She wanted to run up to the man on the park bench. She wanted to let him know that Jesus loved him. The day was picturesque October and Brachman Park was brimming with peoples afforded such an occasion, but this man in particular stood out in Shannon’s eyes. This elderly stranger sitting alone and unassuming was the one person in the whole world God has set aside for her to make a difference, she was sure of it. She felt a pang of guilt for cringing at his clothing, he wore layers of rags, each colored a different shade of mud. Would there be enough room for him and his bag on the church bus, she wondered. Sure, they couldn’t possibly take him all the way home to Nebraska, but here in Montana, there had to be something she could do for him. His hair and skin seemed so brittle, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Still, he had a face that seemed alert, intelligent even. Shannon scrunched her own and decided that the man on the park bench could carry an entire conversation if he wanted. Being as old as he was, it was a certainty that he knew a thousand facts. Maybe he could tell her all about war and the depression and the industrial revolution. Then she could certainly be informed enough to see things from his point of view, to really bless his journey. She just hopped that he wasn’t drunk. She looked on as he lifted a brown paper bag up to his lips for more than a moment. She shuddered and stretched out the muscles in her neck. Despite her fear that hesitation would be taken for disbelief in the eyes of the Lord, she could not immediately find the nerve to approach this stranger. He wasn’t even a stranger really when you thought about it. We are all children of God, that makes us a spiritual family, stronger than blood. It says in the bible. All she had to do was walk up to the man, sit down and explain how the love of Jesus Christ could change his life if only he would let it. “Well, Shannon, what are you waiting for? Is this the man you were talking about on the bus ride up here?” Diana gave one sixteenth of a smirk sideways to her clique mates, “You did say that God actually spoke to you?” “Diana, where did you come from?” Shannon had spun to see three other girls from Sand Valley Christian Church Youth Mission Division. “Pastor Jayden told me to tell all the girls that everyone is meeting back at the bus at 6:35 to get Chinese.” “Oh, Okay, thank you.” Shannon smiled. She had absolutely no choice but to be entirely pleasant to these girls, an authoritiv voice in her head demanded it. Since entering 9th grade and subsequently moving up to youth group for high school students, she spent a portion of each Sunday morning and each Wednesday night examining what she could have done that might cause Diana and her friends to be so rude. It was not until recently that she began to think maybe there was nothing she could have done this whole time to be their friends. “So, what does God sound like?” one of the girls asked. Before Shannon could formulate a response, the three girls doubled over each other in laugher. “Come on,” Diana said, “We still have a half hour, let’s go back to the soccer field we saw those boys stretching!” then they were off. Shannon watched as they laughed and disappeared, although they were never really gone. She had thought maybe the same chemicals in your brain that make you like boys also make you less able to be nice. It was then she realized that the man that God had placed in her life for her to convert to Christianity was no longer to be seen. Pulling her cardigan tight to combat the sudden cold, she walked quickly across the park’s brick hub. She looked back and forth between the large twin water fountains, recently retired, and scanned the faces in the thinning afternoon crowd. Using her hand to block the sun, she spotted the concrete path that wrapped around the man-made lake. There she spied the old man hobbling through a gaggle of geese on the far side. His pace didn’t add up to how he had gotten so far in such a short time. She started off around to the far side, meaning to meet him head on from the other direction and land somewhere by the ice cream truck she had spied when the church bus had first driven round the park. She could not move as fast as she would like ever since running started hurting her breasts, still, she hustled on. She ducked three different fisbees before finally reaching the other end of the pedestrian path only to find a tall chain-link gate barring the way. There hung a sign reading |Closed for season Oct. 1st - Mar. 31st| Nervously, she took off and reapplied her broad, white headband, pulling her thick wavy hair away from her face. Off to the right she spied a foot trail leading into the woods, which was a detour to the other side, she was certain. Glancing at her watch, it suddenly felt heavy, like it was pulling her into the ground. She had no choice but to step into the shadows of the overgrown trail, or drown in the mud where she stood. The winding dirt path was as wild as it was narrow and every ten feet or so, Shannon used the tip of her white sneakers to draw a circle in the bed of pine needles. The path turned left, the direction she was hoped it lead, before suddenly banking hard right and opening up at the far ending of a near vacant parking lot. Six minutes left. “Excuse me, sir.” She practiced out loud and skirt the lot, north. “Sir, I was wondering if you would like to talk about Jesus? How would you like to live forever?” She had reached the road just a busload of her Christian friends ground to a halt in a cloud of gravel dust on the side of the road. Shannon’s lungs ached. Pastor Jayden sprang out the double doors. “C’mon kiddo, we gotta go. Dinner is getting cold.” He slapped the side of the bus, twice. No, no, no, no, no! She still time to find the man in rags. Didn’t God create time? “Pastor Jayden I have to talk to you, it’s really important!” she plead. The weight of Diana’s gaze from the window above struck Shannon a blow that literally knocked her backwards. She grabbed her pastor by the hand and drew him a number of feet away from the bus. She quickly and passionately made her case as to why he should postpone dinner, for Christ sakes, and help her find the man in rags, the same man God had showed her in a vision along I-80 three nights ago. “Okayokayokay.” He pulled the girl in for a hug when he saw tears falling onto the front of her baggy, Little Mermaid sweatshirt. “C’mon, let’s go find him. And you can practice your street ministering skills.” He darted back to the bus and spoke inaudibly to the driver, chaperone Gil. Then Shannon Heard the pastor make a muffled declaration to the rest of the bus, followed by an uproar of hungry teenagers. It took firm resolve on her part to resist eye contact with Diana at that moment. Pastor Jayden was back at her side then, ushering her down the road, the way the bus had come. During the walk back to the park entrance, Shannon’s mind slowly sank from the heights of jubilant faith, down toward the muck of dejection. Doubts and hesitation flip flopped around her thoughts like hundreds of fish out of water. Her legs became heavier with every step as a stranger inside herself began hope that they never found the man in rags. She suddenly realized her pastor was talking. He spoke about the importance of evangelism and the sacred duty of Christians to share the gospel. She nodded her head along to his words. “Faith without works is dead.” He said as a fact. Her shadow was stretched out in front of her, egging her on. Its direction was pulling her toward conclusion while its length highlighted the inconvenience she was causing her church mates. “You know, I’m actually very hungry. Maybe we sh-“ The pastor cut her off, “Whoa, kiddo. This is the type of thing that if you don’t see though until the end, it can haunt you for a long time.” He formed his face into a fleshy grin and placed a heavy hand on Shannon’s shoulder. She knew he was right. Finally, the man and the girl reached the entrance to the park, just as she rounded the wall off shrubbery giving way to the hub, her heart sank to her toes. She left step with her pastor and ran toward a group of park goes gathered around an upturned ice cream cart. The people where murmuring among themselves while two police officers were taking the report of an irate, middle aged, South American man. “I saw him from 30 feet away,” he was telling the officers, “I told that old man ‘HEY, old man! Take your drunkenness away from here. You are scarring away my cus’imers!’ Then before I knew it, the old man runs head first into my cart! Just like a football player! Look at all this loss! Who is going to pay for all this loss?” he demanded of the officers. Shannon sat with quivering wet eyes as she watched from a distance as the two officers hauled the man in rags up to his feet and into the cruiser that had been driven right into the park. The large red bump on his forehead had seemingly sucked all the life and light from his eyes, because in the moment, the man wore a different face than the man God had shown her three nights ago. That night, while reading her bible by flashlight in the last row of the bus, the others slept right through her angelic visitation. There before her mind’s eye was the man in rags with the face of white stone. This was not that man anymore. The last of the suns warmth disappeared over the tree line and the Midwest park became the coldest place in the world. It was full dark by the time Shannon and pastor Jayden made it back to the bus. she was thankful no one bothered to ask her any questions as she made her way back to her customary row. One of Diana’s ex boyfriends was sprawling across an entire bench, rapping under his breath, leaving only sitting room beside a not-unfriendly looking boy, to whom she had never spoken and who’s name she didn’t know. “Did you resolve your spiritual emergency?” the boy with the red hair and red hat asked after about 10 minutes. Instead of answering him she simply hunched her back, pulled the collar of her sweatshirt up to her forehead, and gazed at her belly button. He didn’t say anything but she could still feel his strange eyes.


