Benny’s City That’s the thing about this city, Dixon Creek runs thru the poorest neighborhoods. The city owns the land on both sides of the creek, about a hundred yards on each side, until the creek empties its filth into the Pearl River. Old growth trees and thickets surround the creek which twists and turns as it slithers toward the fast-running river. Bike trails, human trails, secret places abound among the thickets and trees. Murders are committed, rapes perpetrated, deals made, and crimes planned along its banks and among the trees. That’s the thing about this city…Dixon Creek. Dylan looked out his second-floor bedroom window with a scope from an old twenty-two rifle, the rifle long since pawned. The corner, where Tunk’s crew conducted business was quiet. It wasn’t yet sundown. That’s when the music would start. With cell phones flashing bright in dark hands and anger and greed on minds without pity, the commerce would begin and last until daylight approached. Dylan’s phone was on speaker on the desk before him as he scoped the neighborhood. “Yeah, it looks cool. I’ll have Benny walk toward the Sonic.” “Okay, tell him I’ll be with Cherry. You know how he is.” “Known him all his life,” Dylan said, and laid the scope on the desk. “What I’m saying is, he liable to just keep walking if I got someone in the car D, feel me?” Dylan chuckled, “Why he ain’t never been caught, most like.” “That fuckin Tunk ain’t out is he?” “Nah, it’s good. Ain’t dark enough yet.” “That nigga’s crazy, his whole crew. I hate driving by that corner.” “Yeah, ever since he killed Chokoh and took it over, he been giving me the eye.” “Think he know’s D? That nigga’ll kill ya he even thinks it.” “He never knew me and Chokoh’s deal. He means mugs me every time I ride by, but that could be we one of the last few whites in the neighborhood.” “And you got the only two-story house on that block D. He know that too and wants it.” “Most likely, look, I’ll send Benny on his way. But let him get to Rose street before you meet up. Too many eyes around here.” “It compressed?” “Oh yeah, and have the cash rolled tight. Rubber band it.” “As always my brother. I’ll wait five then start that way.” Dylan ended the call and looked toward his little brother’s bedroom door. He could hear music being played, gospel music, the old kind, bluegrass. Not loud, Benny Jo was always respectful. Rare for a fifteen-year-old. Dylan hadn’t been that nice. He’d leaned toward hell raising, fist fighting, and sleeping with any girl that let him. Dylan picked up his phone and called Benny. “Yo, we got business,” and hung up. Benny logged off his computer and killed the stereo, put on his hoodie and running shoes, and tucked a .380 behind his waist band as he checked himself in the mirror. Saying “Let’s do this” to his reflection, he grabbed his backpack and headed to his brother’s room. The door was open. Dylan liked to be able to listen to the house, though no one had ever broken in. The neighborhood knew Dylan had served in the army and a bronze star had been pinned on his chest in Iraq. He’d been in the local papers and news. He’d refused all interviews and dropped out of sight into his old neighborhood. Dylan delt in weight. When Benny entered the room, Dylan tossed him a compressed pound of Mother’s Milk from California. A potent sativa and expensive in Mississippi. Premium weed brought premium dollars was Dylan’s philosophy, and he had serious connections in several states, compliments of the United States Army. Tunk’s weed wasn’t even in the same ballpark. Tunk hated that he couldn’t find that kind of weed. Tunk smoked Dylan’s weed when he could get it; he just didn’t know where it came from or who was bringing it into the city. He scored his good weed, as he called it, from a city cop he had on the payroll. Officer Billingsly claimed he didn’t know who was bringing it in either. Tunk thought a lot about shooting Officer Billingsly in his lying peckerwood face. He would too, but he needed the protection Billingsly provided. You can have all the lookouts you want, but a text was better. Benny stuffed the shrink-wrapped block into his backpack and said, “Who is it?” “Joe Van. Look he’s got his girl with him, said to let you know it’ll be just the two of them, Sonic route.” “Cherry?” “Yeah.” “That girl is fine.” “Smoking hot son,” Dylan grinned. “The money’s rolled, leave it that way.” “Sure, I’ll put it next to my balls.” “Dick.” “Just don’t be sniffin it when I get back.” “Fuck you Benny, you little shit.” Benny laughed and headed for the stairs. When Benny got outside and started walking to the Sonic, Tunk got a text from Squirrel, “B on tha move.” Tunk tapped his phone absently as he wondered once more about them Carrol boys, Dylan and Benny. How come nobody seemed to know nothing about them two? He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something wasn’t right. He didn’t like not knowing about shit in his hood, and them two were at the top of the list. Been in that big house all their lives and nobody knows nothing. They mom’s and dad dead in that car crash, and nobody seems to work. How they eat? Tunk thought on it some more and hollered for Rashan. Rashan poked his head in the door, “What up?” “That white boy, Benny? You know him?” Rashan stepped in and closed the door. “Yeah, why?” “I wanna know some things, maybe you could step in his face, find out.” Rashan looked down at his shoes. “What?” Rashan looked Tunk in the eye. “That brother of his?” “Dylan.” “Yeah. He work out with Benny almost every night in they garage. Got weights, mats, punching bags, all that shit.” “So?” Rashan frowned, “So Dylan be a black belt, army boy, war killer. He work Benny hard. Been doing it since he got back.” “You scared?” Rashan swallowed, waited a beat, then said, “Damn straight. Benny don’t play. Them fights I seen him in? They be over fast. Other boy hurt. Teeth on the ground.” “He raise that hell like his brother, huh?” Rashan smiled and looked down, shaking his head. “What boy? What funny?” Rashan looked up. “Benny a nerd. He get the highest grades in the class. I be in some of his classes. He don’t even pay attention to them teachers, then make a hundred, every time. He a quiet whiteboy. Stick to hisself. Them fights? He didn’t start ‘em. That why he never got in no trouble. Tunk looked out his window and waived his hand. Rashan left the room quick. Rashan was one of Tunks best fighters. He couldn’t believe that nigga scared of that white boy. Rashan wasn’t scared of nobody. He ain’t never said no to me Tunk thought. Something ain’t right. He fired up a blut and thought about how nice it would be to shoot that fucking Billingsly. Shoot him right in his face. After a moment he text his best lookout, Squirrel. He told him his new job. Watch every move from that Carrol house and follow that whiteboy Benny. Tunk leaned back and blew smoke at the ceiling. Squirrel saw Benny turn the corner. Squirrel got on his bike. Two blocks later he saw Benny get in a green Tahoe. A text went out with a description. Tunk looked at his screen. Brand new green Tahoe. Whiteboy walk out, then climb into a brand-new Tahoe? Why not just pick him up at the house? Shit ain’t adding up right. Brand new green Tahoe, sounded upper westside. He put the blunt out and rocked in his chair. Then he began texting some whiteboys he knew. White boys who knew that area of the city. Dirty whiteboys who always up to dirty shit. After an hour of texting, Tunk had a good idea about how those Carrol boys be eating. Nobody knew about those Carrol boys, or said they didn’t, but they knew about that Tahoe. He looked at his nine-millimeter. It took three day of looking at his security footage before Benny was sure. Edited and put into folders, he went over the footage again. He sat back and drummed his fingers on his desk. Squirrel was definitely watching them. All the time now. He refreshed his smaller laptop. Tunk’s backyard and most of the front popped into view. Last summer he’d been mowing the widow Jackson’s yard when he saw she had a perfect view of Tunk’s house from the corner of her husband’s old workshop. He was always helping Ms. Betty and she let him use the shop. He set up surveillance on Tunk and dedicated a laptop to the job. It cost him money, but he’d gone high end on the camera. He clicked on a folder. Numerous folders popped up with names like hand to hand deals, product delivery, fights, suspicious vehicles, and Chokoh’s murder. He got up, grabbed his backpack, and rode over to visit Ms. Betty. It was nightfall by the time he got back home with all the equipment. His hands had white paint on them. Gail Werner looked at the small brown bubble pack envelope, no return address. The newsroom of WKAY, Channel 5, hummed with activity. She opened the envelope and a memory stick dropped out. She pulled out the letter and read it. Then she looked at the stick. Two hours later she tapped on her editor’s door. Randy Spears looked up and waived her in. She closed the door saying, “You’re not going to believe this. Remember that drug dealer, Chokoh, that just disappeared? Randy squinted and waived her to sit, saying, “Who?” “His name was Bernard Grimmles, but everybody called him Chokoh. We put his family on the air, suspicious disappearance. He was never found.” “Not really, but what about it.” “I got video of his murder. I got the address and the shooter’s name. I got where he’s buried, all on video. Very good video. Clear video. The shooter is actually facing the camera when he shoots Chokoh. He also buries him where he fell. Then, get this, he turns the grave into a little flower garden with bird feeders and one of them stone bird baths. It’s unbelievable. And that’s not the half of it. I got video of that address going back months. You wouldn’t believe what goes on there, it’s unbelievable, and I haven’t even gone thru it all. I got an idea for the lead.” Gail grinned, her face reddening. “Yeah?” “The Den of Sin,” she said, making quotes with her fingers. After an hour of watching the Chokoh footage on his big screen, Randy said, “That neighborhood borders Dixon Creek.” Gail nodded, “Your right,” and showed him her phone. Google Maps showed the neighborhood bordered the creek. “We got to work that into the story.” “Maybe I can work it into the lead,” Gail said, frowning. “But the house isn’t on the creek, just close to it.” Randy shook his head, “Not the lead, just make sure to mention it. The notorious Dixon Creek, that kind of thing. I got to call Chief Pickett. We can’t run with this yet. Make some copies. Put the stick in the safe.” Randy picked up his phone and called the City Police. “Hey Fay, is the Chief in?” Gail leaned in and whispered, “I’ll start editing the Chokoh thing, then start on the rest.” Randy nodded and waived his pencil toward the door, “Doug? It’s Randy at 5 News. Can you come to the station?” Gail smiled and winked, closing his door. “Well, like now. You’re not going to believe what I got on video. You remember the Chokoh disappearance?” Randy couldn’t help but smile. “That’s the one. Well good news, he’s been found, and his murder and burial are all on video. All of it, everything. What? Oh, it was anonymous. Somebody mailed it to the station. It’s all on a memory stick.” Randy listened as he tapped his pencil. “The envelope? It’s right here.” Randy pushed it around a little with his pencil. “I’ll have coffee made. We’re gonna need it.” Three days later, Dylan watched as several police cars converged on the corner. The crime scene van pulled up. SWAT arrived and began checking their weapons and talking into headsets. “Yo Benny, check it out,” Dylan hollered out as he picked up his scope. Benny had been expecting and hurried to Dylan’s room. They watched as things escalated outside the window. Two dogs were on a leash behind the last patrol car. “Looks like they gonna search his house, bet there’s nothing there.” Benny held his tongue. It took a bit, but Tunk was placed in a patrol car. Then the dogs moved into the back yard. Cadaver dogs, Benny thought. “What the fuck is going on over there?” Dylan said out loud. Benny glanced over, stood straight and said, “Tunk fucked up.” Greg Pierce 2021


