Linoleum: A Tale of Loss and Madness Bob’s eyes flickered ceaselessly around the small room, seeming to fall everywhere at once, everywhere except for the wall they avoided. He smoked and paced, never still, exhaling reinforcement into the smoke-filled room. Bob’s hand shook, it usually did. The pitching cherry caught his eye, a drunken firefly in the haze. Bob’s eyes stilled, as he caught the rhythm of his hand’s dance, then with earnestness, he took the lead. His hand blurred, penning a disappearing masterwork in the air, the cigarette burning down towards the callous. He moved frantically, he saw it all coming together, it was— Bob yelped in pain and outrage, hurling the butt, and sucking his fingers, as the manuscript faded into nothing. He yelled hoarsely in frustration; he shook, a bull considering a charge then, stopped. The only other occupant was an old dog, asleep in the corner. In a display of nonchalance, that his jerking eyes called a lie, he pulled another cigarette from the crumpled pack. He aimed the pack back to his pocket, but his shaking hand missed, and Bob watched the pack fall to the dirty linoleum with a frown. He sighed, let the cigarette and resumed his pacing. “Possessions never meant anything to me.” Bob declared. The dog snuffled in his sleep. “I’m not crazy!” Bob exclaimed over his shoulder, more forcefully than the unasked question warranted. The dog looked up in sleepy confusion. Bob draped him with a glare, then waved it off with annoyance and plowed into the smoke. It seemed to bristle at his trespass, but was unable to veer from its indifferently welcoming nature. From deep in the haze there was an almost inaudible whisper, “Well, that’s not true.” Emerging from the smoke with new resolve, Bob tried to stick out his index finger, but stopped half way, realizing it was still in use holding the cigarette and opted for his little finger instead. “I’ve got a bed,” he listed. He added his ring finger to the count, “and a guitar.” Now, he was just holding his hand up in the air. There was a yap from the corner; the old hound had decided to join in, not really interested, but refusing to be left out. “And a dog,” Bob agreed, with a nod of affection to his only companion. Bob tried to add another finger to the list, but wiggling his thumb didn’t seem right, and the rest were all in use. “Named Bob,” he shot at the dog, getting frustrated and stalling for time. Bob the Dog cocked his head slightly, and gave a guttural inquiry as to whose fault that was. The dog being right didn’t improve Bob’s mood, and the finger list situation was deteriorating rapidly. With a growl of frustration, Bob hurled his cigarette at Bob the Dog, it sailed wide and the dog pretended not to notice. Bob shook himself out and changed gears, he looked down at his free hands with determination. He wiggled his fingers and cracked his knuckles with a victorious laugh and…still couldn’t achieve the dexterity to hold up three fingers and keep two down. Bob deflected his frustrations back at Bob the Dog, pointing at the floor in accusation. “Who pisses on my floor! “, he accused, pointing, till his scowl turned to a lecherous grin. “That’s right,” he screamed in triumph, “I’ve got a floor”. He fell to his knees on the grimy linoleum holding up his four outstretched fingers, and kissed the floor in victory. Bob the Dog gave a disgusted snort, and began licking his asshole. “So, what?” Bob threw at the dog, “So, what!” Bob the Dog looked up from his grooming, and skeptically waited for a point. “So, what…”, Bob seemed to be out of ideas. “I’ve got pockets?” he tried. “Full of ….” Reaching into his right pocket for a lifeline, he found, “…Kleenex,”. Shit, but he had another chance. “And…,“ Bob reached deep into his left pocket and found nothing but his leg. The bottom was broken through. He pulled his hand out, releasing a galaxy of dust that floated, alive for a moment, and then sunk down towards oblivion. Bob tried to find a meaning, “Lint?” he said, feeling there should have been more. Bob the Dog the Dog stood up, circled once and flopped back into the same position. The dog glanced back at Bob sadly and then closed his eyes. Shit, he’d thought he had more than that, but he had nothing, nothing but… “Holes.” Bob whispered. He looked down at the muddy, stained, indistinguishably colored linoleum and saw the fallen pack of cigarettes. His eyes stilled, as he seemed to try out a thought. He started slowly, like he was sounding out the words, “Where everything important to me just…”, then gained some long-buried confidence, “seems to fall right down my leg.” Bob stopped, and looked down, the crumpled softpack waiting lonely below. “And onto the floor?” he tried, uncertainly. That wasn’t right, something there; but he was losing it. Bob the Dog’s chest rose and fell peacefully, snuffling softly, still, it was Bob’s only chance. “My closest friend?”, he implored. Bob the Dog snorted groggily, looked up and met Bob’s eye. Bob was pulled into the dogs mind, some senses expanding so far, others, nearly gone. He was content, and as he accepted his place he began to feel the symphony of life and death that was forever playing all around; beautiful, sad, deranged; it was everything that was and would be, and every being that lived had a part the song. Bob fell back into himself, it was like jumping from bed into a frozen lake. The symphony and comfort were gone. Tears filled Bob’s eyes. Bob the Dog farted. Bob gaped up in disgust and was met by a big shit-eating grin. The Dog’s point now seemingly proven, he turned in a circle, and peacefully melted down to a blob on the floor. Bob looked down. “Linoleum…” He turned in his circle and then lay down into the floor. “Linoleum,” he whispered. His head drooped and his cheek joined with the floor, in cool comfort. “Supports my head. Gives me something to believe.” Bob’s eyes closed, the floor was warm. He slept and dreamed, or maybe just remembered. He was a young man meandering happily down the water’s edge, holding a cheap metal detector in one hand and a brown bagged bottle in the other. Smiling, enjoying the day, oblivious to the glares of the surrounding people. “That’s me,” laughed Bob. He was so young, in his prime and loving. He was singing, and Bob sang along with himself. “On the beachfront, combing the sand, metal meter, in my hand…” Young Bob trailed off. He never had figured out the end. He roamed on up the beach, stooping occasionally to pick up a few coins and deposit them in his worn khaki cargo pants. “Sporting a pocket full of change”, Bob sang softly, finishing the tune. That sounded alright, or maybe it was shit. He dug his toe into sand and felt warm linoleum just below the surface. He looked down and was standing on cement. Bob was older now, the world had tried to wear him down, he was beaten, but still had the spirit of the boy on the beach hidden underneath. Bob’s face lit with a sad wistful smile, “That’s me on the street with a violin under my chin, playing with a grin.” He’d loved to play the violin, these were his most peaceful memories. Bob closed his eyes and listened for the tune. His smile wilted as the grating screeches of music and incoherent lyrics resolved. People shied back. “Singing gibberish.” All his strings were broken. Security moving in. Bob squeezed his eyes shut, trying to wake. He didn’t. He was restrained. His last moments of freedom. “That’s me on the back of the bus.” Bob was back in the smoky room. In front of him the door, on the wall he didn’t look at, opened. Inside was a white room with no sharp corners, a single prisoner inside. “That’s me in the cell.” Bob met his eyes, and both pairs stilled. Bob In The Cell lay down, softly repeating a mantra. “That’s me inside your head.” “That’s me inside your head.” “That’s me inside your head.” Bob closed the door.


