The first sign of trouble was the outbreak of the virus in Venice. It had come in on a cruise ship a week into July and spread faster than the speed boats on the Grand Canal. By the end of the second week, the doctors at the Servizio Sanitario Nazionale had announced an estimated death rate of over 85%. By the end of the third week, we were under lockdown. Worse than ebola, tuberculosis, or smallpox was this Grim Reaper in the shape of a microscopic parasite. By week five, the virus had spread as far south as Rome. The Italians called it Signor Morte –Mister Death .

           Nothing was working. After two weeks of spottiness, the WIFI had crapped out. Cell service and phone lines had gone down two days later. The grocery stores had stopped delivering and I was living on stores of dried beans, rice, and pasta, but as long as I had water, I could manage. Neil Gaiman had said, “If we were not islands, we would be lost, drowned in each other's tragedies.”

Signor Morte had made this astonishingly clear. We all exist on our own little islands, even though our islands may sit side-by-side on the same little street. ~|~ Giorgia had not messaged me in days. She had sent me a text–just a quick Buongiorno but the cell service had collapsed before I could reply.            Rolling onto my side, I curled into a ball. A mewling, scratching angry creature was growing inside me and with each passing day, it was worse.

I felt a tear slip down my cheek. She had begged me to move in with her, but I had said no. I had come to Sicily to focus on writing. The creature inside me got angrier, every time I considered my choice.

“Back off,” I said to the creature. “What else could I have done?” I had come to this tiny village, Circello , to finish my novel–time without work, and without Nonna and Nonno pushing me to marry some nice Italian boy. No, I had not come to Sicily to fall in love. “It’s not love,” I insisted, but the creature simply sniggered. ~|~ Morning. That was the time when water was pumped into roof-top tanks from the street, but not that morning. The pump was silent. I had 500 litres in reserve on the roof. Not enough.

~|~            It had been a week since the water had been pumped to the rooftop tank, but the last drips had fallen from the tap and I knew that I had to decide. Should I stay? Without water, I’d be dead in three days. Do I go out? If I went out, I would come up against Signor Morte . How long would I last? One way or the other, death was standing watching me.            And there was that thing; that one other thing that had been in my mind as I tried to decide what to do. What had happened to Giorgia?

~|~            With a scarf around my mouth and nose, I stood for a moment, palm flat against the door. After weeks and weeks inside living with the spectre of Signor Morte , the door felt odd against my hand–heavy and unreasonable. My chest tightened and hot pinpricks of fear spread up my neck and across my face.

“Maybe I should stay?” The angry creature rose up and shrieked.

“Okay, okay. I’m going,” I told the creature.

Shouldering my rucksack, I opened the door into the first fresh air I had breathed in 56 days. I gagged. The sick, sweet, cloying smell of putrefaction was thick. I could feel it on my skin. The smell coated the inside of my nose, my mouth, and my throat. Tears ran down my cheeks, partly from the stench, but more from the knowledge of what was behind the foul smell. It was silent. Eerie. I had to get away from the silence–to hear my own footsteps. By the time I reached Via Arcuri , I was sprinting. I skidded around the corner.

I pressed my hand against my mouth to keep from vomiting. Even with the scarf, the smell was horrific. Clouds of flies swarmed the piazza and beneath them, hundreds–no thousands of half-eaten bird carcasses.

I had to get out. Now. The creature inside was screaming, fighting. Running from the piazza , with no idea where I was going, I ran as much to get away from her as from the carnage behind me. Running blind; I was sobbing, gasping for breath. At the stone steps going down to the path and out through the olive orchard, I tripped and tumbled, hitting every flagstone on the way down. Amidst the dust, I lay wheezing, catching my breath. Where should I go? But I knew. It was Giorgia. I had to find her. Bile burned my throat as I stood up. The olive trees were swaying. Everything was swaying, but it wasn’t the trees, it was me.

“One foot after the other,” I whispered while the creature inside me sniggered. ~|~            The August heat had returned. The sky was brilliant–blue and cloudless. The sun baked my head and my shirt clung to my back. As I walked along the country road, dust carried in on the African scirocco coloured my legs a chalky orange. In the distance, the silence was broken only by the occasional barking of a feral dog skipped over by Signor Morte .

           It struck me that the only living animals I had seen were predators–dogs, cats, foxes, and one hawk circling above. Everything else lay dead in the short, dry, yellowing grasses. What does that mean about us? I wondered. ~|~            I followed the backroad to Sant’Anastasia until I came to a pack of feral dogs tearing apart a sheep. Since Signor Morte , the feral dogs looked far less friendly and far more aggressive, so I cut through the fields and over the mountain.

           On the treeless mountain, each step had to be taken with care. Rocky outcroppings, bleached bone-white by the sun, held unknown dangers. Small outcroppings hid behind clumps of vegetation waiting to trip me–larger crags hung over me, sending small rocks tumbling down. I regretted not bringing a walking stick.            Before I was halfway up the mountain, the wind picked up and dark clouds started to skitter across the sky. The creature chuckled. The temperature had dropped from an exhausting heat to a chilling cold and the sky was a sinister black. Lightning shot forked fingers down from the clouds as I struggled against the wind to reach a cave up ahead            In an instant, my arms tingled, and the hairs stood on end. BOOM! A brilliant white light flashed, and I was filled with excruciating pain shooting down my arms and legs and through my torso. The creature howled in rage. Light surrounded me like a bubble. I could feel myself thrown backward, in slow motion. The creature chortled, “Now you’ve gone and done it,” and I was out cold. ~|~            Icy rain pelted down, waking me and I moved, groaning in agony, onto my hands and knees, and crawled the last 200 feet to the cave.

           Inside was large and dry. My arms were painful and heavy with tree-like scars–branches, leaves–running from my shoulder to my wrist. I had heard of this before. Lichtenberg figures. Marks left by lightning running through one’s body. My body.

Exhausted, I collapsed onto the ground, rucksack under my head, when I heard a low growl from the back of the cave. “Please,” I whispered, “This can’t be an inhabited cave.” I pulled a flashlight from my rucksack and peered into the back. The yellow eyes of a fox flashed; its teeth bared.

Too sore and exhausted to move, I said to the fox, “You stay there, I’ll stay here. Let’s just leave each other alone.” The fox’s growl grew into a snarl. Belly low to the ground, it began to creep toward me. I had nothing left for this, but the creature inside me did. Her rage bubbled over and pulsed through my body like the lightning and I, too, was enraged. How dare this fox threaten me! Without warning, the creature thrust me and my rage at the fox. I howled, diving so quickly, the fox didn’t have a chance to move. I clutched its head and smashed it down on the rocky floor, spreading its brains and blood all over my hands. Licking my fingers, the blood and brains tasted delicious. I tore into the flesh until all that was left were bones and fur. I crumbled to the ground and fell, dreamlessly, asleep. ~|~            My eyes opened to sunshine, a pounding headache, and a ravenous appetite. I gulped down a bottle of water, hoping it would help.            My eyes caught the pile of blood and bones and fur beside me. No. That couldn’t be real. But I knew it was, that I had been the one to kill and eat that fox. I stumbled out of the cave to my knees, waiting for the retching to start. It never did. As disgusting as eating raw fox was to me, the creature seemed satisfied. Grabbing my rucksack, I started up the mountain. If nothing else, I was going to make it to Giorgia today. ~|~ The sun had just passed the midpoint in the sky when I reached Sant’Anastasia. Silence, with the same dreadful odor of putrefaction. Flames of exhaustion licked my calves and burned my feet. In spite of the stench, I had to stop. My thirst was raging. Ah, grazie Dio ! Before me was Bar Roma. A metal chair lay on its side in front of the bar. Could I do it? A lifetime of conditioning said no. My exhausted legs and thirst said yes. I smashed in the window.            The inside was oppressive, but there were no surprises, no bodies. The bar was fully stocked. Even the water flowed from the tap. I ducked down and let the water run into my open mouth. Miraculous. I drank until my stomach gurgled until the creature was submerged, at least for the moment. A padded bench called to me and I stretched out to give my feet and legs a rest.

~|~            “Stella!” Sure as life, I heard someone call my name. I sat up and listened. It was Giorgia.

           “Stella!”            “Giorgia! Where are you?” I ran to the door, the sun blinding me. Outside on the sycamore-lined sidewalk, I couldn’t see her. “Stella!” Trotting along the sidewalk, I looked down each of the side streets. Ahead, a figure turned the corner. It was Giorgia, but before I could call out, a dark shadow rose up behind her. It was huge, black, and ominous. From behind her flew an enormous hawk. Giorgia looked over her shoulder, shrieked, ran and the hawk gave chase. Larger and larger it grew. Giorgia’s face stayed in shadow, but the hawk, now huge with a massive wingspan, was absolutely clear. Soft feathers lay in brown and white stripes over breast muscles so strong that every time it flapped its wings, I could see the feathers ripple with the movement of the muscles beneath. Blood orange eyes were trained on Giorgia and with a loud kee-eeeee-arr , it changed its trajectory, pointing sharply down. The creature wailed back in answer. The dark shadow had now spread over Sant’Anastasia , and huge, black storm clouds rolled in. Sprinting, I tried to make it to Giorgia before the hawk could. Head down, Giorgia dashed toward me.

           “This way! Giorgia, over here!” I screamed. Her legs pistoned up and down. She was close enough I could hear her gasping. The hawk’s talons were now out, ready to clutch at Giorgia’s back, pick her up, and carry her away.            “Giorgia, take my hand!” Head still down, she reached out as she ran toward me. I grasped her wrist and pulled her sideways down a narrow alley–too narrow for the hawk, now the size of a small plane. We tumbled over and over. When we rolled to a stop, I grasped at Giorgia’s shoulders and tried to roll her over onto her back, but she fought me. Above us, the hawk screamed. Kee-eeeee-arr !            “Giorgia, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?” The creature was now fighting to get free. “Giorgia?” I whispered. But instead of Giorgia’s melodic Italian accent, I heard a harsh canine growl.