DRAFT, looking for feedback on character development and plot. Thanks! "Just passing through," I said as the officer pulled her head away from my driver's side window, satisfied. I hadn't been drunk in over a year and tonight was no exception. "We're looking for sober drivers with valid licences," she smiled sincerely. Never mind the fact I'd just been caught doing 80 in a 60 km/h zone. Between the two bumper stickers on my 2016 midnight black Toyota Sienna, there was a Canada flag and a glossy 5.11 Tactical sticker. The latter, I suspect, was subconsciously telling her I was one of them: on her side, a *good guy*. I put it there deliberately. "What's in the bag?" She gestured to my passenger seat. "Medical and survival stuff," I replied. I wasn't lying but I wasn't telling the whole truth. "Were you in the military?" "Just a cautious civilian," I said, "There's no reception up here sometimes and I wanna be prepared in case anything happens." "That's fine. Drive safe!" And the flashing lights ceased in my rear-view as I thanked her with a plastered smile and just sat to regain my breath. That's the second time in the past month I've been caught speeding and let go. It's a combination of the 5.11 sticker and my demeanour, I think. I've always been told I have a calm and commanding presence - one that quells any anxiety or worry. One where I can look a cop in the eyes and somehow transmit the message, “I’m safe, I’m harmless, I’m on your side.” I laugh to myself while knowing I talked my way out of it again. I keep a cool exterior. On the inside, though, I'm a nervous wreck. But I *am* a good guy - I got passing grades in university, where I majored in psych, I pay my taxes, and I make the greatest effort to always tell the truth. That's how people measure goodness these days, isn't it? I tell myself that. The contents of my backpack argue otherwise. I'm alone on the side of the highway now and it's 4 AM. "Pemberton 48 km," the sign proclaimed. I drove the next 48 km in silence. One after another, the officer’s questions flashed through my memory as I scrutinized my answers for any grain of truth. "Just passing through," I recalled saying. It was true: through this town and the next ten to come. There’s no time to stop and linger when you’re about to leave a fresh trail of blood. I signalled and put my van back in drive. I pressed the gas and pulled back onto the barren, early-morning highway. “Where are you heading? Where are you coming from?" To both questions, I had given the same answer: “Vancouver.” It was mostly true. I’m doing a big circle route up Highway 99 and then back down through Highway 1, driving about ten hours with no real destination or plan. Just a return to where I started, with a little detour along the way. “Why are you doing that?” “Because I get restless, and because driving aimlessly provides a cheap sense of freedom.” Partially true. Gas is $1.75 per litre tonight, costing me nearly $130 to fill up my tank – that's not so cheap monetarily, but freedom is my drug of choice. “And why are you doing this at four o’clock in the morning?” “I like to drive at night when there's nobody else on the roads.” That was true. “Who do you know up here?” She had asked. ”Nobody. Just passing through." Another truth: I don’t have a single friend in the world. I’m going to give myself a solid 100% for truth. I can rest easy tonight knowing I haven’t lied. “We're looking for sober drivers with valid licences," she had smiled sincerely. The scenario continued to replay. That was a close one. I can see her face in my mind’s eye so vividly it’s almost like she’s still here. I put a hard rock playlist on to drown out the flashbacks, blaring. The music does its job and soon I am pacified, soothed by the riffs and melodic, passionate singing. The flashbacks seem shorter and further apart. Why do I have two distinctive bumper stickers on my otherwise generic van, one might wonder. It’s an identifiable mark, and no one in my profession drives a snowflake ride. We all want to blend in. “He was so nice and normal, I never would have expected it!” is what the neighbours all end up saying. Mine is a test of reverse psychology. I don’t want to fit the stereotype profile. It’s like the unmarked cop cars who always try to blend in: you can spot them from a mile away. They are clean, modern cruisers in one of three makes with no markings, no trailer or roof rack, no Learner's decal, no business logo, no "baby on board" and sometimes they even have front police fenders. They don’t try hard enough to pass for an individual going about their daily life. That’s what I aspire to fit because truly nobody is a statistic. If I look too generic, I’ll stand out. So I try to pass instead for an upstanding, moral patriotic citizen. And in the back of my mind I’m constantly trying to convince myself it’s genuine. *Maybe she is still around though*, I cautioned myself. A simple reminder to drive according to the rules. Construction truck comes up behind me? Do the speed limit; I don't care. Two could play at my game. Living dangerously means accepting certain limits for the maintenance of one's own operation. Living dangerously means I can't risk being pulled over again. As the flashbacks fade, I’m left with a little more brain space to think about other things. Like my fears around getting caught. I’ve been at this hobby for two years now and the paranoia is starting to take a toll: looking over my shoulder when I exit the van. Listening to the news reports on the radio and wondering just how much they know, or when somebody will tip them off. Dash cams exist these days; it’s not like it was back when old man Willie was haunting the area. I’m not the only one to drive the streets. Overhearing the talk in small town cafes and bars. The anxiety floods me and at once mixes with the excitement and thrill of the hunt. I’m a wreck. My nerves are shot. I just want to claw out of my skin and become someone else. Someone with less ghosts, less haunted. I have too much internal tension to really enjoy what I do nowadays, but once you get started it can be hard to stop. I'm passing through Pemberton and it takes all of five minutes to slip beyond the village. Just beyond that are several rural residences, becoming fewer and further between. A road sign to my right warns, "Check your fuel. Next service 96 km." I have three quarters left in the tank. Check. Something else to my right: a figure. A thumb, beckoning. "Hey! Hey you!" I could sense the man’s desperation building as I drew nearer. "Stop! Pick me up!" Now waving. There shouldn't be anyone here on the outskirts of Pemberton. It's not a comfortable walking distance from town and there's nothing but trees and highway. Just then I saw the officer’s smile flash through my memory. “That’s fine, drive safe!” She had said. I shuddered recalling her oblivious sincerity and how easily I had talked my way around everything. I hate telling white lies because I’m a good person and no good person ever lies. My brain hurts. I pressed the gas hard and accelerated around the man, past him. I don't care for company. My thoughts keep me warm. I know this highway well and my favourite stretch occurs between here and the next village, Lillooet. There is no cell service. The roads twist and turn like rapids. No cars are to be seen for ages. I picked up speed and relaxed into my grey, reupholstered seat. Liberation. Even the most inhumane among us need to come up for fresh air every once in a while. The sun's beginning to rise. The skies have gone from a midnight blue to a pale, almost pastel blue with clouds. I was never good with colour vocabulary; that's a woman's domain. The mountains to the north are capped purple. Some trees are silhouetted against the sky and I take a moment to breathe and bask in it. This is what I live for. Why hadn’t I picked up that hitchhiker? I pondered. I had the perfect opportunity to strike and the savage blood thirst to match it. This wouldn’t be my first trip around the rodeo either: after two years I was not lacking in the experience department. I change my route every time but the method stays the same. Quick and easy, slice and dump, early morning in rural isolation. This had been a nice landscape too because the cliffs abound. Nobody would have noticed for days. Time and distance pass, as they tend to when one is lost in labile emotions and racing thought. The music is keeping pace and the winding road is having a soporific effect on me. I welcome it: anything to lull me to sleep. And I need sleep. Sleep is important because it helps one process the events of the previous day. Sleep is elusive because the past two years have been eventful. When the mind twists and turns vengeful plots like the mountain road, rest doesn't come easy. When a war between guilt and integrity burns inside you, your strained eyes stay wide open. And I *am* a good person, deep inside. We all are, according to Maslow and Skinner who founded the humanistic approach to psychology. I believe in that theory because if I couldn’t see my own redeeming silver linings I’d get even less sleep than the 45 minutes I usually do. If I wasn’t basically good, I wouldn’t be stricken by flashbacks of all the lies I’ve told. Maybe it was the fresh air that hit my senses at the right time. Maybe it was the image of her face burned into my retinas: the way she met my gaze and smiled. Soft. “We’re looking for sober drivers with valid licenses,” she had said. I hadn’t been smiled at in too many moons to remember. Human. Good. I stopped precisely three minutes before Lillooet town limits. I grabbed my molle style military backpack and ran like a madman for the nearest cliff, hurling it over the edge, overhand. It dropped like a rock into the waters below. The duct tape and assorted hunting knives plunging along with the first aid and survival gear, which I forgot to take out in my haste. Sudden lucidity after hours of wakefulness: this is the time when plans are abandoned. In the crisp air of the mountains, this is the place my where my clarity comes through. For the first time since owning my burner phone, I took a picture of something besides my latest prey. I took a simple picture of the sign at the Lillooet town limits: “Guaranteed Rugged,” it reads. I took a picture for my own records to say “I was here, just passing through.” And for tonight – just for tonight – it was true.