Joanna sped down a streetlight-less stretch of New Jersey highway at 90 MPH, her car furiously rattling and shaking, thinking about how terrified she had always been of highways. For some reason driving on the highway at night felt like being in the middle of the ocean, no place to stop, no markers, just an endless stretch of asphalt, your only protection the tiny bubble of light from your headlights--then suddenly, as if the universe had heard her thoughts, the trees receded on both sides of the road to reveal a massive, near-endless graveyard, split in two by the expressway she barrelled down. Joanna shook her head and looked out at the graveyard, which stretched out all around her and the road like an ocean of grass and stone. She had driven this road hundreds of times--albeit not at this time of night, and not under these circumstances--and she did not remember there being a graveyard here. Especially not of this size. She couldn’t stop her attention from leaving the road and going to the undulating, multiplying rows of headstones, mausoleums, and towering memorial stones, completely dumbfounded. A sudden bright light brought her attention back to the road, and she looked at her speedometer and saw she was going 105, and then the bright light, which belonged to a 2004 Nissan Sentra LE, smashed into the front of her car with enough force to crumple up her hood and throw her into a world of pain and chaos. Some people say that during traumatic events the brain records memories in snapshots. Here are the photos Joanna’s brain took as the metal behemoth she was trapped inside flew through the air: A woman’s face, for a fraction of a second, screaming behind the wheel of her car, seen between the gaps in her fingers in front of her face in a futile gesture of protection. Dollar bills, frozen in the air, flying in every direction like confetti. Her airbag deploying, looking like some sort of phantom racing towards her at light speed, its white nylon body obscuring everything else for a split second. The graveyard, seen perfectly upside down through a shattered window, the spires and bodies of headstones reaching up towards the moonlit sky. The exact moment her nose broke. She was sort of proud that she didn’t close her eyes immediately when the ceiling smashed her face, but then the car flipped and her head flung forwards into the airbag, then back into the ceiling and finally her brain decided to stop taking pictures and pass out instead. “Hey! Hey! Are you awake? Are you okay?” Joanna slowly opened her eyes to see a kind of scrawny, untrustworthy-looking girl with an overly-pierced, angular face and lurid, painfully-bleached hair, her face cut and bruised but looking otherwise okay. Joanna felt blood pouring down her face and she realized her car was upside-down. She had no idea how she was possibly alive. She was sure that any sort of impact over a hundred miles an hour was guaranteed lethal. “Are you okay? I’m sorry--I didn’t see you--you were driving so fast and I guess I was too--the graveyard freaked me out so bad I was like, losin’ it--I’m usually good with like, horror and stuff but I’ve never seen this graveyard before--sorry, I’m rambling--are you okay?” “Yeah. I’m fine.” Joanna dragged herself out from under the crumpled steering wheel-airbag jumble. Somehow the steering column had just missed going straight through her. The girl reached down and grabbed under her arm as Joanna crawled, and together the two of them navigated the constellations of shattered glass on the pavement and dragged Joanna to her feet, wobbling and stumbling. She took a few ragged gulps of the crisp night-time air, leaning heavily on the girl, who held her up quietly. “What’s your name?” “Joanna.” “I’m Talia.” “Nice to meet you.” “...What’s with all these bills everywhere?” Joanna looked at Talia, and in a split second gauged her as not the type to call the cops. She looked at the two flipped cars and the dollar bills littering the road. “I, uh... stole a bunch of money from my ex-boyfriend. His car too.” “Oh--that’s cool. This is my dad’s car...so like, kind of the same thing.” Joanna smiled a little bit and looked at Talia, who stared at her dad’s car, which had compressed by about half. She was actually kind of pretty, Joanna thought. Then Joanna looked out at where the graveyard had been, and realized that it was completely gone, as were the trees, and the only thing that stretched out on either side of them was an infinite, flat, four-lane highway, that reached all the way to the horizon and beyond. Where the graveyard had been there was only darkness, giant curtains of black. And then something spoke, sounding like a chorus of all of the dead together at once, every voice weaving in and out of each other to create a towering, discordant tapestry of sound, what must have been the entire graveyard speaking in harmony. “*Walk with us.”* Talia and Joanna were suddenly surrounded on every side with a teeming parade of the dead, dressed in clothes from every time period, some decomposed, some looking as fresh as them. They walked without a unifying rhythm down the endless stretch of road, weaving around the wreckage of the two stolen cars, some of them picking up dollar bills as they passed and sort of chuckling to themselves, knowing they had no real use for them. There were no streetlights--each of them carried a single flashlight to light their path. Joanna and Talia looked at their feet to see two flashlights, and then Joanna turned to Talia with tears in her eyes. She had thought she was the tougher of the two of them but the question she had to ask caught in her throat and twisted her heart. “Are we dead?” Before Talia had time to answer, the chorus of the dead answered her, this time half-singing, clearly a practiced response to a question that had been asked of them time and time again. Their collective voice rattled the sky, each syllable loaded with the sadness of the forever displaced and the lost. “*This place is for those who have died between* *driving late at night or lost at sea* *Heaven or hell is not for me* *I was nowhere when I died* *So nowhere I’ll be”* The parade fell silent. The only sound was the sound of hundreds of thousands of pairs of shuffling feet, skeleton and human and all the stages in between. Joanna put her head in her hands, and then suddenly picked up her flashlight and whaled it at the ground. It exploded into a mist of glass and plastic. “I’m not walking.” “What?” “I’m not walking. Just because I died nowhere doesn’t mean I have to spend my whole afterlife nowhere.” Talia watched as Joanna ran back to her completely destroyed car and got on her hands and knees. She crawled back in, slicing herself on the glass, and curled up in what was left of the driver’s seat, which was not much at all. Talia followed her and squatted down next to the car. She reached out and tentatively, put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey. It’s not so bad. We could have gone to Hell… and honestly heaven always seemed like too much pressure for me. Always having to worship God and sing his praises and be, like, *stoked* to be in heaven...not for me” Joanna tried to hold back tears. “I don’t want to be dead. I don’t want to have to walk down an endless highway for the rest of eternity. I *hate* the highway.” “I’ll be your friend. I’ll do it with you.” “I don’t even *know* you.” “Well, you’re gonna get to know me. We’re gonna turn into skeletons together--like, literally. Have you seen some of these people?” Talia shut up for a second and let Joanna cry. She wasn’t sure why she was so calm. For some reason being dead almost felt like a relief. One of the skeletons passing by shouted to them in a voice like glass being broken with a brick. “Hey, you guys gotta move! The road disappears behind us--we’re not just walking for fun! If that darkness hits you you’re gone for good!” Talia lightly rubbed Joanna’s shoulder. “C’mon. We gotta move.” “I’m not moving. I’m just gonna let the darkness take me.” “No you’re not. We’re experiencing the miracle of life after death together.” Joanna breathed quietly with her head in her hands for a minute, crumpled up in the former driver’s seat of the car. Talia’s voice floated to her through the quiet dark. “Where were you going, anyway? When you were alive.” “I don’t know. I…didn’t have much of a plan. I was just trying to get away.” “Me too. And guess what? We’re here. We’re somewhere else.” Joanna wiped her tears and looked up at Talia, who looked even stronger and prettier in the strange light of a thousand dead-held flashlights. “I broke my flashlight. I’m not gonna be able to see.” “I got mine. And if we break that one--all we gotta do is walk in a straight line.” Joanna shook her head a little, then let Talia lift her out of the wreckage of the car. The two of them started their eternal walk together, surrounded on every side by lightly bobbing bubbles of light and the quiet chatter of those who had died on their way to somewhere else, even if that somewhere was nowhere at all.


Day 4, Journal Entry 1 Space exploration is the cause. We had to wonder what was out there. We had to venture into the void, and you know what we found, we found fucking ants. Giant fucking ants. You know what we discovered, we discovered that we are not the most ideal species, we are not the top. Ants! Ants are the top. Their bodies are the peak of evolution. All they do is conquer, dig, eat, and breed. Knife proof, gun proof, fire proof, gas proof, plague proof, bomb proof, mother fucking nuke proof, but I never planned for it to be giant ant proof. We have been down in this shelter for four days now, and I know it is only a matter of time before they find us. Their pincers will rip right through this door. I watched as a single ant tore through a tank like scissors through paper. And that was just one, imagine what an army can do. A single ant in all its savage precision destroyed my world. A single scout making a mark to prove the army is on its way. Millions of ants the size of Chevy Tahoe’s ripping through our town destroying our houses, our lives, our memories. I thought I would be safe underground, the superficial attacks of man all take place above ground. Not ants. Ants burrow. Ants mine. Ants dig. And ants will most certainly find us. Food to last for years, and it will all be untouched. And you know my biggest regret, my most disappointing piece of all of this? Is that I always appreciated the animated movie Antz………… this is Woody Allen’s Fault.


