Under the moonlight of a waxing crescent, a little girl stood at a long abandoned train station, with a blue balloon in her hands. By all appearances, she was waiting for something or someone. I came across her just standing there and approached her carefully. "Hey," I said, "Where's your mom or dad?" She turned to look at me briefly. Her hazel eyes were slightly too big for her small face. "They'll be here any minute." I noticed that she had been looking at the tracks, as if she was expecting a train to come through any second. I sincerely hoped that that wasn't the case. The train hadn't run through this station in decades. "What's that?" she asked, pointing at me. It took me a second for me to realize she was pointing at the camera around my neck. I'd gotten so used to it being there that half the time I don't even realize I have it. "Oh. This is my camera." "You like to take pictures?" she asked me. "I do," I said. "In fact, is it all right if I take your picture right now?" I figured that it would be best to have picture of her just in case she ran off or something. Then I could give it to the police in case she was a missing or runaway child. She nodded her head. I lifted up the camera and snapped a picture. She barely blinked at the intense flashing of the camera. She didn't smile or even attempt to make a funny face. She kept her same stoic facial expression. "Can I see it?" she asked. "Sorry," I said. "This isn't a digital camera. It uses film. I won't know what the photos look like until I get the film developed." I couldn't tell if her next facial expression was one of disappointment or confusion, but it was one of those two. Regardless she pressed the matter no further. I tried to find a way to make small talk so as for there to not be an awkward silence. And while I didn't feel right leaving this little girl all by herself, I also knew better than to ask her if I could stay with her until her parents arrived. So, I said, "You know, that's a really cute balloon." The little girl looked up at it. "Yes, it is," was all she said. "Where'd you get it?" "The grocery store." "You like balloons?" She shrugged. "Not really. They're alright." I tried not to let the bafflement show on my face. "Then why are you holding the balloon?" "Because my parents told me that was how they would find me. They told me that as long as I was holding a blue balloon, that they would be able to find me so that I could go home with them." I frowned. This was very strange. What kind of a parent would tell their kid to wait in an abandoned train station this late at night, and told them that they'd find her simply because she was holding a blue balloon? Something wasn't sitting right with me about this at all. I surreptitiously reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I knew that this was probably the time to get the police involved, but I also didn't want to scare the girl. So, I turned my back ever so slightly to her, so that she couldn't see, and I was about to phone the police when I noticed that there was no signal. Which wasn't a surprise considering we were quite far outside the city limits. I turned back towards her, planning on telling her that I would be right back and needed to make an important private call, but when I did, the little girl, and the balloon had vanished completely. My first thought was panic, but then the realization fully hit me. I had only turned my back on her for two or three seconds. How on Earth had she managed to disappear so quickly without making a lick of noise? I rubbed my eyes vigorously, wondering if what I had just seen was some kind of vivid hallucination. I fruitlessly searched the nearby area for about 10 minutes without finding a single, solitary trace that the girl had ever been there. I immediately headed back and had the film developed that night. To my surprise, the one I had taken of the little girl had come out beautifully. I couldn't tell you if I was relieved at this, or if I was even more shaken up. I took the photos down to the station and explained my story. They were skeptical, not surprisingly, but I did give them the photos they asked for. They told me thanks and that they'd contact me if there were any developments. The only call I got from the police was them calling and asking a few days later if I wanted my photos back. I said that I did. When I asked them where they were in finding out what had happened, they simply said they were still looking. I haven't heard back from them since. This incident happened several months ago. I periodically checked the Internet to see if there were any developments in the story, but none ever did. In fact, the story didn't seem to gain any significant traction at all. Nobody, at least not anyone credible, ever came forward with the little girl's identity, or claiming to be the girl's family, or even another sighting. Eventually, I gave up looking. I had lost hope that I would ever find out who she was, what had happened to her parents, and what had happened to her. It was only when I was flipping through those photos on a whim a few days ago that I noticed something different. On one photo that I had taken a few minutes before my encounter with the little girl, I realized that in the photo, you could see a section of the train track far in the distance. Only I just now noticed that there appeared to be a shadow of what looked like a train sitting atop the track. I turned to the very next photo taken about 15 seconds later of the same angle. The shadowy outline of a train was not as easily distinguishable this time, due to the photo quality not being as great, but I could still make it out. Only this time, the train was not in the same spot as it had been in the previous photo. The train had moved forward.


