himself.

He pulled onto Park Avenue and drove north to East 96th Street, barely hitting a single red light before turning onto FDR Drive. Upon reaching the highway he shifted gears, effortlessly navigating the surprisingly empty, gently curving track of pavement. There was no thrill when Jack accelerated though, nor any hope of him actually clearing his mind. In theory, Jack had everything he ever wanted or at least enough money to buy whatever other objects he thought missing from his life. But the materials he possessed, Jack knew, truly possessed him. The money he came into provided him with nothing but an insatiable appetite for more and a greed that poisoned him to the core. He understood that he was sick. His soul was sick, ailing from desires, the fulfillment of which brought him no happiness, no fulfillment, no love; just a burning emptiness, a bottomless pit of which he wasn’t sure how to climb out. Worse still, Jack’s life, abundant in relationships soured by the curse of his affluence, lacked any meaningful support system. Jack had no one. He sped up, ignoring the road’s dotted lines, then shut his eyes tight, focused only on the car’s roaring engine and the deafening wind howling by his tingling, exposed ears. Releasing the steering wheel from his whitened knuckles, he held the car’s pedal flush with the floor and shut out his surroundings, disconnecting entirely from the world… Then, “SNAP!” A sudden reverberating sound jolted Jack back to his senses. *** Jack startlingly opened his eyes, but to a different scene; a different world entirely: the real world. To him, it was one without riches or expensive belongings; one with an affectionate family and great friends; one with happiness, with love. Jack was once again present, awakened from the chilling fantasy of his imagined possible future. “Sir?” A voice accompanied by snapping fingers shook him from his daze. “Sir, you said you had something for me.” Jack refocused his eyes, pupils constricting in the light of his rediscovered reality. He looked directly ahead at the agitated man behind the counter of the corner store that he entered just a minute ago.

“I did,” Jack said, almost whispering. “I did have something,” but not really for you, he thought; it was just an expression.

“Look man, there’s a line forming behind you. Can we keep it moving?”

Jack gave him a quizzical look, understanding of the cashier’s demand, but confused by his own recent revelation and how to interpret it, let alone how to act on it.

“Come on, you know this is a store right? We sell shit. What is it you think you got for me ?”

Jack finally answered to the cashier’s impatient delight, but also to the man’s disappointment in that he simply responded, “never mind.”

The cashier’s eyes bulged from underneath slightly raised eyebrows.

“My bad,” Jack continued. “I was…just kidding.”

“Whatever,” the cashier followed-up, not entirely surprised by the strangeness of the interaction, having seen his fair share of oddities since beginning his job at the NYC bodega. “If you aren’t going to buy anything, how about you step aside for the next guy, hmm?” “Yeah, that’s…I mean, you’re right. I don’t…”

“I don't want to buy anything," Jack finally resolved, assuredly emphasizing the final word of his proclamation as he moved out of line. Jack left the store, finding unexpected pleasure in the deep breath of rank city air that he took in while stepping onto the sidewalk. He looked down at the slip of paper that he had been holding for the past few minutes and, without giving much thought, dropped it into the styrofoam cup beside a man that sat in tattered clothes, asking for change.

“What’s this?” The man inquired, straightening up slightly.

“It’s last night’s winning Mega Millions lotto ticket,” Jack explained matter-of-factly. “You’re probably going to want to cash that.”

The man’s confused expression turned to one of literal disbelief. He was speechless though rightfully skeptical. But before the man could find any words for the gesture, Jack had already left.

“Just be careful what you wish for,” Jack thought, casually smirking as he walked off.