The king was only a young prince when war came to his lands. The castle, which was usually bustling with merchants, maids, craftsmen and soldiers, quickly became quiet when the smoky sky of battle appeared on the eastern horizon. The children, the old and the weak were the first to leave. Hurriedly pushed onto carts together with their belongings, they ventured off to find sanctuary elsewhere. The young prince watched his older brothers polish their armour in the empty courtyard. He watched the soldiers bid their spouses farewell, and watched his father pace back and forth in his warroom, beard greying with worry. When the smell of the slain reached the castle the prince understood that soon the time would come for him to leave behind the secure walls of his youth. Even at that age the prince knew what loss meant; he had lost his mother to illness only a winter before. She had left this world too soon, and the prince had not been able to say goodbye. He thought about her and her pale, breathless face as he climbed the winding stairs to his chamber. He had to say goodbye this time. From his tower the prince could overlook the endless fields and pastures, villages and lone farmsteads that were his fathers kingdom. It was nearly summer. In happier days the first sunflowers would be blossoming and turning their bright faces towards the castle. Now the bloody glow of fire turned the clouds red, and the abandoned fields basked in their gloom. With a heavy heart, the prince opened the window and let in the foul air. Then he carefully lifted the fishbowl from his windowsill, and held it close to his chest. With a feeling of relief he beheld the delicate, almost translucent scales his little petfish. They twinkled like silver stars, and seemed to be the only thing around him not yet touched by dread. The little fish lifted his tiny head above the water and looked up at the prince, his lord and friend, wondering about the grieve in his eyes. The prince wondered what words of comfort would ease the pain of their parting. He could think of none. He did not want to poison the mind of his beloved pet with words of war and sorrow. He did not want to think of what he would become when he left. So at last he turned to the little fish and said: ‘It is time you lived among your own kind, my friend. I cannot take care of you anymore. I will not be a child for much longer and I will have other responsibilities soon. I have to leave for a while.’ *When will you be back?* ‘I don’t know,’ the prince said. ‘But I promise I’ll come see you first.’ Then he hesitantly lifted the bowl from his chest, and let its contents spill out of the window, into the channel that surrounded the castle. ‘Be good now and wait for me,’ he whispered as the last glimmer of silver disappeared into the deep dark blue. The prince was gone. So was everyone else. The castle was empty. War ravaged the country. Dark and lonely nights turned into years. Where once sunflowers blossomed, the earth now trembled beneath heavy iron boots. Forests were torn down to light mighty forges, and metal, black with blood, screeched together with the crows that filled the sky. Blood and sorrow watered the wartorn lands, and nothing would grow, leaving the surviving people to turn on each other in their hunger and despair. Even the animals fled. Yet one fish remained, forever waiting in the inky waters surrounding the fallen castle. The scavenging crows called him the guardian, and that he became. More years went by. When there was nothing left to destroy, even war itself left the kingdom. And slowly, very slowly, life started coming back. Small saplings of oaks and ashes broke through the scorched earth, small animals dug holes in the riverbanks, birds and deer followed. The desolate fields where sunflowers had been trembled, became a wild forest. The guardian in the water felt the spirit of the world return and eager he awaited the sound of feet on the castle bridge. Yet none came. Round and round the guardian swam, feeling the channel shrink around his body. There were none like him, creatures of the water fled from him, birds dared not sing anymore when he surfaced. How lonely he was, waiting desperately for a friendly word, a gentle touch. Only at night the world seemed to be friendly again, when the forest went silent and the sky lit up like a tapestry of diamonds. The moon did not fear him, and so the guardian would lift his mighty head above the water to feel her gentle light. His beloved castle had fallen into decay. The roof had collapsed, trees grew through stone and spiders weaved their webs across broken windows. Even the beautiful flowers on the bridge had ruthless roots that ate away at its stone until it too, eventually collapsed. Never more would there be the sound of familiar feet on the castle bridge. And deep in the dark blue waters, the guardian grieved, and waited. *When will you be back?* One day, a great raven came from the north. She had had a long and lonely journey across many a snowy peak and frozen desert. The warm breeze of the southern wind was unfamiliar to her, the green woods strange and unsettling. She loved the cold white silence of its birth, the bitter lands where no cruelty could ever be hidden and no life was sacred, yet she had longed to see the world. And so she arrived and rested on the broken battlement of what was once a mighty castle. How strange it seemed to her, this great stack of stones. What purpose could it serve, what creature might it house? The raven flew and hopped around the castle, but could find nothing but strange southern birds, mice and spiders. Yet in the great hall she came upon a familiar image, the first familiar thing she had encountered in this strange country. On the wall, in dusty disarray, hung a painting with the likeness of a creature the raven knew well. These were the creatures that shrouded themselves in iron and gold, shouted like crows and used pointed sticks to kill one another. The raven knew this creature, it had waged its wars in her homeland too. One of the creatures depicted on the wall particularly struck her memory. It was the tall one, with a greying beard. Had she not seen this creature just days ago, on the northern road? At nightfall the ravens suspicion became truth. From the tallest tower she watched a man arrive at the broken bridge. He was ancient, his hair white as snow, his limbs were thin and his face bore the marks of a hard life. Around his shoulders a purple cloak was draped, the sign of kingship, now faded and threadbare. Yet the man still stood tall, taller even than his father before him, and in his eyes the light had not yet died. The young prince became a soldier at the age of twelve, the very night he left the castle. He saw his father fall in battle that same year, and then he watched his brothers fight and kill each other over the spoils of war. At eighteen he was all alone. He became a king in exile, but misfortune took his crown again and the road became his home. He was a warrior, he was a rogue, a hireling and a thief. He was a refugee, and no one at all. He knew many names, and left them all behind. It seemed as though the Gods had given up on him, but through glory and misery he battled on, losing hope but never heart, even though the faces of those he’d lost and killed haunted him at night. In foreign lands he slaved and fought, full of burning passion under the blistering sun of the south, cold and uncaring through the hard winters of the north. He choose loneliness over love and carved many regrets into his heart, but he became king again. Now he was ancient, for the gods where cruel and would not let him sleep. Had he been a good king, a good father to his children and subjects? He did not know. He had more scars left than memories. His skin withered around his bones and his mind became clouded. Things that were important he forgot, and things that were buried in the fog, suddenly came back to him. One morning he had woken up with a glimmer of silver on his mind. Though he could not remember what it belonged to, he knew it to be important. It had not left his minds eye ever since. He had felt himself drawn to the river, as if something was calling him from afar. And he had listened to the call, left behind the comfort of his riches to follow a raven south. One last journey. Now he collapsed at the foot of the broken bridge, his weary mind overflowing with memories. Childrens laughter on sunny days, hunting parties, his fathers eyes, his mothers touch, his brothers playing in the yard. The sound of wooden swords, click-clack, a dark rumour of what was to come. Now the wind rustled the trees that grew through the roof, and there was no way to travel those final steps to his old home. The water, dark and still, barred his way. He was forever shut out. A salt tear formed in his grey eye, rolled down his hollow cheek and fell into the water. A moment of complete silence. Then a tremor that shook the earth. The castle groaned, as though it had been woken up after a long rest. In the deep something moved, something monsterous made its way up, up up... Suddenly a great dorsal fin carved through the surface, splitting the blue in two, making its way to the broken end of the bridge. Yet the King did not flee. A torch had been lighted in his mind and cleared away the fog. He remembered. And so did the guardian, who’d never forgotten. It was a summer evening when they were reunited. The swallows flew low over the water, the sun still warmed the earth and the first stars appeared in the west. Even though life bustled on around them, time slowed when the guardian lifted his mighty dragonhead above the water and looked at his lord and friend once again. *I knew you would come back.* ‘You waited…’ *Of course.* ‘So many years…’ *Has it been that long? I have forgotten time. But not your eyes. Not your voice.* The Guardian softly lowered his head, let it rest on the lap of the old king and closed his eyes. Though his teeth were large as daggers, the king felt no fear and laid his hand upon the old head. *Have I done well?* The guardian asked. ‘You have been the very best. But I have failed you. I am so sorry.’ *You can never fail me.* ‘you have been alone for so long, and now that I’m old, I will be gone soon and you will be alone again.’ The great eye of the guardian opened, a black pool with golden speckles. *Fear not, for it is I who will say goodbye this time.* ‘No… you are not yet old. Your kind can live for a thousand more years.’ *I do not wish for such loneliness.* ‘I do not wish you dead.’ *There are no more wishes. I am ill with an old poison. War will kill even a hundred years after it has vanished.* The king was silent for a long time. He caressed the monster in his lap, and looked at the broken castle. The moon started to rise above the line of trees and towers, crickets and frogs sounded their choir and the world was calm. Large shadows crept out from under the old walls, creatures of the night climbed out of nests and watched with glittering eyes as the moon swept her light over the broken bridge. The scales of the guardian became silver once more. ‘Then let me go with you,’ the king said at last. ‘War has ruled en ruined my life, I will not endure more loss because of it.’ *If you wish, my lord.* ‘It will be my last wish, my friend. Take me home.’ Softly the guardian rose from the lap of the king. A primordial monster he looked, towering over the broken bridge, but when he curled his tail around the kings fragile body, there was nothing but gentleness in his touch. The guardian lifted the king from the bridge as if he weighted nothing, and softly, without so much as a sound, they both disappeared in the deep, and the water closed above their heads as if nothing had ever disturbed it. The raven on the tower waited the whole night, eager to see the wonderous creature of the water return once more. But it did not. It never would again. And even after a thousand years not a trace can be found of either guardian or king. The memories that once filled the castle have disappeared too, as there is no one left to remember them. Even the castle disappeared. Only if one searches underneath layers of bracken and earth, one can still find its hidden ruins. And maybe, if the ancient Gods will it, one can see a raven circling overhead, searching, waiting. Hoping for one more shimmer of silver.


P456 wakes up laying on the floor in his room. What he expected to see was what he always had- a steel window on the blank cream colored wall, an oak dresser, of course with all its drawers stuck shut, a bookshelf on the far wall, empty as always, and the door. Door? No. A door is used to go one place to another and as far as p456 knew, that was no door. It was a white extension to the wall that happened to have a stiff handle on itt. as p456 woke he felt the odd phenomenon of somthing being very very wrong. He looked for a minute at the flat cream colored cieling. He sat up. he was breathing heavy and sweating, and he was scared. He had never been scared in his life he always just stood from the floor and stared at the blank walls then when he felt tired he would fall to the ground and close his eyes. When they opened, he was back to staring. But now, as he looked down at his grey one peice, which now was soaked in sweat, he began to feel frightened. He stood and scanned the room. The bookself was to no surprise still empty. The dresser still there, drawers stuck. The walls still sat cream colored and blank. What was so terrifing to p456???? He turned twords the door and his eyes became huge, opening his mouth to scream but instead he collapsed to the ground. His breathing became fast and quick. He pussehed back to the cream wall and stuck his head in between his knees. He wimpered and teared squezzing his body tight to him. The shaking started after a few minutes taking over his whole body. He was twitching and spasming in between tears. four hours passed of the shivering and sweating and crying and wimpering. When p456 was all our of tears and body full of strain of being huddled he sat in the same spot and stared at what was terrifing every single nerve in his body. He stared and stared and stared he was still shaking but now he was laying crunched up on the flat stone ground. He became insane. He stood and started laughing. He laughed and stared and laughed. His right arm spasmed and he laughed. p456 decided to ram his head into the stone. He knelt laughing histarically. He leaned low then pulled back and slammed his head onto the grey stone. Again and again and again and again and again. His vision was the first to go. It was just after his jaw shattered to about 23 pieces. After his vision went it was about 2 more blows until he lost control of his body. He tumbled over onto his back. The skin on his head torn open and bleeding profusel. He chuckled and laughed. He coughed, spilling blood all over the grey meterial. He let out one last chuckle and muttered four simple words before he kelled over and died.


I love her. I love her and she’s going to be mine.

Those were the thoughts that tore through my mind when I first saw her. I was at Sarah’s, eating with my mom. We always went to Sarah’s on Thursday nights. It was our little tradition.

Perhaps, in reality, it was the only time I suffered the company of my own mother.

On the other side of the restaurant sat a loud and obnoxious table full of people I’d never seen before. Most of the customers that went to Sarah’s were regulars, so it was highly unusual to see an entire table of new faces. Besides her , there was one other woman at the table, the rest were men. They had multiple bottles of wine and were sharing appetizers. I was mesmerized, I couldn’t look away. She ate so delicately, her big eyes wandered lightly around the table, a smile teased at her lips. She silently observed the loud group around her.

My mother spoke, but I wasn’t listening.

There was a flourish in my peripheral vision, and I finally came to. The waiter had removed the menu from the table and walked away. I looked incredulously at my mother.

“What, you weren’t gonna let me order?” I said to her.

She narrowed her eyes at me, “What are you so involved in?” “I- huh?” It was all I could do to keep my eyes from wandering, “What are you talking about? Involved in? What are you accusing me of?” “What am I talking about? What the hell are you looking at? That’s what I’m talking about!” she unraveled her silverware and placed the napkin in her lap, “Unless there’s something you are involved in that I should know about!” I thought about all the unsavory things I was involved in that would raise the hairs on the back of my mother’s neck.

“I am involved in nothing out of the ordinary, mother.” I assumed this response would placate her, but she just stared at me.

“What? What’s your problem now?” Her eyes flicked down and returned to my face with such conviction that I realized what she wanted. I grabbed my silverware and made a big show of unwrapping it. I put the napkin over my lap.

“So, what did you order for me?” “I decided that I wanted pizza.” I knew this meant she ordered a single small sized pizza and expected us to share it. Cheapskate.

I rolled my eyes, “Did you at least get a kind that I would also enjoy?” “I ordered you a salad.” “Mother!” “What is your problem?” she said. I wondered if she noticed the shirt I wore was tight around the arms and neck. Not because I had gained weight, mind you, but simply because she was the one who bought it, and she was still in denial about me having grown into a proper adult.