“Giorgia, please.” Once again, I took her shoulders. This time she didn’t resist, but her face stayed hidden. Gently, I place my hand on her cheek and turned her to me. I scrambled back, hitting the stone wall of the building at the back of the alleyway. What horror had happened to her? Her eyes were torn bloody sockets. Her beautiful soft olive skin was purple and rotting. Flesh had peeled away, and I could see broken teeth through holes in her cheeks.

“Oh my god, Giorgia, what happened? Who did this to you?” With a low guttural predatory sound, Giorgia leapt at me. I rolled away harder than I had intended and banged my head against the wall. ~|~            I sat up with a start. Still in Bar Roma, I was on the floor. Giorgia was nowhere to be seen, and the sun was streaming in the broken window.

           “It was just a dream?” I whispered, staggering to my feet. From the angle of the sun, I couldn’t have been asleep for much more than an hour.

           The creature whispered, “She’s in trouble. She could die.”            Yes, she could die. I grabbed my rucksack and left the bar. ~|~            It was an easier walk to Burgio than it had been to Sant’Anastasia. Giorgia’s house was on the outskirts, just across the fields from the Capuchin Monastery. I ran past the prickly-pear and the almond and fig trees, until I came to her ancient wooden door, painted bright blue against the pink-ish stone and the terracotta roof tiles.

           The creature inside me purred. This was where I belonged. My home was in Giorgia’s arms and she had to know I’d finally realized it. After all I had been through, to realize what I should have understood all along; I did not want a life without her.            I pushed on the door.

           “Giorgia? Are you there?” “Giorgia?” I called again, a little louder.            From upstairs there was the squeaking of bedsprings and the padding of feet across the floor.            “Stella? Oh, mio Dio ! Is that really you?” It was Giorgia. My knees nearly buckled in relief.            “Giorgia, I’m downstairs.”            Instead of the sound of footsteps, I heard nothing.            “Giorgia? Aren’t you coming down?”            “Stella…I don’t look like you remember me.”            “What do you mean? I don’t care!”            “Really, Stella, you have to prepare yourself.”            “Giorgia, please.”            Giorgia came down and stepped into the light. I stumbled backward, landing on the granite floor. Her right eye was gone, and, as in my dream, her face was purple and rotting. One nostril was a loose flap of skin, and her flesh had peeled away in parts with broken teeth jutting through. She reached out a hand. The beautiful long fingers that I used to love to watch as she played guitar were twisted and two were missing.

           “My beautiful Giorgia. What happened?” I whimpered.            “Oh Stella, don’t you know? It’s the virus. It was on the news before the power went out. It has two stages. The first is the sickness. If it kills you, you’re dead, but if you’re infected and something else kills you, the virus somehow brings you back to life. But this,” she gestured to her face, “this is what happens. Lesions, rotting flesh, symptoms like leprosy. No one knows why. And it changes your brain chemistry. I can’t eat anything but raw flesh anymore. Everything else tastes so bitter I can’t stomach it.”            “But Giorgia, is there no treatment? Can’t you get help?”            “Stella, there’s no one left to help.”            “Wait, does this mean…you died?”            Giorgia nodded. “Two days ago, I was firing the gas kiln and there was an explosion. It threw me across the room. When I woke up, my eye was gone and my nose was, well, like this.”            “Oh, my poor Giorgia.”            “What about you, Stella. How did you die?”            I frowned, confused. “What do you mean? I didn’t die.”            “Oh Stella, my darling girl.” Giorgia took a mirror from the table. “Here.” She handed me the mirror.            The creature snarled. “No, I don’t want to look.” I tried to hand the mirror back to Giorgia. She pushed it back.

           “Look, Stella.”            The creature twisted and writhed inside me. “No. No! I won’t look.”            “Stella,” Giorgia held my face in her mutilated fingers. “Stella.”            Slowly, I lifted the mirror and peered at my face stunned. It was hideous. The angry red Lichtenberg figures that ran down my arm, were also across my cheeks. My lips had turned black and purple and when I touched them, the skin sloughed off. I shook the rotting skin from my fingers, sickened.            “Stella, it’s okay. We’re together now.”            “It was the lightning. I was struck by lightning on the mountain last night. But I didn’t have the virus. How can this be happening?”            “Did you ever have the feeling like you had something alive in your belly? I did, for weeks. I thought it was stress, but it’s the symptom that comes when none of the others do.”            “So, my flesh will just drop off me? And then I’ll die?”            “ Mia gioia , I’m not sure we ever will.”


Three’s a Crowd By: Jessica B. Taylor ~ Joy ~ The tension was thick. The old expression, ‘you could cut it with a knife’ applied.            An icy silence filled the space between us while the raucous, loud music and frivolity took up the rest of the space around us.            The place was packed…the band was playing one of my favourite rock anthems, and I sat frozen in my chair.            “Do you want to dance”? he spoke the words carefully.            I averted his eyes and declined his request.            “What’s wrong”? he asked.            “Nothing”. I lied.            I looked around the room, trying any possible way to get myself back to the present moment, and away from my inner turmoil.            It had happened much the same as it always did.            We were out walking, having a great time, enjoying another sunny, warm day in Paradise.            “Do you want to stop in at ‘Frankie’s’ and have a drink?”            Frankie’s was a fun bar a grill, with live music and great food. The vibe was carefree, and the owners knew everybody’s name. They greeted their guests, whether new or old, with a big smile and a kiss on the cheek.            “Ok, yeah. Let’s go” I was in a mood to have some fun.            As we approached the building, I could hear the thumping of the music, and knew it was probably packed inside the small, open-air tavern.            We exchanged greetings with the smokers standing by the entrance and were greeted by ‘Maria’ the barmaid shortly after stepping inside. “Ola! What ken I getchya” she smiled her recognition of us.            We each ordered a beer as we looked around for an open chair or table.            “There’s two over there”, he pointed out two bar chairs against the wall.            I spied the chairs and agreed they looked to be available, so we made our way over there, passing the dance floor to our left…and then I noticed her.            She was sitting on the stool beside the unoccupied chairs. She was wearing a black, spaghetti strap sundress, and her ample breasts were protruding from the low-plunging neckline. Her blonde hair was cascading around her shoulders, and she looked to be alone. She had a pretty face with blue eyes, and her skin was perfectly bronzed. ‘A fucking Barbie doll’ I thought to myself.            My steps became shaky as we approached the open chairs.            “Are these seats taken?” he asked her.            “No Sirrr! They’re all yours…” Her words were a bit slurred as she leaned back in her chair to give us both a full-frontal view.            We took our seats. I of course selected the seat beside ‘Barbie’ to put some distance between them.            “Hiiii….I’m Stacey” she leaned over to me and extended her hand.            I extended my hand to meet her, “I’m Joy…and this is Frank…” I turned to acknowledge him…and he turned to acknowledge the introduction.            “Wellll, hulllloooo there” she dropped my hand to reach for his.            “I luuuuuv your hat” she extended a compliment to Frank as she leaned toward him giving him a great view of her cleavage.            I sat upright in my chair, wishing I would’ve worn a dress instead of my mustard-coloured tank top and overly worn jean shorts. Stacey was wearing cool, strappy sandals and I had worn my flip flops.            The barmaid found us in our new location and brought us our beer. Frank asked her to bring another round when she got a chance, and looked over at Stacey to ask if she would like a drink.            “Tequila!” she accepted his offer with gusto.            “A round of tequila then” he placed the extra order with the barmaid.            I feigned a smile as I took a large gulp of my Corona with lime.            My body swayed to the music even though my mind was no longer present. It had already gone into ‘freeze’ mode…as the other options, ‘fight’ or ‘flight’ did not seem to be available.            My body felt trapped. My breath was shallow. I did not know whether I could contain the ball spinning uncontrollably in my stomach without heaving. My chest felt tight, and I thought for sure anyone who looked would see my heart thumping outside of my chest.            Frank and I had only been dating a short time. He had invited me to Mexico, a place he loved on the Pacific side of the country. I still couldn’t believe how lucky I was to have met him. How generous he was to have taken me on an all-expense paid trip, no strings attached. We had hit it off from the moment we met, talking into the wee hours of the morning. Waiting to have sex until the time was right and BOY, was it right when it was right! He was a generous lover too.            As the icy silence continued to creep over my entire being…the familiar feeling of dread washed over me…            “Do you like the band?” Frank looked at my now vacant eyes.            “Yes” I gave a curt reply.            “What’s wrong, honey?” I knew he was trying to get me to look at him.            “Nothing” my voice pitch was now an octave or two or higher than normal.            “Do you want to leave?” he asked courteously.            Everything in me wanted to say ‘yes’…            “No. Do you?” I turned the question on him.            “Well, no…but you don’t seem to be having a good time” he was looking at me with concern.            The barmaid brought us our round of drinks and we clinked our shot glasses with Stacey, before downing the Tequila contained in them.            “So, do you come here often?” I turned away from Frank to Stacey… ~ Stacey ~            Stacey had woken up feeling groggy from the night before. She had stayed out late with a couple of people she had met at a beach-front bar.            ‘Why did I even come on this trip?’ she thought to herself as she gazed in the mirror, fighting back the tears she refused to allow since she arrived in Mexico, alone.            The trip was planned months ago when she was still…when she was still with…She felt her chest heave and then it started…the waterfall of emotion she had been trying to contain.            Tears streamed down her face as black streaks covered her face from her mascara from the night before. She leaned over to catch her breath and her knees gave out as she fell to the floor, lying on her side, hugging her legs in a fetal position, rocking herself like a mother would comfort her newborn baby.            She couldn’t contain her wails of despair. She didn’t know how much time had passed when she found herself in a muddled mess on the floor with her tear-sopped blonde hair stuck to the side of her face.            She stood up shakily and gripped the vanity to steady herself. She turned the water faucet to full speed and splashed her face with cold water…again and again and again trying to wake up from the nightmare she found herself in.            This would be her last night in Mexico. The vacation getaway that was planned with…with…This time she bit back the new cascade of tears waiting to descend from her Ocean-blue eyes.            She decided she would go to ‘Frankie’s’. The friends she met last night said they were going there and invited her to meet up with them. At least she wouldn’t have to be alone.            The place was packed when she arrived, and she scoped out one single seat along the wall. She looked to see if she recognized anybody in the crowd, but they weren’t there. Shortly after sitting down, the two people beside her got up and left. She ordered a shot of Tequila, then another, then another…as she swayed to the music.            She began to feel self-conscious as she adjusted the straps on her black sundress, feeling a bit uncomfortable with the very revealing neckline…but she had bought it for…for…She couldn’t think about that now.            She always admired women who looked so trim and put together with small, perky breasts. Hers were large and could only be covered up with bulky sweatshirts or oversized t-shirts. She didn’t like to flaunt her breasts.            About an hour after she arrived, the two chairs beside her remained vacant. Then, she looked up and saw them approaching. A man and woman – a very attractive man and woman. The woman looked so carefree and put together with her fitted tank top and jean shorts. She had beautiful, dark brown hair that flowed down to her perfectly sized breasts.            Stacey wondered if they were a couple or just friends…She could only hope… ~ Frank ~            Frank loved the Ocean air, and he loved being in Mexico with the love of his life. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was. He had only met Joy a month before, and she was exactly what he had dreamed about.            His chest stuck out a little further when they’d walk down the Malecon together. He saw the gazes she got from other men. The approving nods men gave him as they strolled along.            She was funny and smart…and drop-dead gorgeous!            He wasn’t sure how the trip would go when he suggested it to her. But here they were in Mexico together, and it had been GREAT…except for…well, except for that night at the Italian place. He couldn’t figure out what had happened. They were having fun, and then she went cold. He didn’t know what was bothering her, and when he asked her, she just seemed to get more annoyed with him.            And now, it was happening again as they sat at ‘Frankie’s’. He thought they had been having a great day when he suggested they stop for a drink. Then, BOOM, they sat down, and she went cold. Her pretty face now looked sullen and edgy.            He looked across the room and noticed a younger man standing at the bar facing them. He wore a tight-fitting muscle shirt and faded jeans. His arms were well-defined, and his dark, curly hair brushed the top of his muscular, bronzed shoulders.            Frank had just turned sixty-two. He had shaved what little hair remained on his now bald head. His beer-belly protruded under his button-down shirt and the grey hairs on his chest curled up over the open buttons at the top. His skin was not as taught as it once was. He was getting old.            ‘Was she disappointed to be there with him?’, Frank thought to himself. ‘Did she wish she was with a younger man?’            Maybe the girl beside her would cheer her up. Stacey seemed to be having a good time… ~ Stacey ~            The man and woman sat beside me, and he generously offered to buy me a drink. I suggested Tequila and when the barmaid brought them, we shared a festive ‘cheers’ and downed them.            I noticed they weren’t talking to each other much. I wondered again if they were a couple or just friends on a trip to Mexico together.