I exit onto the third floor, faking a conversation on my cell phone until key meets lock.  The heavy door clicks behind me. Nine a.m. is too early to exchange cheerful pleasantries in my book, especially right after the holidays.  It’s more small talk than I can survive sober.  No wife, no kids, no fur baby photos to pull up on my phone.  I’m relegated to talking about the weather. A belated Christmas gift is waiting for me on the corner of my desk.  A navy blue tumbler, complete with flexible straw and festive bow. “I’m a social worker, NOT a miracle worker,” I read aloud with a chuckle.   A small gift tag under the bow reveals “Merry Christmas, this one is for water ONLY!” - Dot.  Tucked inside the tumbler is a freshly printed pack of business cards.

Doug Bilgewater, LGSW

Corrections Social Worker Dot sure knows how to take care of me .

She reminds me of Sheila in that way, before I fell off the wagon this last time.  Encouraging instead of condemning me.  Subtly too, so I don’t feel like a cornered animal, at risk of doing something crazy in the name of self preservation. Before Dot,  there had been Secretary Phyllis.  She turned our waiting room into a damn high school english class, plastering the walls with inspiration.  The  famous “Hang in there” cat, dangling from a branch, was  matted

and

framed behind her desk. “Be a rainbow in someone’s cloud” and “Dare to dream” were above the  water cooler.  Last year, for secret Santa, I gifted her a trio of celebrity “Drink milk” posters, but she never did hang those up.  On the back wall, lined with chairs for our waiting clientele, hung a poster so large and long, it was more like a banner.  “Mistakes are proof you are trying!”  I kept that one up after Phyllis left, because I found it irreverently hilarious.

I take a big swig of black coffee, uncap my pen with my teeth, and see saw it back and forth until the air whips in it’s wake. Might as well get this week started. Two more ex-con job placements, and the service excellence bonus is mine. Arlo White, twenty one, caucasian male.  Black hair, blue eyes.  Five foot six and one hundred fifty pounds.  He was released from the state penitentiary eight weeks prior, but is still unable to find work.

Enter Doug Bilgewater, social worker extraordinaire.

His file is pretty sparse.  Looks like he originally came from money, but lost his way in the world sometime after puberty hit.

Boo-freaking-hoo .  There is an impressive string of larcenies, but nothing overtly violent.

Good. Next, a scanned copy of Arlo’s personal survey.  He lists his top three skills as: Cooking / Cafeteria work (no doubt gained in jail.) Gardening Skiing Man, that Martha Stewart leaves a legacy wherever she goes.

When asked to “tell us a little about yourself” Arlo tells

very

little.  “I am a Former.”  The space allotted clearly beckons for more. Still, he’s not  an aspiring rapper, graffiti artist,  or prosperity preacher.  I’ll have this file closed in a week, tops.  I can feel that bonus check in my hand.  I’ll catch up on child support.  On alimony.  And then?  Forgiveness?

Dare to dream, old Phyllis would say. I take a bow in my mind to the throngs of adoring taxpayers.

The final attachment is Arlo’s photograph, provided by the jail. I groan as each photo uploads, worse than the one before it.  My left hand rubs the stubble along my jawline in despair. Arlo is a gardening, skiing, cafeteria-working skinhead.  And he is plastered in hostile, vengeful tattoos. A swastika on his left chest, a German soldier on his right.  “White” spelled vertically down one calf and “Power” down the other. An aryan fist on his cheek.  SS bolts are everywhere; on his hands, in his hairline.  Boots and laces on his forearm. R.O.A on a bicep. I deflate into the lumbar support of my office chair.  Arlo White

was  a thief. I can spin that, it’s what I do; sell second chances.  He’s served his time, paid his debt to society. At 21, he was practically a kid when he committed those crimes, and I

will

call him a kid. I will clothe him in a tasteful sports jacket, book a resume building and interview coaching seminar, and he will stand there reformed.  But Arlo White

is a blatant, vile racist.  Hatred on display for all to see. What am I supposed to do with that? I rack my brain for job options.  Between the larcenies and his appearance, retail is out of the question.

The cafeteria work is going to be tough to break into. I have a few connections, maybe he can late night food prep. Gardening is off the table for now.  It’s January, and most farms won’t risk losing their migrant workers to him in the spring. I don’t blame them. Which jobs involve clients who can’t read or recognize symbolic hatred?  Little kids?

God no.

Animals?   Maybe an agency that can put him in contact with sitting or walking pets?  I jot it down.

Skiing?  He would never be welcome at a resort looking like he does now.  Maybe back in his rich boy days.

Maybe if he wears his ski mask , I chuckle.