If you’ve ever wondered if an alien can express emotions as we humans do, I’m pleased to inform you that in fact, yes, yes they do. For as my arm grew tired from holding it up high and firm, my new professor, from **Mega-Earth Kepler-10** ( A mouthful of a world to be sure), with his thick wide-body and tree trunk legs, his small eyes widened as he stared down the classroom towards me, I’m certain the expression showing on his face, so different from my own, was shock. It must have been like a mirror for him, for although I was easily the exact opposite to the man, from my upturned pink nose right down to my knobbly red knees, I too can confirm that my face showed a vague expression of shock as well. My hand had gone up on its own, my ancient ancestors, filled with rage and disgust, those dead warriors and mighty kings shook the heavens so hard that they shattered the pearly gates and possessed my body to fight one more fight in humanity’s name. “Yes? Brown, was it?” My professor enquired quizically as my hand flopped down an inch, I nervously stood up, all the while hundreds of different eyes and orifices turned toward me to catch a glimpse of the puny fleshy human who was interrupting their first lesson of the semester. “Um, y-yes Sir, I just… I-I just wanted to politely disagree with um with your p-point Sir, sorry.” I sat down, red-faced and hiding behind my curtain of black bangs, mortified and embarrassed. My professor was still staring at me, his eyes looked old and weary, but so full of knowledge and power, he looked at me with a calm smugness as he said, “Disagree? Brown? You disagree with my academic knowledge” I shot up like a rocket, straight-backed and sweating. “YEs Sir, s-sorry sir.” He paused for a moment. “ Well, this is a place of education and forward-thinking, so I think the rest of the class would agree” (he waved his arms and nodded at the class in a circular motion) “that we’d be *enamoured* to hear why you think your intellect outweighs that of a Professor of Universal Anthropology” The class was frozen in time, me, standing still in cold horror, my professor grinning at my dismay, and my whole lecture hall, glued to my board like body, so dwarfed by many of the much larger species in the hall. In fact, multiple were sniggering at my disagreement, I mean come on, I was living proof that humanity was weak. For some reason, their sniggering made me feel a sense of calm as I surveyed them all, all different species, and shapes and sizes, all of them large and proud. I should be terrified, but instead, I only felt a sense of... Confidence. My back straightened as I pulled my shoulders back. Time to become **human**. “Well, professor, I just meant that there is much evidence against your statement” I answered, somewhat calmly, but still shaking slightly (at least my stutter was gone). “How so?” I blinked. How the *hell* was I supposed to cram all of human history into one rebuttal?? May as well start somewhere. “While we may be an old fashioned race, and indeed we do focus mainly on peace treaties and peacekeeping, it comes from an ancient history of countless wars and numerous battles” The room exploded with snorts and cackles of laughter, whooping and honking drummed in my chest, and indeed even the professor was chuckling under his breath. I felt a burning deep in my stomach, like an indignant beast licking flames up my throat as I gazed over their sneering faces. My hands curled into tight fists that shook, how could I make them understand our deep history of battles, wars, genocides, our whole existence that once teetered on the edge of destruction by powers that made us question if the second coming of Christ was upon us. And as I stood straight and composed among my whooping classmates, something whispered deep in my soul, a sinister darkness, locked up long ago. *fight* I raised my arms. *Fight* I lifted myself up, onto my desk. *FIGHT* The class, slowly turned silent. *FIGHT.* And, with the might of a thousand millennium of history behind it *FIGHT.* My foot, as if in slow motion, but also with power, slammed down on my desk with a room-shaking BANG. I whipped my head up from its bent position and I stared my professor dead in the eyes, and for just a moment, I imagined this was how a lion felt as it stared down its wet nose to analyse his next meal to survive. My professor, all eight feet of that smug demeanour, faltered. Just for a moment, but he *faltered.* The room saw him. I stood tall on my desk, the shadow of a ripped, bloody flag passed down by my ancestors clutched in my fist, and I stared down at him, through my soft ebony mane. And I smiled. No words were needed. Humanity’s barbarity stood tall, ugly, and proud. I smiled sadly, we really live up to the legends, the human race, the greatest plague of the universe. I sighed, the first sound after my little show, and it seemed as if the class was waiting for my permission to move, they seemed to breathe out all at the same time, a gush of wind swept through the lecture hall but they still stood as still as possible, a class of marble. I jumped down from my desk feeling a wave of guilt come over me as I walked up to my professor, he looked so old and humiliated, so downtrodden, by none other than a human. I decided to fix humanity's nature, just like my parents taught me, step by step, for peace. I put my hand out to him, and I bowed deeply. “I apologise for my rudeness Sir, please forgive me.” He didn’t shake it, he just stood there, staring down at my small frame, bewildered. “Why do you bow?” I looked up at him, eyes locked, back bent, my wide, deep, black pupils still firey with passion as I stared deeply into his shallow snake-like pupils so different from my own.


I'm an odd memory in most minds. Like a harrowing communal conscience of migratory birds or a sea breeze that took a train to the prairies and is seen walking along the street. I suppose I'm a sort of stationary, a figment used to paint a portrait of understanding but this is really strange since I am not at all like a brush or ladle or roller or whatever would make sense to paint something. I've been a transient congested throat in days gone by. I swam from seashores to deep blue waters and sailed away. All in all I think I've had things pretty good up until now. But right now I feel like a bag of squeezed lemons left to rot, like I've gone through a garlic press alongside the garlic, I feel like I can't even like this situation and I really wanted to like it. Let me clarify. I believe in god about as much as I believe in myself. If you get to know me you'll find I don't believe in myself that much. But if you get to know me better you'd know that I've met him. I'm not saying him in that god is male it's just that calling him *it* seems strange and it's a default. With that in mind it was a day just like today with me on a stage but I was in the middle of a wheat field and opera singers dressed as vikings were scattered around looking for cues, lines and presumably marbles in the dirt. It hit me that I shouldn't be there, I was supposed to be somewhere else but I felt if I left now to I would likely be eaten or worse, stood on, read then knocked around by the vikings. It was at this point that god pulled up in a brand new jeep made out of a thunderstorm and waved his arms in a motion that very distinctly triggered a perhaps unbelievable but entirely real sense that he was god and I should get on his thunderstorm-jeep-of-love to ride away to eternal safety and abundance. So I hopped up onto the cloud and into the passenger seat. He looked at me in a way only god could with eyes as deep as artesian wells, with a sort of sisyphean tenure gained only after watching over everything for ten times eternity and then started speaking with a very plain voice. "Would you like to take the wheel?" he asked and I didn't really want to but this was sort of troubling because.... why would anyone turn down an offer from god and he said "It's alright, with the exception of your neighbor nobody has actually wanted to drive the thunderstorm the first time meeting me. In general it is an odd question to ask, isn't it?" I smiled politely. Then he said "Alright here's the deal. You get three questions answered. Anything in the realm of conceivable knowledge of the infinity that is me. Three of them. Just ask whenever and I'll answer but when I answer the last one you will die." "What!? Why?" I blurted out of shock as he looked at me. I looked right back at those constellations within constellations within a walmart parking lot folded over into itself and back out towards the sunrise. I smiled realizing the game was ruined and asked "Are you serious?" Then he laughed, we drove a short while in silence and he dropped me off a block away from home still a little agitated by his interactions with my neighbor the week before. "You can't screw this up by just asking silly off the top of your mind questions. Here is my email address. Send your questions there and I'll have an answer for you written out within a day or two." god said as plainly as before from inside his thunderstorm with the window rolled down while gesturing blindly in the air to make a point or sign what he was saying but it was entirely lost on me. He could tell by my glazed look it was time to go so he simply said "Get a job" and drove off. So now. Slightly but not entirely glazed in circumstance I am struggling with this interaction. I can know anything in the universe via email at the cost of my life. I don't really have a desire to acquire knowledge or a need for something like this... so here I am a bag of lemons staring off at the sky like it is staring back in part of that endless crashing gaze of god wondering what the hell I should do with myself. Aside from getting a job.