Nana watched the boy squelch in the mud and sling feed at the ranging hens. As he passed the coop, the boy ran his fingers over the mesh like harp strings, and the caged hens clucked at him. He’d cluck back and run them on the wire, and they’d shriek and tear at the coop in a cloud of feathers. Then he’d holler across the range at Nana: “Nana! Nana! Did you see!” and Nana would nod and crease her face. “Yup, I seen it,” she’d say. She set the barrel-shaped plucker on the folding table beside the scalding vat. Then she fetched the hose coiled by the spigot. “Nana!” the boy hollered again, “Nana! Look: I found a worm!” “Alright, then.” “Look!” he demanded, holding the worm up over his head. The ranging hens danced around him like Pentecostals. “Yup.” She rigged up the hose and gave it a spray to be sure it flowed right. Satisfied, she reached in the plucker and withdrew the bucket and culling cone nested inside. She walked towards the pitch pine — the cone and bucket swinging like milk pails from her fists — and nailed them into the tree with quick, deliberate hammer blows. She finished and saw the boy using his whole body to drag that ripped feedbag towards the caged hens. Golden feed trailed behind him, and the hens chased it like it sparks on gunpowder. Nana tossed the hammer in the bucket and pinned her fists to her hips. “Don’t feed them in the coop, now, boy!” “Why not?” he grunted, still dragging the ruptured bag. “They done had theirs, I said.” “But I ain’t fed them yet, Nana.” When he reached the coop, the boy dug out a pile that spilled through his clumsy, gloved fingers. “What’d I say? Don’t feed them in the coop!” “I ain’t!” He let the feed fall to the mud just outside the cage. The free hens clustered and pecked at his feet. He laughed, snatched another fistful from the bag, and threw in the coop like confetti. The caged hens savaged each other to get it, and he squealed. “Goddamn — what did I say!” Nana peeled the fencing open and marched through the mud where the boy stood beside his crime: sullen, cross-armed, and kicking at the broken feedbag. The hens rioted when Nana got to the boy. Her hickory-thick fingers cut into his arm as she spun him to face her. “Boy, you want me give you something to pout for?” “No.” “No, what?” “No, *mam*.” She was too old to mother Anna Lee’s son. That girl was due to pick him up last Saturday, but Anna Lee wasn’t coming back this time. “I told you them in the cage ain’t getting fed.” “I know.” The boy looked at the feed pooled around his muck boots. “Why you didn’t listen?” “I don’t…I’m sorry, Nana.” It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if Anna Lee came back or not — that wasn’t the boy’s fault. She knew that. And Jesus wouldn’t hear how sometimes she thought of stuffing that boy in the culling cone. “Alright then,” Nana said, more than deflated. “You clean up this feed, hear? And don’t you feed them in the coop again.” The boy used his cartoon-sized gloves to scoop up the feed — mud and all — and let the foul pile fall in with the rest of the bag. “Hey now! That’s filthed! Don’t — “You said to clean it up!” The boy’s eyes misted. He cried quietly — just like Anna Lee did: angry. Confused. Angry that he’s confused. *Might be he’s as mixed up as his mama. Could be he’s worse.* “Hey, look — it’s okay, now.” Nana said. She crouched to meet his watering eyes and cleared away the mud slicked all over his wet cheeks. “Look: you can’t put the muddy feed in with the clean because it’ll get the hens sick, you know? We don’t want them getting sick.” “Ain’t you going to kill them anyway?” Nana stood, hands touching the knobs of her hips again and face upturned to meet the grey-wash sky. She closed her eyes and thought of Jesus. *Don’t you fail this boy again.* Papa’s truck rattled up the drive. The boy shook off his anger and Nana swallowed hers. Papa honked that damn-awful horn as he passed the pond and climbed up the drive to the house. “Go help Papa bring in the groceries.” “Can I go fishing still?” “*After* you help Papa.” “Yes, mam.” The boy tore up the hill. Then Nana picked out two chickens to kill. \*\*\* The boy waited for Papa to clamber out of his truck, but he took a long time. He sat a spell, just glaring at the mower shed at the end of the drive. The boy wondered why is Papa was so angry when he was sad. Papa eased the door open, and the metal hinges croaked. “Hey, boy — you helping me?” Papa spun his boots out of the truck before plantings them in the gravel drive. He winced, gripped his war leg, and looked everywhere but where the boy was. “What’s wrong, Papa?” “Nothing — you been helping your Nana with them hens?” Papa slammed the truck door behind him, and the metal croaked again. “I found a worm! Look!” He pulled the worm from his breast pocket. “You did!” Papa said, wearing a mirthless smile. “He’s for fishing?” “Nana says I gotta help you first.” “Nana’s right. Go on.” Papa rounded the cab — he dragged his war leg like luggage — lowered the tail gate, and it croaked too. “Hold out your arms like this,” Papa said. He curled his thread-thin arms like hooks and gritted his teeth. “That’s it! Like you on wrestling — *there* you go — no, put down the worm first. Alright, now. No — he ain’t going nowhere — set him there. Alright: show me your wrestling — *there* you go!” Papa arched over the tailgate and grabbed a bundle of plastic bags. He’d gather up the ringlet handles and snake them over the boys arms so they fell neatly into the crook of his elbow. After each bag, he’d say: “you got it?” and the boy would say yes. “Alright, that’s all of them. Let me take that one with the jars.” “I got it.” “Come on now — it’s heavy.” “I got it, Papa.” “Fine then. Go on.” Papa looped the heaviest of the bags around his arms until he looked like his ghillie suit. He cradled the twin packs of bottle-necked beer under each arm and shuffled behind the boy. Nana’s smallest muck boots were too big for him, so the boy duck-walked as best he could. He toddled towards the half-finished porch, swinging the bags in alternating arcs that propelled him forward. “Papa, I dropped the bread!” “It’s alright. I’ll get it.” “Did you get my worm?” “He’s fine — we get him in a minute.” “Don’t squish him!” “I ain’t — you worry about them groceries.” The boy ambled up the half-finished porch, dodging loose planks and paint cans. “Watch that paint, now.” The hens screamed down the hill. “Nana’s killing chickens!” the boy said. He let his bags crash to the porch and darted for the coops, knocking into Papa. His leg seized and Papa tumbled back into a tangle of broken glass and plastic knots. Blood clouded the growing pool of beer beneath him. “God-fucking-damnit, boy!” He sat up in a bolt, snatched a broken bottle and hurled it at the tarp-covered porch swing. It shattered, showering the porch with a thousand invisible knives. The swing rocked back and forth as if some haint sat watching Papa bleed all over the unvarnished wood. “Watch where you going, boy!” Papa worked his way to his feet, gripping the parts he always complained about. Red rivulets drained down his fingers and splashed on the porch: *pat-pa-patpat.* Nana met them both at the porch, breathless and painted herself with arterial spray. “You alright?” “I’m fucking bleeding everywhere.” Papa looked over his arm and picked out a shard of glass. “Don’t turn the air blue around the boy. Now, what happened?” “He knocked me over — I fucking told you don’t carry all that too!” His words cut their way through his mouth, and he froze. “He’s six! The hell’s in your head?” The boy cried his quiet tears. “I’m bleeding all over the damn place.” Papa turned for the door. He lifted his bloody hand over his heart and used his other to open the screen door. The spring croaked too. “Nana, I didn’t mean to —“ “Don’t touch nothing, alright? Let me get the broom.” “Is Papa hurt?” “He’s fine. Don’t move, alright?” The boy watched the empty porch swing sway, shedding beer and glass like rain off a wing. \*\*\* The boy sat at the two-seat kitchen table while Nana fried chicken in the iron skillet. It cracked in the bubbling oil, and the boy’s belly grumbled. “Few more minutes,” Nana said, turning over the wing with a fork. She clanged the fork on the skillet, wrang her hands in the cook towel, and tossed it over her shoulder like a stola. The boy glowered at the empty chair across from him, and Nana wondered what a child thinks about these days. *You think he knows his mother’s gone, Jesus? Don’t let him hate her. It ain’t his fault.* She pulled the milk from the fridge, poured a glass for him and herself, and set out a wedge of carrot cake at the center of the rounded table. She took a forkful for herself and turned the fork over to the boy. He looked at her, doubtful. “Go on then.” They alternated forkfuls of the cake together while the oil popped on the stove. Nana killed the heat and plated the fried chicken wings with celery from the garden. The boy snagged one more forkful of cake before she replaced the plate with the wings. The boy gulped down a belt of the milk and smacked his lips and breathed out obnoxiously. *Ahhh.* “Unh-unh — table manners please.” Nana took the empty chair across from the boy and wondered if the boy ever met his daddy. “Nana? Am I bad?” “What? What do you mean?” “Am I bad…like a bad person?” Nana felt shame flood her face. “Did your Papa say that to you?” “No.” “Who told you you was bad?” Nana reached across the table and covered the boy’s hand with hers. “I just don’t want to be.” “Well, you ain’t. You hear?” “But I done bad things.” “Hell — me too.” Nana snorted. “Lord knows. You think I’m bad?” “No.” “Well, me neither. Eat now.” The boy ripped at a chicken wing with his browning teeth. He counted each bite with his fingers, each one rocketing out of his tiny fist after his jaw pistoned up and down. “Is Anna Lee bad?” Nana chewed the corner of her lip. It felt wrong: the boy calling her who she was instead of what she’s supposed to be. *But Anna Lee wasn’t supposed to be a mother, Lord knows. Boys without mothers don’t belong nowhere.* She’d stopped counting the lies she believed for Anna Lee’s sake long ago. Might could be the boy lost faith long before she did. “God don’t make bad people,” Nana said. “Anna Lee’s done bad things too.” “Yeah. She has.” “But she ain’t bad?” “No. I suppose she ain’t.” Nana stood up and drained the grease into an old coffee can over the deep sink. She watched Papa through the window sawing on a plank in the yard, bandaged up like a leper. *It ain’t the boy’s fault what she done.* *Jesus won’t hear it from you or me.* “You want to help your Papa after lunch?” The boy counted each chew on his hands before saying no. “Alright.” “You said I could fishing if I helped him.” “You right — I did. Go on then — no, finish first, then go.” He scraped the bones into the trash on top of a swamp of broken glass. \*\*\* The boy dangled his feet over the pier with his rod laid across his lap like a ceremonial sword. The black water slurped at his heels as he kicked them back and forth. He could hear Nana and Papa arguing up at the house while he cut a worm in two. It was calm before the blade, but the two halves wriggled beside each other like angry forks of lightning. He plucked up the more active half and skewered it on the hook. The reel hissed as he cast the line into the pond. *Plunk.* The day-glow bobber floated in a labyrinth of multiplying ripples. He wondered if the worm’s other half knew it was drowning. While he waited, he hacked up the worm with long, slow strides of Papa’s pocket knife. He spared it the hook but killed it half a dozen times before the bass bit its other half. The bobber sunk, and the boy yanked hard. The line cut across the placid surface of the water, ripping it apart as though the boy was pulling thread from a shirt. He reeled and tugged and grit his teeth before he wrenched the fish from the black pond. He landed it on the pier and Papa called down from the hill. “Look at that!” The boy didn’t answer. He fought to bring the fish all the way in — it don’t count until it’s *all* the way in, Papa would say. He dragged it on the splintered pier and marveled at its suffocation. The spiked jaw hinged open and shut and the body spasmed violently, but the black marble eye just watched the boy watching. Papa snatched up the fish with his mummified fingers. He gave it a look over — left, right — peeled out the hook and tossed it back. *Plunk.* “Too small still.” “Oh,” the boy said. He turned back to his massacred worm and impaled another portion on the hook. “Could I sit for a spell?” Papa asked. The boy nodded and lanced another cast in the center of the pond. Papa pulled a cigarette from his pocket and fought the lighter for a while before he got it lit. “Listen: I could of done you better than I did earlier. I turned the air blue and probably scared you something awful. I’m sorry for that.” “What’s ‘turn the air blue’?” “Means you say words you shouldn’t.” He dragged on his smoke, and the two watched the bobber in silence. “I’m sorry for what I said to you,” Papa said, wreathed in smoke. “It’s okay.” “No it ain’t. You get to be mad if you are. Sometimes folks make you so made you want to…point is: if you still mad at me, it’s okay. I’ll give you your time.” “I’m not mad, Papa.” “Alright, then.” The boy decided he didn’t like the cast and set another beside the waterlogged birch trunk where he snagged it yesterday. “Anna Lee told me she drowned in this pond.” “That’s true.” “How’d she drown?” “She was out here — about your age — and she couldn’t swim yet. I told her the same thing my mother said: haints get trapped up in this pond and they snag you.” “What’s a haint?” “It’s a kind of ghost that haunts the land. That’s how come we paint porches blue — haint blue. Scares them away.” The boy turned his reel, and it chirped like a katydid. “I don’t think it works,” he said. “Well I ain’t finished it yet. Might be you see a haint or two until I do.” Papa smiled a half thing about the shape of a fishhook. The boy lifted his rod and let the sinker set in the mud. “Anyway,” Papa breathed, “It didn’t work: she come out here one day looking for that haint, swimming until she couldn’t swim no more. Must of caught a snag somewhere…” Papa was so sad when he was angry. He cleared his through and continued. “She was blue and lifeless as a stone when I found her. I dragged her out and…she throwed up half the pond when Jesus gave her back.” Papa stood and pointed at the bobber and said a fish was fixing to bite and to tease him into it. He turned back to his half-finished porch and the boy turned the reel slow. The boy set the hook and hauled the fish onto the dock. He plunged the pocket knife into its vacant face then went to his belly and hung his head over pier, wondering if the haints saw what he did.