Then she turned to look at me. Man, she was beautiful, just like…just like…No, now was not the time to think about Giselle. She was no longer my girlfriend.            “So, do you come here often”? the woman seemed a bit nervous as she asked me the question and I noticed she seemed to be a bit preoccupied with my chest.            I looked over at Frank who also seemed to be preoccupied, looking over at a young guy across the room. I then leaned in a little closer to Joy as I was pretty sure it was safe to get to know her a little better.


Penelope tosses and turns throughout the night because of some many reasons such as there is dirt touching her, the room is hot or freezing, and/or her muscles are very irritable. Suddenly, her alarm is buzzing and she just lays there, but it starts to irritate her because it keeps getting louder. So, she gets up to throw it across the room. Then, she slowly goes to get her clothes and towel for a shower, in which she takes like 30 minutes because she really just wants to be in the bed still. She gets out and transforms her hair trying to make her appearance a little better because she is very self-conscious. She then struggles to find something to eat, but then she settles for cereal. All of sudden it's 7:20 so she has to leave for school. She gets to school and sits in her car waiting for her ex that parks right next to get into the school because she is afraid to see him face to face. So, her first class is Algebra 2, in which she just sits in and does random stuff on her computer and occasionally looks up at what the teacher is doing because she understands math quickly. Her second class is Chemistry, in which she sits in the back and tries to figure out what the teacher is trying to demonstrate. Her third class which is Health Science is her favorite class because her classmates actually talk to her and she gets to learn the skills to be a future nurse. Now, her fourth class is just study hall, where she just sits there wondering if she should study, take a nap, or just to do something random. Then, at 1:20 the bell rings and she is ready to get to her car so she can roll her windows down and blare her music going home down the back roads. Driving home is her favorite time of the day because she feels happy for a moment. Then, she gets home and tries to lay down, but then remembers that she has to be at work in 30 minutes so she rushes to get ready and leaves. She sits in her car til it's time to clock in because she really wants to rest her eyes. She finally has to go clock in and then as soon as she gets in there they hand her a headset to take orders. She starts to take orders and already somebody has come through with a bad attitude and it really just ruins her day. Then, she finally gets a break that flies by because why not. She comes back into a huge mess because they just had a lot of orders come through, so she has to jump in and try to get everything back in order. She is just so ready to go home, but her manager just keeps doing other things and she just keeps saying "Hey, it's a lot of minutes past 10". Then, the manager finally says she can go so she literally runs out of the store to her car and flies home. She gets home and thinks about eating dinner, but she doesn't because she is too tired. She gets a shower and goes to lay down, then she remembers that she forgot to give a mom a hug goodnight. She tosses and turns throughout the night for many reasons. Suddenly, her alarm is buzzing and she just lays there, but it starts to irritate her because it keeps getting louder. So, she gets up to throw it across the room. Then, she slowly goes to get her clothes and towel for a shower, in which she takes like 30 minutes because she really just wants to be in the bed still. She gets out and transforms her hair trying to make her appearance a little better because she is very self-conscious. She then struggles to find something to eat, but then she settles for cereal. All of sudden it's 7:20 so she has to leave for school. She gets to school and sits in her car waiting for her ex that parks right next to get into the school because she is afraid to see him face to face. So, her first class is Algebra 2, in which she just sits in and does random stuff on her computer and occasionally looks up at what the teacher is doing because she understands math quickly. Her second class is Chemistry, in which she sits in the back and tries to figure out what the teacher is trying to demonstrate. Her third class which is Health Science is her favorite class because her classmates actually talk to her and she gets to learn the skills to be a future nurse. Now, her fourth class is just study hall, where she just sits there wondering if she should study, take a nap, or just to do something random. Then, at 1:20 the bell rings and she is ready to get to her car so she can roll her windows down and blare her music going home down the back roads. All of a sudden she remembers that it might be Thursday, when she has guard practice, which is not as fun as she thought it would be and her mom says she doesn’t need to do so she could work more. At practice she is thinking about so many things besides what she should be doing. Then, of course she keeps messing up and not remembering the work. Then, it is 3:30 and she gets to go home and try to lay down. She gets home and gets a call to come to a hospice center because her aunt is in there. She gets home around 9:00 p.m. She is really needing to study for three tests she has the next day, but she is so tired and hungry. She’s hungry so she tries to get something to eat, but her father had tried and failed at cooking some spaghetti. So, she just gave up and went to lay in the bed, but she couldn’t fall asleep. Suddenly, her alarm is buzzing and she just lays there.


I died and only got 3 likes. Everyone else unfollowed me. Should have used a meme. Something with a cat and a halo. Maybe I could have died with a little more flair and added a hashtag. I could've jumped off a skyscraper and tap danced into the ground. #deathdancer. #photofinish. #yolo. But my death wasn't as fun or clickable. To be honest I don't even remember anymore. I don't know how long I've been an internet ghost. I guess it doesn't matter. I've lost my body and I'm no longer on the front page. Not like I was ever an attention whore but everyone deserves needs a little attention. Wonder if my life will be deemed "NSFL." I died and all I got was a stupid downvote and tagged as "TL; DR." I never understood what all the initials meant. I guess humans like to organize things so it’s easier to understand. I'm not human anymore. They call me "non-IRL" now, a roving cyber ghost. It's not so bad. I get to float around cyberspace and see all the fun posts like dogs running around with cats, women rallying against inequality, girls being immodest, political memes shouting at each other, and telling their rivals to shut up. It all rushes by like a digital hurricane, turning into a static mush of blue and gray. I see celebrities talking about banning their social media accounts by posting on social media. Photographs of overabundant food platters transmuted into lip-puckering selfies. Heavily used furniture is on sale for $0 or “OBE.” You could get kitchen appliances for cheap if they weren’t buried under the ads for new ones. I ignore them though. They tend to blot out the color in the artwork that no one tends to see. I could look at those for hours. They’re filled with vibrant pallets; blues, greens, oranges, and reds. More vibrant than anything an ad for pizza rolls or soda could muster. But even these are misused. If I look closely enough, I could see the metadata that only c-ghosts like me can see. It’s a shame people have to steal things. Maybe stealing isn't so bad if it instills a sense of dreaming curiosity. Art should be subjective, but so should life. The forums about the rules of submitting art online tells me that no one really knows what that means. You’re probably wondering how I ended up in this digital stream of everythingness and nothingness. The blues and grays are perpetual and uneven. It makes me wonder about a lot of things. I never read the terms of service so I ended up here, in the cyber-ether. Apparently if you don't sign out of your account when you die your personality is copied from their servers into a virtual space. No wonder the agreements are so long. You’re first met with a long narrow set of data tubes. As you go down the tubes you come to an intersection where you have to pick the type of cyber ghost you want to be. I looked at my past reflection and cringed. They had called me "extra" once, so I removed all the pieces I didn't like. I chose a winged angel because that's what I had become. She's pretty cool. I wish I could take a selfie. When I first glided through the widening windows of threads, instant messages, and blogs I felt their thoughts and emotions. I perceived it all at once. It was like passing through a sea of doubt, fear, and awkward laughter. A dreamscape of colors and faces churned all around me. I wanted out but I couldn't turn away. The boxes and windows receded. A horizon expanded into an open universe, morphing and reforming. Mountains of images of video spilled into an ocean before me. I was looking at the other side of the digital mirror. And I thought how different life would be, if the living could see this place. The digital ether that connected everyone also segmented them. They couldn't see it from their windows, peering in from homes, classrooms, offices, or while driving. Sometimes while flying I would get stuck in people's DMs. It was a mixture of other users asking for help, mostly sexual, or pointless banter, mostly sexual. There’s a lot I could tell you about humanity in those DMs. I got stuck in them thanks to rules I signed. If anyone saw my avatar, they could click on it and trap me inside and send me to their friends for a laugh. Once you're dead you were material. I ran into another spirit inside the cyber underworld. He said his name was Crunkface69. He once ran the Like A Boss Cats subforum but got hit by a bus in New York. Now he moves between private conversations as an avatar of Hitler holding a cat. I tried to get him to help me escape but he kept talking about all the rules. "Naaaah bro! You have to adhere to our rules. Rules, bro! Rules! We can't have freedom messing everything up!" He had said. "You ain't supposed to be wondering around out there. You'll get roasted." I flew over to the locked window of a DM, "But I'll see new things and be one with the ether." "Roasted! Hashtag roasted. Get it trending. Hashtag trending. #getalife. #fantasyworld. #nevergonnahappen. #noonesgoingtosaveyou." When he wasn't looking, I found a bot he was using (everyone has one) and unlocked the DM door. I traveled further into the virtual kaleidoscope, into darker territory. My virtual eyes were exposed to everything. The socially awkward users, the retaliations, the NSFW, NSFL, inappropriate hashtags, the overly intricate writing prompts, and incessant postings, the closed-off cliques and rose-colored glasses; it stretched out in a mindless panorama. It was then that I discovered that I would be stuck here forever, never returning to the real, devoid of touch and taste. I can never find what I’m looking for and I never will again. It’s an endless realm of oblivious egotists. I never realized there was so much nudity. Then again kids use social media. Wouldn't want them to be exposed to something inappropriate. Exposed to things like bullying, death threats, bigotry, war, perverts, avarice, gluttony, pride, and I forget the rest. Maybe not war. Don't remember seeing much of that. You can probably find a lot of things if you look hard enough. But I could never find what I was looking for when I clicked on things. Clicking was easy. Using your mind though, that was tough. I don't mean thinking about things. I mean actually using your brain to overcome the bounds of logic. I'm just a digital copy of my former self, a series of symbols inside a complex typewriter. But you -- you can be so much more. I send this message into the ether so that someone will hear me and one day repeat my message. Maybe in my next life I'll foster more friendships, less hate, and maybe pity.