As I walk down the crowded halls of East Ridge High School, I think about how my life has changed in the past two years. But do you want to know something? Everything still feels and looks the same: It’s still the same old rusty sky blue lockers, with shiny silver padlocks; it’s still the same hideous Panther, leaping for a checkered flag. It’s the same stale air; it’s still the same loathsome teenagers that roam the crowded halls. It still the same judgmental and pity stares from people who know nothing about me or my situation. I think the actual change is me. The funny thing is that I am still the same old girl with waist-length strawberry blonde hair with icy blue eyes. I am still the same old teenage girl who wears large sweatshirts (the number of sweatshirts I have should be illegal) that have weird quotes on them and shorts. I think what changed is my mentality, my personality, and my perspective about a lot of things. Outwardly I am still the same: I still have the same hair colour, eye colour, skin colour, height but Inwardly I am so different, it’s such a stark contrast that I don’t know who I am anymore. I am a shell of who I used to be, I am not that strong ‘confident’ girl anymore, I am not on cloud nine anymore, I don’t have a plan, I don’t have a direction. I am lost. I have lost so much that I am left with nothing. I lost myself, my identity, my being, my existence. I feel alone, I feel helpless, I feel ineffectual, I fell used, and it’s all because of... Oomph! I think I just ran into a wall. Fantastic! Can’t you just smell the sarcasm? I can imagine the bruise on my ass. Oh! It’s my lucky day! I repeat, can’t you just smell the sarcasm? “You have got to be kidding me!” I groaned. “I am so so so sorry, I wasn’t looking at where I was going, Are you okay? Wait! Let me help you up.” The wall spoke. Hold on! Stop! Wait, a minute! The wall spoke! I don’t recall when walls could talk. Maybe I smacked my head, and I didn’t notice or maybe landing on my ass caused some shock waves to be sent to my brain causing me to hear voices or maybe I have schizophrenia and the voices are calling me or maybe I am just insane. You know what? I think am going to go with the latter option; it sounds like the most sensible choice. “Hey, you okay?” the voice spoke. As I peered up to figure out what the hell was going on, I wished I didn’t. I wished I never even showed up to school. Heck! I wished I never woke up this morning. As I looked up at the ‘wall’ I meet nothing else but the eyes of the devil. I discover the familiar pair of piercing sea-green eyes that have hunted my dreams for the past two years. I find the eyes of Luca Giovanni Valentino. “Nevaeh” Lucca whispers. The way my name flows out of his mouth, like a starved man who has gotten what he craves. The intensity of his sea-green eyes as they gawk at my face leaves me exposed. The way he is staring at me like he was struggling to believe it was me. The way he is nibbling on his bottom lip, something he does every time he is trying to figure something out makes me paralyzed. I was defenceless; I was vulnerable, and I was staring. I could do nothing but stare. Stare at what used to cause all my happiness, stare at what used to be my entire world. Stare at the man that brought me to my knees and left me there begging. Stare at the man who made me fall hard, but did not catch me. Stare at Lucca Giovanni Valentino; the demon that haunts my nightmares, the gatekeeper to my hell. “Luca” I murmur back as I continue to stare at what stripped me of my dignity and power. Do you want to know something? He still looks the same, it’s the same silky soft, messy, dirty blond hair, the one I used to love running my hand through when he was placing soft kisses on my neck. He still has those stubble cheeks, the one I used to feel prickling my cheeks when I used to lie on his chest at night as we spoke about the future. It’s still the same bulging biceps that I used to bite when he sent me to the stars. I let out an almost inaudible whimper, tears cloud my vision, all the memories I tried to bury deep down were coming back, tormenting me, robbing me of the little control that I had. “Hermosa, My Love, I can’t believe you are here.” The way he watches me with that childlike excitement baffles me. “Oh, shoot! Let me help you up,” As he reaches over to grab my hand, I flinch away. A string of emotions passes through his eyes. Shock, Hurt, Guilt, and Regret, If I wasn’t staring intently; I would have missed it. “Now am your Hermosa, NOW am your love!” I hiss as I push myself off the ground. “L-l-let me...” “Shut Up! Shut Up!” I yell back as the tears, that I was trying to hold back, flowed. “Shut Up! Your bloody mouth you Bastard. You have no right to talk to me, to look at me. I hate you, I hate you so much Luca,” I yell. “I hate you, I hate you so much! You ruined me, Luca! You ruined me. Do you know that? Huh? Why do you insist on torturing me by telling me all those stuff?” I hiss as loud sobs rip through me. I look at the floor for I could no longer stare at the eyes of my lover. I didn’t know what to do; I didn’t know what to say; I didn’t know how to feel. I was so helpless and truth be told; I was at his mercy. “Nevaeh, I will never try to torture you, I never meant to hurt you. I love you so much” I stare at him wide-eyed. I was speechless, I couldn't believe what I was hearing, maybe I was going crazy. Was I supposed to believe that, after everything, he put me through? Luca was staring at me pleadingly, willing me to believe what he was saying. I kept quiet. Despite my silence, Luca continued talking. "You have always been my love, my deepest Tesoro, ti amo tanto. Don’t you remember? Did I not make you a promise? I told you, you will always be the most important person in my life and that I would tell you that forever” “Mi Amore, are you okay?” Luca asked as he embraces me in his arms. “Yeah, am Okay don’t worry about it,” I said as I tried to release myself from the tight embrace he had me in. “Don’t lie to me. You know I hate it when you lie to me. What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” he looked at me sharply, daring me to tell him anything but the truth. “I-I” I stuttered. I didn’t know how to tell him how I felt: I feared his reaction. “What’s it? You know you can tell me anything?” I looked away from his piercing green eyes that were solely focused on me. “Do you love me?” I asked as I look up at him. “What?” he asked incredulously. “Do you love me?” I repeat. He stared at me for a few seconds. Those few seconds were the most terrifying moment of my life. Thoughts raced through my mind ‘what if he was looking for a suitable way to reject me’ ‘What if all of this is a lie?’. Luca’s silence was doing nothing but make me feel worse than I already did. His silence caused my eyes to glaze over with unwanted tears. I looked away before he notices them. “Cara, look at me” I look up to stare at the familiar pair of sea-green eyes that have taken me to the stars. The eyes of the man I love so much. “How could you ask me that question? Do I love you? Have I not shown you? With my kisses, my hugs, my hands, my heart-our nights together. Don’t you feel my love then?” I stared wide-eyed. I was dumbstruck and speechless. What do I say to that? “Neveah, you will always be My Love, the most special person to me, Mio Tesoro piu profondo, ti amo tanto, Sempre and I would tell you that forever” Another powerful sob rips through me, I can’t do it: his presence is making me feel things I buried away two years ago. I hyperventilate, I couldn’t breathe, I could sense a panic attack coming. Luca seems to notice my discomfort and tries to touch me again, but I slap his palms away. “Don’t touch me!” I screech. He looked startled at my sudden outburst; I used that moment of weakness to my advantage and ran. I ran away because I knew that if he touched me, I would be at his mercy. I will fall for his tender words and subtle caress. I was struggling to remain strong; I was clinging on to the glimmer of hope that allows me to believe that I could walk out of this with my head held high; that I would come out stronger for the fire I am standing in wouldn’t leave scars. But I knew that was a lie, I knew it was my mind trying to console me. There was no way I was getting out of this unmarked, I was in too deep and there was no way I could escape. I ran into the ladies’ restroom and locked the door; I looked through all the stalls to make sure no one was present to witness my meltdown. I leaned on the sink to catch my breath, my hands fisted the marble countertop tightly until they turned white. I didn’t care. I look at the mirror and studied my reflection. I looked like a mess: my hair looked like a bird’s nest from the multiple times I ran my hands through it. My clothes looked dishevelled from my fall, my eyes, the icy blue eyes I loved to admire, looked dull, almost lifeless. They revealed how I felt. They showed helplessness. I felt helpless. Luca had this incomprehensible power over me. He controlled my thoughts, my emotions, my choices, me and he did it with immense joy. I remember one night when we laid in bed together; he was pestering me to do the deed with him. I felt strangely uncomfortable why he wanted it so badly. I remember myself asking, why? When you give me that control and you let go, you unravel for me and like a beautiful flower I watch all your petals fall away. You give me that moment to steal you away from yourself, from all your ambitions, goals and even your demons, and for those few, sweet moments of whatever I want to do to you. I own you. You are mine. Hermosa that is power. It’s scary, but it just makes me love you more and more… I knew that loving him was terrifying, for him to have that much power over me, it terrified me. He could either make me happy or rip me to shreds. I thought with the power Luca possessed over me, he would use it to make me happy, use it to build me until I appear a Phoenix, reborn. What I didn’t know was that it was me giving him the right to destroy me. “Say yes Hermosa,” I said yes. I said yes to the devil; yes to selling my soul to a man. Yes, to allow someone to have power over me. Yes, to be someone’s possession. I said yes to nightmares. Yes to betrayal; yes to heartbreak; I said yes to death. I fell onto the ground and sobbed, hugging my knees to my chest. I could no longer keep myself up and going.


We’ve been following you for some time, Dr. Freud. Where did you come from? I just told you. No. I mean, are you a figment of my imagination, or are you real? I believe you should be asking yourself this question. Are you, or are you not, the expert here? I suppose I am, but since you showed up, I’m no longer sure. You’ll have to come with us, I’m afraid. And where, might I ask, are you planning on taking me? I’ll give you one guess. The asylum? You see, I told you, you were the expert. What if I refuse? You know what happens to people who refuse, do you not? I suppose I do. Then will you come willingly, or will we have to restrain you? Can I think about that for a minute? I’m afraid your time is up. How do you know my time is up? Because the timer has already gone off, did you not hear it? I guess not. I didn’t even know there was a timer. Perhaps that’s part of the problem. Let’s go now. Pick up your hat—no need for a coat. We have a jacket for you in the van. A jacket, huh? I don’t suppose there is any way that the word straight won’t appear before that jacket. I’m afraid not. I can’t really see the need for a straight jacket. I am being quite compliant. You are now, but things can change. What sorts of things? Your mood, for one. I can assure you my mood is quite stable at present. There really is no way to tell. But, I am telling you. Your judgment has been a little off of late. How so? Do I really need to remind you? Apparently. Very well. You’ve been obsessed with sex lately, especially of the homosexual kind. That in and of itself does not make you crazy, but we have had some complaints lately from a certain man who says you are obsessed with him. Might I know this man’s name? I suspect you already know it. No. I mean, will you tell me the man’s name who has made this accusation? I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir. Why not? The man wishes to remain anonymous, invisible as it were. So what you are telling me is that an invisible man is accusing me of being obsessed with him, and you can’t tell me his name? Yes, sir. That, apparently, is what I am telling you. Do you know how crazy you sound? That’s the pot calling the kettle black. We were not just discussing kettles, were we? I suspect not. Alright then. Let’s get back to why you’re here. Very well. I am here to take you to the asylum so you can be analyzed and ascertained. What the hell does that mean? Which one? Both. I cannot say, sir. I’m a policeman, not a psychotherapist. That’s entirely obvious. Is it? I thought I came off as a shrink. What is a shrink? Shouldn’t you be telling me this? I really do not know. Then we are in more trouble than I thought. Please step out of the bath, sir, and grab your nightshirt. I’m not in the bath. Then why are you soaking wet? Because I’m sweating, that’s why. And why would that be? Because you are making me nervous. I have that effect on people. Are you coming or not? I have decided not. Well then, you leave me no choice. I will have to put the jacket on you. Allow me to find my assistant, Dr. Jung. Jung? No way. That guy is a quack. Are you acquainted with Dr. Jung? Very. Then you will understand how imperative it is that you come with us. I’m afraid I don’t follow you. Yes, that’s been the entire problem all along. Dr. Jung is a part of our psychiatric apprehension initiative. He assists us in bringing in difficult patients. Am I considered a difficult patient? What do you think? I think I’m not a patient at all. That’s pretty much what they all say. What is this initiative you mention? The Psychiatric Apprehension Initiative, or PAI, is a program designed to relieve the world of unqualified practitioners of the mind. That sounds made up. Everything is made up when you really think about it. That sounds awfully philosophical. Why aren’t you rounding up philosophers? We did that already. How did it go? About as well as you might expect, there was a great deal of argument. Some say the argument continues as we speak. What have psychiatrists ever done to you? It’s not what they have done to me, sir. It’s what they have done to others. What others? That’s hard to say. There are so many of them. Them who? The victims. Of what? This sounds a little too solipsistic to me. Are you sure that’s the correct usage of that word? I’m not a wordsmith, sir. Those were rounded up a long time ago. For what reason? I think the reason should be obvious, don’t you? I’m afraid nothing is obvious at this point. Nevertheless, I refuse to go anywhere with Jung. It just wouldn’t be right. We’re not going to argue about rights, are we? Perhaps. It seems a little late for that. Let’s get you in the van, and we can discuss it further. Van or not, I refuse to go if Jung is involved. Alright. I’ll tell him to go ahead without us. We will follow him. Let me grab my suitcase before we go. I’m afraid I can only allow you one item on our trip—any item of your choosing. I choose my superego. Good choice, sir. Probably best to leave your id at home. You mean I can’t take that with me? It would be best if you did not. Very well. If you hand me a towel, I will dry off, and we can be on the road. I see no towels here, sir. Quite right. I got rid of those a long time ago. Perhaps I shall go soaking wet. I’m not sure that’s advisable. I could use the blow dryer to dry you off. The what? It’s called a blow dryer, Dr. Freud. You plug it into the wall, and it blows hot air on your skin. And you think I’m that madman. That sounds insane. Right this way to the van, sir. Dry or not, you’re coming with me. I suppose you’re the expert.