As I walk on the way to work today I see a small flower poking up through the sidewalk. For no other reason than a brooding feeling I can’t define, I pluck it from it’s hard-fought home and I begin to reflect on my knowledge of its nature. I know it is a complex machine formed of smaller, much more complex machines known as cells. I know there are different kinds of cells, performing different tasks and forming the different tissues and organs within the plant. I know all of those different cells form from a single cell, a seed, with a single genome, and that the cell is able to form into all those other types of cell by affecting its epigenome, turning genes on and off. And as all of this is carried out with absolute precision by small molecular machines within and without the tiny cells, I know I go to work everyday. I sit down at a desk, or stand behind a cash register, or whatever else, and I complete some repetitive, meaningless task everyday. I consider how I am simply another one of those molecules, completing a simple task, in the larger cell of a business, in the larger tissue of a corporation, in the larger organ of an industry, in the larger system of a country, in the larger organism of humanity. I think about those molecules. How they are built from atoms, which are built of smaller units of positive and negative charge, which are built by even smaller units I don’t know about, but I know there are other people who do. And I know that those people still go to work every day, and work on some slightly more complicated task that some people see as meaningful, and if they are good they might get rewards for giving people like me things to think about on the way to work. I think about those particles I don’t know about, and the natural laws that dictate their actions, and I consider how no matter what those laws may be, they are ultimately arbitrary, and I understand that all of reality is random and impossible, and yet still it impossibly exists. And I know that in spite of my understanding this, I will still go to work tomorrow, and the next day, and chase small, unfulfilling improvements to my quality of life until I die, and I think of how that too seems impossible. I realize that many people complete this impossible task everyday, and wonder how they do it. I know that some people, who are uninformed or confused, are actually able to find meaning in this, and I know they are better off for it, though I wouldn’t trade places now that I know. I ponder how none of this makes sense or has any meaning and I know the only reason I continue this pattern is because I’m afraid of the alternative. I pluck a petal off the flower and watch it fall. I decide that isn’t enough. I pull two more. That’s good, any more would be too many. I drop the flower and feel a little satisfied over leaving my mark on it, and I think about how there are probably distinct biological and neurological reasons that I feel this way, and how all my thoughts and feelings are the result of all those tiny machines moving about in my brain and how it’s all ultimately meaningless. I check my watch and realize I’m going to be late to work again, and I know that I ought to care more, but I also know I can’t.