I meet Arlo after lunch.  He’s waiting, in a button down and khakis, under Phyllis’ banner.   I extend my hand, like I do to all my clients, even though I find him particularly repulsive. “No rock-paper-scissors gang bull crap,” I say. “Shake my hand like you want a job.” Arlo White does as I instruct and follows me into the office.  We go over his file.

“Can you pass a piss test?” I ask.  I remain intent on my paperwork, like a child instructed not to stare. Arlo nods. “Any drinking?”

“No.” He shifts in his seat. “Recreational drug use?  Illegal or prescription?“ “No, nothing like that.” “It would be easier if

that

were your issue,” I mutter. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Arlo asks. “I mean,” my annoyance and exasperation bubbling to the surface, “I don’t have a government funded face detox on speed dial. They don’t have rehabs for...” I pause and make large sweeping gestures to his face and body. “ This.” “Yeah, I got it,” Arlo says, annoyed but crestfallen.  “You don’t have to flap at me.  That’s why I’m here.” “Yeah well, no one is ever going to see

you,  when you look like that.”

I think back to my own rock bottom, the DWI, how pathetic they all thought I was. “But I told you, I’m a Former.  That’s got to count for something.” “Former what, exactly?” I say.  “White supremacist?” Arlo nods.  “Look, I’m not making excuses.  But I don’t think like that, I swear. I just, got sucked in and kept going along with it. I know it wasn’t right.” I am dubious.  Seriously considering pouring something stronger than Coke into my tumbler.  I refrain from more flapping.

“And how in God’s name exactly does that happen?” Arlo White tells me he’s been estranged from his family since fourteen.  The classic case of too much money but not enough love.  At thirteen and troubled, he started going to punk rock concerts, where he met ‘The Skins’ and subsequently infuriated his father.  He liked the music, relished  embarrassing his dad, and wanted to fit in.  Despite being short, Arlo held his own in the mosh pits.  Davey, the head of the skins gang, took note of his impressionability and his ‘power kick.’  They accepted Arlo into their fold.  When Davey discovered Arlo’s last name was White, they nicknamed him “White Power” and delivered him to get that first tattoo. “They sure used you.” I say when Arlo pauses. Arlo shrugs. “I knew what it meant, but I didn’t care.  I cared about how I felt, not how it made anyone else feel.  Later though, I always wore pants.”

Arlo goes along with the skins unquestioningly.  He’s easily the smallest and least intimidating in the gang, which helps him stay on the periphery of physical violence and intimidation. Instead,  he becomes quite the thief. “I wasn’t busting heads, but it funded their message,” Arlo admits. Eventually, Arlo gets caught. Again and again, until he is no longer a minor, and handed a sizable prison sentence.  In prison, the inmates quickly pick up on his tattoo.  He’s a prison rookie.  Short, slim, and scared.

“That’s when I really played into it,” Arlo admits. “They assumed I thought like them, because of my tattoo.  So that’s the faction I joined.  I needed  the protection they offered me.” “So you got all the other tattoos in prison?” I ask. Arlo nods.  “The first few, I pretended to want.  They were still wary of me as the new guy.  After that, I was their practice dummy until I either ran out of skin or a newer recruit showed up.” I sigh.  It doesn’t feel right to pity him, what he’s done.  How he’s completely derailed the life he could have had.  And I don’t pity myself for it either. I can only feel sorrow for us both. A silence has settled over my office, so I glance back at our agenda.  “Tomorrow, I’ve got two interviews lined up for you.  Food prep at Toby’s Diner and a phone interview with Pet Match.” Arlo frowns.  “I don’t do dogs,” he says. “What?  Why not?” “I don’t.....like them,” he eakes out. “There are plenty of small, nice dogs we can find.  Pet Match is our middle man, you can book jobs over the phone.  Beggars can’t be choosers Arlo.  Just get your foot in the door.” But Arlo just shakes his head emphatically. I see his fear.  He’s scared of dogs, I realize.

“Thanks for scoring me the restaurant interview Mr. Bilgewater.  I’ll watch the seminars tonight.  Once I’m working, I’m saving everything I can to cover these up.” Arlo stands and extends his hand to me.  Our hour is up. We shake on it.  “Sounds good.” “Hey Arlo?” He turns at the doorway. “I had a nickname for you too, after I read your skills list.” “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, Martha Stewart.” I grin.  “What do you think?” Arlo gives me a closed lip smile.  “I’ll take it.” I slip my shoes off at my door, toss my tie onto the back of my armchair, keep my keys in my coat pocket. The apartment is dim and quiet, as always. I swing open the narrow pantry door, my dinner options before me. A blue box, or styrofoam cup-o-something with a foiled paper lid. What would Sheila think if she could see me now?   Sheila, lover of all things wellness.  She would be horrified. I close the pantry door sheepishly, scramble some eggs and pour some orange juice.