Julius screwed up his face when his mother handed him the full trash bag. Not even trying to supress a sigh he took it. “Take Einar with you, he could use some fresh air as well.” Julius’ mother said as if to answer his poor behaviour. “I hate going to the garbage cans,” he muttered. But his mother ignored him and instead added cheerfully. “Don’t forget to wear thick clothes or the Christmas Cat will get you.” “There is no Christmas Cat,” Julius wanted to reply but knew better. He hated to go to the selective garbage cans, 15 minutes away from their home. They lived farther out on a farm, which meant he had to walk along the fields. The path towards the station was lonely and icy, and especially now in the dark, tedious to follow. Showing his friend, Einar, the object associated with a walk, they went to the front room. “Are you going to put on your new sweater?” Einar asked while looking for his shoes. “No,” Julius scoffed. There was no use in using thick clothes when one only brought away the trash. It wasn’t that cold outside. “I don’t intend to stay outside for the next hour.” He added trying to lift his own foul mood, it was just trash after all. Nothing one should get worked up about. And besides, a bit of fresh air would do them good. Frosty wind blew towards them as the two exited the house. A 1-foot-high blanket of white covered the area. About to grow even thicker from the never-ending stream of new snowflakes sauntering downwards. It was a nice view, Julius had to admit. Staying outside very long however, was not his plan. With quick steps the friends followed the narrow path, barely freed from the snow, which kept clinging to their shoes and trousers. Nothing but the soft creak of their steps seemed to fill the air. Everything was silent, peaceful. After slipping and nearly falling two times, they reached the garbage cans. “Careful there,” Einar said with a smirk while pointing at a large frozen puddle in front of the container. With one smooth motion Julius threw the bag skilfully into one of the holes at the side of the container. Which the bag entered without much noise. Satisfied the two turned to go back the way they came. The sight of the garbage station had barely been obscured by the thick snowy precipitation, when they heard a soft hiss. “Is that a cat?” Einar asked surprised, making Julius stop to take a look around. Only with effort he saw the glittering white fields and some lights in the distance. But none of the feline little creatures he liked to caress when encountered. Suddenly they perceived the creaking sound of someone walking through the snow. By the sound of it, Julius would have thought it to be something on four legs. Something really big. A shiver ran down his spine as the feeling of being watched spread through his entire body. “We should hurry,” Julius whispered towards his friend. As soon as the words had left his throat a big, black paw swept them to the ground. The next time Julius managed to examine his surroundings two large, yellow eyes stared at him. The slitted pupils fixed on him, with a hungry glint. Julius didn’t dare to breathe as their eyes locked and time stood still. The scared outcry of his friend was what brought him back to his senses and out of the hypnotizing cat eyes. He turned to his friend who already started running towards his home. With bared claws the enormous cat pressed Einar to the ground. A low growl rumbled in its throat as the fluffy tail lashed from side to side, throwing around clumps of snow. Julius felt paralyzed, the Yule Cat was real. It was really real and it was going to gobble them up like some fishy treats. “Einar,” he called out, running to his friend to help. But the cat only hissed at him and swiped him into the snowy field with its tail. Shuddering from the cold, Julius managed to dig himself out of the white flakes. The cat was already lowering its head towards his friend. Uttering a deep, long meow as the mouth opened, revealing white, sharp teeth. Even Julius could smell the reeking breath escaping its throat, like the graveyard of a hundred unfortunate souls. Getting a hold of himself, Julius thought frantically of a way to save his friend. Desperate as he was, he did the only thing he could. Swiftly, he formed a snowball and threw it into the cat’s face. Not waiting for it to work he threw another one, trying to aim at the cat’s blazing eyes. “Don’t you have some rats to catch? You ugly, motheaten furball.” He yelled at the black furred creature in front of him. Seemingly understanding his words, the cat turned to face him, the tufted ears flat on the head. With bared teeth it got ready to pounce at the daredevil. Yet before Julius could find himself under tons of cat, he threw another snowball directly into the cat’s eye. Shortly overcome by pain it took its massive paw to clean its eye and face. Einar, whom had gotten up by then, hurried to his friend’s side. “Quickly, take some snow and get out of here!” Julius said while already starting to run. He knew no stories of escaping the cat once its mind was set on eating a man. So, he hoped the warmth of the house might persuade it to leave them alone. Their run was a short one, although they now could already see the farm’s windows giving off the cosy shine. The Christmas Cat was already on their heels, determined to catch its prey. Again, snowballs were thrown. But the cat was clever, whenever the attack came it hid its face. Thus, the snowy ammunition became useless upon hitting the head between the ears. Once the snowballs ceased the cat sprinted after them with elegant movements. That way the fight continued allowing the boys to cover a few feet of ground towards safe haven. Julius skin prickled at the constant tenseness and fear of possibly being eaten every moment. Closer and closer came their destination. Louder and louder grew the pitiful meows from behind. Ready to risk it all they both fell into a run as if the devil himself was after them. The cat followed, its footfalls shaking the ground beneath. Finally reaching the door, they opened it and fell to the ground in the front room. With adrenaline still coursing through his body, Julius got up to close the door in fear of the cat dragging them outside. To his surprise, the large version of the cute creatures he knew, wasn’t following. The wind ruffling its long pelt, it stood there and watched. The yellow eyes still blazing, the claws still unsheathed. For a moment they stared at each other again. In the end, the Christmas Cat yielded and turned to go, its contours soon vanishing amidst the uprising blizzard. “That was close,” Julius muttered exhausted while closing the door. “The next time, we put some goddamn winter clothes on. You hear me?” Einar only managed to say half in shock, half trying to joke. Julius himself only nodded at the statement, rubbing his frozen arms. After taking care of some deep scratches the cat had left on them, the two friends went into the kitchen for some warm tea. “There you are,” Julius’ mother said still cooking. “I almost thought you had lost your way.” “We just needed something to warm us up,” Julius answered with played joyfulness. His mother studied them for a moment. “You certainly look like you had some fight in the snow.” Not eager to talk about it, the friends just nodded agreeing that a snowball fight was the best explanation. Getting their tea, they both disappeared in Julius room again. Together they peeked out the window. Large pawprints led over the field and towards the distance. Most of them already nothing more than a faint outlining.