I grab my coat from the dusty old closet. Slipping the coat over my arm, I grab my hat and fit it snug on my head. I open the door into the world. It greets me with a gush of wind that pushes me aback. Taking a step onto the wooden porch that creaks with each step, I shut the door. I swing the coat over my shoulder and put my arms into it’s sleeves. Then I run. I run with each step pounding hard against my knees. The trees around me start to blur. I push myself harder. The wind at my back, I spread my arms. I can see the land ahead comes to an end. I keep going. I know I can fly. As I come to the edge I thrust myself forward. Giving no second thought that I can’t achieve my goal, I take a leap of faith. As I soar though the air, I can see the ground below and it makes my heart flicker with light. I can smile one last time.


Houses are like the heart, each room storing away the past joys and sorrows of memory. Four generations of memories lined our front room mantelpiece, crowded the narrow hallway, spattered the walls and nightstands in the bedroom. They had even crept into the kitchen to mingle with the cast-iron cookware and the rich scents of sweet fruit and pungent spices. Each picture told a story that even my youngest child knew by heart. This one was of Grandpa wearing his ridiculously tattered hat. He always hung it right there by the door so he wouldn’t forget it before he went fishing. That humorous one at the end of the hall was of my mother and her dolls. They went everywhere she went, even into the bathtub. The one in the kitchen hanging above the stove was of my grandma. She was trying to fry eggs for Grandpa, sunny-side up just the way he liked them, but she turned the heat up too high. The grease fire ate its way right up the walls and ravaged the ceiling. It took three coats of plaster to cover up the blisters and black streaks. Each picture was a window to a room in Grandpa’s heart. By the time I was grown, I thought I had peered through all his windows. But every soul has secrets it has locked away, memories too sacred or too sad to share with the rest of the world. I discovered Grandpa’s secret the day we began remodeling the hallway. Behind the wall we found quite a bit of space, and a door. My husband and I were intrigued. The curved handle stuck until my husband gave it a sharp rap with the mallet. My first impression on entering the lightless room was of the deep smell of cedar with a hint of lavender. Even though I had never known my grandmother, the scent reminded me of her. By the dim light peeking in from the hallway, I could make out furniture: a dresser against one wall, a narrow bed and dressing table against the other. A squat lamp sitting on one side of a little bookshelf still worked. Its mellow light revealed a rolling landscape of soft pinks and dark-stained wood. Blushing angels and shining stars hung suspended over a crib full of smiling rag dolls and teddy bears bedecked with jumbo pink plaid bows. Lavender-scented powder spilling out of a cracked mauve container coated the changing table on the dresser top. Mouse prints marked several journeys across the snowy plain. A row of boards evenly nailed against the wall between the crib and bed outlined a window. It bothered me that those boards were there, choking the light off from such a sweet little room, cutting off the view to the outside world. Why had this room been kept such a secret? The dressing table contained a small round swiveling mirror with cherubs carved into its frame, some simple toiletries, and a thick piece of pink parchment. I picked up this last, blew the dust off, and read:  “To my love May we continue To walk the path of Happiness With our second Bundle of Joy”  Grandpa’s fancy signature floated in the lower right corner, ending in a flourish of hearts. My husband and I stared at one another in surprise. “Your mother had a sister,” he said. “Did you know about this?” “She didn’t even know,” I said softly. Grandpa had never told anyone. I could see him as he had been in life, wearing his plaid workman’s shirt and tan suspenders, a heavy tool belt strapped low around his waist. Grandpa had been a tall, solid man with a large laugh. We grandkids had adored him. I could imagine him painstakingly carving the bars on the crib, then hanging the angels and stars with a smile of anticipation for the little head that would lie beneath them. It wrung at my heart to think of him entering the newly furnished room stooped over with grief, knowing that his young wife and their new child would never enter here. I looked over at the bed and saw him as he must have looked then, sitting at its edge, his face buried in his big carpenter’s hands, his broad frame shaking in bereavement. I had finally viewed the last room in his heart. With tears in my own eyes, I turned off the lamp and shut the door. There were no windows looking in, and there never would be. Every soul has its secret. I would leave Grandpa his.


The Fall of Corbridge The sun blinded him; he hadn’t seen it in days.

His feet dragged on the ground as the two guards pulled him along between them, ignoring his weak pleas for water. Ignoring, or not hearing, as his dry throat and cracked lips betrayed him into unintentional silence.

A few minutes after hauling him out of the hot box, they stood him in front of her.

He blinked and tried to focus on his queen. “Brude. You survived,” she said, staring at him intently.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” she said harshly. Then, more subdued, “You’ve been bullheaded since we were children. Get him water!” The guards dropped him and he fell to his knees, coughing weakly.

A few minutes later one of them returned with a battered tin cup full of water; he slurped it greedily for a few moments then stood up and looked at her.

“Scathach. Was I right?” He asked.

She paused as the other guard returned with another cup of water for her.

She drank from it and said, “No.” Watching him from the corner of her eye as she sipped, she saw his shoulders slump.

Then continued, “But you weren’t completely wrong.” He looked up.

“The Romans did send men up the Tyne, on the day you thought they would.” She put her cup down and stood up. “But they sent half a legion!!” She shouted at him.

“We thought they would just be scouts! We were lucky to escape with half our warriors!”

Brude looked at the ground. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…”

“No! You didn’t realize! The Vacomagi have been pressing in on us from the north and we took men from those villages to fight the Romans.

And they died! Now we are vulnerable on both sides!”

Brude watched her as she raged at him.

As her shouting subsided, he said, “You had me punished for my failure. Then why am I still alive?”

She paused and collected herself. “Well.

The rest of that half legion destroyed several of the Vaco villages after we scattered.

It seems…” Scathach smoothed her furs and looked away. “It seems they want an alliance with us. Against the Romans. And they are thankful that we did what we did to slow them down. I may have mentioned that our Druid had foretold it.

They want to meet you.”

She stepped forward, crossing the twenty feet or so that separated them and looked him up and down, crinkling her nose.

He stood naked, caked in days of sweat and not a little dried blood. “Clean yourself up.

We are going to meet their emissaries today.

And when their warriors arrive…” she walked slowly around behind him and leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “...we attack... the wall.”

Brude lay under the waterfall and closed his eyes, letting the water tumble over him, cascading the stench from his body.

He relished in the feel of running water: crisp, cold, and refreshing.

Stretching each of his limbs out, he grinned and then laughed out loud.

There was no joy like that of a simple pleasure after so many days (weeks?) of pain, misery, and deprivation.

You take for granted the feeling of standing up, of straightening legs and arms, as if it were nothing.

As if you had never been caged in a box in the darkness with no food or water, no light.

Nothing but visions…

The hum of something vibrating lulled him to sleep.

Strange boxy buildings flew by on either side of the odd carriage he rode in, but they did not disturb him as they should have.

When he awoke, the countryside that slipped by on either side was slightly more recognizable: forest and river, and long stretches of unfamiliar grasslands, scattered livestock, and larger structures that seemed like they must be Roman, but larger than anything he had seen Romans build in his land.

The vehicle around him was pulled by no animal, yet it sped faster than any horse he had ever ridden.

The woman who rode next to him, laughing and chatting in a strange language, had golden hair and fair skin.

Rather than being wrapped around her, her vibrantly colored clothes seemed fitted to her body, and he couldn’t see any indication of where they may be sewn together. He had never seen the like; she entranced him.

Soon they arrived at their destination and he watched his hand open the door next to him as he stepped out on to a hard black road.

He wanted to drop to his knees and examine it, but he had no control and could only ride along as the man he was strode into a large structure.

As time passed he began to understand the conversation around him.

The mind he rode in knew it well and it took a short time to connect with that understanding and listen.

This fey blond woman said to him, “Come on, slow poke! Here’s your ticket.” She handed him a slip of something thin and light and they pushed through a metal bar to enter a large chamber.

He looked up and read the sign over the entrance: “Roman Army Museum.”

She slipped her hand into his and they walked slowly past several scenes of Roman life.

At first he was terrified - Roman soldiers everywhere! But none of them moved, and he quickly calmed down.

The first group he stopped by had a sign describing various pieces of clothing they wore.

This held no interest for him.

Then they moved to another sign and if he could have caught his breath, he would have.

“In 180 C.E. the Picts were taken by surprise when the Romans launched an offensive beyond Hadrian’s Wall. Burning villages up the Tyne River, they won what they thought was a decisive victory.

Just a few weeks later however, they suffered their first defeat at the Wall when the unified northerners breached it and sacked Corbridge…”

Brude opened his eyes.

This was the first time he had made it to the end of that reading in his vision.

Corbridge.

His eyes shone with excitement as he scrambled out the waterfall.

“My clothes! You! Hand them over! Take me to Scathach! Hurry.” He dressed quickly and slipped into his hide boots.

Grabbing his staff he practically ran ahead of his escort back to the village.

They caught up to him as he burst into the enclosure.

She stood chatting with a group of unfamiliar warriors, clearly Vacomagi by the styles they wore.

She saw him and waved.

“Brude. Welcome!

This is Kethern and Wolch, from the north.

And this,” she gestured at Brude, “is our secret weapon.”

The taller of the two, Kethern, held out his hand in greeting. Brude grasped his forearm and inclined his head in acknowledgment.

Wolch stood back, his eyes narrow, examine Brude.

“Your reading played us false, Druid,” the man spat on the ground. “Just because your face has been marked by the gods does not mean they speak through you.” Brude involuntarily reached up to touch the purple stain that spread across his cheek and onto his forehead.

“And where were your Druids,” he countered. “Who else knew they would come by the Tyne river when they did?”

“The Romans are very powerful,” Kethern conceded.

Brude’s eyes shone as he looked at him. “Not powerful enough.” He grinned. “They will fall at Corbridge. Send for your men.”