It has just rained. Not too heavy and not too light either. It was just perfect. I roll the glass of whiskey in my hand and lean back in the chair. A cool breeze tugs and pulls at the fire burning in front of me. There is no noise except for the crackling of the flames. I look up at the night sky filled with stars. I take a sip of the whiskey and I feel it soothe out the fear and ambiguity of the past two months. It’s like the gentle touch of a lover, massaging my knots. Just perfect. “I’m not even going to wait for you to drink”, I say and take another swig. He chuckles, squatting next to the fire, as he plays with the wood. Trying to make the fire perfect. His glass of whiskey stays untouched on the crude table we brought out for the occasion. He is one of my oldest friends. We were schoolmates, college mates and kept in touch for the last fifteen years. He stayed back in Kerala while I explored my options abroad. He married at a young age while I zipped through relationships. He’s a family man while I’m still the eligible rich bachelor. And yet we remain the thickest of friends. Through all the good and the bad. It’s a shame that I’ve returned to Kerala and am yet to have met him. Which is why when he asked if I could come over to have a drink with him (albeit with social distancing) I seized the opportunity and broke the quarantine before you could say Jack Daniels. “You’re sure no one saw you?”, he asks for the umpteenth time. “Oh for fuck’s sake. Yes. Yes. No one saw me. You don’t have to worry about the police” I say in mock irritation. But I get it. He has a family and kids. He doesn’t want them to go into quarantine. Which is why we haven’t even hugged. Which is why he sits a good couple of feet from me. Which is why we are out in the middle of his vast estate and far away from his home. I’m not complaining. This is good. I down my drink and get up to pour another one. It is some really good shit. He makes an observation as I maneuver back to my seat. “You’ve gained weight” I sigh. It seems to be the only thing anyone notices these days. “Yeah … I kinda lost the plot during the lockdown” “Doesn’t seem like you ever had a plot” “Hey. You try being a single man in a lockdown with zero cooking skills. It was either fast food or starve” “They don’t deliver normal healthy food?” “Not as fast as I would like”, I say “And not nearly as tasty” He chuckles again. “This wouldn’t have happened if you were married. Who do you think will marry a pot bellied pervert like you now?” “A girl who likes pot bellied perverts.” We laugh. It’s a little awkward given the space between us but it feels good. Like I’ve come home. My fingers begin to tingle. Man, this whiskey is good. He fiddles with his fingers. “You should have…. You know… gotten married before she…“ It takes me a few seconds before I understand. I nod slowly. He’s talking about my mother. She passed away two years ago. My father had passed five years prior. I have literally no family left except for the few relatives I lost touch with after my mother’s death. “Yeah, I know”, I say “At least she didn’t remember I was single before she died” He looks at me thoughtfully. “How was she … towards the end?” “Alzheimers is a bitch. Everyone romanticizes it by thinking it’s just a disease that messes with your memory. At least that’s what we all think after Thanmaathra. What it doesn’t tell you is how the disease progresses, how my mother would forget to speak, forget to breathe, forget what pain was supposed to mean. It is daunting and she suffered through it. But it is what it is.” I’m surprised to notice I still have tears to shed for her. I thought I was all cried out. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to meet her before she passed”, he says as I wipe my eyes. I laugh. “Yeah that would have been fun to watch. You know … incredible as it is she still remembered to warn me about you … two days before she died”, I say. He frowns. “Really?” I nod and wipe the last of my tears. “It was during her very brief moments of clarity. She looked up at me wide eyed and asked “Are you still friends with Radhakrishnan’s son?’” “What’d you say?” I remember the look in her eyes. “I said no. It … seemed like the right answer at the time.” I stare into the fire. The memory of my mother is fresh in my mind. Her wide eyes as she said those words. *Stay away from him* “She never liked me, did she?”, he asks. *Be a good boy and stay away from him* “I never really understood why”, I reply. “My parents never wanted me to be friends with you. Do you remember how they’d fuss whenever we walked back from school together?” He nods. Which is interesting. I expected him to verbally agree with me. The both of us had never really forgotten how taboo our friendship was for the outside world. It was something we never understood as kids or adults. But when he nods, it feels like he’s finally understood. I sip at the whiskey again. My toes have begun to tingle. My body is extremely relaxed now. I look over at him and notice that he is still fiddling with the wood. His drink remains untouched. “You're not drinking”, I say and follow it up with “Wow. I don’t drink like I used to. I’m already slurring” He stokes the fire with a smile. “She was just looking out for you”, he says. “My mother? What was she looking out for?” I ask. “She always called me Radhakrishnan’s son?” “Always”, I reply. He nods and finally sits on his chair. His eyes remain fixed on the fire. “What have you heard? About my family I mean?”, he asks. I tilt my head, trying to recollect. “The normal stuff. Your family is one of the oldest to have settled here. All this land was once the property of an influential and rich Brahmin family. They fell into disgrace and your ancestors bought them out.” “Go on”, he prompts me for further details. “That’s all I know” He throws his head back and laughs into the night sky. “BULL CRAP!” he exclaims. “You know more than that for sure. After all these years you still don’t have the balls to say it to my face!” I grin sheepishly. “Your family is cursed or so they say.” “There you go!” He smiles “Cursed by the Brahmin family. You know what? In all reality - we just could have been.” “Oh please. Don’t tell me you believe that!” “I’m serious! They would have cursed us publicly when my ancestors took possession. I’m not saying that the curse is real but it would certainly explain the ill reputation we’ve had all along!”, he explains in a matter-of-fact tone. “Any calamity that befell us was explained away by the “curse” despite a purely logical explanation” This is clearly a rant he’s been holding in for quite a while. I make a pathetic attempt to calm him down “It’s fine! Just ignore it all” “That’s easy for you to say. You are not the one who’s been ostracized. No, don't give me that look. That’s exactly what we are. Ostracized. They may talk to us but it is always just formal talk. We are not welcome to marriages, house-warmings or any social events. We have no visitors over and no one spends the night with us. We have done nothing wrong and yet we are shunned. For what? A stupid curse that may or may not have happened. Oh, if only they knew …” “If only they knew what?” He looks at me with a wicked smile. “You want to know why your mother would only address me as Radhakrishnan’s son? An associate of my father disappeared nearly 35 years ago. Around the time I was born. The people here have always made up stories which made him look like the killer.” I nod slowly. “Yeah, I’ve heard some”. I raise the glass to drink again. Real good stuff. “That and well…”, I trail off. He cocks an eyebrow at me as though asking a question. Something tells me he knows the answer. “Well” I say and frown. “Oh you mean that well there?” He points to the well several feet behind me. “My my … you do know a lot more stories than you let on” My neck is tingling. That’s weird. I’ve had these tingling sensations while drinking before but they were always reserved for the arms and legs. Never for the neck. I turn my neck but the tingling makes it difficult somehow. I’m barely able to before I give up. I’ll try again. “That’s where they think his body is. Some people tried to bring in a court order and have the well dug up. In some ways, I wish they had dug it up. People would have known the truth one way or the other” he says. I try turning again. Nope. Weird. Maybe this is some sort of muscle relaxant based alcohol or did he give me a roofie ? Why would he slip me a roofie? *Stay away from him* His drink is untouched. “Why drink?” I ask and frown again “Careful” he says softly “You’re beginning to drop words” “Wha-?”, I ask. I’m beginning to sweat. I hear a faint ripple of water behind me. Like a stone falling into a well. The well. “Wha-you-do?”, I ask desperately. “The truth of the matter is … We are not cursed. We are haunted. We’ve been haunted for centuries and it has driven us to the ends of our sanity” I’ve discovered that I cannot move. And my tongue is increasingly numb by the second. My body is relaxed. Like an anaesthetic has been applied. I begin to lose every sense of touch I have … except for the rising panic in my mind. More sounds from the well. I cannot turn to look. But it sounds like someone is moving behind me. “There’s a woman in the well.” he says. I look at him wide-eyed. What did he just say? What is he talking about? “My family has known about her ever since we bought this land. We don’t know her story but we know she exists.” Movement behind me. Echoes from inside the well. Something … climbing. Making its way to the top. A woman? No no no. Shared hysteria ? Mass mania? My mind races to explain this sudden lack of reality. Why am I stuck here? Why can’t I move? And what the fuck is coming out of that well ?!? *Stay away from him* “She was a remnant from the previous owners of the property. Or the owners before them. She’s been here for as long as the well I guess” The echoes grow softer. Whatever is making the noise is near the top. Please. Please. Let this be a dream. Let me wake up now. “We had to make some sacrifices before we learned that she was hungry. I’ve heard from my grandmother that she’d always hunt a family member and then disappear for a generation. One full grown adult would last her 35 years.” I hear the crunching of wet leaves. Something is walking towards us. Please, please let it be anything except a hungry woman from a well. “You know I’d almost lost hope. I was certain my father was the only one who’d been able to break the cycle. For the first time in centuries, a member of my family wasn’t served on a silver platter to her. He gave me the recipe for the paralyzing agent and I was ready to find some unsuspecting sorry son of a bitch I could sacrifice. But the lockdown was extended and with no one out and about - I didn’t know how I was going to pull it off.” He looks up at me with a beaming smile. The feet are closer now. I strain to see what horror lurks behind me. “And then you come along. Like a knight in shining armor. You are my best friend. But you have nothing to live for. I’d have some guilt if you had a family left but you don’t. It’s just perfect!” “Ffffoooookk y … y ...y”, I struggle but my tongue refuses. He gets up and pulls a wooden log out of the pile. Without a base piece of wood the fire begins to burn down. “My father told me that the agent in your drink makes it painless and I hope he was right. Truth is … I don’t know. She will eat you. I don’t know if she will kill you before or if she’ll eat you alive. Just pray that it’ll be over soon” He looks up and I see fear in his eyes. The last of the fire dies away. I look up at the star lit sky. It was perfect just minutes ago. Now it is a nightmare I am dying to wake up from. “I’m sorry but I have to leave now”, he says as he backs away. “I really don’t want to know what she looks like” He turns his back towards me. I scream furiously in my head. *Be a good boy and stay away from him Out of the corner of my eye I see a pale, thin hand gingerly feel its way over my forearm. Long claws and grotesque skin clinging onto its bony fingers as it digs into my shoulder. My eyes widen in their sockets as I learn that the paralyzing agent does not shut off pain. The hand pulls me out of the chair in one swift, violent and inhuman move. I stare up at the stars through my tears of fear and insanity. I hear my best friend’s voice one last time before I’m dragged into the darkness. “All yours.