As she was cleaning her desk, she found a faded paper that she has written last year. She always had a list of new year resolution- her mother said that to be successful she needs goals in lives to strive for and otherwise she would get lost, she always goals to strive for, as she is a strong, independent career woman. The first on her list was that she should find a rich, handsome boyfriend. She found one. A nice boyfriend with a good career and nice teeth, despite not liking him. Her parents like him, and that was enough for her. Never mind the fact that she is not attracted to him, what matters is that he could provide, unlike her good-for-nothing dad who is always out of job and hit her mother when he drinks. Never mind the fact that she had a gambling addiction and he refused to have sex with her, she merely had to tick marriage off her list and he seemed to do that well enough. The second on her list was that she should get a raise in her career. She worked in a prestigious accounting firm and she is about to be promoted as a senior associate. All her peers are amazed at how quick she shot up, amazed at how she seemed to got along well with all the higher-ups. Behind her back, they always say that she is nothing but the boss' pet. They hated her, she thinks, because they're jealous. So they left her alone during lunch and she was alone, working alone until the late night. The third on her list was that she should be prettier. Her boyfriend cares a lot about her looks and he was surrounded by beautiful girls all day long. With them all as competition, she decided that she would have plastic surgery to maker her nose thinner, her lips rosier and less plump and her eyes bigger. And she wanted to erase that double chin on her neck. She also wanted to lose a lot of weight, that seemed the fad these days, she couldn't afford to look like a loser and have her colleagues talking behind her back. The fourth on her list was that she should get more followers in her social media and more friends of her kind. She had met most of her friends through a professional get-together, women like her who knows they deserve the best. They dress classily and only talk about the most sophisticated of topics, they would eat steak dinners and take pictures to show the world just how perfect and seamless their lives are. To do this, she should educate herself on what they like and be more like them, so she wouldn't stuck out like a sore thumb and wouldn't be driven out by her own circle. They call themselves feminists, and talk about how men are pigs and nothing but cheating beasts, a slave to their whims and desires. The fifth on her list was to purchase an expensive house and car She bought them all with her credit card, she knew that she had a good job and the bank would evaluate her as a good borrower. Her mother would talk to everyone about how successful her child is, despite being small and awkward in high school and that she is proud of her. Her father would look at her proudly while her deadbeat brother would look at her with envy, wondering how she could be so gifted and perfect while he is not, despite having belittled her during their younger days. Her mother had picked every furniture and floor she was to use, that would fit her need and it suits her nicely. She loves being an obedient daughter that her mother is proud about. Yet, as she was ticking off the lists of the new year resolution which she had written just last year, a horrible sense of unease sets in to her, she was deeply unhappy and she knew this was emptiness. She chided herself, telling herself that she should be happy that people would literally kill for her life and that it should be perfect and beautiful because her mother said so, and mothers are never wrong. And children should always listen to her parents and be a good, obedient child. Tears began to fall from her eyes as she felt a sense of unimaginable hurt piercing her chest. She pierced her new year resolution into shreds, tearing it apart. An unimaginable satisfaction bubbles in her chest as she does that- and she finds all her belief started to fall apart. What was the thing that she actually wanted? And she remembered that she always wanted to be an author, but her mother had looked at her with disappointed eyes whenever she mentioned it and had always said that it's good as a hobby but just not feasible. You don't want to end up like dad, right, she would say, pointing to her dad who had tried to be an artist but failed, and has been reduced to selling face portraits on the street. Her mother did not work that hard to make her fail like her dad too, and she wanted nothing but her success and happiness. A twinge of guilt would appear in her heart whenever she saw her mother's tired back and dark circles and she told her she wanted to be an accountant instead, and watched her eyes twinkle. But every time her mother's approval came, she felt that she was losing more and more of herself. Taking a deep breath, she begin to write a new set of new year resolution. It was simple, just a single task. Treasure yourself more. Be happy. She knew, as she writes it, that she has achieved it. She has reclaimed herself that she had ignored for so long and that was the only one and true new year resolution she has ever written.

She did it.


Past Lives I am an ordinary girl living in an ordinary place who dreams of extraordinary times. I dream of being a pioneer in the frontier. The wild west I learned about in my fourth grade class, the trail I virtually walked in an online simulation. I imagine the bouncing of the wagon, the wide open skies. I can feel my anticipation at heading west, at the new life that awaited me and my family. I wish I could be the elegant wife of the owner of a silver mine. Living in an elegant mansion drinking fine tea out of fine china. I would wear thin dresses made of fine, touchable silk. My husband would order me lace and a dressmaker from the dusty town down the road, a wife of a miner who worked in the mine of my husband, would attach the lace, as delicate and intricate as a spider’s web, to those thin silk dresses. I would drink fine liquor, eat fine meals, and wear complicated and feminine hairstyles to the opera in Central City. I would have a coach and a driver, and life would be good and fine and wealthy. In truth, if I were to really be a pioneer I would be a simple girl, arranged to marry a simple farm boy with ambition. We would pack our wagon, my 3 plain dresses and the one fine dress for Christmas packed into the trunk my mother received on her wedding day and passed down to me. The weathered candlesticks that my husband received from his mother would be wrapped in the handkerchiefs that I stitched myself, in the long dark days of boredom living in a two-bedroom home with one big bed for my parents and another big bed for me and my siblings to wrestle around in each night. By the light of a candle and a crackling fireplace I would stitch those quilts and handkerchiefs. Life would be simple, but I would still dream. I would dream the dreams of a pioneer woman. Of big skies, and clear water. Of excitement, and the hope that accompanied the promise of a new world. Of the fear of the unknown that existed out in the waving grasses, and the blue skies of the west. In my past life as a pioneer, I would have the same adventurous spirit, the same big heart, and the same creative soul. I would not be the elegant wife of a rich man, I would be something better. I would be the strong and stubborn companion to a kind man in a wild place. I dream of being a ballerina or an opera singer, on the stage in New York in the early 1900s. It is an era of fantasy in my mind. I make-believe of opulence and extravagance. In my mind’s eye I see a small apartment, shared with a beautiful woman and me. In that small bohemian place we dream and dance. The money we make is mostly spent on the rent to a boisterous and occasionally cruel landlord, and the rest is spent on clothes and makeup and false jewels bought from carpets at loud and bustling marketplaces. Her and I walk arm in arm through the angry streets of New York in evening gowns at noon on a tuesday. We walk to the opera where we sing and dance on stage as chorus girls, and to the ballet where we wear our cardboard shoes and dance in uniform lines. When the show is over we disappear into the rowdy crowds. Not the Gatsby crowds of wealth and fortune, but the city crowds that gather in too tight spaces with no regulations and no care. The third class bunkers on the Titanic, a rowdy break from the rigid conformity and the delicate melodies of the opera and the ballet. We swing each other around in our costumes and our feathers and our rhinestones.

I dream of being an Old Hollywood starlet. In this life I am not ordinary. This is the time my dreams run wild. I am a pale faced beauty with vampy lips and dewey eyelashes. I am the world best performer, the most beautiful actress. I stamp my hands into the sidewalk and pose for pictures on the covers of magazines. I am a star, glamorous and refined. But I am that pioneer too, and the poor unacknowledged dancer on the chorus line. And I leave Hollywood when the men become too much. When they become too cruel and too demanding. I take my beauty and my talent and I say no, and I leave. I leave once again for New York City, in the years when Marilyn Monroe was there. And like her, I live in a simple brownstone and wear elegant tailored clothing, and I learn about beauty from simpler people. And perhaps I leave again, to someplace far off and far away, when I realize that there is more to the world than controlling men, and white talented faces.

In this life I am a star, after the years of toil on the prairie, and the suffering in the cramped and dirty spaces of the concrete jungle. In this life I am alone, and I am humbled. More so than in any life past. Throughout the conformity of the 50s, I find a way to come into my own identity, and become a part of building up the identity of the others. So in that way, blooms my dream of the 90s. A stubborn and fiery groupie. Moodily sitting a top of a speaker in a dim and smokey basement. Outrageous and angry but kind and involved. A mover and shaker in the new protests and policies of the era, a frightening face on the front page of papers, a speaker and an activist in a strange new age. Alive from knowing the difficulties of the west, with its wide waving grasses and its strange new dangers. Alive from the crowded smokey bars dressed up in feathers and hope, holding the hand of my lover who to the rest of the world is but a chorus girl too. Alive from the star studded 50s, the dismissal of fame and fortune, and the humbleness of an era of problematic prejudices and cruel conformity. Now alive and wearing pants and metal and nothing but black and discovering once again a new world, and being at the controversial and ever changing epicenter of it. And falling now into my current dream, of life as a woman living in a small townhome, studying an uncertain degree in uncertain times. Feeling the calls of all her past lives bubbling up inside her as she realizes now is the time to act as she has in all her lives past. Now is the time to be bold and adventurous, to be thrilling and risky, to be humbled, to fight.

These eras of my imagination, all falling into the reality of this present moment.