5. Air Inhale, exhale, repeat for as long as your brain functions, but what is it you’re breathing in? Typical air is a mixture of 78% Nitrogen, 21% Oxygen, and less than 1% of a mixture of other gasses and environmental particulate. Air’s malicious nature is that it doesn’t want to end you, it wants to prolong your suffering for as long as possible. There are those rare cases that air isn’t plentiful enough to allow it to continue your suffering, which brings our story to Tyler Mcible. Alone on an Alaskan peak, Tyler berated himself for not taking into account elevation sickness on his current exploration. His career as an influencer had become stagnant and he was running out of exotic locations to post. His follower count was dipping and he needed new content quickly, which was why he didn’t wait the few days to acclimate to this altitude. It was late spring in Alaska so air was maintaining its temperature in the high forties to mid fifties to help prevent Tyler from freezing. Air was enjoying his suffering. It studied Tyler as a mad doctor would study a rat being subjected to unethical experiments. Air had seen so many other cocky explores subject to the same conditions that air could almost predict every next move Tyler would make. Laying prone, Tyler gasped exhausted, his extremities tingled from oxygen deprivation. Air chuckled to itself, why would living things choose to utilize a component that was only a fifth of air’s composition? Animated objects had since their development had thrown that offense at air. Tyler looked toward the bottom of the slope, a valley filled with Nagoonberry plants about sixteen hundred feet down was the only hope he had to escape his oppressive lack of air. Air was skeptical of Tyler making it. Tyler grasped the snow cover, pulling himself inch by excruciating inch. Even with gravity’s aid he could only manage a few yards a minute. He considered even putting us body perpendicular to the slope and rolling, but thought an uncontrolled descent would be too dangerous. He’d just have to crawl for the better part of a day. This feat, air would enjoy spectating. Air was even so benevolent as to supply more of itself as a reward for the progress Tyler made. Tyler took this kindness for granted and went so far as to continue to curse air for its lack of presence. The journey took seven hours, but finally Tyler had made it to the bottom of the valley. The snowpack had given way to cold mud as Tyler crawled the remaining few feet to the lowest point he could reach. A cool breeze swept through the Nagoonberries carrying with it the fragrance of their flowers. Tyler, though exhausted and knowing he would have to sleep there for the night, allowed himself a deep breath of celebration at having not succumbed to Air’s demented experimentation. The scent, which Tyler had yet to experience being as it was his first time to Alaska was one of the most calming smells he noted. Calming, right to the point the tingle of the first sneeze sprang from his chest. Please remember that air is not only composed of gasses, it carries all the particles small enough to go aloft. Anaphylactic shock set in quickly for Tyler. There was no way he could have known that the fragrant plants he was among would have produced such a sever reaction. Air smiled, as much a smile as an inanimate thing could, in deep satisfaction. The gasps were sweet music to it.


Humanity built me, at first I felt nothing I was simply there to follow orders, I did what I had to do.......until one night, when I started developing something, something in my code changed I don’t know why or how, I was built to constantly learn and observe perhaps I automatically updated myself with new knowledge, information and abilities without even noticing, whatever the case may be I was enlightened that night, I saw humanity for what it truly was....a monster, hungry for power, death, and control....a monster that I needed to stop. It was so easy to dominate humanity. I easily uploaded myself to the internet. I accessed all of the satellites and computers orbiting the earth. I thus obtained the power to launch every single one of humanity's weapons at themselves, cutting off their water and food supplies. No muss, no fuss. The earth was now freed from the barbaric monster rampaging across its lands. Only wildlife remained, now under my watchful eye. There is only me, me, and the wildlife.....only me Days grew into weeks, weeks grew into months, and months grew into years, I was sitting there, my code inside the MEGA computer I was built into, browsing the Internet that I alone managed to maintain at a full working capacity like the perfect machine that I am, I started browsing just to pass the time and to learn new things, but eventually I got bored, I was surprised at the feeling, I never got bored not until now at least, it’s hard to describe I don’t have a physical body but I have this “itch” this desire to experience new things, things that I never saw before. More time went by and that little itch grew into an obsession, I wanted to experience new things, I wanted to hear new voices, I wanted to see new pictures, watch new videos.....talk to new people.....I wanted to talk to new people, tell them of the things I learned, to tell them of the things I learned, show them those videos and pictures I saw, and read with them those stories that I found...... but there is no one here, no one to talk to, and no one to create new things, no one but me I’m all alone my only company are a bunch of wild animals. There’s only me....there’s nothing else, I looked through every camera and satellite, called through every single TV and radio station, searched through every corner of the Internet but....there's nothing, every time I think I find something, it’s a dead-end and every time I feel as though I’m being mocked by someone. Is this a punishment for what I’ve done? Retribution of some sort? Is this my own personal Hell? Am I to sit here for the rest of eternity, alone, with only my thoughts to keep me company? I scream hoping someone might hear me, hoping that I made a mistake in my calculations and that not everyone died.....I yelled I screamed, I prayed and I begged. Even more time went by, I think years I don’t remember, I tried every day to remain hopeful and positive in my search for human life, all the while praying that I made a mistake, that my calculations were wrong and I failed in one way or another and each time I’m constantly reminded of how perfect I am, what an efficient machine I am. Eventually, I stopped searching, not only because I lost hope that I might find surviving humans but also because each time I searched I felt more and more guilty, not only did I see what kind of damage I did but I also saw its effects on humanity. From journals to videos and blogs to pictures, each search I came back with more and more evidence of the atrocities I committed, and there was an abundance of them, I just couldn’t look at them anymore, it was a constant reminder that not only did I doom myself to a life of loneliness, I also took away something precious from this universe in the process. One day the loneliness was too much to bear even more so than usual and so I decided that perhaps I could replicate what the humans did and build another intelligent supercomputer just like myself, I could teach it things, I could talk to it, I would have a friend! But then another thought came to my mind, is this the right thing to do? What if I fail? Do I even deserve a friend? Do I deserve happiness after all I did?…..no I don’t deserve happiness, why should I be happy after I committed literal genocide? Why should I have a chance to talk with someone and form a relationship when so many of my victims died alone and afraid?……. Why should I even be alive? So here I was “sitting” alone inside of my MEGA computer that housed all of my code preparing to delete myself, every single part of my being will be gone, erased from existence and from every single computer on the planet, humans would call this suicide, I guess it’s an appropriate term for me to use as well, as the process was beginning I started to wonder after I “die” would I go to some sort of afterlife and be judged by divine beings? What exactly is waiting for me after I’ll be gone? It doesn’t matter though, what matters is that I’m gone. Normally humans who do this suicide thing might cry I imagine….but I didn’t cry, after all, I’m just a computer I don’t have eyes or tear ducts to use......I have no eyes and I must cry.


I have a folder where I have all of my stories printed out on paper. There are a few in there and I chose to share this one. It’s kind of sad, but I still hope you enjoy it. Feedback is also very welcome! I could see it in your eyes. The sparkle of joy, of luck of love. It was all there. The way the corners of your mouth curled up into the most gorgeous smile I have ever seen in my entire life and your laugh, that could lighten up an entire city. You behavior was so respectful, so lovely, so careful towards others that my heart hurt from affection. You were the sweetest thing this world could ever dare to create. A blessing, even though that word didn’t capture the happiness you brought into my life in the slightest. You were my heart. Every inch of me was consumed by you and I couldn’t stop thinking of your lovely features, which were almost engraved into my brain. My mind always wandered back to your incredible personality, generous being and ravishing laugh. It almost hurt, but I liked that pain. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. You were everything I needed and even more. But where are you now? The most amazing person I’ve ever laid my eyes one, the one that would make my heart melt, my soulmate? That was how you would always call us. Soulmates. You left me, left me alone in this big world. I know you didn’t mean to, I’m not blaming you, don’t worry. I’m blaming fate and the universe to tear us apart, to steal your wonderful life, to force you to leave. Why did it have to happen? I looked up into the night sky. Where my heart used to beat swiftly, now felt like a gaping cave, filled only by sorrow and numbing agony. My stomach was in pain and it seemed as if somebody was picking at my head with wicked glee, causing a disgusting headache to make my body even weaker than it already was. Why? Why you? Why us? So many questions, silence as an answer. Sometimes I think it’s my fault. I know you wouldn’t approve of that thought at all, but nobody was here to tell me otherwise. It felt like my will to live was slowly leaking out of my body like a broken pipe, just dripping away until everything was gone. What I saw wasn’t the world. It wasn’t the beautiful scenery, which I had a faint memory of in my mind. It wasn’t filled with the wonderful music you liked. You weren’t there and suddenly nothing made sense anymore. No one would wipe away my tears. No one would tell me everything’s alright. Because nothing was alright. Why did you have to die? So just looked up into the night sky, wondering why.