To my future self, Marisol I don't know how the future came out for us. I hope it came out great. I hope you are having a lot of good times. We had great times during our younger years. I hope the future turned out better fo us, better than the past. Remembering the past is easy and I sure do hope you remember our past. Remember all the good times we had. The summers we spent with our family and friends. The vacations we took. Remember even the bad times. The lost friends, the lost family members, the lost jobs. Writing this letter, I don't want to dwell on the bad times, but reflect on the good times. What I want to take away from this letter is how good of a life we led, but OI also want you or should I say me, to take away from this letter is the times we lived in. There was good times in this country filled with people ready to fight for what they believed in, but also this country was filled with people who wanted to take away everything people like us fought for. I hope, I pray we lived long enough to see our grandchildren and great grandchildren grow up to be amazing people filled with beliefs just as strong as ours and I hope that you will read this letter to them so they can know who their grandmother was. So, I want to begin this letter with who we are as a person with our strong beliefs in humanity. Do you remember everything we fought for? All the causes we were apart of? We fought for amazing things. To change the world just like the people who came before us. Our most passionate cause fighting for the rights of the LGBTQ community. Do you remember how tirelessly we fought for their rights to get healthcare, the right to get married and the right to get a job? Marisol, that was the best time we ever had, meeting so many wonderful people, making life long friends, changing the world and I hope we are still friends with Kay and Zavier. Kay and Zavier, wow, they were just as passionate as we were. I smile and laugh at all the times we had protesting and the sleepless nights we spent coming up with new ideas. Do you remember another cause we fought so passionately about? We fought so hard for our government to ensure our streets were safe and our children were safe to walk the streets without fear of being shot. Gun Control was one of those causes where it was hard to get things done, we never gave up the fight. I hope Marisol that in whatever time you are reading this letter that  Gun Control is indeed stricter, that the streets are safe and our kids are safe. We fought for a lot of amazing causes and I hope you are continuing the fight in the future and show the future generations to never give up and always fight for what they believe in. Next thing I want to write about is our family and friends. The fun times we had. What great times we had with our family. Mom cooking in the kitchen, singing so badly we had to put cotton balls in our ears. Us Marisol, dad, Molly, Summer and Chase laughed at mom's singing. Mom joined in and started laughing. This was the best part of our family. We sit down, eat dinner and laugh at ourselves. Dad, he was just the most incredible father. He always supported us in whatever we wanted to do. Do you remember the time we told dad about joining in the fight for social justice? He told us "The world couldn't ask for a better person to join the fight." We cried tears of happiness. Mom was just as supportive as dad. I hope Marisol that you are telling our grandchildren about their great grandparents. Molly, Summer, and Chase, what can I say about them? The best brother and sisters anyone can ask for. We had crazy times together. We did crazy things together. Remember when we put itching powder in the cheerleaders clothes or when we super glued the principle to his chair. Those were great times, fun times. I miss our younger years, but I know we grew up to be incredible people. I hope when you are reading this letter that Molly, Summer and Chase are with you still getting into all kinds of trouble. The summer vacations we took were outrageous. Our mother once told us "You four kids are going to give me a heart attack doing all these crazy things." Molly told mom "If we stopped doing these crazy things, we will live boring lives and be boring people." Mom just laughed. So, we went on doing crazy things. Mom and dad went with us. Although they didn't come with us our crazy adventures, they were happy to be together and with us. Our best friends Blake, Asher, Alyssa, and Claire always came with us. We went white water rafting, rock climbing and so many other cray things. Alyssa and Claire our oldest and closes friends. We grew up together in the same neighborhood, went to the same school all the way through high school. I hope we kept in touch and are still the very best of friends in the future. Blake and Asher's friendship came about in the worst way you can imagine. Do you remember how? Chase, our younger brother was being bullied. Us Marisol, Molly, and Summer never knew chase was being bullied until the day Blake and Asher came to Chase's rescue. It was after school we were walking outside of the building when we saw a large crowd cheering and yelling. Marisol, we didn't know what was going so we along with Molly, Summer, Alyssa and Claire went to go see what was happening and to our horror there was Chase surround by the school bullies. Those school bullies shall not be named in my letter. We tried to cut through the crowd. So did Molly, Summer, Alyssa and Claire, but we couldn't get through. That is when we heard two voices yelling at the bullies to stop. Then the crowd stopped cheering and yelling and we were able to get to chase. Chase was on the ground bleeding and in tears. Blake and Asher ran the bullies and the crowd off. Blake and Asher introduce themselves to us and told us "Chase will be protected. No one will ever mess with him again." Blake and Asher were true heroes and I hope they continued to be the heroes I know they are in the future. Chase being bullied is one of those bad times I don't like to remember. What else can I write in this letter that you don't already know? We were great Marisol. We had a great family and great friends. We had a great life. This letter is not just a reflection of our life, but a testament to who we are as a person and whoever we share our life with will know how strong and fearless we are. Never stop believing in yourself. Continues to do great things and continue to change the world. Always remember never give up the fight. From Marisol in the past to Marisol in the future. Always forever.