THE COACH IN THE MIST The crew was exhausted. It had been a long hard, 5-day slog to get what they wanted. And they were ready for landing at their home and home comforts; looking forward to wives, girlfriends and long cool drinks; not caring by this time about the quality or integrity of their individual and combined efforts. Those had long been discussed and conjectured about hours earlier during their buffeting and uncomfortable journey back. Suddenly, dragging each one of them out of intermittent bouts of sleep, there was an electronic click. The Captain, First Officer, whoever - the crew couldn't care less, came on and said “I’m sorry guys” - it was a light aeroplane and the film crew were the only passengers with only a few empty seats - ‘guys’ was acceptable terminology - “but we’ve just had a weather update from Air Traffic and Sydney is fogged in and closed to all light traffic for the time being. We don’t have ILS* like the big international boys, and we don’t have enough fuel for a Sydney alternate, so we’re diverting to Canberra.” The Captain / First Officer of the twin engined Islander let all this sink in amidst the moans and groans from the Director, the first assistant, the sound guys, Producer, the whole shooting match, who had been on their feet in the hot sand on the other side the Great Dividing Range for the best part of 12 hours each day in the baking heat. The youngest of the crew, a work experience trainee, thought that this was just another exciting facet of his future career. The electronic click filled the cabin once again. “Now I know that y’all know that Canberra is famous for local fog, but today Air Traffic tells us that it’s clear. So that’s where we’re putting down.” The aircraft banked gently to one side. The public address system droned on for a while: “If you look below, you’ll see the sheep stations…. “ the flight deck’s usual monologue when on their finals to wherever. None of the hardened, time-weary crew looked out of any window, with the exception of the work experience trainee, who scoured the ochre terrain below them for sheep stations. The rest of the crew faded into disgruntled and superficial sleep. In a short while, the Islander’s wheels bounced on the tarmac of Runway 12/30 at Canberra International and the aircraft unloaded its passengers and enough camera and sound equipment to film Ben Hur. Most of the crew headed sluggishly for the terminal building leaving the work experience trainee to supervise the transporting of the equipment and baggage, which he was only too happy to do, even though no instructions or recognition were accorded him. The Producer, by now the only person with enough wakefulness in him to think reasonably clearly, sat on an airport plastic chair next to the pile of everything that had been discharged by the Islander. He looked up at the wide awake work experience trainee and said “Craig, go and find us a coach or something. We’re not going trust all this to a bunch of taxis up to Sydney. Fog or no fog.” The trainee nodded in enthusiastic agreement. He had a name now. He was Craig. So… off Craig went, scouring the innards and the far-flung reaches of Canberra airport, and, after much footwork, questions, dead ends and despair he located an ancient long wheel base vehicle which, at some point in the mists of time, had been converted into a 30-seater ‘coach’ with the over optimistic plan of transiting passengers from terminal to aircraft and vice-versa. It was parked at the back of a maintenance facility, along with, miraculously, its equally ancient driver. Borrowing from the drive of his lord and master, the Producer, he offered the driver fees, commissions and fame throughout the Australian film industry to get the thing started and, over an hour later, coach and coach driver arrived at Arrivals. He was not thanked or offered any recognition for his efforts. He knew that as a ‘go-for’ it was expected of him. Slightly disappointed at the welcome his arrival received however, he assisted with the supervising of shifting the equipment, baggage and personnel into the vintage vehicle. Craig knew that his efforts, not to mention his presence, were ignored, but within the hour, the bizarre and exhausted assembly was settled into the bizarre and exhausted coach and it was soon heading out of the airport onto the M23 and on its way to the still fog-bound Sydney. The ACT** twilight turned gently darker, and some erratic and flickering lights appeared overhead of the dozing crew. Craig sat and watched the road ahead, lit by dull and dipped headlights, through the half of the front windscreen that was available. The other half, the driver’s half was unavailable to anyone who might be interested because of a grimy, plastic concertina blind at the back of the driver’s compartment so he wouldn't be blinded by the headlights of cars coming up behind. The old vehicle bounced and swayed and the engine misfired occasionally, causing everyone to lurch forward momentarily then slump back in their seats ensuring that no-one slept fully. The journey up to Sydney, which would normally, in a normal coach, in normal weather take three hours or so, had already used up those three hours and a glimpse out of any of the side windows showed only the faintest wisps of fog that was supposedly enshrouding Sydney. Craig watched the road ahead through his ‘half’ windscreen and saw that the tired headlights were losing their grip on the road. The journey time was expanding more and more, accompanied by the dull throb of the diesel engine. The speed dropped as the wisps of mist turned into a gradually thickening blanket. Craig kept looking out of his side window but saw nothing - for a long time. ‘That’s strange,’ he thought. ‘Surely we must be on the M31 by now, heading up towards Sydney. But where were the road signs that would confirm this? Where were the signs for Murrimba and Hanging Rock? And where were other cars with cautious headlights fighting the gloom?’ There were none. Craig shifted uneasily in his seat. No-one was fully awake - or fully asleep - on this uncomfortable final leg of their return from the outback. But the eagle-eyed Producer was ever awake and aware. - It was his job. “Craig”, he commanded, over the noise of the diesel engine somewhere below them, causing the crew to surface suddenly from any slumbers they might have managed, “Get up there to the front and ask this guy how much longer is this nightmare going to take.” Craig eagerly stood and walked unsteadily up to the front, holding the grab rails to steady himself. With his back to the entry door, he stared into the darkened driver’s compartment. Ten pairs of eyebrows were raised, as if helping and encouraging him with the question he was about to ask, and with the expectation of the answer they wanted to hear. Craig, a blend of puzzlement and alarm showing on his face, turned slowly to the raised eyebrows and said hesitantly, “There’s… no-one here.” *Instrument Landing System ** Australian Capital Territory


“Where are you taking me?” Carissa stopped, not inclined to move further until she got a straight answer from Manfred. “It’s not far, just humor me, OK?” Manfred shook his sandy hair out of his eyes, big sad puppy-dog eyes, golden brown and brimming with emotion. Then he looked at her, recognized her expression, and capitulated. “I’m just taking you to the park down the street, that’s all. It’s quiet this time of night, so we’ll have privacy to talk.” Carissa tightened her lips, but moved on with no further complaints. They walked in silence, side by side, down the sidewalk into the evening’s darkness, a wide gap between them. The perfume of roses engulfed them as they walked past Mrs. Baker’s house; she won prizes for her roses, and her bungalow looked like a tiny raft tossed among the sea of flowers. Crossing the street, they entered a wide open area of ball fields, with chain-link backstops behind home plate in some, wide soccer goals in others. The grass felt soft underfoot. Manfred resolutely walked away from the ball fields toward the kids’ playground. Carissa raised an eyebrow but continued to walk with him in silence. They walked past a row of swings, chains jangling when the night breeze stirred. Carissa grabbed one and hurled it on its endless course, back and forth, going nowhere. This time Manfred gave her a look. She laughed. “C’mon, we played on these forever! Never looped all the way around, though, did we?” He laughed with her, and some of the tension between them eased. When they walked on, their steps were synchronized, shoulders almost touching. The silence felt comfortable, not threatening. Manfred led them away from the swings, past the sandbox, and halted at the see saws, what his mom used to call teeter totters. Tipping one down, he straddled it. He jerked his head at the other side, and Carissa walked to the seat on that end. She pulled it down until she could also straddle it, with the long, graffiti-scored board horizontal between them. They were a lot taller than the kids that played on it. Still, Carissa sat down and, as her seat sank to the ground, Manfred rose into the air. She saw his teeth shine as he grinned, then she pushed up with her legs and he sank down into the soft dust. They sawed up and down in silence for a few minutes, then Manfred stopped when he was on the ground. Instead of pushing up with his legs, he stretched them out in front of him, crossing them. Carissa looked at him, cocking her head. “We need to talk, and there’s never any good time to do it. There’s always somebody around, or if we’re at my house, one of my siblings is always poking her nose in, spying on us. Ugh.” He paused, not sure how to proceed. “So what are we talking about?” Carissa was always blunt and to the point. Manfred took a deep breath. “I’ve got some news for you. I heard back from the University of Columbia… They accepted me. Even threw in the scholarship I need, got a whole financial aid package set up for me.” “Manfred, that’s fantastic! Congratulations!” In the darkness, it was hard to see the trembling of her lower lip. She made herself sound enthusiastic. “It’s what you always wanted, right?” “Yeah, that’s for sure. If I went to the local college, I’d be stuck here in town. I’d never get away from my family… or my mother. God, just think of it. Less than two months and she won’t be able to nag at me, or make me fill in for my dad and watch my sibs, or take care of the house and yard. I’ll finally have time to live my life.” Manfred straightened and pulled his legs under him, pushed upward, and Carissa ended up on the ground. She stretched her own legs out. “So, how’s your mom taking the news? Is she OK with it?” She had her own opinion, but wanted to hear what he thought. “Um… I haven’t told her yet. I know she’s gonna spaz out about it. But she always harps on me about how important college is, and I’m not asking her to pay for it anyway, so she’ll be proud of that part. I just feel bad for Neil, he’s gonna get stuck with my old jobs, he’s next in line. It sucks for her that Dad died when he did, but why did they have so many kids? It’s nuts.” He shook his head. Carissa pushed up, and Manfred dropped to the ground. “Um… Carissa?” He listened to the faint chiming music of the swings. “Yes?” If a tone of voice could be a country, hers would be Switzerland. Neutral. “I, I think we should maybe consider what we’re gonna do about this. I’m going to be eleven hours away, I won’t be able to take you out weekends. We won’t even be seeing each other again until I’m home for Christmas break. I’m just not sure about it.” “About what?” Carissa refused to help him, making him say it first. “Well, it’s just…” He took a deep breath. “Maybe we should think about seeing other people.” He pushed up with his legs, letting Carissa down. Her eyes filled with tears. “Is that what you want, Manfred? Are you tired of me?” “No! I just don’t think a long-distance relationship would be good for us right now, you know? We’ll still be who we are, and we’ll always be friends. But it’s gonna be four years before you see me for any length of time. I don’t know… I don’t think I could be celibate for four years. That’s crazy.” Carissa sniffed, swallowed, kept silent for a moment. “Yeah, it’s crazy. It’s also… complicated.” She pushed up with a sudden jerky motion. Manfred crashed to the ground. “What do you mean, ‘complicated?’” She looked at him, her features solemn. “I understand, I really do. You’re right that it’s crazy for us to wait for each other for so many years. But…” Words failed, and her lip started trembling again. He pushed up, and she landed on the ground. “Manfred… I think I’m pregnant. I’m a month late.” She hunched her shoulders as if avoiding a blow. “What?” His mouth gaped and his eyes bugged out. Dangling in mid-air, he looked like nothing so much as an overgrown kid, shocked and afraid. “God, how could this happen? We always use a condom, always. We’re careful.” She shrugged. “They’re not foolproof.” Then she pushed up in the air, dropping Manfred down. He was still at a loss. His ears rang. One thing he would not do was ask if it was his — he trusted her. Sighing, he asked, “What’s gonna happen?” Carissa shrugged. “I haven’t peed on a stick yet. I need to do that, get a home pregnancy test or maybe two. But, knowing for sure… that scares me. I’ve been trying to ignore the situation, but a baby isn’t something you can ignore.” He pushed up. “Yeah, you need to do that right away. But if you are… If you are, what do we do then?” Carissa looked up at him. “Thanks for saying ‘we,’ it means a lot. And the truth is, I just don’t know what to do. I want kids someday, but now? I’m going into my senior year of high school. There’s no way I’m ready to be a mom. Besides, my dad will absolutely kill me. He’s still convinced I’m his innocent little girl.” She rolled her eyes, then pushed up, thumping Manfred down. He winced, not at the abrupt landing so much as at her news. “So, what next? Are you talking about abortion? Adoption? What?” “What do you think about those options, Manfred? I’ve been thinking on them for a month. Now it’s your turn.” He opened his mouth, closed it. Cocking his head, he spoke. “You’re right, I haven’t had to think about those options. I’m still blown away by the idea that you might have a little Manfred in your belly right now.” Carissa shook her head. “No. Don’t name it. That’s all it is right now, a teeny blob of cells. An ‘it.’” Manfred pushed away from the ground furiously. “But that’s ignoring what that clump of cells is growing into. It’s not an ‘it,’ it’s a future person. A person that’s part me and part you.” “Yeah, but who’s the one who carries the risk and the fetus? Whose life gets ruined? I can’t afford to have a baby. I can’t even afford college, and my grades aren’t as good as yours. I don’t think there are too many scholarships out there with my name on them. My goal was to get a job and save up for a few years, then go to college. My dad’s cool with the plan, he doesn’t mind my living with him to save on rent and stuff.” “Why do you say your life gets ruined? You know I’d support you, and the baby.” “Manfred, you can’t do that. You’d be giving up your opportunity for a better life. Your scholarship won’t wait forever. And besides, you’ve been responsible for others your whole life. Don’t you want to only be responsible for yourself, for once?” He shook his head, and she pushed up with a slow movement, so he drifted down to the ground. “Yeah, you’re right, I’ll lose out on college. That’s… really intense. I don’t know what to say about that. That’s been my dream since I was in grade school, remember?” “I remember, and I don’t want you to lose that dream. If I have this baby, your dream will die.” Carissa thought about it. “Jeez, it’s like Harry Potter and Voldemort, isn’t it? Either way, something dies.” Manfred had a thought. “You mentioned adoption, right? Is that something you might consider?” Carissa looked at him. “Could you give away your own baby, after birthing it? Would you hand over Manfred Junior? I don’t think I could carry a baby to term and then give it up. Maybe I’m being selfish, but it would be a part of me, of us.” Manfred thought about what it would be like, giving away his son. He shivered. “No, I get your point. I don’t think I could give up our baby, either. Damn.” He pushed away from the ground as if trying to get away from reality. Carissa spoke as she landed. “So it comes down to whether I have an abortion or a baby. If it’s an abortion, I don’t have much time left. And if it’s a baby… well. Life will be a lot different from what we dreamed for. Our futures will be a lot tougher, being teen parents. No scholarships, no college. And without those, jobs pay a lot less. We’ll be struggling, no two ways about it. We can’t live with my dad or your mom, and without jobs we can’t afford anything else. Dang, Manfred, neither of us even owns a car!” “I’ll support whatever decision you make.” Carissa talked over him. “No way do you get off the hook! It’s our decision, together. Not just mine.” She pushed up hard, so Manfred thumped down. “OK, I get it. I’m not trying to skip out on anything. I just… wanted to support you, is all.” He was silent for a minute while he thought. “Yeah. You might be right, I was thinking about it as ‘your’ decision. I guess it made it easier for me, ya know? Man, I wasn’t expecting this.” Manfred sat in the dirt, lost in thought. Swinging her feet, Carissa gave him time. Manfred stood up, letting the teeter-totter come to balance, both of them straddling it. “Let’s get to the drugstore and buy some tests.” They walked off, leaving their childhood behind.