Of sorts.

Regardless, the ill-fitting shirt didn’t help my anxiousness nor my level of accumulating moisture. I pulled vigorously at the collar. My mother’s eyes flashed anger at me, “I spoke to your father this morning.” Don’t worry, she was only angry that I was pulling on her gracious gift. I released the shirt collar and returned my hands to their idle position, properly crossed in my lap.

She continued, “He asked for money again.” It was always the same. Like clockwork, every other Thursday my mother attacked me with the information that she’d spoken to my father, which meant that he had asked her for money, which then meant that she would ask me for money. Then, she bullied me into submission and I gave her the money so she could give it to him.

“How much did he ask for this time?” I huffed and crossed my arms defensively, which was obviously an act that I expected my mother to play along to.

I was met with a stony silence and I realized I had been too involved in my own thoughts that I wasn’t looking at her. I wasn’t looking at anything, really. I didn’t want to look at them, at her . So, I looked at my mother instead.

Her eyes were watery and her chapped lips seemed to quiver, although I tried to convince myself I’d imagined it. Her lips were always chapped, every time I saw her, even though I always offered her lip balm and once or twice slipped one into her purse.

“Did something happen?” I asked.

“Oh,” she shook her head and brought her napkin to her face, “It’s that woman again!” “Woman?” I couldn’t hold it back anymore, I meant to only glance over, but when I did, she was already looking at me .

I thought she would look away once we made eye contact, but she didn’t. Her hair was dark and curly, it framed her face beautifully and made her look dainty and slim. Her lips were a deep color of red, tinted with, perhaps, purple? Maroon, was that the name? Or perhaps the color was called burgundy? It’s silly, but I started referring to her in my mind as Maroon then, so ensnared was I by her lips.

Maroon’s dress was black. In fact, I noticed then that all the people in her party wore black. They were also dressed to the nines. I saw Sarah’s diner as a more casual affair. Even my mother and I always showed up wearing the clothes we wore that day. I couldn’t imagine decking myself out in a crisp black suit to come eat pasta or salad. Or pizza, I suppose I should mention.

The man sitting next to Maroon noticed then that she was no longer engaged with the table. He looked first into her face and then followed her gaze, staring straight at me. I couldn’t read his expression, but it didn’t seem to be a happy one.

He turned from me and leaned toward Maroon. He pushed aside Maroon’s thick hair and pressed his lips to her ear. His hand looked huge. His everything looked huge. He seemed to be all muscle. His suit was tight around his arms, but in an intimidating way, and not in a - his mother bought a shirt the same size as those he wore as a teenager - sort of way.

Maroon laughed and spoke to the man and I strained my ears to hear what her voice sounded like but the restaurant was too loud. The man put his arm around her and she looked away from me and at him instead. It felt like my heart was shriveling up.

Another flourish in my vision and the waiter stood there at our table, pizza and salad in hand.

“Are you okay, ma’am?”

Ma’am? I blinked and turned my attention back to my poor mother, who was dabbing her eyes.

“Yes, yes,” she waved her napkin at the waiter, “I’m fine, just leave me be.” The waiter plunked the food down and drifted away like they were never even there in the first place.

I watched her in astonishment while I tried to remember what we had been talking about.

Oh right, my father. The money. Same old stuff. Why was she so upset? This was a tactic I had never seen before.

I said, “Don’t worry mother, I’ll give you the money, just tell me how much you need.” “It’s not about money Henry, I told you it’s about that woman!” Her tears were all dry now at the sight of her pizza, which she took such a forceful bite of I worried briefly for her dentures.

“Woman?” I said again, and my eyes shot to Maroon. I almost jumped out of my seat. Maroon was looking right at me. I worried the whole process would repeat again but this time she quickly turned her gaze away. I was able to avert my eyes as well but instead of looking at my mother, I looked down at my salad. I had understood the gist of what my mother was saying.

“Is it the same one as before?” I asked tentatively and busied myself with drowning my salad in dressing.

“It is my understanding that this is the same woman as before,” my mother answered in between bites of pizza, “I think it’s getting serious this time.” “Well.. that’s okay, isn’t it?” “Oh, Henry, it’s all just so new, isn’t it?” My parents were getting divorced. It wasn’t fair that my father asked my mother for money every other week, when he was the one out there meeting new people but living in our house. My mother’s house. The house I grew up in. The house he now lived in alone.

My mother is old, but she’s gone back to work. No one cares, not even her son, who peddles drugs and tries not to get STDs at the college parties he goes to every weekend. Parties he knew he was too old to keep going to. But hey, at least he gave her a measly couple hundred every other damned Thursday.

Anyway. I’ve done bad things. I’ve been in bad places before with bad people. Bad situations where people got hurt, got into things they shouldn’t’ve, things that the average person would likely deem regrettable.

I might even admit to regretting some of it myself, some day.

But I had never seen a dead body before. I had also never dealt with a real, legitimate mob, but somehow that sounds less impressive.

What happened next just might have convinced me to get my act together.

I’m not entirely sure how it all went down, but I do remember the bright headlights that shone through the windows of the restaurant when a car rolled easily into the parking lot. Later, the news had said that it was one mob attacking the other. Italians, I guess. It also turned out that Maroon and her mob were regulars at Sarah’s, they just never showed up on Thursdays. The news suspected the attack wasn’t entirely a surprise.

Three men with big guns busted through the door and started shooting anything that moved. I don’t know if I jumped or fell out of my chair but I ended up on the ground and I just laid there, hoping I wouldn’t get shot. I searched frantically for Maroon, and was shocked to find her holding a gun and shooting at the intruders. I wished I was beside her until the big man who had whispered in her ear fell onto the ground like a giant, muscley bag of potatoes. It was over as fast as it had begun, and I’ll never know why the opposing group only sent three people to take on Maroon’s mob.

All was quiet for a moment, and with a start I remembered I hadn’t been sitting at my table by myself.

On the floor a few feet away, was my mother.

My mother.

Her little oval wire glasses had been knocked off of her face and she sat there on the ground, squinting at the world around her. There was a small gash on her forehead that was beaded with thick globs of blood. She was fine, mostly, but she looked scared.

Then there was noise and people were yelling, screaming, running. A couple of regular restaurant patrons had been hit, I didn’t pay attention to the part of the news that said how many or if they lived. Only two of Maroon’s mob were killed. The surviving mob members quickly gathered themselves and carried their wounded away.

Maroon headed for the door but stopped when she saw me. She glided toward me and held out her hand. I grabbed it and stood up and then didn’t let go. It was cold and sweaty.

She didn’t let go either. Her eyes glistened.

“My love,” she said.

My heart was pounding out of my chest, “Please, your name?” “Aphrodite.” It seemed like a cruel joke, and when I looked pleadingly into her face she laughed, her expression kind.

“I’ll tell you,” she said, “next time.” Yeah, so what? Did you really think there was a next time? No, of course not. And you’d be right. There wasn’t a next time. I never saw her again.

I returned to my mother and found her glasses. We sat back at our table and I was glad to see that the pizza had survived the scuffle. I handed my mother the best slice and picked up a piece for myself.


It was a great day. I had just finished my last day of work before I go on vacation for a month. This year, I decided to take my vacation during the month of November. Why? Maybe because I am a Scorpio. Maybe because I enjoy Halloween (my vacation starts on October 29 th ), maybe because I love the fall weather, or maybe because, it is the time of the year that covers Halloween, Thanksgiving, Black Friday, and the beginning of the holiday season. Simply put, all of the above maybe… My girlfriend, Jennifer, wanted us to get costumes for a special, a VIP event, for a Halloween party held in downtown. The entrance free was $120. However, several prizes were to be awarded at the end of the night. Especially for best costume and best couple costumes. Personally, Halloween has always been my favorite time of the year. The mystery, the supernatural, the paranormal, the unexplained, the death, the ghosts, the spirits, the goblins, the horror, the suspense, its movies and tv shows related to it… What was I to wear for Halloween this year? No clue. Jennifer kept telling me we should dress up in characters that come as a duo, a team. Some famous people. A famous couple. I was into that idea. I thought it was a good idea. Why not? I love her so much, and this would be a great opportunity to be closer to the love of my life. I am soon about to propose to her. That would be after the holidays… It was Friday afternoon. The party was held on Saturday night. We have a little more than 24 hours left. I am thinking that Jenn probably has booked or bought the costumes already. If not, I doubt we will find unique looking disguises for the party. My cell rings. ‘’Hun, did you get a call from the store?’’ It was Jenn. ‘’Which store? You mean for the costumes?’’ I reply. ‘’Yeah. I gave your cell number in case I miss the call.’’  ‘’What are we dressing up as babe?’’  ‘’Ah, that…I will let you find out with the call…’’ ‘’Oh yeah? Hahaha! All good. I hope you got something good, unique, original, so that we can win maybe a prize or two.’’  ‘’You will not regret it. I promise my love.’’  ‘’I trust you, Jennifer. If they call in, I will go pick up the costumes. You should be home within two hours, right?’’ ‘’Yes darling. I see you soon. Later then.’’ My work is done. I am closing my laptop. Yes, I work from home. I was just wrapping up my email account to setup the auto-reply that I am gone for a month. I don’t want to be bugged by my colleagues. Now, if Jenn does not get the call for whatever reason, I shall get it on my cell. She will be home soon and be on vacation also for a month.

At around 4 PM, I get a call from the costume store.