Every year, in the third Lunar month, Vietnamese flock to cemeteries on the occasion called “Thanh minh” period. Seldom do they leave modern life for traditional values like this occasion or Tet holidays. It is the day for people to remember their relatives who were living in the world of the dead. Everybody of every age visits graves. You can see old men with snow-white hair and bent back. You can also see naive kids who know nothing about the meaning of this day. The only thing they know is that they are visiting a surreal world which seems to be painted by an illusory color. Whatever their age, people all come here in peaceful mood since the pain if exists has been blurred by time. However, on a day like that, there was a young man visiting the city cemetery with a gloomy face. He came alone. In the cemetery that afternoon, among numerous families with four people or more, he was the only one coming alone… He stepped to a grave, then stood still, gazing at the photo on the gravestone. It was the photo of a very young girl. She was nineteen. Her smile in the photo was so happy and lively that he almost believed that she was still alive. Perhaps she was still existing, just living in a far far away world that he did not know. When she took that photo, she did not realize that it would be the photo on her gravestone. Nineteen years old, she was too young to think about death. Her life just started. The most beautiful days of the youth were waiting for her ahead. But she was gone. She was gone forever at the age of nineteen. She would never ever step to the age of twenty… He put some lilies, her favorite flower, into the gravestone vase, thinking how much she resembled the lilies; pure, and inducing a calm happiness in the hearts of the people she touched. But also like the flower only blooming in April, her life was so short. After putting the flowers into the vase, he burnt incense for her with his lighter. The incense smoke was spiraling up. He drew his cellphone from the pants pocket, pushing buttons for a while, then putting it on her grave. From the cellphone rang the melody of her favorite song: And then we promised we would come back Tomorrow like the two friends A day to forget everything and miss each other again… The emotive voice of the singer made him burst into tears. So close was the day she leaned her head on his shoulder and listened to that song with him. He caressed her hair. The smell of her perfume was still vivid in his mind. But now she became the girl from yesterday. It seems to stay the same, you won’t come back I won’t never ever be young again The stream of time flew like a shooting star In the moment it passed across us… He turned his head up to look at her photo. Her smile suddenly became more radiant than ever. It had never fainted in his mind. The smile was like a sunshine erasing dark clouds of his life. “Why did you smile?” asked him. “I recalled the first time we met,” she giggled. “I still remember that day,” he said. “You spilled coffee on my shirt. And it was the brand new one” “Oh, you are so ridiculous. Now you blame me. Meanwhile that day you smiled and said it’s not a big deal” “Because you said sorry a hundred times and offered to wash my shirt. And I don’t want people think I’m not gallant. By the way, your face looked so funny” “Less funny than yours. Every time you arrived at my café, you came alone, sitting at the table next to the window and contemplating clouds in the sky” “Do you know that I don’t like that café at all. Rap and hip-hop music all the time, bad coffee and poor design” “So why did you come there so many times?” she asked. “Because of you,” he shrugged. “How come you’ve never told me that?” “I’ve just told you.” “But now I’m dead,” she said with her eyes turned blue. “No, you’re not. If you were dead, so why could you talk to me?” “But…” she spoke with a halt. “What?” “When you don’t love me anymore, I won’t be able to talk to you…” “Don’t worry. I will love you until my last breath.” he said eloquently. “Or until you love someone else,” she continued. “I won’t love anyone else but you” “You… You should forget me” “Why? …Why?” he said, surprised. “You don’t love me anymore, do you?” She choked with emotion. Teardrops rolled down her cheeks. He hugged her as consolation. But it was strange that he could not touch her. “See! You want to hug me but you can’t hug, you enjoy fondling my hair but you can’t touch. If you love me, the only thing you’ll get is pain. Please forget me. You have such a long road ahead. You will meet a girl who is even better than me. Please live the good life, I’ll always pray for you” He intended to say something but someone suddenly interrupted. “Hey you!” He was startled into opening his eyes. “Are you okay?” asked the strange man. “What do you mean?” said him confusedly. “Oh, thank God!” the cemetery watcher exclaimed. “You’re okay. I passed by and saw you lying on the ground.” Afterwards, the cemetery watcher left. There was only the young man with the song “The girl from yesterday”. He did not know how many times it was repeated. He meditated and found out that he had been in a dream, in which she had come to see him. He regretted that he could not stay with her longer. However, he seemed to be less melancholy. He took bunches of joss paper from his bag and burnt them so that she could spend them in the underworld. The fire blazed up violently. He watched the fire and felt his heart warmer. Joss paper gradually turned into ash and dust. Last pieces of joss paper rolled in the air and floated to the sky until they disappeared. When everything was burnt out, he went away.  A year later, on the same occasion, he visited her again. But this time, he did not come alone but with a young lady. His face was not gloomy like a year before. He had found his happiness. “She is beautiful,” the young lady remarked. “Right, very beautiful,” he said. He burnt the incense and whispered to the girl in the underworld: “I did exactly what you told me. I’ve lived a good life and found a girl who make me happy. Today I took her here to see you. Are you happy now?” A strong wind suddenly came by. And in the sound of leaves rustling, he seemed to hear her giggle…