The pain on her right has gotten worse recently. It radiated from her middle, across her hip, and down her leg. It began as a dull throbbing ache months ago, which was easy enough to ride through. Now the pain comes in big waves, in a crescendo that leaves her immobile. Lily heaved a sigh as she lay on the bed. Mike tucked a soft fleece blanket around her gently, and started stroking her head. “At least I am warm and cosy, and he is here,” thought Lily. She gazed at Mike and tried to convey how grateful she was to have his company. But nothing came out. Her voice was too weak. ****** Lily’s earliest memories were hazy, but she clearly remembered the day she was adopted by Matilda, a plump middle-aged lady with frizzy straw-colored hair and thick lips. She smelled of cheap perfume, which made Lily sneeze and twitch her nose. Matilda spoke to her kindly, and told her all about the nice home she is going to live in, and all the nice things she will have. The car ride was terrifying and yet fascinating, as Lily has never rode in a car before. Matilda did have a nice apartment. There were two bedrooms, a comfortable fat gray couch facing a TV in a spacious living area, a modest balcony with a few spider plants and a pot of assorted herbs, and a kitchen fill with all sorts of knickknacks. Lily was given a big, soft bed near a window, and even some new toys to play with. But her absolute favorite was the window that overlooked the main street. Draped with a cream-colored calico curtain, it gave the room an airy, soothing feel. She enjoyed peering out of the window for hours during daylight. Vehicles of all sorts will go by, an ice cream truck, a delivery van, a scooter; children will cycle on the pavement, laughing and chattering; and sometimes a teenage boy will walk past with strange music playing from a device in his hands. It started off on the right foot. Matilda was nurturing and affectionate, and Lily did her best to be polite and obedient. They often watched TV and played games together. Matilda would get treats for Lily occasionally, and that would be the highlight of her day. Sometimes the neighbor’s kids dropped by to play with Lily, and Matilda will welcome them graciously. In time, Lily grew to love and trust Matilda. Until one day, it all changed. Matilda came home from work looking frazzled. Her eyes and nose were red and puffy. Lily immediately sensed something was wrong and wanted to comfort her, but wasn’t sure how to. She inched closer to Matilda bit by bit. When she was right by her side, Matilda suddenly whacked the side of her head with brute force. It was so strong that Lily tumbled and fell. It was not the blinding pain that cut deep, but the fact that it was so unexpected, so sudden, that really hurt Lily. “Go away! You don’t understand anything!” screamed Matilda, and she ran into her bedroom and slammed the door shut. Shocked, confused and heartbroken, Lily went to curl up in her bed. From that day onwards, Matilda was never the same again. She started forgetting about Lily’s meals and started shouting at her if she got in her way. Sometimes, she would smack Lily and threatened to throw her out. She stopped spending time with her, and preferred the company of the various strange men she brought home. Some of the men were nice to Lily, some were indifferent, and some were unkind. The kind ones often gave Lily some food, and commented to Matilda how thin Lily looked. Matilda would snap at them, “If you think you can take care of her so well, she’s yours! Take her then!” And they would be quiet. Even the neighbor’s kids stopped coming, for fear of Matilda. One day, a man came to the house to visit. He had the same straw-colored hair as Matilda. He smelled of amber and musk, and was much taller and bigger than Matilda. He did not notice Lily at first, and when he did, his eyes grew big and his nostrils flared with anger. He started shouting at Matilda and pointing at Lily, and the fight went on for a while. Matilda screamed and cried and sobbed, and the man finally stopped talking and just glared at her. He grabbed a large plastic bag and started shoving Lily’s things in. He walked over to Lily and said in a gentle soft voice, “Don’t be afraid, sweetie. I’m Mike, and you are coming home with me. I will take good care of you.” Lily never saw Matilda again. ****** Mike tucked her favorite blanket around her gently. The grief in his heart was overwhelming. He wept silently as he stroked her head. Lily has been his best friend for 15 years, and he couldn’t imagine life without her. He remembered when she was just a kitten, half-starved and abused by his bitch of a sister. He was so angry and horrified at what Matilda had done, and brought her home to nurse her back to health. It took a long time to rebuild Lily’s trust, but it was worth very bit. Lily was by nature a sweetheart, always trying to snuggle up against his chest when he’s sleeping. She loved laying on his lap while he worked on his laptop or watched TV. Sometimes she would lick his face or hand to wake him up for breakfast, or sit on his chest and purr just because. She was gentle with kids and enjoyed the company of his friends once she got to know them. Her once silky ginger fur is now slightly ratty with age, but she still looked beautiful and sweet to Mike. The vet had strongly advised him to let Lily go. She has been fighting the cancer for a year now, and it would be unfair to prolong her suffering. Mike had arranged for the vet to come to his home this evening, so that Lily would be comfortable and comforted during her last hour. Mike spoke softly to Lily. “Don’t be afraid, sweetie. You will be in a better place soon. I love you.” ****** [A friend of mine recently lost his kitty, and this was a tribute to her.


      “Hand me another bag of flour,” I said. My hand was out, waiting to feel the weight of the bag.            Nothing. “Okay, PLEASE hand me another bag of flour,” I said, this time with my palm up and my fingers wagging in anticipation.            “Anna, that was the last bag,” said Layla, my best friend, and eighth-grade science partner.