‘’Hi there. May I speak to Jennifer or Bruce?’’ ‘’This is Bruce. Whom am I speaking to?’’ ‘’This is Jim from Party Cos Inc. I have the costumes ready’’ ‘’Ah awesome!!! When can I come pick them up?’’ ‘’Before 9 PM tonight, if not tomorrow before noon. Also, your wife told me she would like to dye.’’ ‘’Pardon??? Die??? What are you talking about?’’ ‘’Jennifer told me that to bring the characters to life, you will need to dye.’’ ‘’No one is going to die. I think you are drunk or confused Sir.’’ ‘’No, no, I have clear instructions that were given by your wife…’’ ‘’Stop it! She is not my wife!’’ ‘’Oh, I apologize! Did I misdial perhaps. I think I got the wrong person.’’ ‘’Well, what is the name of the client and the phone number you dialed?’’ ‘’Is it 250-644-068 and it is under Jennifer and her husband or boyfriend, Bruce?’’ ‘’Yeah, that is me, Bruce, the boyfriend, but no one is dying here!’’ ‘’Your girlfriend told me that some green would look nice to match the costumes and the origins of the characters.’’ ‘’First tell me who Jennifer and I will be?’’ '’She is She-Hulk and you will be the Hulk. So, a little green in the hair will make you guys look great. Also, your girlfriend told me that your height is 6’6’’! So indeed, you can make a great Hulk. She told me you used to play volleyball at the national level and you have stayed in shape,’’ says Jim. ‘’Damn it! Why did not you just say dye hair! I thought dye meant as die, meaning as to cease to live,’’ explains Bruce. ‘’Pardon me Bruce. My error.’’ ‘’If I understood well, you offer also make-up and dying services at your shop?’’ ‘’Yes Sir! We are extremely busy this time of the year and people go to extreme length to look like a character from a novel, comics, books, tv, series or movies.’’ ‘’Tonight, will be to late to pick the costumes, accessories and get the hair done. How about tomorrow? Then from your store, we can go straight to attend our party.’’ ‘’Sure, so tomorrow, be here by noon. We close at 12 PM but to try on the costumes and get the make up and dye your hair, we will need more time. For clients with an appointment, we will close at 5 PM.’’ ‘’Thank you, Sir, and sorry for the misunderstanding.’’  Finally, all this is sorted out. I felt like this was a prank. Once Jennifer was home, I explained to her how the call went…  She started laughing. Also, maybe she did not know, but I reminded to her that we will be going to the Halloween party as cousins. ‘’What do you mean?’’ Asks Jennifer. ‘’Well, She-Hulk and the Hulk are related in the comics. They are cousins. Also, the irony is that Bruce Banner is the Hulk and Jennifer Walters is the She Hulk. So…’’ ‘’Oh wow! I honestly, did not know all these!’’ The costume party on this Saturday night went well. We did not win individual prizes but we won a prize as a team/couple category. A weekend trip to Whistler, for the holidays. That is when I decided to ask Jennifer to be my wife. She said a big yes!


"We stood there, looking east, in disbelief. We had been on the trail ten days now. Tired, hungry, and dirty. Dark clouds rolled up the valley towards us. A flash and light would rip through the sky. When it folded back into itself, the sound was deafening. Wind gusts tore the stakes to my shelter out of the ground. I was scared, really scared. Darted towards my shelter to secure my rain protection the best I could. The drops got heavier and faster. The wind whipped through the tree tops. Made a blood curdling sound. Again it flashed and roared. It sounded as if the Earth was falling apart around us. I walked out of the grove and looked over at Thomas. "This is going to be bad," I said. "I know," he replied. Softly and quietly I began to repeat per ardua ad astra, per ardua ad astra. Through adversity to the stars. The storm raged further up the valley, inching closer to us. Another flash! Another crack! It appeared as though the Kraken had found us hidden in the valley. The Kraken was going to kill us for trying to hide. Thomas and I sunk into the tree behind us. We gave each other an awkward glance. Together we were facing a monster, impervious to bullets or even a cry for help. Per Ardua ad Astra. Another flash, thunder clapped around us, the wind got stronger. Fear paralyzed me and I watched in utter disbelief. The storm drained in its intensity, quickly broke up and oozed over the ridge on our left, into the next canyon. We could still see flashes of light, hear the cracking whip of thunder." Author's Note: This is a test write, I was going for a very specific feeling. I would love everyone's opinion on this short little piece. Good or bad! I really would appreciate some feedback.


Lauren sat in a circle with the other freshmen who had gathered for the orientation day festivities, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her neatly pressed blouse as they waited. This moment was months of hard work in the making. Lauren had fallen in love with the university unexpectedly the prior spring during a trip with her high school band. It was her state’s oldest university, and though not on her original list of considered institutions, she was unexpectedly charmed by the historical campus. Owing to its pre-automotive era construction, the university had no streets and students were required to traverse the paths by foot or bicycle. Despite the important role this placed on the footpaths, their layout was, at best, chaotic. The earliest design of the university consisted of a large central hall, a small church and cemetery which resided in the centre of the grounds. Throughout the years, a spattering of now centenarian trees were planted across the campus, and buildings were added to suit the needs of a growing university. Owing to a respect for the historical significance of these sites, all structures and plant life had been maintained where possible. As she lagged behind her band peers, Lauren observed that the footpaths were a complex network of new and old trails. While many paths connected to existing structures, some directed to sites that had been long vacant, and others elaborately curled around or were broken down by expanding trees.

Although the path appeared to be a navigational nightmare, Lauren noticed the ease with which others strode towards the brick buildings. Groups of two or three would emerge from the trees and disappear in buildings or down sloping paths, their laugher lingering in the distance. Prior to that trip Lauren had been prepared to give up the clarinet in favour of laboratory instruments. Science had been her school passion, and she had been looking exclusively at universities which specialised in pharmaceutical sciences. Yet when she returned home that night she reflected on the old cemetery, the smell of steamed oat milk drifting from cafes onto the footpath, the students little older than herself chatting, as though peers, with proper adults. She thought of the generations of important people who’d walked the old paths, and badly wanted to count herself among them.

Lauren has been revisiting and amending this memory all morning. She had contrived a long list of questions she was likely to be asked by her new peers, and she wanted to ensure her answers adequately captured the enthusiasm she felt towards her new life and interests at the university. In preparation for her first day, she’d spent the summer disposing of her awkward and childish belongings and transforming into the role of university freshmen. She had transitioned to full vegan and redid her wardrobe in sustainable fibres. She’d spent the weeks prior to moving on campus researching the nearest (and best) op shops, and had found some fantastic used bookstores within walking distance of her dorm. The weeks leading up to her move felt painfully slow while she dreamed of cosy evenings spent studying in cafes, and weekends filled with exploring the historic corners of the campus. Lauren leaned against the old oak tree towering above the group. She knew from her investigation of the university’s website that it was a rare white oak, planted by a graduating class in 1899. Such species only last roughly 100 years, and Lauren appreciated the privilege of being counted amongst the decades of fresh-faced newcomers that were inducted under its branches. “Who wants to begin by telling us their name and their major”. When Lauren returned from her band trip, she quickly learned that the University did not offer pharmaceutical sciences. Undeterred, she took inspiration from the leafy oak prominently featured in the cover photo of the information package mailed to her house. “Lauren, environmental sciences”, she announced to the group.

“in fact”, she continued, “I selected that major because of this very…” “Clare, English lit” interjected a tanned girl to her left. “Excited to be here”, she said in a tone indicating that she was not. The group moved on and continued introductions until the last of the group had spoken. Student orientation leader, a somewhat frazzled looking girl a few years older than Lauren, then gave the group a few moments to chat amongst themselves before they began the campus tour. The circle jumped around with the usual sort of questions. “where are you from?”, “what class are you most excited for?”, “are you staying off campus or in dorms?”. A moment of awkward silence arose and Clare abruptly turned to Lauren. “Environmental sciences”, she said, “If you could be a tree, what type of tree would you be and why?” “Oh! I suppose… I don’t know “ Lauren responded shakily. “I’d be a pineapple tree” Clare responded. Lauren processed this while a few snickered. “I don’t think pineapples grow on trees”. “I used to spend the summers at this this resort in Seaside called Pineapple tree”, Clare continued. “they had this like massive tree statue out front. It was this major silver shiny thing, with golden pineapples hanging off it”. “Wait, what!” a freshmen in a Vans 1966 beanie interjected, “I’ve also been to Pineapple tree”. Several others began chiming in. It seemed as though more than half the group had spent time at Pineapple tree, Seaside or one of the neighbouring coastal vacation towns in their state. An excited chatter overtook the group as students began pairing up to chat about their beachy experiences. When Lauren interjected with the odd fact or correction, she found her words lost amongst the chatter. Her gaze shifted towards the original university chapel, now retrofitted to house a Quiznos. Lauren’s family had never vacationed at the beach. Her mom didn’t like the sand, and Lauren did not care for the sun exposure. Eventually their leader interrupted the discussion and rose the group. Lauren trailed behind the chatting students as they began their introduction to the campus. She already knew the paths, and she knew a good deal more than their guide about the local trees and shrubbery. At the end of the tour Clare and the few of the other approached Lauren. “We were going to grab some burgers if you’d like to join?”. Lauren had not prepared an answer.