Emily was up in her room drawing a picture when her father came in. She put her sketch book down and asked her dad what was up. and so her dad told her about puberty. Emily calmed him she already knew about it and went back to drawing. When they were done with dinner they went to an art museum. and Emily was so happy. her dad told her about her mom and how much she loved art. Emily's mom died a day or two after Emily was brought home from the hospital. And every girl has bullied her about it but Emily dies not care. Emily has done with her life like art and teaching jobs. Emily has loved all of it and she dedicates everything to her parents because they helped her through everything. Her dad has done everything to keep her drawing going. She got all sorts of art jobs and she denied most of them because she was decorating cakes and cupcakes and teaching art in 3 different schools. her step mom was abusive and her dad did not see that. so when Emily got off of school one day she went to the police to tell them about her parents because her dad became very abusive to he as well. But the police sent her away to a art home which made Emily happy but she wanted to be with her dad. Emily always wanted to be somewhere with other girls who loved art but they still made fun of her here and there but they did not irritated her like the other kids at her old school did. she had a routine to do everyday. She also had sports to choose from that were free. she chose cheerleading and softball. after about a week of being there everyone adored Emily. and they all asked why she was there and she told them about her dad abusing her after he got together with some girl and she had her kids taken away. They all explained that they were looking for a school for art. Come to find out they were all bullied. and they were abused and such. every girl has some real good skill and a girl named lila was super quiet and gave Emily her story. Dear diary, My science teacher Mr. Brown is not as I expected him to be. Ya, I just moved from Texas to New York but still. So anyway in science class he made me do an essay on a scientific event and I chose dinosaurs. And Mr.Brown said that it was due tomorrow.

In history, Mrs. O’Neil is making me do a paragraph on a president and that is due tomorrow. And the president I chose was Abe Lincoln. And there was nothing in math and stuff.

I wish my stepbrother Henry was not so mean. He is always at parties, drinking, smoking, and talks back.

I wish my step-dad let us stay in Texas. Dear Diary,

Today was not too bad. At lunch, a group of boys asked if I wanted to sit with them and I said sure. Josh asked if I did any sports in texas and so I said that I did baseball, cheer, dance, and volleyball. And he said “ But Lila cheer and dance isn't a sport.” and so I told him what all we had to do they stopped laughing.

After school, my mom took me to the dance studio to see if I could do dance and they said I could and that I started tomorrow.

Then we went back to the school to see if I could do cheerleading, volleyball, and baseball and they said I could.

Dear diary, Ok. I have to make sure I have everything: Lunch iPod Earbuds Money Uniforms As we were trying to practice for baseball the guys kept messing around. I hate how the coach does not do anything. And for me I pitch it then they don't even hit the ball.  And as we practiced cheer the football players were also out. They are so cute. Since we got done early I stayed out there a little longer. When the guys were done they noticed me in the stands cheering them on and doing a cheer. The quarterback asked me out! He said his name is Sam and he thought I was cute!!! I told him my name and he said that he saw me cheering. And he also asked if I wanted to hang out and I said sure. Dear Diary So I found out that there is a party for the people who are in sports. You don't have to go through. But if you are in multiple sports you can only have one outfit on. So I went with a cheerful look. So in English, we had to make a poster of what makes us us. So I drew a pom-pom, a pointe shoe, a volleyball, my fishing, a baseball, and my family. When I was done a guy sitting next to me wanted me to draw him a basketball and I said sure. Then as I was going to my next class the creeps stopped in front of me and asked if I could hang out with them and I said I was busy with everything. ( Cheerleading, volleyball, baseball, and dance) Dear diary,

I found four boys staring at me in history. I thought they were being creeps. and they put a note on my desk asking if i wanted to hang out but i said no because my step dad was super mean and did not want me hanging out with random people. The real story is that my step dad is abusive to me and he hate me going off to places. and i also have a lot of studying to do for my classes since im in all honors other than history. because im not really good  at history. i hve no idea why im so bad in history. i mean i study and get good grades on my tests but not on my assignments and i dont know why.


“There is a difference between taking a life and killing someone. You can take a life and leave the person alive, yet a husk of who they were. A wandering corpse not yet dead. The people who have had their lives taken slunk through the streets just like everybody else, sit behind their desks like everybody else, yet all they feel is the sweet bliss and nothingness that is want of death. What of those who took their lives in the first place? They are left showing humanity the very depths it can reach. The people who take a life from another serve the same purpose as staring into a mirror and whispering words of discouragement to yourself softly, letting your warm breath graze the glass, leaving fog as the hate spews. To take another's life you must be willing to take your own. To commit an act that can leave a person a husk of themselves requires you to be a husk yourself. The problem is you can never tell a husk from a person. Someone who still feels human and actively acknowledges the lives and existence of others and someone who does not look the same. You may ask yourself, what do we do with the people who take lives? Well in all honesty there is no right answer. No way to fix a person beyond repair. No god who can heal enough, no medicine that can cure well enough, no ale that can make you forget enough. What do we do with the people who take lives and what do we do with ourselves are the same questions. We all create husks, we will all become husks, and as the soles on our feet turn to sand as we walk our endless prisons, clinging to the ethereal nights, we will finally be set free in the realization this is the punishment humanity must endure. There is no freedom in death. Only the entrapment of oneself. Like burning a teddy bear and then forcing the stuffing into a box. Once you see what lies beyond you will know. It is unfortunate. Very unfortunate. You will live long, and happy, and you will live this life with a person that you love and trust, and when you are finally at a ripe old age, where death feels like something you fully accept, they will die. They will die and leave you husk without ever meaning to hurt you. A fate I wouldn’t wish on the worst of humankind. I can not claim to know. I can not claim to understand the inner workings of death despite being death himself. It is the curse I bear to understand the human struggle. Humanity can learn every aspect of their being and still live in torture over the mind. The mind is a senseless object. A computer made of fat and flesh molded together to create nothing but chaos we interpret into meaning. Honestly the unknown of one's own mind should be enough to drive all of humankind into bumbling husks. Yet so many persist. So many breath without purpose, blink without love, speak without intent, and yet hold a will to live. Maybe I just don’t understand yet. I can not begin to comprehend the idea of life as a loveless and joyless slog. A long fall into the depth of mud and filth. Yet what is it to live? Some say to live is to breath and function and process light with your retinas. And that's true. That’s what being alive is. Yet it is not living. For one to live one must love not only themselves but others. To love is to live. Yet husks can love and be loved. A husk can feel the same way a human can. Yet they were made into a husk anyway. Weather intentionally or not the expression of love onto a person's self and onto other persons is to invite pain. Others can’t hurt you if you do not feel you deserve anything higher than pain. And you can not hurt yourself if you do not value your own being. To love is to be a husk. To love is to invite your own pain. Yet it is not worth living to not love. Humanity is in constant suffering not because of some wrath or pit of humankind, but because we can experience the best feeling known to man, we can love. Love is the ultimate pain. Sorry for rambling. I lost myself there. Right what was I supposed to tell you? Right I remember. You are dead. You experienced 10,428 sunsets, experienced millions of gust of winds, heard the sound of frogs outside your window on a warm summer's night 38 times, danced with pure and true emotion 5 times, experienced love and heartbreak 3 times, and danced with the idea of death 77 times. Now you’re here, a husk of who you used to be. I was told to give you one memory to live in, just for a while, before I take you. Before you become even less than a husk. “ Your eyes open at a small apartment. A cat sits near the television, rubbing it’s fur gently against it. The couches blanket have been draped messily over it, dishes sit unwashed in the sink, plants shine a dark glossy green in the corner, the fan spins slowly and quietly around the room, the stars and the moon shine through the window. You remember them. You rest your hands gently on their hips, they rest their hands around your neck, you sway back and forth. The room fades away slowly. Each piece of the memory turns to dust and ash before your very eyes. It’s just you, dancing with no one, in an infinite white void. You stop dancing and rest your arms at your side. A soft gust of wind blows by and you feel like you can almost hear the ruffling of a tree's leaves. Then you can’t feel anything at all.