's prompt: I closed my eyes, opened them, and closed them again. Then I felt her presence. “Death,” I said, sounding like I was greeting an old friend. I suppose in a way she was an old friend. While we were never personally close, she was always in my shadow. Couldn’t have War without Death after all. After every battle, conquest, loss, and victory, she was there, collecting from both sides. “War,” she said, using my old name, “so it really is you. I heard the rumors, but I wasn’t sure until now. You really did it, you gave up godhood.” I nodded, too weak to even verbally respond anymore. It seems that Disease was doing a good job at killing me. He always was good at that. He had a lot of experience killing regular mortals, but today was a special occasion. Today was the first time a god would die. A former god, but still, I imagine it caused a stir among the immortals. Death pulled up a chair- which was never in the room before she needed a seat- and sat in it. She stared at me, searching for something in my face. What was she searching for? Traces of my godhood? Or something else? After a couple minutes of silence and her intense stare, she finally asked it, what they all eventually ask. “Why did you do it?” I didn’t know how to respond. It’s not as if I didn’t have a response ready, I did. I just wasn’t sure if it would be good enough for her. How does anyone explain Death to herself? Even Disease- who was no stranger to Death- seemed at a loss when he found me. Since he knew me, he told me what was going to happen and how long I had left. And despite being so familiar with the process, he had a strange look on his face. Humans seem to think that we’re supposed to know a lot about what happens after, but how should we? We never die, the closest we get to dying is fading away. But even then that never lasts long, we always come back. After thinking about it, I decided that the truth was the best I could offer her. “I was curious,” I said honestly. “Curious?” she asked, not sure whether she should take that as a joke. “Yes, curious. Do you know how many people I’ve seen- what am saying, of course you know. Anyway, I’ve seen countless people die. Men shot by arrows, women crushed by tanks, children blown up by bombs. And as they died, I couldn’t help but feel pity for the mortals. Yes, their battles were my reason for existing, but I still didn’t enjoy their pain and suffering.” I coughed and worried that I would die before I could finish what I had to say. But then I remembered who I was talking to. Why did I keep forgetting her? What she was? Maybe mortals weren’t made to understand us, not truly. I continued. “But then one day it hit me. Why did I feel sorry for them?” Death gave it some thought. “Because they fear it?” she suggested. “But why? What is there to fear? Plenty of them aren’t sure what comes after they die, and neither are we. So why were they so afraid and why did I feel sorry for them?” Death didn’t have anything to say to that. “Well, one day I decided to find out myself,” I said. “I decided that I was going to find out what came after… well, you. So I found someone else to take my place, and here I am.” “A replacement, that does explain it,” she said while nodding. “I kept seeing you even though you supposedly gave up your godhood. Who is that man in your place?” “A coward. I hoped that having a coward become the next War would make it more difficult for the humans to kill each other. Apparently, I was wrong.” We both chuckled at that. It hurt to laugh, but pain wasn’t going to be a problem soon enough. Death looked me in the eyes, and I could tell that she was going to ask the other question they all ask. “Do you regret it?” “Regret it?” I repeated. “I don’t know, I guess I won’t know until it happens.” I closed my eyes, opened them, and closed them again. Then her presence was the only thing I could feel. \*\*\* Hundreds of years later, I was on the beach, lying on the sand and listening to the ocean. Then I felt a familiar presence, and saw her walking towards me. She wore a black sundress. She smiled. “I decided to take your advice.” I smiled back at her.


I know it’s not ideal, but we have to be smart about this. It’s crisis time – the family is on the line here, Sarah.” The ball smacked the pavement with a noise like a gunshot, neon yellow fuzz fusing with the green paint of the court for a millisecond before bursting apart. It was a good shot, and Evan obviously expected her to let it go, but she’d been practicing her game and was able to counter with a pretty good backhand, sending it back over the net, where it bounced once, then twice against the court before landing neatly in a shrub. It was a Tuesday afternoon and the club was a trickle. A few mothers with their toddlers lounged at the pool and a slow stream of regular seniors, ears pressed low to the ground for gossip, haunted the tables around the bar. The courts were near-deserted save a rather haphazard game between an aging CEO and the sallow-faced son he was (unsuccessfully, if the chatterers were to believe) trying to groom.

They weren’t exactly close by, but still Evan kept his voice low People were already talking enough.