This all happened last November, and I've finally had time to process it, and want to get it down on paper while the details are fresh in my head. It was two in the morning. I was casing out an alleyway in the city nearest my home, I'll admit it. I was looking for open doors, unlocked doors, and access onto the roofs and into windows. I didn't tell the police about that part. This particular alleyway was awash in doorways, leading to the kitchens of many restaurants (some of) which weren't very diligent about making their drops after closing. I know I would have snuck into a grease pit and snuck out with the daily take (minus tip-outs, as the staff generally had left by this hour), had luck been with me that night. But I was not lucky. I found an open doorway, a barrel lodged between the doorframe and the door, the wind whipping through the dish pit. It was an eerily easy looking target. Had I then discovered the restaurant to not yet be closed, I could have just hid and to outwait the wait staffs leaving for the night. But something about this scene rang hollow, as I gingerly eased the door open and stepped through the threshold. I heard nothing, no talking, no walking, no anyone, as I made my way through the silent (and now noticing) darkened kitchen. I walked past the line, and quickly ducked down, as I beheld 5 diners casually chatting in the empty and darkened dining room. The only light had come from a candle on their table, and were talking with great animation, gesticulating wildly. It was obvious that they had not spotted me. I needed to get across the room to the cash register, but it was across the room from these people. Why were they here, and where was the restaurant staff? I hunkered down in a quiet corner, to wait them out, and to hopefully, still find my payday. It seemed like I would be able to sneak out again if they decided to stay the night. They must have deactivated the alarm system themselves to even be in here at this hour. It seemed that they were authors. The first man produced a notebook from his pocket and declared that he had written a short story. The third man laughed. The second man declared that he had recently began writing poems, his rhyming dictionary popping comically from his front pocket. The third man laughed again, I couldn't quite hear what he was saying, but he mocked the first two men. Then the third man was knocked down by the fourth man, who went on somewhat of a speech about the nature of writing, all of which seemed incredibly confusing to me. The fifth man produced a novel, and smacked it on the table with a flourish, silencing the other men. They stared at him spell bound. "I have been published", he declared, and the other gaped at him incredulously. They began to comment on his work, denigrating his choice of font, or his cover art. The fifth man took it in stride, and began to extol the plot of his book. "It is about a stranger, a man who strangles, and that I am he!", he declared. The other men seemed rather impressed, and went on to read the jacket of the book, and congratulate the fifth man on his choice reviews and excellent typesetting. It was only then, when I noticed the sixth man. The one who now snuck behind the third man and began to choke the life out of him. The other four men around the table looked on with some disinterest. "I thought him rather annoying," said the fourth man, after the sixth man made his exit. "And his choice in novelists is, WAS! somewhat poor", commented the second. They extinguished their candle, and made their way out of the back of the restaurant. I couldn't have stopped them, if I wanted to. In truth I found the third man to have been a bit much myself. I took the take (they had left two days worth of money in the register), and made my police report, saying I was walking by and saw light in the window. From a pay phone, of course. I still don't know what to think about that night, other than that I'm glad I don't have many friends.


"Every single day there is a problem with this line," Romero complained to the commuter across from him. It was not the first time Romero had seen him. It felt like they knew one another already just from the fact that they took the same subway line every day. "And they told us they would fix the MTA," the man replied in agreement. "It makes you wonder how this city is still running." They both listened as yet another announcement was broadcasted on the intercom. It provided little information on when the metro car would move forward again. "I'm Romero," Romero introduced himself, extending a hand. "Oliver, nice to meet you." They shook hands, and a conversation was started. Romero was an accountant in a firm in midtown, Oliver, a pastry chef in Brooklyn. For a while they exchanged about their problems with the MTA trains, trying their best to laugh about it. They both knew there was not much they could do but complain. They were bound to the subway with no other alternative to get to their respective works. Finally the train restarted, and they got back to their routines, watching YouTube while ignoring just about everyone else on the train. A few days later, Romero noticed Oliver again as he stepped into the subway car and went to sit at his usual spot. He waved at him and said hello, but Oliver didn't reply. Instead, Oliver looked visibly disturbed, making it a point to sit somewhere else at the next stop. Romero, who had been in a good mood up to then, felt a little wounded to be forgotten so easily. He cursed at the subway and its zombified commuters, each in their own bubbles. He pondered Oliver?s reaction throughout the day, wondering whether he might have been responsible for it in any way. For several days after that, he didn't see Oliver again. That was almost a relief. Until a Friday when he entered the subway to find Oliver and a man looking just like him sitting by side by side. They seemed to be talking actively. Romero was too amused not to interrupt them. "Hey there," the man said enthusiastically as he noticed Romero. "Romeo right?" "Close enough," Romero replied. "Oliver?" he asked back. Oliver confirmed, and Romero proceeded to explain what had happened a few days back. He then learnt that Oliver had a twin, and that it had been Oliver's twin, Benjamin, that he'd encountered back then. The three of them had a good laugh about it before parting ways. Romero went on with his days lighter and entertained. The subway was not that bad, after all. Another few days later, Romero entered the subway to find that Oliver was not sitting next to just one person that looked like him but two. Unable to contain his surprise, he started laughing fairly loudly. A few people turned around, lifting their eyes from their screens, looking at him sideways. "How many times are you going to do this trick?" Romero asked as he approached the three men. He looked at all three at the same time, unable to recognise who Oliver or Benjamin was. "We thought he'd be funny if I showed up as well," one of the men said as he got up. "I'm Lucas, last and third of the triplet. I promise I'm the last." They all laughed together and rode the subway, chatting along. That night Romero went to bed marvelling at how the subway would always manage to surprise him, one way or another.


Meredith couldn’t help but think the Carnival of Mirrors lacked something essential: the mirrors. She stood by the edge of the crowd, her small hand tightly gripping her mother’s. ‘If you get lost in here, mija, there’ll be no chance of you finding your way back to me,’

her mother had told her before coming. There were no gentle, sugarcoated warnings with Meredith’s mother. She didn’t reassure her by saying she’d look for her if they were separated, or give Meredith false promises of them reuniting again should something happen. No, it was always Meredith’s responsibility to hold on to her mother’s hand. She was the one that couldn’t get lost because she was the one who was too young to know what to do on her own. Meredith held her breath and tightened her grip on her mother’s hand as they entered the crowd. At first, the sheer size and amount of adults bumping into one another as they passed was nerve-racking. The oppressive heat of the sun and the proximity of the crowd made her feel like she was suffocating. But as she grew used to it, her fear of separation began to dissipate, and she started looking around her surroundings in amazement. The bright colours and movement of the people and attractions at the carnival were almost dizzying. Meredith dragged her mother from tent to tent, wanting to see it all. After they had stopped to buy cotton candy and popcorn at a stand and seen just about everything hidden within every decorated tent—from seers who communed with the dead and glimpsed the future, to graceful acrobats dancing through the air, to lions, zebras, elephants, and other exotic animals—Meredith came to a sudden halt among the crowd. Her mother looked down at her in concern. " Qué pasa, mija ?" she asked. "Didn't you say this was called the Carnival of Mirrors, mami ?" Meredith inquired, puzzled. "Yes, I did." "But we've not seen a single one!" Meredith protested. Meredith's mother smiled down at her. It was the kind of smile she used to give her whenever she thought Meredith was asking the right questions. "Ah, you're right," her mother said. "But that's because we've yet to go into the most important tent in this whole carnival." Meredith let herself be guided by her mother's hand into an enormous tent at the far end of the carnival. The outside of it was made of deep purple velvet material; the flaps concealing Meredith's view of what lay inside. As they neared the tent, she thought she saw a flash of silver. Once they were inside, however, Meredith realized she had seen a reflection, for the interior of the tent was covered almost entirely in mirrors. It seemed as if all four walls were made out of glass, and there were even a few mirrors positioned in the tent's roof, giving Meredith the impression of standing at the center of a giant mirrorball. She turned in a circle, overwhelmed by the bewildering sight of the smooth glass surfaces, clear as cool water, and the reflections splashing through them. The littlest movement caused a rippling effect as it was caught by every mirror around her, seeming to multiply it tenfold. Meredith grinned at the fifteen versions of herself in the mirrors. As surreal as the tent was, however, there were surprisingly not many people inside. Meredith and her mother made up two of a grand total of five people in the mirror tent. "If it's called the Carnival of Mirrors, and this is its main attraction, how come there aren't more people here?" Meredith asked. She could see fifteen pairs of her mother's brown eyes looking down at her as she answered, "You ever wondered why they're called mirrors, Mer?" Meredith shook her head. "The Spanish word, espejo ," her mother went on, "comes from the Latin word specere, which means ' mirar '—to look. Mirar sounds quite a lot like 'mirror,' doesn't it?" Meredith nodded. "Well, there you have it," her mother said with finality. "There I have what?" Meredith asked indignantly. Her mother hadn't even come close to answering her question. Meredith told her as much. "Most people don't look . They see, but they don't look. You can tell them something is called the Carnival of Mirrors, and then distract them with acts and games and food, and they'll never question it. Never question why it has that name and yet there's not a single mirror in sight. Only those who look for them, who make it to the very end of the carnival, find the mirrors." Her mother smiled at her in approval. Meredith smiled back. * Meredith came out of the tent feeling very pleased with herself for having looked for the mirrors. She was so pleased in fact, that she didn't notice the crowd thicken as she and her mother made their way back to the chaos of the main road. The heat of the day had made Meredith's hand sweaty and slippery in her mother's grip. All it took was for Meredith to stop paying attention to where she was stepping for half a second, and she tripped, ever so slightly. She didn't fall to the ground, but it was enough for her to finally lose her hold on her mother's hand. The crowd came in like a tide between them, drawing them apart faster and more forcefully than Meredith would have thought possible. In an instant, she was drowning in a sea of people. She shouted for her mother, and she could see her mother's lips in the distance, forming her name. But Meredith could not hear her, and her mother didn't seem to be able to hear her either. A single phrase starting repeating itself over and over in Meredith's mind. It took her a moment to listen to it and identify what it was. " ...y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca. " 'You hear me from afar but my voice doesn't touch you.' It was the line of a poem by Pablo Neruda that her mother liked to quote at her whenever she knew Meredith wasn't paying attention. But in reality, it was a love poem. Her mother had read the entire poem to her once, and though she had explained, Meredith hadn't really understood it. She understood that line, though. It was about two people being physically near enough that they could hear each other, but too distanced at the same time to really listen or be reached. The last Meredith saw of her mother was her dark brown hair disappearing into the crowd. Alone and frightened, she looked around trying to find an opening from the multitude of people. Meredith's breathing was hitched and her cheeks were wet with tears. Some adults glanced at her curiously but none stopped to help. She didn't know what she would have said if they had. Her mother didn't have a phone and Meredith didn't have any other relatives. All she had was her mother. Eventually, she gave up and stopped wandering around. Staying in one place seemed safer; all she had to do was wait for her mom to find her. Meredith sat on a bench outside a seer's tent and thought of what her mother would say when she came. " Qué te dije, mija? Te dije que no me sueltes la mano, porque te ibas a perder. Sabes lo peligroso que es que una niña de tu edad este sola en un sitio con tanta gente? Te pudieron haber raptado.. ." She'd be furious, so she would switch entirely into Spanish. Meredith would feel terrible but would take the scolding eagerly if all it meant was that her mother was there to shout at her. Her heart beating furiously with the terrifying helplessness of being lost and alone in the world, Meredith waited. *** Years passed and she's back at the Carnival of Mirrors. It's not quite as grand as she remembered it. She recalled there being colour and life and finesse that was lacking now. The crowd is pitiful in its size; she wonders how the separation even happened that day. How small must she have been to have been so helpless against a tide as weak as the one she was in front of now? Maybe there had been more people back then. Maybe, like all things lose their charm, the carnival had too. She never did find her mother. After that day, wandering around from foster home to foster home, she had never felt like she belonged anywhere again. She had been fluent in Spanish at some point. Now it tasted like foreign food in her mouth. The only word she did remember, after all these years, was ' mirar .' That's what brought her back to the carnival. On that very last day, her mother had told her that to find something, you had to look for it. Some people don't even know they're supposed to be looking. But after that day, she decided to never stop searching and questioning. She looks for everything since. Now, she looks for answers. The tent, to her surprise, is still velvet, still purple, and still tall. She braces herself for the inevitable disappointment that will come as a result of childhood illusion and the unreliability of memory. But as she goes inside the tent, she's surprised at the fact that she finds it every bit as fascinating as she did the first time. Unlike everything else outside, the mirrors haven't suffered from time and decay. They're as smooth and pristine as they were back then. The thing that's changed is her. She doesn't feel joy at seeing her multiplied reflection now, but doubt. The little girl she was when she was last here wouldn't recognize the person she had become. She didn't think that was a good thing. "It's called the Carnival of Mirrors because most people come to find themselves in their reflections," a voice says from behind her; as if reading her thoughts. She doesn't have to turn around to see the speaker; she can see her in the mirror. The woman is nearing her fifties, the same age her mother would be by now. She has greying brown hair and kind brown eyes. "That's not what I've heard," Meredith replies. "It's called the Carnival of Mirrors because it forces you to look for things and not just see them." She turns around to look at the woman. The woman smiles warmly at her. It's the kind of smile she used to give her whenever she thought Meredith was giving the right answer.