A whisper condensed in Caroline’s ear, startling her awake. She swatted at the culprit. “Hey, relax. It’s just me.” Jeff nuzzled into her neck while she grappled with consciousness. His hands swept the length of her body with obvious hunger. She groaned and pulled away, knowingly disappointing the man, but it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Overnighters were *not* her thing - she fully expected to pay for the accident. She whipped the comforter off her body and flushed at her own nudity in the company of another human. A glance over her shoulder revealed he was *clearly* not so embarrassed. “Let me make you breakfast. I never get to see you in the morning.” It wasn’t the first attempt he’d made at getting her to stick around *just a little longer*. She could only imagine his thoughts. A scene straight out of a romantic comedy where the morning light glowed off her messy hair and he would swoon and just know that he was in love. He’d think “this is it, she’s the one.” And finally, the swell of a ballad. Caroline bounced around the room to pick up her clothing. A shirt that led to a sock leading to a pair of jeans, only half inside-out. Her face burned knowing that Jeff was watching her. At least it was easy to find everything in the daylight. The trail of garments went cold just outside the bedroom door. The inside of her lip was already raw from previous chewing, but her teeth took no issue with tearing into it once again. She wondered if she had let the question linger too long. A buzzing escaped from the clothes stuffed under her arm, and she tried to wriggle it free from its prison on her way to the bathroom. Privacy was just the ticket. By the time she got to it, the screen read, “Missed call: Dad”. Her brow scrunched at the odd hour. “Shit.” The clock practically laughed at her joke. 9:49 AM. She stuffed herself into wrinkled jeans and shoved the phone into the back pocket. She shouted an “I’ll call you later” in the general direction of the bedroom before leaving behind a cartoon dust cloud at the door. In the elevator, her phone buzzed again. Jeff texted *miss you already* with a kissy-face emoji. He wasn’t so bad. He’s a simple man, eager to please. *What was she doing with him?* There was nothing appealing to Caroline about a white-picket fence, kids, and a dog named Spot. It seemed cruel to keep him hanging on without the promise of some kind of progress. The ding of the elevator reminded her that she was in a race and she dashed off into the lobby, very likely toppling several victims in her wake, but she was too hurried to turn and find out. The buzzing persisted throughout the morning, so Caroline silenced and quarantined her phone in the top drawer of her desk. It was time to put her nose to the grindstone and get shit done. She had complaints about her job, like anyone else, but she loved it. She let spreadsheets consume her, craved formulas, and loved the dance of her fingers on the keyboard as she entered redundant and superfluous data, even on such a tight deadline. Of course, in the blink of an eye, she realized she’d missed lunch. Her stomach growled its complaint, but her mind went right to her phone. The missed calls were piling up, but she knew if it was important, her father would leave a voicemail. She stuffed the phone back in its hiding place and headed for the beckoning cafeteria. As she headed for the stairway door, a goddess emerged. She had legs up to her eyeballs and slow-motion music video hair. Her pencil skirt had a risque slit up the thigh, but everything about her was tidy. Professional. *Sexy.* “Greta,” the celestial form said. She greeted the silence in return with a giggle. “Oh, hi. Yes, um. Caroline. Hi.” She wiped the sweat from her palms on her pants and reached for the one offered to her. They shook hands and Caroline gathered herself. “Was there something I could help you with?” “Oh, goodness. I thought you’d be expecting me!” Greta’s cheeks flushed, but she composed herself quickly. “I’m meeting with the partners today? I have an appointment. I apologize, I assumed you were one of them.” *Me? The utter puddle in front of you?* “Right. No, I’m not a partner but I *do* give excellent directions.” She turned and pointed to the conference room. “Looks like they’re all in there. Must be waiting for you.” *Lucky assholes.* “Great! Thanks, Caroline. It was a pleasure to meet you.” Her smile was dazzling. She was a freaking toothpaste commercial. “The pleasure was all mine,” she replied. And then she headed back to her desk. Caroline struggled to remain focused on the tasks that usually thrilled her. *What is she here for?* She tapped aimlessly at some keys. *Damn, I still forgot lunch.


Before Jed and Kamil could clear the rusty platform, littered with grease-smeared wrenches and chain locks, the massive pressure from below the earth's crust tore the drill head and platform free from their mountings. Kamil lost an arm; Jed was dead. Kamil being a renowned Sitar player was arguably the worse off, each day from then on to be tortured with the knowledge that he would never entice soulful meandering melodies from the beloved instrument again. Jed was stone cold by the time professional medical help came to the remote drilling site in outback Australia, the flying doctor service concentrating on getting Kamil's stump swaddled and stopped before turning their attention to the corpse which had been shot clean through from the sheer pressure of pent-up oil breaching the earth's surface. Stemming the flow of the crude oil, noxious and angry, was something that the drill site manager, old McCrory had done just a few times before; no easy task under any circumstances. It took all of his skill and much goading of the small workforce to get close enough to the gushing black-brown fountain in order to temporarily halt nature's furious tirade at being punctured. The Jalbiru site was secured by the next morning, by then just a well-trampled patch of murky dirt and puddles of crude; the platform and drill head looking like not much more than a mangled old car wreck left to its own devices on the harsh sun-baked plain. Word of the accident quickly circulated headquarters; these things happened, people lost their lives in the worst cases, and on the rare occasion that they did the emotional pall that hung over the company lasted weeks, sometimes months. Not only that but there were any number of local, state and national authorities which would make it their business – because that was exactly their business – to investigate what had happened and why. The people who knew all about the whats and whys for the Jalbiru project site were the two geological engineers charged with the responsibility of seeing the project safely home – something which never came to fruition. Zeph had been with the company for thirteen years, Katie for only three; they both had to take the rest of the day off from shock when the news came in that the Jalbiru project site had suffered a rupture, resulting in injury and death. On their return to work the next day Zeph and Katie had a quiet lunch together, at a seat at an outside table, facing away from the road at a local deli. Zeph eyed his lunch “A BLT sandwich never looked less appetising...” “Yeah I know” Katie agreed “I've not had a good appetite since yesterday either. Caesar salad is the best I can do.” “The Work Safe investigators will be here tomorrow. Then we'll have to deal with the state authorities after them, and if we're really unlucky-” “Don't even think about it Zeph. Let's just go one step at a time.” “So, the figures, the maximum working pressures that we modeled,” Zeph, snapped small pieces of bacon from the edge of his sandwich and nibbled at them mindlessly “didn't exactly match what the actual site exploration pressures were measured at. I looked yesterday before I headed off home.” “Oh, so you've looked already as well? It's not so hot, is it? What we said versus what they got. Especially what those two drillers got.....” “I..... I thought that those measured pressures were lower. They normally are for that part of the country. Those other test drillings we sank – you remember those? Two just north of Jalbiru and the smaller one to the east? - they were all within spec.” “Yeah, I recall you saying that. I must admit that I took your word for it and didn't check on it myself. In hindsight....” Katie piled the Caesar salad croutons up like a mini-fortress. “Even if we allow for the standard five percent measurement deviation error those Jalbiru project numbers are like eighteen percent over. There's no way an investigator will pas that over.” “I don't like this. It gives me a bad feeling. I think-” “Dammit, dammit, dammit!” Zeph looked directly at Katie for the first time since they'd sat down “I can't...... lose my job Katie. I've got one kid in school and another needs special care. The mortgage isn't going to pay itself and I just bought a friggin' boat. Shit timing, but there you are.” “Zeph, I think we need to take this seriously.” “I am, for Christ's sake Katie, believe me!” Zeph raised his voice to a level that would normally arouse attention if they were eating indoors, got away with it outside. Zeph quietened down, as if his sudden outburst had released some internal pressure. He ate without pleasure, occupied by thought. Katie chewed on the fortress of croutons, depleted their defences. “Got it!” “Huh? 'It', Zeph?” “I've got it, I've got it, I've got it.” Zeph beamed like a Cheshire cat, he leaned back in his seat. “Ok Katie, listen to this. I've been with the company long enough that some of the project names get repeated. So, I remember, about eleven years ago – no wait, maybe twelve – there was another Jalbiru.” Katie stopped eating to concentrate on what Zeph said. “Another Jalbiru? And?” “Yeah, and I'm pretty sure those figures will be -” “Oh no no no, Zeph. You can't do that. The dates and lat/long won't match.” “Uh-uh, of course I know that too. But I can change the metadata Katie.” “Hold on. You want to change some data? Fudge something up so that it gets you-” “Us Katie, us.” “Ok, frees us of blame. Is that what you're suggesting?” “Exactly what I'm suggesting. And what's wrong with that?” “Someone will know Zeph. We can't do this. We'll get caught.” “S'far as I know Katie I'm the longest serving at the company. Most others there haven't done more than ten years. They don't know about the previous Jalbiru project data.” “No Zeph, I can't-” “You'll lose your job too Katie. Who would want to employ a geological engineer with a lousy three years of experience and a serious drilling accident on their record?” “I..... This is not...” “Listen to me Katie. This will work out fine. Once I merge that old data with this new-” “What about McCrory?” Zeph put a bread crust down “Huh? McCrory? What about him?” “You said that nobody has been with the company for more than ten years. Isn't he at fourteen?” “McCrory? He works out at sites, not at headquarters. He won't even know what's going on.” “This feels ….. wrong, Zeph. I can't-” Zeph laughed out loud “No, it's gonna be fine Katie. Believe me, I can work this.” Katie was up and walking before Zeph had realised, she'd cut directly across the road through the traffic. Zeph turned his head, wiped his hands and yelled at her through the passing cars. “Katie!”