Scathach and Kethern looked at each other, then at Wolch. The shorter man knelt down and drew a collection of marked bones from his pouch, tossing them on the ground.

As they scattered in the dirt, Brude hissed and kicked them.

“You don’t need false readings! You know nothing! We will take them at Corbridge! Stop wasting our time!”

Deeply insulted, Wolch sprang at Brude, drawing his blade and slicing it toward his ribs.

Brude’s frailty betrayed him, his muscles weak from captivity. He watched the deadly attack as it came for him and his normally sharp reflexes failed to save him. His queen, however, did not.

Her axe flashed out and separated Wolch’s head from his shoulders in an instant.

Then she looked at Kethern.

“You heard him.” She said calmly, wiping the dead man’s gore from the axe head.

Wolch’s body twitched on the ground as his blood sprayed into the dirt, soon subsiding into a steady trickle and he lay still, his head rolling to a stop across the clearing. Kethern never moved as the scene unfolded around him. He looked first at Scathach, then at Brude.

“We disregarded you once. We won’t fail a second time. The Vagomagi will join with the Pecht and the Romans will be swept off that cursed wall.

We attack in three sleeps.” “...Just a few weeks later however, they suffered their first defeat at the Wall when the unified northerners breached it and sacked Corbridge.

Their success was not long lived, however.

The Roman counter attack by Governor Ulpius Marcellus was swift and destructive.

The Picts signed peace agreements soon after and though they successfully kept the Romans from establishing a foothold north of the Wall, for the next 300 years, they lived in a constant state of guerilla warfare against the Roman legions.” Deborah read the display out loud, and leaned her head on her boyfriend’s shoulder, pushing a wisp of blond hair out of her eyes.

“Can you imagine being at war for 300 years?” He said.

She shook her head.

“What a life,” she sighed.

A young boy and his mother walking towards them looked up and suddenly shied away, hiding behind his mother. The mother glanced up at him, winced, and looked away. He grimaced. Deborah rolled her eyes, looked at him, and said in a loud voice, “Gosh Bruce, do you think they have never seen a birthmark before?” She kissed him on the cheek, right where the discoloration began, and turned to glare at the woman as she hurried by. Bruce didn’t respond for a few moments. Deborah shook him. “Hey. B man.

You there? Or you back in Ancient Rome again?” She said, laughing. ”Ha, no.

And it was Ancient Briton, D, c’mon.” He said smiling at her. “That was quite a vivid dream though. Being smushed inside a hot box like that for so long… more like a nightmare…”


This story includes references to physical affection, but not sexual contact.

                                   PERFECT PERSON                                                                                September 8, 2003 Pam, Didn’t I tell you I’d find my dream man? And here he is! Ralph Casella, a bona fide New Yorker, the Robert de Niro of 9 th avenue and 42 nd street! I’m not kidding. He’s a dead ringer. Waitresses stare and ask if he’s Robert de Niro – frequently. Think Godfather II, New York accent and all. I mean, he looks like his picture (drool) on the website AND he’s cuddly. I can’t seem to stop sitting on his lap, fully clothed, mind you. This guy was made for LUHV. It’s only the second date, though, and he is a recent widower, so, we cuddle on the couch and talk and talk. Well, mostly he talks because, you know, MEN. But his New York accent SLAYS ME. He lied about his age in his bio, but if you squint he COULD easily pass for 55. Great hair. No jowls. He says I wouldn’t have responded to a 63-year-old, but I’m not so sure about that. His picture and love of philosophy attracted me. Those don’t lie. I’ll keep you posted. Karen

9-16-03 Karen, Wait! He LIED? And you, the strict teller of all TRUTHS forever and evermore are still talking to him? NO! Just NO! No matter how great his hair is. Don’t make me state the obvious. If he lies about his age . . . AARGH! Pam September 21, 2003 Pam, I accepted his apology for lying. His apartment tells me what I need to know about him. He finagled a deal and lives in luxury for a pittance. You know how I feel about obnoxious rich guys, so you don’t have to worry about that with him. No money. HAHA He’s one of the old-fashioned ‘faithful to the death’ men. He’s got that Italian macho thing, oozing with sex appeal and a certain sensitivity. Pisces Sun says it all. Definitely not shy in the bedroom. OH MY! Don’t harp on the lying about his age. He confessed right away. Not that he had to tell me. I could see he was older. You know me. I always sniff out the lies. TRA LA LA (cuddle cuddle) Karen                                                                                9-28-03 Karen, Oh boy, you’re over the edge already. Or at least poised on the ledge. Don’t jump, please. Nobody gets a deal on rent in NYC. (I assume he doesn’t own) Where is this phenomenon exactly? Harlem? And what exactly does ‘finagled a deal’ mean? I smell sour grapes. Oh, that’s not right is it? Never mind, you know what I mean. Something stinks. Keep that nose sharp. Once a liar . . . Have you met his friends? Family? Any activities in common other than . . .? Pam                                                                                October 5, 2003 Pam, He has no friends. My ex-husband has no friends, either. Have any of your boyfriends been rich with friendships? No. Mine haven’t, either. It’s a guy thing.

He was married for forty plus years. She was his only friend. His grown children live close but I’m not seeing them any time soon. They don’t need to meet their dad’s girlfriend yet. It’s only been four months since their mother died. The apartment has a fantastic view and is right next to the theater district, FYI. It IS a phenomenon. How did you guess? Still singing. Tell me about you. Karen

                10-11-03 Karen, His wife died only FOUR MONTHS AGO? Red flags. In fact, I’m seeing blood red flags in tatters, whipped by a hurricane.

No friends? In a city where he’s lived his whole life? Have you seen photos of his children? Do they even exist? What about other relatives? How long has Ralph lived in this place of wonder? Does he have hobbies? Does he take you to the theater? Has he heard you sing? Tell me you escaped lover’s lair long enough to shop for your fall wardrobe. Or Have you disappeared into a web? Fallen into a trough? Look around. Are you lost in a dark cave inhabited by a sorcerer? We need a phone conversation. Dribs and drabs don't do it! Can you tear yourself away from your Italian stallion for 15 minutes to call me? We have to schedule it, so give me your preferred day and time so I can reserve the phone. And send a current photo of you, preferably of the two of you together, please? Do a background search. Nothing much to say about this place. Surviving. One nasty d..e won’t leave me alone. I can handle her. Pam                                                                                October 17, 2003 My dear histrionic sis, You’re spending too much time around criminals. Ralph is not wanted by the law in spite of his early years fending for himself on the streets of NYC. He’s the good guy in his family, a straight arrow, first to go to college. As far as I know, not being terribly sociable is not a crime. So, I met a guy Ralph says is his friend from the old neighborhood. We had dinner at an Italian restaurant a few steps from the apartment. The sleaze asked if any of my young actress students needed a sugar daddy. I nearly barfed up my chicken marsala. Ralph begged me not to judge him by this guy. “He’s not really a friend, just somebody I used to know.” I told him I know he’s not a salacious sex fiend like his friend. As Ralph says, “I’ve never had to go looking. Women always come to me.” Modest, he’s not. What’s happening in your life? Let’s focus on that. How many months do you have left to serve? Maybe your red flag dreams need another interpretation? Maybe stop looking at me and turn the mirror towards yourself? Hmm. Who is this person on your tail? All the best, Karen

                                                                                10-23-03 Karen, Just got word I’ll be out on parole in six months. Whoopee!! So, when do you want to call? I have a few ideas to run past you. Your calm sis who loves you dearly, Pam P.S. Run a background check. Remember the lying sack of crap who landed me in this dump.                                                                                October 29, 2003 Pam, That’s good news. Six months will fly by. If your ideas include moving in with me, I have to say no. Ralph spends every weekend at the townhouse. Sorry. Meanwhile, I met his two brothers yesterday. These two are nothing like Ralph. Ralph takes after the Italian mother. Evidently, the younger boys got their looks and manners from the uncouth lout of a dad. Ugh! So . . . we drove out to Long Island for a family party, a first for us on many counts. After we got our food and were sitting out in the yard, talking, the middle brother, Anthony, started razzing Ralph, calling him names, like a rowdy teenager. He’s always been jealous of his good-looking, educated older brother, as it turns out. And he gets belligerent when he drinks too much. He drinks too much a lot. Ralph has been his target because he won’t fight back. Something got into me! I was furious for Ralph. He was minding his own business and just looked meek as insults pelted him. I couldn’t stand it! I decided to call Anthony on his rude behavior. You’d be proud of me, Sis. I walked up to where Anthony was leaning over the railing and said he had no right to treat Ralph that way. We were on a deck high above the yard and the pool. Anthony shouted, “Go to hell, bitch!” and threw the contents of his drink at me. It totally caught me off guard. I almost fell down the stairs. My blouse was soaked and clinging to my breasts. I was mortified. If you’d been there, you’d have punched him. I wanted to, but you know me, I can’t get violent. I just don’t have it in me. I guess Ralph and I are alike in that way. Ralph didn’t see any of this. He had no idea I was standing up for him until later when he couldn’t find me because I was in the bathroom, crying and scrubbing my blouse. Some of the family gathered around me after I couldn’t hide in the bathroom any longer. They were being nice in their own way. The other brother, Angelo, said, “Aw, don’t take it personally. Anthony’s a buffoon. He does stupid things like that all the time.” What a nightmare! You know what happens to my face when I cry. It’s a freak show. I just wanted to get outta there. The cloud hung over us all the way home and days afterwards. So, that’s Ralph’s family. You’ll probably say I overreacted, but I’m telling you, it was traumatizing, first the taunting, then violence and then the way Ralph was so wishy washy about it. Not that I wanted him to fight his brother, but he acted like it wasn’t a big deal. I think he’s used to being abused. Somebody needed to throw Anthony in the pool. That’s my latest news. (sigh) What’s going on there? Read any good books lately? I still can’t stand the thought of you in prison. And scumbag Steve lounging in your apartment.