PENNY WISE A Harry Bartlett Short Story Northborough, Massachusetts Tuesday morning Hello, Reader. My name is John Watson, and I am a retired British military doctor who served in Afghanistan. I met Sherlock… Dammit, that’s been done before. And it’s not the truth anyway. I’m Steve Malarkey, editor of the Nantucket Observer and Harry Bartlett’s founding partner in the Fraud Detective Group. I’m writing this because Harry and a few others thought I needed a hobby due to 3 new places I find myself in: a wheelchair, a detective job, and a city, Boston. My getting hammered every day may have also contributed to their suggestion. Their idea was to write about our fraud cases and publish them (if it was good enough for Arthur Conan Doyle, it’s good enough for me). It would get the word out about avoiding scams, get us some publicity, and maybe generate a client or two. And maybe I’d be too busy to get sloshed; all commendable results. One thing before getting to this case, and it’s for you literary-type folks. I don’t like writing in the first person. Never did in my newspaper gigs, won’t do it now. Writing “I, I, I” sounds like a sailor obeying an order. Hope you enjoy the story. *** Business had been slow for the Fraud Detective Group since exposing the Nantucket scams. The hope for a steady stream of clients from the publicity and law enforcement referrals had vanished quicker than a casual fan down after the 6th inning with the Red Sox down a few runs. Harry, Steve, and Uncle Louie decided a road trip to civic organizations would be a good idea. They’d educate folks about avoiding fraud, maybe generate a new client or two, and find new walls to look at; the ones at 221 B Brookline Avenue were giving them headaches. Today found them heading to Northborough, a suburban town of 14,000 forty miles west of Boston. Steve was cruising in the left passing lane on the Mass Pike; the handicap-enabled van hadn’t slowed his driving following the hit-and-run attack while biking. “Guess who came from Northborough?” Uncle Louie asked from the back seat. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Mark Fidyrch, that pitcher nicknamed The Bird because he looked like Big Bird from Sesame Street.” “Not sure how I can work that into the speech,” Harry said. “How about John Kellette, the guy who wrote, “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles”? “Strike two.” “I like this one. Daniel B. Wesson, founder of the Smith & Wesson gun company.” “You trading in your .357 Magnum?” Steve asked. “No way,” Uncle Louie said, patting his black suit jacket. “But maybe we can visit his summer home, the White Cliffs house?” “Swing and a miss, strike 3,” Harry said. “Steve, can you stop for throat lozenges? I’ve got a tickle in my throat.” Steve turned into a convenience store on Route 20, the main road through town. Harry looked sheepish when he returned. “Do either of you have 2 bucks?” Harry asked. “You’re broke?” Uncle Louie asked. “Sort of, it’s an all-cash business, and I have $0 in my wallet,” Harry said. Uncle Louie rummaged in the pockets of his black suit for his wallet. Steve had fewer pockets in his well-worn jeans and won the race. Harry thanked him and returned to complete his transaction. Ten minutes later, Harry stood at the wooden half-podium placed on a table, a lozenge swirling around in his mouth. Given the Senior Center audience, he decided to focus on avoiding elderly fraud scams using the telephone: the grandson needing money to get out of jail, the call asking to confirm your Social Security number, or the IRS demanding payment. People were settling down from their continental breakfast, so he passed the time by calculating the average age of the 23 attendees; the answer was 73. His calculation would’ve been higher except for one fifty-ish man standing in the back. The man was short, maybe 5’ 5”, a Joe Pesci doppelganger with a jutting jaw and a bulldog scowl. He approached the three of them after the talk. Harry expected to hear “yutes.” “Rick Pound,” he said. “Hey, yuse gize are pretty good.” Harry stifled a laugh. “We try,” Harry said. “You have an elderly parent here?” “Nah, didn’t want the guys seeing me talk with you. I got us a room,” Rick said and started down a hallway. He turned around after a few steps. “You coming or what?” “What,” Harry said. “Fine. You know profits and all that fraud stuff, right?” Rick asked. “I know you do, I looked you up, just being careful.” He violently wrung his hands while he talked. “Profits suck at my new store and I can’t figure out why. Think you can crack it?” “Can’t someone on your staff check it out?” Harry asked. “The wife, Penny, keeps the books. I pay her zilch,” he said and made a zero with his thumb and forefinger. “She thinks she’s so smart, change this thing, spend money on that. Bullshit, money don’t grow on trees.” “How about hiring a CPA?” Steve asked. “He rips me off doing my company taxes. Two hundred bucks an hour for Christ’s sake,” Rick said. “But I get him back. Volunteers here do my taxes for free. They kinda don’t want to, but they cave and do them anyway.” “What kind of business do you own?” Uncle Louie asked. “Convenience stores, six of ‘em. Local places, sell Pepsi and pretzels and Playboy,” Rick said. “The new one makes 10% less than the others. Opened it a year ago.” “Rick’s Rest Stop?” Harry asked. “I bought throat lozenges at the Route 20 store this morning. Nice place.” “That’s the new one,” Rick said. “Don’t forget you owe me two bucks,” Steve said. “I won’t,” Harry said. “But that reminds me. Why don’t you accept credit cards?” “And pay them crooked credit card crooks a billion percent? No way. That’s my money, I earned it, I’m keeping it,” Rick said. “So, can you find my missing profits?” “Yes,” Harry said. He sat still. So did Steve and Uncle Louie. Rick got a confused look on his face: eyebrows down, head tilted, lips scrunched together. He looked at each of them in succession. Suddenly, his face changed. Light had dawned on Marblehead. “I get it, you want to get paid. I respect that,” Rick said. “How much?” “First, answer a few questions,” Harry said. “Shoot,” Rick said. Harry asked him a series of questions about the six stores: the items sold, pricing, the store size, the hours. He got machine-gun answers in return; the stores were precisely the same. “Each place has a manager and an assistant manager; they cover the first two shifts with clerks. Other clerks handle the overnight shift,” Rick said. “When are the shift changes?” Rick said 6, 2, and 10. “Excuse me for a second,” Harry said and went to the front desk. He returned with a sheet of paper and an envelope. He wrote something, sealed the sheet in the envelope, wrote “Rick” on the front, and placed it on a table. “The answer is in there. The price is $1,000 today or $5,000 tomorrow, plus a $500 donation to the Senior Center,” Harry said. “You’ve got thirty seconds to decide. Steve, will you time this?” “Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight,” Steve said. “Oh, and the $5,000 is a fixed price until we find the answer.” “Twenty-five, twenty-four.” “You bustin’ my balls?” Rick asked. “No, dead serious,” Harry said. Rick rubbed his chin, weighing his options, trying to calculate what he should do. “It’d be stupid to pay you a grand for nothing.” “Eighteen, seventeen.” “If he’s right, you save the lost profits starting today, and it’s $4,000 cheaper,” Uncle Louie said. “But if he’s wrong. I lose the grand and keep losing the profits.” Rick rested his chin on the back of his right knuckles. His right elbow was on his left knee, his head slightly bowed. “The Thinker,” Uncle Louie whispered to Steve. “Eleven, ten.” “Nope, I ain’t paying $1,000 to some guy who looked at nothing. And I like the fixed price thing.” “Your call,” Harry said. “We need a rental car.” Rick called the green logo’d company. “It’ll be here in an hour.” “Give me read-only rights into your accounting system, internet access, and a printer hookup,” Harry said. Rick gave Harry the password and arranged the other items with the Senior Center manager. Harry was active in two minutes. “I need your cell number so your store managers can call to confirm who we are.” Rick produced a business card. “24/7.” Harry typed into his laptop and printed out 2 sheets. “Sign these,” Harry said. The first sheet was a client contract. Rick made his scrawl on it. The second was Rick’s requirement that employees allow Harry to pull their credit report. “I don’t care what their score is,” he said. “Humor me,” Harry said. “Whatever,” Rick said and signed. “See you tomorrow, here, 4 PM,” Harry said and stood up. “And bring the $5,000 and $500 checks.” They shook to seal the deal. “Make them bank checks,” Harry said. Rick waved his okay as he walked down the hall. Harry let him get out of earshot, then asked Uncle Louie to get 4 reliable watchers to Northborough asap. “No, make it 3. And they need to blend in,” Harry said. “Hey, something wrong with my black suit ensemble ?” Uncle Louie asked. “In Boston, no, out here in suburban utopia, yes. I want jeans and t-shirts and sneakers, maybe sandals.” “That stuff ain’t part of their regular haberdashery,” Uncle Louie said. Harry tossed a credit card at Steve. “Go to the Solomon Pond Mall across Route 290. Find some regular store, not some teenage place like the Gap, and buy 3 sizes of everything and 1 set for Uncle Beau Brummell here.” He turned to Uncle Louie. “You’ve got an hour to get those guys out here and dressed.” Uncle Louie was making calls before Harry said, “guys.” Harry made a call. “Megan, how fast can you get to Northborough in jeans and a t-shirt?” “Soon enough, why?” Megan Webster asked. She and Harry had a good thing going after the Nantucket case; she was also the source of Harry’s tv publicity as the fraud and consumer rip-off reporter. Harry explained his plan. “It’ll last 24 hours, and, yes, you