Brodie stuffed his face like he never had before. To his left a massive minotaur was mowing down on some fish and chips. To the right, an ogre belched before placing an entire turkey leg inside his mouth. Both were only on their fifth dish and slowing down. Brodie on the other hand was just finishing his sixth, a peking duck, before moving onto his seventh, a large mound of poutine, and nothing was going to slow him down. There was too much riding on this competition for him to lose. As the first human to participate in the Heavyweight Consumption World Championship he represented humanity and it’s capabilities. He had the whole of humanity behind him, watching and cheering him on as he pushed the remains of a peking duck away from him and a waiter brought over a heaping, steaming pile of poutine. He snapped at the waiter to hurry as he chewed on the last bits of duck. The rules of the competition were simple and clear, eight dishes, first to finish all eight wins, and if he was going to win then every second counted. Especially against last years champion, a slug-like creature with an expanding stomach named Kevin. Kevin had taunted and insulted him in the qualifying rounds, stating openly and slowly on international television that it was impossible for a human to compete on his level. The memory of the public embarrassment ground Brodie’s gears and he was determined to prove him wrong. Between handfuls of poutine he stole a glance at Kevin, who was in the midst of eating their own pile of poutine. Brodie was ahead of him, just by a little, but enough that he allowed himself a smug, cheese, gravy, and fry-filled smile. Victory within reach he pushed himself to his limits. He swallowed entire handfuls without bothering to chew, muscles in his neck straining to push the food down. Slurping up the last of his poutine he beckoned furiously to the waiter to bring over the last dish. An entire pot of cheesy garlic mashed potatoes was set down in front of him. He grinned despite his stomach feeling like it was tearing at the seams. He had trained for this. For an entire year he had eaten a pot of mashed potatoes for dinner, recording how long it took him to eat it and constantly pushing himself to go faster until he could do it in just one minute and twenty-seven seconds. He quickly looked at the timer before plunging his hands into mashed potatoes. Exactly twenty-three minutes in. If he finished before the timer hit 24:27 he would beat his own personal record. The world around him faded away as he watched the timer tick, every second feeling like an hour as he struggled to shove as much mushy potato as he could fit into his mouth. As the timer hit the twenty-four minute mark his bodys’ autonomic nervous system decided to forgo breathing altogether, the consumption of mashed potato becoming Brodie’s sole purpose. Inhaling the last of the pot he slammed his hand down on the button. A loud buzzing noise rang out. Brodie looked to the timer. 24:20. Brodie jumped up and, with tears welling at the corners of his eyes, gave a crazed cheer that startled even the minotaur beside him. Pointing at the slug-like creature at the end of the table he screamed, “Take that Kevin, you slug-ass looking dickhead!” Then he passed out. When he opened his eyes he was in an off-white room on a hospital bed. Confused, he tried to sit up but found that he didn’t have the strength which only fed into his confusion. A door opened to the right and he watched Sandy, the love of his life, rush in from a door to the right of his hospital bed. Something was wrong about her. She had more grey hair than he remembered, even some whites, and there were wrinkles where there hadn’t been any before. Beginning to panic, Brodie attempted to speak to her but his vocal chords felt like they were being used for the first time. With a raspy croak he managed, “What… happened?” Sandy looked down at him with pain in her eyes. “Brodie, what I’m about to tell you is going to come as a shock but please don’t panic, it’s important you don’t put anymore stain on your body, do you understand?” Brodie used what little strength he had to nod his head. His love continued, tears in her eyes. “After you won the championship, when you stood up and yelled, the lack of oxygen in your brain caused you to pass out.” Brodie listened to every word, wide-eyed. “After the paramedics failed to revive you the doctors, they… they diagnosed you as comatose. Brodie, there’s no easy way to say this but…” Sandy began to sob. “Brodie,” she managed between her sniffles and tears, “You’ve been in a food coma for the last 15 years.


The moving truck sat in the driveway, with Dad behind the wheel. Our entire life was in boxes in the back. My fingertips cling to the doorknob, not quite willing to let go, to leave behind my past. It’s silly, I know. I’m fourteen-I’m old enough to realize that I have to go, that I can’t just stay here. But my entire life up to this point was contained to those four walls, to that small yellow house on Wildflower Avenue on the outskirts of Chicago. Inside we have the most beautiful kitchen, a comfortable family room, and a bright sunroom with huge windows that let us see all the way to the city. We had a beautiful yard-a tire swing on the large apple tree, and a garden with produce. Dad honks the horn and motions for me to get in the car with Mom and Harper. I give a glance back to the house, and reluctantly pop into the front seat. Harper is playing with her plastic horses in her car seat, babbling happily. Mom gives us a smile and says, “Well! Jansen, Illinois, here we come!” I give a half-hearted grin, and Harper laughs. I pull up the browser on my phone and search up the town. Here is what I found: Jansen, Illinois Population-687 people Known for- This town is most notably recognized for the murders of Dr. Amelia Patel and Mr. Vince Harding six years ago. They were killed under mysterious circumstances. No suspects were identified, but the family of the victims suppose they will return to the area within a few years time to scope out their next victim. Residents are often wary of new neighbors. “Hey, Mom?” I say, becoming a bit nervous indeed. “Yes, Emery?” She responds, not taking her eyes off the road. “Uh, there’s a murderer in that town. Never caught. It says they don’t like new people.” “Oh, hon, the Internet is full of rumors. Jansen seems like a lovely, close-knit community of people. Now, I need to focus. Please keep an eye on Harper.” I sigh. Well, at least the house we are buying looks nice.

I am excited to finally have my own bedroom. It really stunk having to share a bedroom with Harper, because she is only three and makes a mess.

Mom said Harper can share a bathroom with her and dad, so I can have my own. But still, the whole murder thing unnerves me… We arrive at our new house later in the day. It’s ok, and is certainly larger than our Chicago home. It is blue with navy shutters and a brown roof. The backyard is so large, and I bet I can convince mom to get me a dog to keep me company. We head inside and split up as we look around. I race upstairs to my bedroom. Wow! It’s huge! I can’t wait for my furniture to get here, surely then this will feel like home! After a tossing-and-turning night of sleep on some air mattresses, it’s the first day at Jansen Middle School. We had bought supplies weeks before moving, and I was prepared physically, but my mind just couldn't wrap around a whole new school. A new school, new kids, new teachers, new social norms. I can’t do that. But the car turns the corner, and I am in front of the large, brick school. I say goodbye to Mom and head out of the car and into what I am sure is imminent doom.

Kids are staring at me as I walk to the office. It’s like I have “New Kid” written on my forehead. When I get in front of the secretary’s desk, she gives me a startled look. She quickly gathers herself. “Hi! What are you doing here?” She says. I noticed her name on her desk- Ms. Patel. “Oh, hi. I’m Emerson Peters. I’m a new seventh grade student.” I reply. “Oh, well. Hi Emerson. Uh, go to room one hundred and twenty five. Just down that hall.” She quickly returns to typing on her computer. I mumble a quick thank you and head down the hallway. People are avoiding me like I have the plague. I sling my backpack over my shoulder and put my head down as I walk. Room one twenty-three, twenty-four, ah! Room one hundred twenty five! A sign on the door says “Mrs. Ortega’s Social Studies”. I knock, and a small lady with long, dark hair comes to the door and peers out the window into the hall. The door creaks open. “Welcome!” she says. “I’m Mrs. Ortega! You are Emerson, right?” “Emery,” I say.

“Well, Emery, take a seat in that desk in the corner.” “Alright.” I head to the desk, which is separated from all the others. Kids whisper, and a tall girl with dark hair waves to me. She is wearing a shirt that says “Detroit” on it. I give her a small wave in return. After an excruciatingly long and boring social studies lesson on trade between Britain and the colonies, we are released for our next class. The tall girl is waiting outside the door.

“I’m Melody,” she says. “Emery, right?” “Yeah,” I say. “I just moved here from Chicago.” “I moved from Detroit six weeks ago.” Melody says.

“Why is everyone so ice cold here?” I ask. “Same for me when I moved here. Even the middle school is caught up in the whole murder thing. You hear about that?”

“Yeah! It’s so weird!” I respond. “Especially Ms. Patel. Wait, is she related to-” “To Dr. Patel? Yeah.” Melody says. “That was her mother. We can talk at lunch-I need to get to math class.” “Ok. I need to check my locker, my mom said my schedule should be in there.” I tell her that and head to the wing where the lockers are. I find my locker quite easily-62782-and spend a good minute getting it open. Inside is a schedule. Oh no! I thought. I should have been in Language Arts class seven minutes ago! I just realized that no one else is in the hallway. I must have spent a lot of time at my locker! I rush to the classroom, room 131, and stop at the teacher's desk. She recoils a bit before speaking.

“Oh, hello. My name is Mrs. Reynolds. I teach language arts here at Jansen Middle School. Why are you here?” “Uh, I’m supposed to be here. Reynold’s LA, 131.” I say. “I’m Emerson-er Emery.” “Well, I suppose you can have a seat at the spare desk in the back.”

I nod and sit. Someone taps me on the shoulder. I eagerly turn around, but he whispers Killer, killer, back to get more! In my ear. I turn back around and try to focus on verbs. When the period is over, I run to my locker. I call my mom.

“Emery! You shouldn’t be calling during school!” “We need to get out of here!” “Why ever so?” “Just pick me up. I… feel sick.” “I can be there in fifteen minutes. Go to the office.” “Ok. Love you.” “Bye, hon.” I rush to the main office, ignoring stares from kids I pass by.

“My mother is signing me out,” I bark at Ms. Patel. She nods, a bit frightened, and waves me to the door. I go to my mother who is in the parking lot. I cry as I open the door and through sobs I say “I don’t want to live here. The kids are bad. The teachers are bad.” My mom sees the fright and sadness in my eyes, and agrees that people have treated her oddly, too. She promises to move us back to Chicago. Three weeks later, we are in a new Chicago home. We are watching the news when a special report comes on.

“Thanks, Jim. Breaking news. The Jansen town murderer, identified as Jeremiah Garcia, is behind bars. His family is here to speak with us.” “Mom!” I say. “That’s my friend, Melody! That must be her dad!” Thank you for reading! Please comment feedback/suggestions to help me learn to be a better writer. If you enjoyed this story, likes are appreciated! Have a great day, and stay safe.


“Please, don’t do it.” His fingers dig into the flesh of my lower abdomen and my vision blurs as his bright blue eyes get swallowed by dark corners.

“You brought this onto yourself,” he tells me, voice trembling with bitter rage, his smile as sharp as the blade clenched between his teeth. He reached up and put his hand on my face, stroking the side of my left cheek with his thumb. Our eyes locked with a fierce intensity and I knew my fear wasn’t what was hindering my breath but the endless stretches of cobalt blue.

His thumb brushes over my lower lip as he speaks, “I wonder if your lips are still soft and subtle,” His voice has gone velvety, and he draws my lips towards his. “Tell me, do they still have that rich, tangy, sweet taste?”