Look, if you can’t get him outta there, you can hang at my place. Don’t even consider living there with him. Okay? Promise me. I talked to Ralph and he’s cool with it, too.

If he’s even still in the picture by then. I have to rethink this relationship. Karen                                                                                11-6-03 Karen, Aw, Sis, that’s real nice of you. It’d just be temporary. My lawyer’s workin’ on getting Steve thrown out of the apartment. My name’s the only one on the lease, anyway, so he’s got no rights. You know, this incarceration thing is not like the TV shows make it look. I had to join one of the ‘gangs’ unless I wanted to fight off a couple of the big girls by myself, if you know what I mean. I’ll tell you more when we talk. They look at the letters, so . . . The food here is rough, I have to say. This place is showing me how much we take for granted. Just shopping for food again is gonna be a thrill. Isn’t that weird? Can’t wait to watch my favorite shows again, too. I’m gonna have to binge Law and Order when I get out. It’s not allowed here. Go figure. So, about Ralph. If you want my two cents, he sounds sweet, but that brother - there’s some bad stuff in the family. You’re a class act, Sis. You don’t have to be around bullies. Stay clear of the riff raff. Take my word.

Pam November 18, 2003 Pam, Thanksgiving’s almost here and I’m putting together a feast for Ralph’s family at the apartment. Just his kids and grandkids. Not his brothers. I’m actually planning everything in advance and making a list of what to do minute by minute, practically. Pick your jaw up off the floor. First turkey day for Ralph’s family without the wife/mother/grandmother. I want to make everything perfect.

Wish you could be here. What happens there on holidays? Karen                                                                                11-29-03 Karen, I heard that Thanksgiving Day here is one when no one is plotting against you. And it turned out to be sorta true. You NEVER stop watching every move the other inmates make, however, if you're smart. Dinner was the best meal they’ve served, still on a plastic tray, but hey. A huge piece of turkey, the real stuff, landed on my plate. Mashed potatoes. No cranberry sauce or pumpkin pie. That was depressing. Can we plan a call soon? Pam                                                                                December 8, 2003 Pam, How about December 15th for a phone call? And what about a visit? I’ll drive down. How much time do they let you have for visitors? Can we do that on Christmas Day? We can talk about it during the call. Let me know. Ralph wants me to go to his daughter’s place for Christmas, but I know she hates me, so I want to leave town for a couple days and avoid a bad scene. The holidays are depressing enough without somebody wishing you didn’t exist. Ralph ignores her glares, but there’s no mistaking her disgust with him for finding another woman to replace her mother. He’s in denial. Don’t ever date a recent widower who has children, no matter their age. I want to see you. And I don’t want you sitting around alone on Christmas Day. Will you find out what the deal is for visitors that day? I’ll bring fudge, if allowed. It’s not the same as Mom’s, but it’s close. Gotta have fudge on Christmas. Maybe some peanut brittle, too? Remember singing around the piano with the fam? Let’s make it festive! Love ya’, Karen                                                                                December 11, 2003 Pam, Beginning to worry about you, Sis. Maybe your letter is in the mail? I tried to call the prison – no luck. I want to talk to you and make plans. Please just call collect. It’s fine, really.

Love, Karen

                                                                                12-18-03 Karen, I’m sorry I haven’t written.

I didn’t want you to worry, so I didn’t tell you the whole truth. The gangs here are not just threatening. Remember I mentioned a pest? She doesn’t like the word ‘no.’ She and her gang beat me up last week. Put me in the infirmary for 3 days. A couple of the guards are in on it, too, so there’s no place to hide. Once you’re targeted, you're pretty much a goner. Word is they want me gone before the new year.

There’s nothing you can do, believe me. Prison is a different world. Please just let it go and do your life. I’m the screw up. Can’t blame anyone else.

If Ralph loves you, Sis, give him a chance. Forget about the daughter. She’ll come around. In time. Don’t let the stupid brother ruin things either. My life is too messy. Nothing to look forward to, so now I’m thinking about Mom and Dad. They’re waiting for me on the Other Side. Might as well let go of this trip. Next life will be better. You’re the golden child. Go on and shine. Love, Pam

                           December 20, 2003 Pam, Yes, you are a screw up. You’re also my baby sister, the drama queen.

AND YOU DON'T DESERVE TO DIE! I’m coming. Don’t you dare give up. Karen

December 23, 2003  Sis,  HOLD ON! The cavalry is coming!  Ralph and his sleazy friend went to elementary school with the NY  governor!!!

We have George Pataki's promise that you will be lifted up and outta there before Christmas. The warden has been notified. Whatever you have to do to stay out of the clutches of your nemesis for the next twenty-four hours, DO IT!

YOU ARE SAVED. Ralph and I will be there to pick you up. I love you Karen

THE END


That was not a fart! I knew Taco Bell was a bad idea.

Number 35 stole the ball meant for me. "Hey, Ed! What the heck! Cut!" Darren yelled. It's true, the lane was open. However, my current situation did not lend itself to fast breaks. I slowly jogged back to the other side of the court, trying not to exasperate the mishap. Then it hit me — white uniform! We're the home team! The coach bellowed, "Get your butt back on defense!" My butt was precisely the problem. I needed to limit my movement as much as possible. If I keep moving, the crowd will catch a whiff of a fragrant foul so putrid it would crush the Guinness World Record. Throughout high school, I'd be the butt of every joke. What the heck! I'm doing it right now! I sped up a smidge to appease Coach, but the accident in my underwear began to spread – I could feel it. The other team scored a bucket, so I turned around and carefully paced myself back to our side of the court. All of a sudden, I smelled a pungent odor coming from my backside. Panic rose inside. If I could smell it, then my defender could also smell it. I lingered near half-court, not wanting to attract any attention. Unfortunately, I attracted more attention. Darren motioned for me to go low and post up where I belonged. But there was no way on God's green earth I was going down there. My butt wasn't going to butt out anyone tonight. I needed to get off this court fast. Mercifully, we missed a shot, and the other team rebounded. My mind raced. How can I get out of here? I'm just going to have to make a dash for it. I'll run right off the court and to the lockers. Of course, Coach would probably tackle me before I left the gym, but what else can I do? I veered to the sideline, about to make the fastest fastbreak of my life, when Coach eyed me. He gave me the look we all fear – the one that doesn't need to say anything; you know you'd better run right over to him or say your goodbyes. However, I couldn't obey. I turned to escape, but the ref blew his whistle and pointed me to the bench before I could. Coach called a time-out!

I slowly walked. What am I going to do? Coach waved for me to hurry. My teenage life flashed before me. I will never live this down. The smell was worsening. It would be impossible for the team not to notice. The very thought of it made me sick. Wait! That's it! I grabbed my stomach with one hand and, for good measure, my mouth with the other. "I'm going to be sick!" I shouted. Then, I ran for the lockers. Well, I didn't run; it was more like I walked with urgency. I sped through the hall with carefully measured steps. If my stench was an officer in the Army, it just got promoted from captain to colonel. The lockers were just around the corner. I turned the corner and couldn't believe my eyes. I dashed back out of sight. No freaking way! Charlotte! The love of my life! She didn't see me. I'm sure of that. She was searching through her locker and was too preoccupied to notice me. What should I do? I peeked back at her, then darted back. She was coming this way. I looked around. I couldn't run fast enough to reach the other side of the hall before she went around the corner. She'd see me. And worse, smell me. I spotted a janitorial closet only a few feet away. I turned the handle, praying like Billy Graham that it wasn't locked. It opened! I ducked in and quietly shut the door. I heard her humming some Taylor Swift song, but when she passed my door, she blurted out, "Oh, I'm going to be sick. Did a toilet back up?" I could hear her start to run. Once her steps faded, I cracked open the door and ensured the hall was clear. I tiptoed to the corner and looked to see if the path to the lockers was free. It was. So, throwing caution to the wind and a horrible aroma, I ran to the locker door, opened it, and dived into the nearest toilet stall. I took a deep breath, which was a mistake, but it didn't diminish my feeling of peace. I made it. No one will know. I stripped out of my uniform and began to clean up. "Achoo!" I froze. Someone sneezed only a couple of stalls from me. I silently sat, completely naked, contemplating what to do, when the other guy's toilet flushed. He opened his stall and walked past mine. "Man alive, dude. Have you ever heard of a courtesy flush?" He washed his hands. "When you dump, you flush. Do us all a favor next time," he said before exiting the locker room. I put on my jersey and popped out of my stall. I hurriedly washed my shorts and dried them under a hand dryer. I kept eying the door. I really didn't know how to explain why I was butt-naked from the waist down. Fortunately, I never had to. Once my shorts were dry, I put them on. Next, I half emptied the trash can of discarded paper towels and threw away my underwear. I then repacked the used paper towels on top of the offensive garment. Finally, the ordeal was over, and the only consequence was going commando for a while. I was elated. Well, there was one more consequence. The locker room smelled like crap. But it's a consequence I can live with because no one can trace it back to me. I returned to the bench, smelling a bit like hand soap. We were in the fourth quarter and leading by fifteen points. Coach sat beside me, "Feeling better?" "Yes, Coach," I said. "Was it something you ate?" "I'm pretty sure it was."

"You know? Michael Jordan scored sixty-three points when he got food poisoning." So, my night ends this way: I'm a man if I return or a wimp if I sit out. After everything I went through, it was so unfair to be judged this way. I hung my head and stared at the floor. Coach got up and went back to his seat. I wanted to defend myself – to declare victory for conquering a lifetime of shame. I wanted to say, "Well, yeah! But at least Jordan still had his underwear."