           “How can that be the last bag? I counted 6 bags this morning. The dough is too runny, we need more flour,” I said with panic in my voice. “I’ll call your Mom and see if she can go to the store and get us more. My Mom is at work for a few more hours,” Layla said wiping her hands with a clean towel. That was Layla, always on top of it, and that was just how we all liked it. Layla and I were at our school, working on our junior high science fair project that was due next month. We were experimenting with different kinds of flour to see how they changed the consistency and flavor of the five recipes we had selected to experiment with. We were using basic recipes for chocolate chip cookies, blueberry muffins, devil’s food cake, golden cupcakes, and pound cake and things weren’t going so well. “Your Mom is on her way,” Layla said as she hung up the phone. When we picked the food card during class we thought it was going to be easy, but it had turned out to be everything but that. “We should just throw all of this in one giant bowl and make one giant cake,” I said, frustrated with the consistency of the cake I was working on. “Where are the instructions for the science fair?” Layla asked. “In my backpack,” I told her. Layla pulled out the instructions for the science fair and started reading. “It says here to come up with a unique project that shows the correlation between food and science,” Layla said. We were doing that, but it wasn’t working out in our favor. “What if we make a giant cookie and talk about the science behind the ingredients combining and the heating process to cook it. We could use three or four different size cookies to show our results,” I said. “That actually sounds like a better idea than the one we are working on,” said Layla, wiping flour off of her face.            “How much did the world’s largest cookie weigh?” I asked. Layla pulled out her phone and looked it up on the internet. “Baked in May 2003, the cookie was 102 feet wide and weighed more than 40,000 pounds,” Layla read from the site. “How are we going to afford all of the ingredients for that cookie?” I asked. “Why don’t we build a small-scale model of an outdoor oven and bake cookies in it for the science fair and we can start a fundraiser to gather money to help us build a real giant cookie using our outdoor oven concept,” Layla said. And that is how the idea for the giant cookie started. The next day we presented our proposal to our science teacher Mr. Higgins. He thought it was a fantastic idea and asked us if the whole class could be involved. We of course said yes. Mr. Higgins said we would have a class meeting the following day to discuss the project and start assigning job duties to everyone in the class. He told Layla and me to put together a list of stuff we thought we needed and he would talk with us before class.            That night after dinner, Layla and I sat down at the kitchen table at my house and started putting together the list of items Mr. Higgins had asked for.           Things weren’t going very well. “Layla, they used over 12,000 pounds of flour to make that giant cookie, and they only raised $20,000 that day selling cookie slices. A 50-pound bag of all-purpose baking flour costs, let's just say, twenty dollars. Three hundred bags of flour, which is what we will need to make a bigger cookie, will cost us about six thousand dollars. I don’t think our class is going to be able to pull this off,” I said, trying to be realistic.            “You are right, Anna. This cookie is getting bigger than we can manage, we need a new plan to present to Mr. Higgins. I was just reading up on the original giant cookie and it took them over six months of experimenting just to get the heat and circulation to the right levels in a smaller ten-foot test oven. We don’t have that kind of time or money,” Layla said.            What were we going to do? Time was running out and we needed some ideas and we needed them fast. I really liked the idea of making a giant cookie and so did Layla. Winning an award would be fun but being in the Guinness Book of World Records would be a chance in a lifetime for our class.            “I have an idea. What if we get the bakery that beat the record to help promote and sponsor our project?” I asked Layla.            “They are in North Carolina, we are in California, I don’t think that is a good partnership. I do understand where you are going with this, Anna,” Layla told me.            “Then we need something else,” I said, starting to get frustrated.            “How about we break the record for the tallest homemade cookie tower? That one looks like our class can do it. The previous winner stacked 48 homemade chocolate chip cookies to create a tower. Why don’t each of our classmates make individual towers and then we could have two records, the largest cookie tower and the largest number of cookie towers created by a group at once,” Layla said.            “If we bake them ourselves then they will all be the same size,” I said, smiling at Layla.            “How is that going to work with our science fair project?” Layla asked.            “I’ve got it, we will make chocolate chip cookies using different types of flour and we will discuss the similarities and differences of each,” I offered.

“How about consistency, thickness, the stability of the cookie when baked, flavor differences, color differences, baking times for each type, oh and baking temperatures, how well they stack into a tower, how high of a tower we can make based on the type of flour,...” “Whoa, Layla, I think that will be plenty. Let’s make a list of those ideas before we forget them,” I said quickly. “...and then we discuss why the cookies did what they did,” Layla said, finishing her original thought. “Hey, Mom, what do you think about this idea we have for the science fair?” I asked.

My Mom was loading the dishwasher. “I think it is a great idea, Anna. When I was in school kids did volcanoes and solar systems for their projects. It is nice to see that they want you to figure out the connection between your topic and science. I just wish my teachers had come up with such a great challenge. Your Dad and I will be happy to help you in any way you need,” she told us. It was perfect. Now to present the idea to Mr. Higgins. Our class was sure to win an award for breaking the giant cookie record, even if it was for a giant cookie tower. The End.


I want a life where I don’t hurt so much and so often. I think that’s what Sophie wants, too. Not just for herself but for me. Isn’t that what we all want for our family? You may not know my sister personally but you’ve probably seen signs with her name around the city, “SOPHIA HARBOR for MAYOR.” She’s pretty much a sure bet at this point. Sophie’s backed by the firefighter and police unions and well-respected by many key community members. Her platform is strong for her base, she’s pro-life, anti-drug, and supports the troops. Everyone knows that means she’ll work devotedly to help them keep as much of their paycheck as possible. As long as I can remember, my sister has had a powerful need to address the injustice she sees in the world, a need we both inherited from our dad, formerly our local sheriff. When I was in elementary school, I got picked on a lot. Even though she was two years older, Sophie stood up for me and never seemed embarrassed to show she loved me. When she started sixth grade though, everything changed. I no longer had a protector at recess and I had to figure out on my own how to survive the taunting and kicking. Part of my problem was that I wanted to be friends with everyone and I wanted to be totally myself. I was a dork, I’ll admit it, and a sensitive one to boot. But people tended to like me and when no one else was around they told me that no one really listened to them, that they felt they couldn’t be who they were, and that it was nice to be around someone different. I was already familiar with people treating me one way around others and another alone. My dad was the consummate professional, dedicated to his work and helping people, and well-loved in our town. He talked proudly of me to others but behind closed doors, he would tell me I was spoiled and a liar and that people would only like me if I was secretive about who I was. As an adult I see this as a reflection of his own pain. But as a child I took this to heart. I believed that no one could love me for the person I wanted to be. I was afraid all of the time that everyone would find out that I was a fraud and would hate me. I started to think I was lying about things that were the truth. For years I barely ate or slept and I hurt myself and others all the time. It felt like I was just a chimney, a fire was lit under me but I stood stone cold, exhaling smoke. My dad hated that I smoked cigarettes. It took him years to find out that I was a smoker but when he did he told me how selfish I was and recounted the story of my grandfather’s death to lung cancer. I remembered it well, maybe even better than he did because I was less traumatized at the time. My grandad became well and truly undone at the end, threatening his wife of forty-five years with a .45 pistol. I also remember him sitting with me and finally admitting that he thought he might be dying, months after his terminal diagnosis during his last round of chemotherapy. He never stopped fighting. That was his way. But for a few minutes he sat with me and cried, acknowledging at least momentarily that he might be at his end. He never apologized to my dad for beating him with his belt and his fists but in the time we spent together, he always made me feel safe. The gentleness with which he moved a log on a lathe or killed a fish before cleaning it always soothed me. When he was a teenager, he ran away from his own abusive father by joining the Marine Corps and serving several tours in Vietnam. My grandad was proud of his service and the men he served beside so he supported any candidate that he felt would protect the military. When George W Bush declared war on Iraq though, he ended his lifelong loyalty to the GOP and was a Democrat until he died. He told me it was unbearable for him to see so many soldiers and civilians lives wasted over weapons no one could prove existed. He was a hard man, and often unkind, but he could change like the wind, a quality my dad nor Sophie will ever have. My dad is nothing if not steadfast and Sophie, too. But it was me that grandad spoke to about his grief and no one else. When he died, my dad brimmed with rage for years. All the things left unsaid or unacknowledged burned inside him. Every year around my birthday we would argue about what day he died of all things. My grandfather flat-lined as my family sang happy birthday to me around his hospice bed, the night before my sixteenth birthday. But my dad does not want my birthday to be associated with his death so he gets outraged when I bring up my sadness about his passing around that time of year. One of the last conversations Sophie and I had with our grandad, he sat us down and told us never to join the military, that it was his dying wish. He said they would own our bodies and we would pay a price too high for college or a stable job or recognition as a hero. Sophie screamed at him. What about protecting our country?! He coughed into a tissue and said something I didn’t catch about Agent Orange. I remember our grandfather as warm, strong, witty, and skilled. Sophie remembers him as a bastard who hurt people and never said he was sorry. I think we’re both right. Our grandad’s dying wish forked our paths, though. Sophie, already in college at the time, studied law and fought for better care for Veterans among other causes. I retreated inward, trying to dedicate myself to spiritual growth while outwardly caring for myself less and less. I was in and out of rehabs and mental hospitals, often unemployed, often living at home. My sister seemed to thrive, smiling ear to ear covered in tassels and stoles and flowers at her graduations. My only graduation was from a mental health program. Mom picked me up from the hospital and took me to our favorite botanical gardens to catch up and celebrate. She and dad got divorced when I was eighteen and though we were close when I was a kid, we got much closer as adults. She was a nurse and worked long hours, mostly sleeping in her free time. She was always there for me to call or talk to but she was often absent, too, and she never stood up against dad. We talked about that the day of my graduation. She said she was so sorry and that she wished she had been there for me more. That meant a lot to me and I told her so. She had been getting more and more exhausted and we all thought she was just working too hard. But then one day, she just didn’t wake up. I was twenty-four and completely unmoored. I held my sister as she cried at mom’s service but couldn’t find any tears left inside me. Dad had remarried by that time and Sophie was very close with his new wife. When she got engaged a few months later to a handsome lawyer, Sophie texted, called, and visited her all the time to get help with wedding planning. I wasn’t in the wedding party so I just sat in the pews at the ceremony with a close friend I had asked to come for moral support. We left a gap between us for mom. Sophie seemed overjoyed to be starting her new life. For me, it felt like my life was over. I spent all my time reading and drawing and smoking and scrolling through social media. Then a friend invited me to a protest; I hadn’t felt so alive in years. As I chanted, I felt my grief and rage boil up and bubble out of me. I started going every week and then every night. I screamed and cried openly, weeping for my mother and all the mothers that had lost their lives or their children. When the people who had supported me and cared for me were beaten and gassed and shot at, I tended their wounds, I fed them, and I started trying to protect them. I drew cartoons and shared them online under a pen name. I amassed a following for my work, but my anxiety was growing daily that somehow my dad would find out. And then Sophie announced her campaign for Mayor. I couldn’t believe it. She’d been working in municipal government for years but she hated it and despised everything they stood for. We’ve seen and spoken to each other less and less as the divide in our politics has grown. Now she’s started complaining publicly about the rioters and looters destroying our city. It feels like our worlds are colliding. My work is beginning to seem irrelevant because I’m so thoroughly avoiding the mayoral race that will greatly impact the protests. Everywhere I go now, I see her name and cringe. But I can’t let it go anymore. I’m not really a writer, just a cartoonist but I hope you take my point here. Sophie Harbor cares deeply about injustice but she’s seeing it in many of the wrong places. I believe my sister will force the situation with the protests to a fever pitch to make a point about how violent and inhuman we are as demonstrators. She will likely allow greater use of force and put more money into the police department. I believe this will harm the most vulnerable of our city. I’m not going to endorse her opponent because, like Sophie, I don’t believe that government is the answer to our problems. I never wanted to betray my sister’s trust, but this is bigger than either of us and it’s time to take a stand. Submit.