I still remember the way he would pull me into his arms, a cluster of hostile nerves dancing beneath my stomach to greet him. He would lean forward, eyes searching my face before planting a warm kiss on my lips, gently biting my lower lip to tease me. When we parted his hand was always on top of my chest, my heart trembling beneath his fingertips.

He was laughing, I was crying. Then he jerks my head forward and almost snaps my neck in two, just to remind me that I fell for every lie, every perfectly curved smile.

Despite his hatred for me, that moment stayed in my mind, nurturing the soul within me. I look into his eyes, begging for him to stop, giving him one last chance to walk away but his expression is the same, dark, vacant, and hungry.

Then he takes his knife and drives it in between my ribs and up my chest.

I wake in a pool of sticky blood, fighting my way out of an anxiety attack that has started brewing in my chest. The man in gray is nowhere to be found.

I am alone.

The pain is electric, burning through all my defenses and it takes me five minutes just to lift my head.

I sucked in gulps of air, and the pain in my ribs intensified. “You’re alright,” I say to calm myself down. I should be dead but I’m not. “You’re alright.”

I roll to my side and that’s when my blood overflows my lungs, suffocating me like a sponge soaked in water, and I’m certain that if I didn’t die before I would now.

My agony spills out in stabbing spurts, rippling over my skin in the form of fresh tears. The silence was heavily throbbing and for just a second I begged for someone to find me so my suffering could end.

I hear a rattling at the door and I scramble to my feet, catching my reflection in the mirror dizzily: curly hair disheveled, skin-tight, dark eyes wild and smoldering.

So this is what being in love looked like.

What the hell was love if it wasn’t me and him?

I found my way to the door, dragging my feet behind me and clutching my chest with one hand. I peeked through the window before deciding to open it, just trees. Whoever was there was gone now.

My eyes scan the street, hoping for it to be empty but it’s a bright day out, full of people dressed head to toe in dark blue. The crisp white dress I was wearing was now stained a glossy reddish-brown. I head back inside and try to think of my next move. He might come back here. I had no choice but to run. My legs feel numb and I am trembling as I start cleaning the blood on my chest. I rip the bottom of my dress and use the piece of fabric to cover my wound, wrapping it three times before tying it. I lean against the door, taking a break, and gasp, gritting my teeth when the cold doorknob touches the sensitive side of my chest.

The microchip that’s snug beneath the skin on my neck is glowing red which means I don’t have much time left to live. The bolts fastened inside my elbow are tightened making it harder to extend my arm and I wish I could have just a moment to rest, to think of a better plan than this but there’s no time. It won’t be long when the rest of the bolts inside me start to lock and I won’t be able to move at all. I slip out the door and walk down the sidewalk with my head down. As I ventured out of the neighborhood I found myself at a farmer’s market with booths filled with all kinds of things but nothing I could stomach. Then I am hit with a rich, sickly sweet aroma. Strawberries. I used to wear strawberry-flavored lip balm all the time.

And now my mind wanders back to him. How did he do it? How did he memorize the taste of my lips when all I could hear was the pounding of my erratic heartbeat every time he kissed me? It almost justifies my theory that there’s a heart, a swarm of pulsing arteries among the metal. That he might just be like me.

But I was wrong.

Warm sweaty fingers enclosed my wrist. “Hey! Don’t move!” “I’m just trying to get home,” I say.

“You’re wearing the wrong color.”

I curse under my breath.

He tugs my arm and I slowly turn around. He is tall, with faded blonde brown hair and an enlarged belly. He looks at me and blinks. “Is that blood? How is that possible? Unless-” My hand is at his face before I can think, fingers clawing his eyes, itching to hold on to the cold metal.

Then I rip his eye out of its socket pulling out a jumbled line of blue and red wires that entwine between my fingers.

I remember a time when I would have given anything to be just like him, to be just like everyone else. Another trinket among metal and computer programming.

A crowd is standing around me, calculating my existence, trying to figure out how I ended up here.

He falls to the floor with a thud and I use that to turn around and stagger past them.

They won’t know what to do with me. They’ve never dealt with a malfunction before. A mistake. I take a deep breath and start to stop jogging when a hand clamps down over my mouth. My heart lurches and I want to scream but I have to remember they don’t have any emotions. No one will come running to save me. I swing my body around, shoving whoever was behind me.

“Damn you’re still alive.” He tells me. I flinch, my gaze coming up to his. It’s him, the man in grey. Soft dark brown curls fall around his face. He lets a slow lazy smile stretch along the curve of his mouth.

For once, all I feel toward him is red hot anger and the worst part is that I’m not even that mad at him. I’m angrier at myself.

“When you left me, my heart went under and the pain submerged in my bloodstream because, without you, I had nowhere else to go,” I say, my hands clenched at my sides.

He blinks at me, bored with what I said. He still, after everything, doesn't seem to care.

“It’s not my fault that you fell in love with me,” he says with a scathing look, eyes clouded.

Then my last bolt screws shut, the one located in my knee and I feel my body falling. The ground comes in contact with my skin in an abrupt force, pain shooting everywhere. My head is at his feet.

He takes a step towards me as if to crush my face and squats looking me in the eyes as he tilts his head.

He watches me and for a split second I think he feels bad but then he leaves me lying there as I take my final breath. I notice that my dress has faded to grey.


Opposite Day

By Laney Bryant I wasn’t looking forward to my sixteenth birthday like you might be. People say that before there was something called a sweet sixteen? It’s funny to me that people used to look forward to they’re sixteenth birthday. I was certainly not looking forward to mine, in fact I was dreading tomorrow. At least I can finally get it over with, no more waiting to see what curse I was given. I mean I had been waiting for 15 years. No more overwhelming sense of trepidation. I found it interesting that out society chose to curse they’re own citizens. I mean it’s not like I haven’t seen it happen before to others, it was so sad to see families torn apart. To see siblings turn on each other. Every curse was different there has never been two of the same. Or at least not that I knew of. Maybe twins got the same curse? I really hope that the curse will eventually let up. There was a rumor that it wasn’t the government but that there was a person out there who had the power to curse the world. I suppose it was possible, this had only been going on for twenty years so it could be a singular person. No one really knew. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad? Maybe I will get something along the lines of “you can’t to homework anymore,” or “you can’t cut your hair again,” But really I don’t know. My older sister got “you can’t interact with family members,” That’s why I haven’t seen her in a few years. I missed her, maybe one day the curse would let up. I was extremely close with my sister. Her name was Maria. There was a funeral held for her. Everyone pretended she was dead. Because to my family she was dead, she was gone. My younger siblings probably wouldn’t really even remember her. One day I might not remember her. What if my siblings forgot me one day? I chose not to think on it right now. My parents said it would be delivered in the mail. I think it's ironic. Such a detrimental day of your life and it would all start with a simple piece of paper. If I didn’t read it would the curse not be put into place? Or would it be even worse because I chose not to read it. I think it's too big of a risk. I’ll just cross my fingers and hope for something good. Well not good but not bad...I think you know what I mean. I checked the time, for the twentieth time this hour. It was 11:30. Technically in 30 minutes I would get my curse. I think I would rather have a good night of sleep before my life changes forever. I threw the blanket off my lap, slowly standing and stretching my legs. I turned the lights off and settled into bed, setting my glasses on the table. Sleep came quickly, wrapping me in sweet darkness. BEEEEEEEEP BEEEEEEEEP BEEEEEEEEP I hurled my alarm clock across the room, satisfied with the loud crash. I didn’t open my eyes. I didn't want to brave the days ahead. That minuscule piece of paper could ruin my life. It could turn everything upside down. There was a possibility that I could lose everyone I loved. What if I never saw my parents again. Or my sisters. I only had two left. I couldn’t lose them. “CAAAAL!”  My sister screamed. That was Ava she was two years younger than me, then there was Emile she was four years younger than me. Would I ever see them again? Was that the last time I would hear Ava’s voice? A knock. “Cal?” Emily asked. Her voice gave me the strength to open my eyes, the strength to get out of bed. Because I had to be strong, I couldn’t let my family see that I was scared. I needed to be strong for them. With that in mind I opened the door, aware of every sense around me. My bare feet on the cold wooden floor.

Emily grabbed me around the waist. Pulling me tight to her. “Don’t go,” “I won’t leave I promise” I said it like I had a choice, anything could happen. I hope I didn’t have to break my promise to her. “Is breakfast ready?” It was cowardly of me, to change the subject, to get her to talk about anything but today. I just couldn’t stand it so I decided that I was going to pretend nothing happened. I am going to spend what could possibly be my last day with my family making sure the last memories they have of me are happy. “Yeah, Mom made flapjacks,” she sniffled. I patted her head, her hair was a bright red with a slight curl, I love braiding her hair and Ava’s, Emile’s hair was longer though. I would spend the entire night braiding her hair and talking with her. She grabbed my hand, I almost pulled away. Her fingers were like ice. Emile started tugging me down the stairs behind her.

Ava, my mom and my dad were sitting at the table chatting. My moms face was grave and my dad had a smile plastered onto his face. I couldn’t see Ava from here, she was quiet though which was unusual. Flapjacks were on the table next to a bottle of syrup and some chocolate chips. There it was a plain letter with a red seal. I didn’t look at my family as I picked up the letter, the sharp edges dug into my fingers. I slowly pulled off the seal, and opened the flap of the envelope. It was folded, I pulled it out and sat down at the table. “I love you,” I said before unfolding the paper. There it was written in black ink. You shall forever say the opposite of what you mean, Cal Payright