The woman tightly gripped her barf bag. It was of the least concern given the circumstances, but admittedly she had been looking forward to the view on her flight. She felt silly for feeling this way; it didn’t matter now. The craft was in auto drive and the pilot had been side eyeing her for a long time. She had grown tired of it. “Don’t think you can try anything just because of where you’re taking me.” “Don’t think just because you’re here that you are of any interest to me.” “Well you’re looking at me like I am.” “I’m looking at you like you’re a criminal. Because that is exactly what you are.” She would have responded but instead vomited noisily. The pilot stood, extended his arm. She stared at him, not understanding. “What, you want to hold onto it as a souvenir?” he motioned to her barf bag. She handed it over. He placed it in the chamber and shut the door, ejecting it through the vacuum release and handed her another. She continued to stare at him. It was the kindest anyone had been to her since all of this began.

“How long until we are there?” “Kind of eager given what’s about to happen to you. It’ll be about ten light minutes give or take, unless we run into trouble.” “Do you have music?” She figured she might as well ask. He laughed and said nothing. For a while, she stared blindly at the control panel which looked like its own nano metropolis. The craft felt like it was frozen solid. Vomiting had helped her feel better temporarily but everything was starting to swim again. Her jaw twinged sharply and her mouth filled with saliva. She tried to keep breathing but all she could smell was the metallic atmosphere inside the craft. It began to reek of old, congealed blood and she vomited again. The pilot repeated the ritual of disposal. Her ears were ringing and the vacuum release sounded like a natural disaster happening right beside her. It closed and left an even greater silence than before. She leaned her head back. “So that’s a definite ‘no’ on the music?” She practically gagged the words out. The pilot sighed heavily. “Look, we can talk if you want. But I have two rules if we are. One, I don’t want to know what you did. If you tell me, you’re getting gagged and tied up in the toilet.” “Noted.” “Two, I want to know something.” She was actually surprised by this. She opened her eyes and looked at him. “What knowledge could I possibly offer you?” “Well I know certain things that most regular individuals do not. One is that this,” he gestured to the craft, “only happens if it’s offered. By extension, I know that you have to pick.” She had stopped looking at him. It was silent. “So,” he said, “Why did you pick H334?” After he said it out loud it was such an obvious question. She just hadn’t considered that someone would be bothering to ask her this. She was normally very prudent about what details to share with others and calculating in how she shared it. After reflexively thinking it over, she threw her own rulebook out. “It’s safe to assume that you know nothing or next to nothing about H334?” she asked him. “You would be correct in that assumption.” “H334 is.. Unusual. It’s the only known planet that has liquid water but no life. Even the plants are nonliving, like rocks. Trees, grasses, flowers, whatever that is there… All have been there since the beginning. Totally undisturbed.” “I don’t understand. How can something occur without growing first?” “Supposedly, H334 had a different atmosphere when it was a young planet. Whatever it was, it allowed some life there to begin to proliferate. They say that something changed. Specifically, that something collected and changed the planet. I’m not sure what it was, but it permeated the atmosphere.” “It permeated the atmosphere, meaning it came from..?” “Outside of H334, or so they say. It paused everything. Apparently, there are no winds of any kind either.” “And you’re going there.” It wasn’t a question. The woman felt the tiniest part of her smile.

“I’m going there.” “So, if any of this is true, you will be paused as well?” “Not quite. H334 is understudied for a reason, but that isn’t it. Whatever toxin or entity that collected in the atmosphere operates differently on animals than it does on plants.” She was silent for a long time. “I’m going there to forget. To answer your original question. That is why I picked H334.” “You want to forget what you did? I almost feel bad for you, but that seems kind of cowardly. Then again, you are a criminal.”

Her nausea began to rise again. “I’m not trying to forget what I did, I’m trying to forget everything that happened before. My crime was a blip compared to everything else.” She retched but held it back. Her stomach contracted sharply in protest. The pilot did not react. “My memories weigh more than I do. I’m tired.” The pilot shifted his gaze to the control panel and looked over at the woman. “We’re here.” Her eyes flew open and she craned her neck forward towards the cockpit window. H334’s sun hung behind it in the distance glowing against the muted grey of the planet. Even from out here, she could sense the stillness of the planet. If she stared at it long enough, it looked like a flat circle punched through the darkness of space. The color of it had no dimension. There really was no airflow there; no clouds or currents could be seen. As the minutes passed and they drew nearer, the planet grew exponentially larger. Her heart pounded and she had to close her eyes. The view became far too overwhelming. Nothing but the planet could be seen through the cockpit window and the monotony of it made it look as though they were flying into a solid wall. “We are about to enter the atmosphere,” the pilot cautioned.

The craft shook and screamed for the moments it took to breach the atmosphere. The woman held her breath and pushed herself as far into the seat as she could. As the craft slowed, the metallic screeching ceased and the turbulence all but vanished. The pilot sat back in his seat, his gaze darting between several points on the control panel.

“My sensors indicate no wind flow. In any direction.” She said nothing. He looked back at her directly for the first time. “Honestly lady, I didn’t believe a thing you said.” The craft made a landing so smooth it would have been undetectable had it not been for the light impact from making contact with the ground. When the surface came into view the pilot whistled. The planet was indeed entirely colorless. The dirt, the trees and vegetation she could see from the craft were all the exact same shade of grey. H334 looked as though it had no dimension. The pilot stood up and walked over to the vacuum release chamber. He opened the door and proceeded to place the woman’s small bag inside. He walked to the back of the craft. The woman looked over to see what he was doing back there. He reappeared a few moments later, setting something down near the chamber. He walked over to her and unlocked her seat. She stood up and he walked her to the chamber. “Please take this,” he said, offering her a suit and helmet. She frowned as she looked at it. “Why?” she asked, meeting his eyes.

“Memories are heavy because they contain everything. I don’t think you should throw them away.” She was shocked by his gesture. She feebly extended the helmet back to him but he pushed it towards her gently. She slowly stepped into the suit. She felt like she would be sick again. She held onto the helmet but did not put it on, and stepped into the chamber. The pilot closed the door.


Hey there, you are my number neighbor! You don’t have to reply. Just hope you have a good day (Me) **Lol thanks. Hi.** **(418-555-1927)** **What is a number neighbor?** **(418-555-1927)** Lol sorry. It’s a Twitter thing. I didn’t think you’d answer to be honest. (Me) **Gotcha. I don’t use Twitter much.** **Too political.** **(418-555-1927)** I get that. Well there is trend going around on it where You text or call the phone number that is one up or down From your number and see what happens. (Me) **Oh I get it. Your number is 1928 so me** **And whoever owns 1929 are your number neighbors** **(418-555-1927)** Right. Anyway sorry about bugging you With such a silly thing. (Me) **It’s cool. I’m Jared btw.** **(418-555-1927)** I’m Victoria. Nice to meet you lol. (Me) **You too. I do have to go back to work now though.** **Have a good day number neighbor.** **(418-555-1927)** 2 days later **Hey number neighbor. I got back on Twitter just** **To see what you were talking about. I thought you had** **made it up to be honest.** **(418-555-1927)** Oh hey! Lol really? (Me) **Yeah. Did you see where someone** **Adopted their number neighbor’s dog?** **(418-555-1927)** OMG yes! So sweet. (Me) **Some of those threads were crazy.** **Most people’s neighbors were just** **their family though.** **(418-555-1927)** Yeah. That makes sense I guess. I saw a DJ get hired out of it though! Super cool. (Me) **I didn’t see that one.** **Are we in the same area?** **(418-555-1927)** Maybe? Unless you bought your number And moved. You aren’t military or something right? (Me) **Nah. I’m a college student.** **(418-555-1927)** Oh cool, me too. (Me) **That’s good. I suddenly had a freak out** **worrying you were a high school kid.** **(418-555-1927)** Lol or an old lady. (Me) **That I could deal with. Underage and** **I was going to block you immediately.** **(418-555-1927)** Haha no. I’m 22. Nice to know you aren’t creepy. Keep the neighborhood clean. (Me) Hey I gotta ghost. Talk later? (Me) **Sure. Take it easy.** **(418-555-1927)** Several Weeks Later Victoria closed her laptop and slipped it into her waiting backpack. Jenna, her closest college friend and study buddy, looked up from her notes or rather her phone which was sitting on top of her notes. “Are you heading out for your date?” Jenna asked quietly. “It’s not a date,” Victoria said. “How long have you two been texting?” Jenna said. “Like three weeks,” Victoria said with a shrug, as she packed up her notes. “What’s his middle name?” Jenna asked. “Reed,” Victoria answered. “Yeah, it’s a date,” Jenna said raising her eyebrows knowingly. “I have to head out either way,” Victoria said. “Where are you meeting him?” “At a coffee place that’s only an hour away.” “Is it that same place you met that other guy Matt or Blake or whatever?” “Taylor… but yeah.” “Uh-huh. Make sure he buys your coffee if you are going all that way. And text me that you are safe. I don’t want him to kidnap you.” “I don’t think you have to worry about that. I will text though, promise.” “Yeah well, don’t let this one stand you up. I can’t believe how many dates you go on that you never hear from again.” “It’s a tragedy,” Victoria replied as she hiked the backpack strap over her shoulder. “Well if you ever want to switch teams I am here for you,” Jenna said, blowing Victoria a kiss. “Kelly would kill us both,” Victoria said with a wave as she left her friend to get ready. Are we still on for tonight? (Me) **Yeah, of course. You thinking** **of ducking out on me?** **(Jared)** Lol no. Just wanted to make sure before I get in the car. (Me) **Hopefully I’m worth the gas lol.** **(Jared)** You had better be. I’ll text when I leave. (Me) **Awesome. See you soon.** **(Jared)** Later That Evening “Did you have fun?” Jared asked as they stood in the doorway of the closing café. Behind them the lights had already dimed in the store front. “I really did. Sorry I kept you so late. I know you have a longer drive back than I do,” Victoria said apologetically. “It’s not a big deal,” Jared assured her with a smile. He was taller than Victoria thought he was going to be. She normally went for shorter guys but the dark hair and eyes were definitely her type. “Would you actually mind walking me to my car though?” Victoria asked. “Of course not. Where did you park?” Jared asked looking around the deserted parking lot. “In the next lot over. This one was really full when I showed up. You don’t mind right?” “That’s no problem still,” Jared said as they started walking to her car. “Oh! Come sit with me for a second so I can play that song I was telling you about. I can’t believe how crap the service is here,” Victoria said as the car interior lit up in response to her remote unlock. “Sure,” Jared said slipping into the passenger seat. Victoria began to dig around in her center console for the CD in question when her arm shifted and bumped his. She looked up to apologize but instead met his lips in a deep kiss. Her body immediately stiffened in surprise, causing him to start to pull away before she slipped her hand into the hair behind his head, bringing his lips back to her and deepening the kiss. Victoria shifted in her seat but just as she was beginning to relax into the embrace a hand came up to circle her throat. She tried to lean back immediately to escape the grip but that proved to be a bad, predictable move as Jared shifted his body weight forward, using his larger size to push her towards the seat. Before she could be pinned, Victoria leaned forward and punched him as hard as she could manage in the nuts. Jared let go immediately, using his hands to instead cover his groin as he sputtered in pain. This was her cue to bail from the car and make a break for it. Instead a deep, rolling laugh escaped her sore throat. Victoria leaned over in her seat, grasping her sides trying to catch her breath as tears started to run down her face. “Are you mocking me?” Jared finally managed through gritted teeth. “You tried to kill me,” Victoria answered between gasping breaths. “No I was just-“Jared started before Victoria shook her head to cut off his protest. She leaned forward in her seat to pull a baggie containing a syringe and needle out from under the seat along with a small handgun. “I was going to inject you with this tranquilizer in your leg when you were busy taking off your shirt or something before I drove you out and shot you.” “Oh my god….” Jared said his face going slack as he stared at the needle. He looked around the car for cameras before pulling a large blade from his jacket pocket. “I was going to choke you enough to knock you out before tying you up and slitting your throat. I already have a tarp set up.” Jared and Victoria blinked at each other for a few seconds before they both burst out into another fit of laughter again. “What are the chances of this?” Victoria asked setting the gun down into her lap. “I mean it has to be a fluke right?” Jared said. “Or fate.” “So what do we do now?” Jared asked, wiping the tears away from his face and setting the knife down beside him. “I thought that part would be obvious,” Victoria answered, leaning over to grab her backpack from the backseat. She pulled her phone out from the front zipper pocket, typing something on the screen before showing it to him. “You are amazing,” Jared said looking down at the screen, the light casting a sickening light on his wide grin. “Oh look, they already replied,” she said as the phone chimed in her hand. Hi number neighbor! No need to reply, just spreading some smiles. I hope you have a great night. (Me) **Oh cool. I have been wanting to** **text my number neighbor. I was afraid it would be** **a shut off number or something though.** **(418-555-1929)** Nope! I’m here. My name is Victoria. (Me) **I’m Tom.