get the perp walk if there is one.” “Am I a soccer mom or an office worker on break?” Harry picked the second choice. “I’ll be there in 45 minutes,” she said and hung up. Harry guessed she’d red-line the Mini-Cooper and get there in thirty. “How sure are you that…?” Steve asked. Harry shot him an “are you shitting me?” look. “Okay, okay, just asking. Let’s go shopping, Uncle Louie,” Steve said. Harry started typing on his laptop. He grabbed the completed sheets from the office printer, flashing the bemused, elderly staffers his best altar-boy smile each time he invaded their office sanctuary. Steve, Uncle Louie, and the posse arrived back at the Center on time. Megan was already sitting comfortably. Harry asked Steve to stuff $10 into the donation styrofoam cup; the office ladies had cheerfully delivered the group a tray of hot joe with cookies. “That’s $12,” Steve said. Harry looked over his assembled watch team. They looked slightly uncomfortable in their new outfits of jeans with Nike logoed shirts and New Balance sneakers. He figured that was because their usual jackets covered their firearms. Megan would blend in perfectly. “Thank you all for getting here so quickly. This is a one day job, twenty-four hours. We’re working in teams, finding everything out we can about 6 convenience stores and the employees. Rule number 1: no guns. Stow them in your trunks. This is strictly talk, watch, and record,” Harry said. “Rule number 2: Shifts change at 6, 2, and 10. Sleep between shifts if you have to, but not in the store parking lot. Find some 24-hour place. Rule number 3: do the same thing, ask the same questions at each place. Write the answer or observation down as soon after it happens as you can. This is going to be like spending a day looking at open houses; pretty soon, they blend together. Rule number 4- take pictures and label them by the store number. Any questions?” Harry asked. “The idea is to hit a store, observe things, talk with the workers in regular chatter, then move on. Two at each shift change; one stays, the other follows the employee home, observes, then returns.” Harry handed out sheets with the store location and specific questions and observations. They went through each one in detail. He handed out felt-tip pens from the Senior Centers supply closet; this time, Uncle Louie forked over a $10 bill, and Harry supplied an even bigger smile. “Why me?’ Uncle Louie asked. “I like to distribute my debts,” Harry said. The stores were on main roads in neighboring towns. Harry’s posse descended on the first location like a swarm of locusts. Uncle Louie’s job was determining square footage; he asked for the restroom key and paced off the distance from the front registers area to the back of the store. He noticed that the flooring was one-foot square tiles and counted those on the way back as a double-check. He wrote the numbers on his hand. Steve’s job was inventory evaluation since his chair hid him behind the rows of products. He rolled up and down, snapping pictures with his cell-phone, coughing to hide each click even though it wasn’t deafening. When he finished, he moved his van to the back of the building and observed the food deliveries. Megan was in charge of interrogation; Uncle Louie’s guys spoke in single syllables and she talked for living. She chatted up the employees about their kids, upcoming summer vacations, and cars. She also was the final step: get permission to run credit reports. One of Uncle Louie’s friends had a construction background; he did not need a tape measure to estimate the food shelves’ and refrigerator dimensions. He followed the workers' home and estimated the market value. He checked his estimate with a real estate pricing app. Friend number 2 counted customers, noting age and gender. Friend number 3 was an ex-cop with on-the-job contacts to run the workers' criminal and driving records based on their license plates. He also did a fixed asset inventory of shopping carts, hand-baskets, the registers, the safe and cleaning supplies. Timing was crucial; Harry wanted someone inside to watch the register closeout and reopening. The group exchanged cell phone numbers to coordinate their movements. Harry got a room at a local hotel and downloaded daily revenue and bank deposit information and analyzed it on a shift and store basis. He looked at electricity, trash collection, and delivery fee costs. The data called in by the posse allowed him to calculate revenue per customer, customers per hour, and other ratios. He also pulled a credit report on each employee. One manager didn’t head home; Harry authorized the tracker to get into a minor fender-bender to get the address. He paid $200 on the spot to not report it because it would kill his insurance rates. They were done by noon the next day; they’d witnessed 24 hours of activity and every shift change. Harry paid the 3 watchers $500. Harry had 4 hours to finish the data evaluation. He finished in 3, and they went to nearby Uhlman’s Ice Cream to kill the hour before meeting Rick. Rick walked into the Senior Center. Harry, Steve, Megan, and Uncle Louie were playing pool. “Who’s she?” “A friend,” Harry said. He wasn’t lying. “So, you been to the stores?” Rick asked. “You have the checks?” Harry asked. Rick waived the rectangular paper. “You got my answer?” Harry waved the envelope. “Let’s take a trip. We’ll be back soon.” They returned to the room in forty-five minutes. “What the hell just happened?” Rick asked. “We walked in, bought a beef jerky, then left.” Harry stood at the semi-podium with a laser pointer while Steve operated the laptop’s projection onto the wall. “Your new store manager and assistant manager are ripping you off,” Harry said. “But you could’ve known this before you hired me, and definitely before you hired them.” “No way this is my fault,” Rick said. “It’s absolutely your fault,” Harry said. “Steve, start with the credit scores.” Numbers appeared on the wall, two for each staffer. The first was their credit score a year ago, and the second was yesterday. Most pairs were consistent and over 600. Two were over 800 now, but under 500 a year ago. “Steve, home values next, please.” Only 4 numbers appeared. “Most of your employees rent. 2 own 500k homes. Guess which ones.” “Let’s look behind door #3 for store stats, Steve,” Harry said, and rows and columns of numbers appeared. Store #6, the new store, had lower revenue per customer. The numerator, revenue, was lower for that store. The denominator, number of customers, was the same. Rick was getting anxious, tapping, and fidgeting. “Get to the point.” “One last slide: physical assets inventory,” Harry said. Each store had the same items except one- Store #6. Rick bounded up to the wall and smashed his fist into Store #6’s numbers. “What’s with the 3?” “Your manager and assistant manager installed their own register when they opened the store,” Harry said. “They don’t take every dollar through their register because it would be too suspicious, but they take enough to explain the lower profits.” “I hired them before the store opened; they wanted to learn how to start one from scratch,” Rick said. “They already knew,” Harry said and brought up their resumes. “By the way, I talked with Penny. Wise woman. She had the same ideas I did,” Harry said. “And why is this my fault?” Rick asked. “Because you’re too cheap to hire enough accounting staff,” Steve said. “Or to hire a CPA,” Uncle Louie said. “Or to have registers that track inventory and accept credit cards,” Harry said. “My guess is you’d increase revenue by 15%, way more than the 2% fee. And you’d reduce the security company pick-up fees,” Harry said. “And you’d know if different stores need different items.” “Or to trust an expert who knows what he’s talking about,” Megan said. Harry handed the sealed envelope to Rick. He ripped it open. “Read it out loud,” Uncle Louie said. “Manager and assistant manager.” Jesus H. Christ,” Rick said. He looked at Harry, then at Uncle Louie. They could almost see the gears grinding before he eventually handed over the checks. “Those bastards screwed with the wrong guy.” Rick whipped out his cell phone. “Get me the Police Chief,” he yelled as he ran down the hallway. Megan sprinted after Rick. “I’ve got an arrest to film. Dinner tonight, Harry?” Harry, Steve, and Uncle Louie packed up. Harry asked the receptionist for an envelope, then placed Rick’s check in it. On the way to the Mass Pike, they stopped at a Post Office. He addressed the envelope to the Senior Center Director and added a note from Anonymous. *** An empty pizza box joined the empty Sam Adams bottles on the FDG conference table. They’d finished rewatching her tv segment on the arrests. “Do I get to hear how you knew it was the store manager and the assistant?” Megan asked. “Rick’s answers eliminated most of the possibilities. After that, it was a science experiment: all of the variables were constant except the personnel,” Harry said. “What about the locations, different areas might buy different things?” Megan asked. “Maybe that might change things, but not by much,” Harry said. “The only possibilities were Rick was stealing from himself, which has happened- check out Crazy Eddie, or it was the staff. He didn’t seem sharp enough to pull that off, so that left the staff. Clerks likely didn’t have the access, so that left management. I wasn’t sure how they did it until the inventory came back with the extra register. Very clever on their part. They saw an opportunity, made a fast decision, and implemented it. The All-American success story.” “Except for the stealing part,” Megan said. “You have a limerick for this one?” “I worked on it while you all were at the stores,” Harry said. He cleared his throat. A store owner was acting quite devilish His love of profits was nearing a fetish He held every sou So tight it turned blue And Rick was the Pound that was foolish.