He made no move to chase the ball. There was always a pile handy, and he tossed one to Sarah with an attempt at a smile. “Your serve.” As Sarah lined up, bouncing the ball a few times in warm up, her brother continued. “I know it’s not ideal,” he repeated, in the familiar tone of one politely scolding a wayward child. She lobbed the ball over the net and he sent it back easily,

“and dad is torn up about the way it’s all turning out, believe me.” His return was further to the right than she expected. It soared over the next court. She grabbed another. At 32, Evan was still more than 12 years Sarah’s senior, and this was the first time she had spent time with him alone in -well- ever maybe. The age gap had proven just one of many insurmountable obstacles to the pair’s sibling bond. She found him cold and manipulative (not unlike most of their family) and the lot of them thought her flighty and emotional. It was well into August and the sun was high and hot, it beat on the back of Sarah’s neck beneath her swinging ponytail. She set up for the next serve, determinedly not meeting her brother’s eye, though he was just as insistent at trying to catch hers. “Everyone’s been beside themselves, not being able to reach you.” “It’s your serve.” Evan was exasperated, but a furtive glance at the CEO and his son was enough to keep the game moving. A man used to people jumping at his every command, she could tell her lack of proper and respectful response was grating on him. For a few moments, they played in silence, listening to the sound of the revelers across the expanse of courts and the hollow sound of ball hitting pavement.

He was here to find her, she knew. She’d been dodging her family’s calls and texts since the news broke, and the pitch of their desperation was steadily climbing. They’d known little about her life since she moved out, which luckily precluded them from showing up unannounced, but she’d kept the same tennis lesson every Tuesday since she was 11. When she’d finished up today, Evan had been waiting for her.

She’d considered ducking out the back side –it wasn’t too difficult to make it over the shrubs if one was diligent- but then she couldn’t claim that she wasn’t avoiding them. A heart to heart -or whatever her family had in mind- was far from appealing either however.

At first he’d insisted she come back to the house and she’d begged off, claiming an urgent appointment. The decision to start playing had been unspoken. Both knew the value of the game. She could have walked away. No one would have stopped her. But part of her had to know-

Evan managed to swallow her silence, plowing on ahead unacknowledged, “We need to meet. All of us – and soon. Later tonight, if you’re available. It’s vital we get the details in order before things move forward. A group of workers, dressed all in pressed white, scurried by, collecting balls and old towels and offering fresh hot ones and iced drinks on trays rimmed with fruit as replacements. The pair lapsed into silence until after Evan had waved them away.

Sarah was grateful for the time to think. Details in order? For the first time, she was off balance. “But I don’t know anything,” she blurted, low and fast, incredulous. This was true. As the accidental baby of the family by almost a decade, she had been alternatively doted upon, dismissed, and abused, but certainly never trusted with anything serious.

The father and son had left, slouching in mutual disappointment, to be replaced by two women in their late middle-age with matching severe haircuts in shades that were not quite silver.

“I know that,” Evan snarked, but immediately rearranged his features. He wanted something from her, she was sure of it now. She just didn’t know what. He was nothing if not cunning, however, and he wouldn’t risk it -whatever it was he wanted- by angering her. On some rare occasions, her reputation for a hair-trigger temper came in handy. “I know that,” once again with the repetition, his voice silk smooth, “you don’t need to.” He served with practiced nonchalance and they volleyed a few times. From the curious glances they were getting from the new arrivals, she guessed they’d noticed with whom they were sharing a court.

But she was starting to get exasperated. An inkling of what game they were playing was forming, and it made her sick to her stomach. “Then why are you here? Why does it matter what my story is?” She thought he was here to tell her -maybe to warn her-. She should have known better.

Evan was watching the eyes of their companions just as much as he was watching the ball. Sarah scored two more times. The naughty-child voice was back, “It doesn’t matter what you know, Sarah. It matters what you’ll say. Katie was subpoenaed last week and…” She smacked the ball, hard, in a move that did nothing for the game, but did succeed in again drawing the attention of the ladies across. Evan waved them away with a smile but his teeth were clenched.

It was her serve again. The ball soared over the net.

“You want me to lie.” This one was straight down the center and Evan followed up easily. He was trying to retain his composure, but the effort was starting to look strained, ugly. The ball hit the net, and instead of retrieving it she tossed her racket to the ground, where it landed loudly, and went to take a sip of water. She considered walking away, but her curiosity was still getting the better of her.

He waited while she took several long sips, particularly as the two ladies were now as many owls, head constantly on the swivel to watch them. “Sarah- this is serious,” his whisper was a hiss, “if this, goes wrong – it could be the end of all of us.” He paused to take several deep, steadying breaths, “you don’t want Dad to go to jail, do you?” For many long moments, Sarah said nothing.

“Is it true?” The question hung in the air for some time. He did not answer at first, either, the ladies were watching, talking loudly between wide-brimmed hats. Just like everything in her life, she hadn’t wanted to believe it at first- had argued and fought, certain the news was wrong.

But in the silence Evan was losing his cool. His next words were icy, “What the hell does it matter if it’s true? This is business Sarah – and our family.” She let a ball bounce by her and didn’t move to grab another. “But people died, Evan.” His voice was blank, “People die every fucking day, Sarah.” “Yeah, but we didn’t kill them!” All pretense of the game was dropped now. Evan tossed down his racket and went for his water bottle. The last of hers had been loud and the two ladies had also abandoned their game to watch as the pair as though spectators in a sporting event.

Her brother’s regard for them was cold, but their attention instantly put him back together. “I can see you’re obviously not mature enough to handle this like an adult. Dad will be in touch to try to get you to see reason.” As collected her windbreaker and the case for her own racket, the man was already walking away from her. But there was one more thing she had to know, “And Brandon?” she called after him.

The look Evan gave her, turning back, was solid steel, “Brandon will do what it takes to protect the family.” Something, slowly, was dawning on her. He was almost out of earshot.

“You’re…,” her voice was low, pained, but he caught it anyway “This was… this was the plan.” It caught in her throat, “You’re going to let him take the fall.” Evan turned back to give her one last look, cold as steel.  “Brandon will do what it takes to protect the family – it’s a lesson you’d do well to learn” Evan waved at the ladies as he passed, all politician’s smile once again..

Sarah slowly and carefully collected her own things, rubbing her racket down with a towel and then zipping it into its case.

As she drove home that night, in a car that wasn’t hers to a life bought and paid for,

it would be with the overwhelming feeling of threads coming apart. But maybe, just maybe, that meant one day she would be free.