The heroine of this story was born in a small town called Hope shortly after WWII. Her parents and grandparents thought she was a sign that hope was indeed alive in the world, and so they all agreed to name her Hope. Little Hope grew strong of limb and mind. Most of the time she was sweet tempered, although as a toddler she would occasionally stamp her little foot and stand her ground when she was told to do something she didn’t want to hear or do. Her parents didn’t chastise her figuring that in this world there would be times she would need to stand her ground. They encouraged her to talk about her feelings and steadily that became her “go to” when she was frustrated. She grew up with a lot of love and creativity in her life. She read before she went to school. She played and laughed; dreamed and imagined; read and thought about many things. Her mother read to her from stories that filled her with courage and hope. Her father told her stories based on his life. Her father’s stories imbued her with a love for her country’s beauty and the democratic republic that governed her country. As a young adult, she came to understand the strengths and weaknesses of the Constitution, as well as the history of her country that aligned with the Constitution and the history that tested the Constitution. She came to understand that it was a living document and found the amendments to be especially interesting.         All of this reading and thinking gave her hope for a better world that lived in her heart and mind guiding her choices all along the way.         As a young woman, she proudly voted in every election local, state, and national, because she could. She was well aware that American women had struggled to achieve their suffrage, as well as the same rights as American men, such as owning property and having their own bank account. She lived through the Civil Rights movement and participated in small ways then as events stirred her consciousness more and more to see the needs of others to ensure the promise of the American dream was accessible to all Americans. This fueled her hope for a better world that lived in her heart and mind guiding her choices all along the way. She worked for peace because she abhorred war. She got a college education and became a teacher. As a spiritually curious American, she explored various belief systems and eventually settled into a widely inclusive belief based on both Western and Eastern teachings and love, always love. This strengthened her hope for a better world that lived in her heart and mind guiding her choices all along the way. She fell in love and married. She devoted herself to opening minds and hearts in much the same way she planted and grew gardens. It was a full and purposeful life. Like all lives, there were sorrows, as well as joys. She bore the deaths of her husband, mother, and father with as much grace as she could muster. Years later, she was fortunate to marry a loving and kind man who fully shared life’s joys and sorrows with her. Throughout all these years, she held strongly to hope for peace, a good harvest, the power of love, and a viable working democracy based on the Constitution and the rule of law. Environmental issues became her passion because of her understanding that all life required clean air, water, soil, and food to not only survive but to thrive. She engaged in citizenship work by writing representatives, senators, and presidents about her concerns. Thus, she exercised her right as an American to petition her government to change in ways that would be good for the planet and the people in ways that would align more with the principles articulated in its Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. No matter what happened, she never gave up her hope for a better world for all. Then, in the middle of her 7 th decade of her life, maintaining her hope stood her in good stead when she witnessed a violent insurrection enacted before anyone watching TV that cold day in January when the then president of her beloved country did the unthinkable. In speaking to a large crowd of his supporters who believed in his lies, he stoked their fears and anger because they believed his lies telling them if they didn’t “fight like hell” they would lose their country. He made this speech to get them to go to the Capitol and attempt to violently stop the ceremonial certification of ballots from the electoral college for the new president, because he couldn’t concede his loss in a free and fair election. He had spent months in the courts with his attorneys peddling lies that the election was rigged with no evidence to support his claims that would have made a change in the outcome of the election or hold up in court. He had exhausted all his judicial options in the courts to change the outcome, which he had every right to pursue. Only violence was left. He trampled on the American tradition of a peaceful transfer of power which had begun with the very first president of the country. This practice of the peaceful transfer of power was, and is, the bedrock of the country’s democratic republic. Hope watched the violence in horror. As awful as that day was, more troubles came. Yet, Hope held steadily to her commitment to hope and democracy. More evidence was presented to all Americans through an intense Congressional hearing to get to the truth of that awful day. Following that, the Department of Justice began its own investigation. Eventually after an exhaustive gathering of even more evidence, criminal indictments were handed down by the Department of Justice to participants in the violence, as well as to the previous loser president and his enablers. Through it all, Hope’s commitment to her country’s Constitution and the rule of law never wavered. Her hope for a better world lived in her heart and mind while continuing to guide her choices all along the way. Time passed during which another election for president was held and it was clearly a candidate for democracy vs. a candidate for autocracy. The candidate for democracy roused Americans to understand what was at stake and that they had a sacred mission to preserve democracy for the future, especially for those yet unborn. The candidate for democracy won. Americans had understood. One morning in the summer after the election, Hope awoke feeling joyous and hopeful. She and her fellow Americans had stood firm and their American democracy had survived the intense threat to its very existence. All the insurrectionists and their enablers had been brought to justice. But, in her mind and in the minds of others the sacred mission was still on the shoulders of the American people. Hope knew there was great work ahead for all Americans with their allies around the globe to undertake together in order to save life on Earth by focusing their collective energy on saving the planet. She had her own personal list of work to do that she shared with any and all who would listen. In her country and elsewhere there were projects that had begun but were not yet complete, such as new infrastructure from broadband internet to bridges, roads, railroad upgrades, and more. There were the multiple ways of transitioning from fossil fuels to nonpolluting energy sources, as well as, effective means of removing carbon from the atmosphere without creating new problems. There was the continued task of educating everyone to understand the dire consequences of ignoring disruptive symptoms of climate change like glaciers and sea ice melting, intense droughts in some places and fierce flooding in others. There was the task of making more visible the consequences of oligarchs who were selfish, greedy, and cruel, as well as, requiring those oligarchs to pay their fair share of the costs. Yes, the work ahead was immense. Yet, Hope was committed to the task and she knew millions of others around the globe were too. Groups and individuals using their skills, will power, love, and understanding to tackle the tasks at hand. Hope would use her writing of stories and poetry and the making of art to continue to focus herself and others on Love, Beauty, Hope, Empathy, Understanding, and Peace. She would remain so committed to helping make a better world until her last breath. She would live the changes she wished to see as best she could one day at a time knowing she wasn’t alone in these efforts and that truly only time would tell what fate held in store for mankind on Earth.


Gust of wind battered the small community of Shadows Brook. Well, really the word community was a bit of a stretch when used to describe Shadows Brook. In reality it was nothing more than a series of six A framed, two story wooden cabins that sat tucked away on the side of a volcano. As a boy Crowley was terrified every time that his mother dragged him to the cabin. Crowley had grown up in the nineties. An era dominated by movies that highlighted the dangerous nature of volcanoes. Why his grandmother had decided to buy a house along the side of such a dangerous force of nature puzzled Crowley. Why his mother insisted on dragging him up there every summer greatly bewildered him. But by far the craziest mystery was why his grandmother had entrusted the cabin to him upon her death. Still, family traditions can be tough to break. Once Crowley had started a family of his own, he quickly began dragging them up to the cabin every summer. He had hoped that the yearly trips would bring them together. Perhaps they did for a while. Back when Jack was just a boy and he was on speaking terms with Claire. Over time Crowley learned that years were more destructive than lava. It was the years that wrinkled his face, grayed his hair, eroded his joints and fattened his gut. The years that burned wedges through his family. It was the years that left him with nothing to his name other than an aged pickup truck and the Shadows Brook cabin. None of that mattered to Crowley on that cold, windy Tuesday night. For once he was slightly proud of himself. Proud that he had prepared for the winter storm by grabbing all the essentials. Those of course being two bottles of whiskey, a thirty case of Ulster beer and a birthday cake. Crowley was at peace as the wind swooped up large chunks of the waist high powdery snow and haphazardly battered the cabins with the cold substance. A desperate attempt to try and ruin his day. It wasn’t going to work. Happily Crowley twisted off the cap of a bottle of cinnamon whisky, poured himself a glass, sliced off a triangle from his chocolate cake and plopped himself down onto his well-worn loveseat. His heart nearly skipped a beat as his phone vibrated and pinged. Excitedly he dug the device out of his pocket. He had hoped to see a message from Jack. After all that was all that he needed. A quick text from his son saying, ‘Happy birthday dad, I love you and didn’t completely forget about you. After all that you sacrificed and did for me all these years, how could I forget about you?’ His heart dropped when the screen lit up. There was no message from Jack. Only a notification informing him that someone he followed on Nurv@na had started a live stream. Sadness tried to wash over him, but Crowley fought back against it. Tonight was going to be good. He had everything he needed. He was going to stream episodes of Eastwood, laugh, drink and be merry. Nothing could stop that. At least that was until he heard the thud. Or perhaps crash would be a better word. Whatever it was, it rocked his cabin so hard that his silverware and TV rattled. “What the hell!” he loudly muttered. Boiling with annoyance he sat down his glass and plate. It was probably a fallen tree. He had warned the Henderson’s that they needed to cut down their trees before the storm came. Did they listen? Of course not. But those sneaky bastards might try to weasel out of paying him for the damage. He needed to go outside and take a picture of the tree on his cabin before they could remove it and claim something else had damaged his property. Angrily he threw on his jacket and stomped his feet into a pair of boots. He flung open his front door and saw…a boy? “Hiya mister,” cheerfully proclaimed the youngster. “I’m Flyboy.” A million questions ran through Crowley’s head, but the one that came out was simply, “Flyboy?” “Yes sir. I go wherever the wind blows.” “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Where are your parents?” “Well that depends, mister.” “Depends on what?” “Well my mom goes where the moon goes and my dad follows the motion of the ocean.” “That’s…that’s…well that’s very disturbing kid. I take it you are one of the Peterson’s kids. Always knew that family was odd. C’mon there’s a blizzard. I’ll walk you home. This is no time to play around outside.” “My home is wherever the wind blows me. Tonight that is here. Can I come inside?” Crowley eyed the strange little boy suspiciously. He wore a bright red, puffy jacket with a blue stripe running across his chest. A snow covered brown crocheted beanie rested upon his head. Thick, bubbly goggles were suctioned onto his face and his mouth and neck were covered by an orange scarf.

“You’re one of those Autistic one’s, huh?” asked Crowley. “Yes sir, I’m very artistic. How’d you know?” “C’mon in. But,” said Crowley before he jabbed a finger into the boy’s chest. “As soon as the weather allows for you to leave you leave. Got it?” “Yes sir. As soon as the wind blows hard enough again I’ll leave. I promise.” “Whatever kid.” Crowley stepped aside and allowed the boy entry. The boy dragged in an ungodly amount of snow. Something that irritated Crowley, but he was determined not to allow it to ruin his day. “I got some of my son’s old clothes upstairs. They should fit you.” “No thank you mister. I can’t take off my suit in public.” Flyboy spread out his arms. He was wearing some sort of flying suit. Crowley had faint memories of seeing skydivers wearing something similar. But to him the boy just looked like a walking red kite. “Well maybe the suit is fine, but you need to take off that scarf, hat, gloves and probably socks. You’ll get sick otherwise. I’m not trying to get into trouble for child neglect. Now C’mon kid, follow me upstairs.” Crowley led the boy to Jack’s old room. Without giving it much thought he opened the door and immediately felt a rush of embarrassment wash over him. He had forgotten that on a drunken night a couple weeks ago he had dug out his old artwork. Now it was all strewn about Jack’s old room. He tried to shut the door before the kid could notice, but it was too late. The boy excitedly entered the room like a moth to a flame. “Whoa mister! I didn’t know that you were an artist too.” “I’m not. Nobody is supposed to see this stuff.” “But it’s really good, mister. I really like this one.” Flyboy stood in front of a painting that depicted the face of a man howling in pain. The background was a dark, almost black, shade of blue. The man’s features were colored and highlighted in a wide range of lighter blues. From his eyes spewed thousands of tear drops scribbled on by a thousand different pens and pencils. Crowley gulped down a lump in his throat. He had only ever shown that painting to one person in his life, his ex-wife, he never intended for it to be seen by anyone else. In an effort to distract Flyboy he loudly opened a drawer and rummaged for a fresh pair of socks. “Here are some clean socks that should fit you.” “Is there a meaning behind this painting mister?” “There is.” “What is it?” “It’s dumb. Take off your hat and socks before you get sick.” “I will if you tell me what this painting means.” “Fine,” huffed Crowley. “It’s…well things used to be different. Boys don’t cry, that’s what my dad taught me. So I painted that when I was young and sad. For the rest of my life afterwards instead of crying I just added another teardrop to it. Eventually…well eventually it became that. Ok?” “That’s really sad, mister,” said Flyboy. The odd little fellow peeled off his soaking wet beanie, scarf and socks. He left the soaking wet articles of clothing on the hardwood, maple colored floor. Now that the boy’s face was bare Crowley realized that something was off about him, very off. Before he could figure out what it was, Flyboy had moved to the next painting. This painting consisted of warm earthy hues. It depicted a young faceless man looking into a mirror. Only the reflection in the mirror showed a young faceless woman adorned in a dull pink sundress. Crowley gulped down an even larger lump than before. “How about this one mister? What does this one mean?” “Well…um…well…boys don’t wear dresses, that’s what my mother taught me. She caught me a few times wearing her clothes when I was young. I…liked…I wanted…it doesn’t matter. I painted that because of that, that’s it.” “I get it, mister. And this one?” Flyboy had moved to a portrait piece of a young good looking man drawn in charcoal. A surge of humiliation ran through Crowley as he attempted to formulate a response. “I’m not gay,” said Crowley defensively. Flyboy looked at him with little beady eyes that somehow reminded Crowley of a rodent. “I didn’t say you were mister.” “Well I’m not ok?” “Ok.” Crowley blew out a large sigh. “That’s a portrait of Miguel. We were…it doesn’t matter. He was brave. He was who he was. And…well…he…Miguel taught me that I’m not brave. That’s it.” “Cool. How about this one mister.” Crowley was relieved that Flyboy had moved past some of the more embarrassing paintings. The one the boy stared at now was a more surrealist piece. It showed a woman colored by various shades of green holding a bright red heart that melted within her hands. “That one is supposed to be my ex-wife. You see kid sometimes love doesn’t last forever. Sometimes it melts away, right in your hands. And there’s just nothing that you can do about it. It’s just life. That’s what my ex-wife taught me.” “There’s only one more mister. What is it about?” Crowley smiled at the last piece. It was a half-finished mess. It consisted of random splashes of paint covering random clippings from magazines all jumbled together to form a chaotic mess. “That one is never going to be finished. You see that one is of my son. As a parent you start off with all these plans for your kid. You think they are going to be this, or that. Then things just go and despite your best, or worse efforts some kind of thing just emerges into this world. It’s not the kind of thing that you ever prepared for, or the kind of thing that you expected. And some people might look down at that thing, or hate it, or be disappointed by it, but you…well you will always love that thing. More than anything else and in your heart of hearts it doesn’t matter what others say about it. That thing will always be beautiful and precious to you. That’s what my son Jack taught me.” Flyboy flashed Crowley a warm smile. Crowley smiled back, but quickly Crowley’s face crumpled up into a look of confusion. Flyboy’s face was furry. Like really furry. Like an animal's face furry. “You’re a great artist. What’s your next one going to be?” “There won’t be a next one.” “Why not?” “Because it’s foolish, kid. No one was ever supposed to see these in the first place.” “I think you should show them to people. Explain them. I think people will really like them, mister.” “No they won’t. I’m too old for such foolishness. There is a time when people have a chance to be creative, to make art. Only the truly talented ones, or the ones that go to some fancy school get to keep making art. Like Rian Raymond, or that new guy Kulu something. The rest of us are supposed to abandon our foolish dreams and grow up, become normal. That’s what society taught me.” “I don’t think that’s true mister.” “That’s because you’re just a kid, or are you? You look like…you look like a squirrel. Like a half human half squirrel creature. What are you?” “I am what I am and that's all that I’ll ever be and that’s just fine by me,” replied Flyboy. Just then the wind picked up once more. Resuming its brutal assault on the small cabin. Flyboy’s darkened eyes seemed to light up. “Time for me to go mister.” Hurriedly Flyboy scurried out of the room and began making his way to the front door. “Wait,” hollered Crowley as he chased after the creature. “Where are you going?” “Don’t know mister. I’m just Flyboy. I go wherever the wind blows. And you mister are just a painter. You paint whatever your heart tells you. I think it’s time for me to fly and for you to paint mister.” With that said Flyboy flung open the front door and ran out. By the time Crowley made it to the door the wind had scooped up Flyboy and lifted him into the sky. Without a care Crowley plowed through the waist high snow. As Crowley watched the boy soar through the sky he heard Flyboy’s words echo in his head. ‘I am what I am and that's all I’ll ever be and that’s just fine by me’. Crowley laughed. Crowley cried. And then Crowley laughed again.