Better. There’s no doubt Sheila had been my much, much better half.  The moral compass of our tight ship. She was actually an esthetician, which I had always just associated with vanity.  But if you knew Sheila, self care, not vanity, was her mantra.  She was the friend that insisted you put your own oxygen mask on before assisting others.  The rest, according to her, would fall into place.

Sheila exuded love and acceptance.  As her practice  grew she obtained further certifications in lasers.  She started pro bono work in the evenings, minimizing the scars of domestic violence survivors.  Sometimes it was an obvious laceration.  Less frequently, it was the branding marks of a cult, or the tattoo left behind by traffickers.  Some survivors, she said, could wear the marks as a badge of courage.  But others needed them erased to truly move on. When I broke her heart for the last time, she said I was killing us both. The next morning, Arlo meets me outside of Toby’s Diner.  He’s dressed in the sports coat I’ve loaned him. His shoulders are squared, he looks confident.  I on the other hand, slept like crap, and it shows. “Rough night?” Arlo asks me.  He extends his hand. “You could say that.  Let’s do this.”  A minivan pulls up along side us with a carload of kids.  I catch the driver’s eye, and he frowns.  I freeze, hoping they won’t engage us. Arlo sees them too.  He drops his arm at his side quietly.  Even his social worker is too embarrassed to shake hands in public. We linger in the lot, and let the family go ahead of us. “Sorry about that.” I mutter. Arlo shrugs. When we enter, Toby ushers us into a back office.  A line cook grimaces as we pass.

“Thanks for the opportunity of this interview.” Arlo says graciously.

Just like the seminar.  Atta boy. Toby seems genuinely surprised by how well spoken he is. By the end of the interview, Arlo has even gotten Toby laughing.

“Let me take a peek at the next schedule.” Toby rises and starts sifting papers on his desk.  A hostess knocks, opens the door a few finger widths, and in a hushed tone requests a word with him.

“Pardon me for just a moment.” Toby excuses himself to the hallway.  A muffled exchange ensues, I’m not sure for how long, dread drags everything out.  When Toby returns, he has a serious look on his face.  “I’m really sorry Arlo. You’re just......” He trails off then corrects himself.  “It’s just not worth it. I wish you the best of luck.” I stand, ready to plead our case but Arlo has risen too, already shaking hands and thanking Toby for his time.

We make our way back to my car in silence.  Arlo winds up and kicks a chunk of snow clean from its bank, obliterating it. We both sit inside for a bit, keys still in my pocket.  I’m not sure where else to go.   It’s too early to go home and accept defeat, but I’m out of job leads for today.  Arlo fidgets and bounces his leg rapid fire off my floorboards. What would Sheila do?  She really could be my patron saint, I decide. Perhaps I should say a little prayer to her, but it’s not like she’s dead. Well, maybe I am to her. Does that count? I rack the universe for clues.  When I turn the car on again, I know. “Arlo, we are going skiing.” We stop at my place first to change.  I’ve never been skiing, and I don’t pretend to have high performance athletic gear.

“Every man for himself!” I cry while opening the closet and dresser drawers.   I find the only swoosh adorned sweatshirt I own,  and my grandmothers knit socks.

 “Wow. Doug. I’m impressed. I didn’t know you had such a sophisticated wardrobe.” Arlo finds a green tracksuit in the back of my closet that swishes too loudly when he walks. “What do you think?” Arlo holds his hands out and gives a slow spin, grinning. “I think that belonged to my ex wife,” I chuckle. Arlo puts his hands on his hips. “Well in that case, who wore it better?” ”Definitely Sheila. You look like freakin’ Gumby!”  It feels good to smile. Arlo laughs too, and is adamant we pickup a green ski mask from his motel.  “I’ve got quite the collection,” he smirks. I add lightly “You should probably make sure it doesn’t come off.” He gives me a small nod. West Mountain is absolute magic.  Arlo still turns heads, but he’s met with smiles when people point.  He’s covered head to toe in green, others are chuckling with the same Gumby jokes that entered my mind. I think he might even start a new trend. It gets even better when he skis. The masked Gumby is larger than life.  He bends and sways between flags.  Takes a few selfies with admirers on the chairlift, then tries to coax me out on the bunny hill.

“Pizza!  Frenchfries!” Arlo instructs me how to point my skis, but I think I’m a lost cause.  I either fall down, or don’t move.  I’m busy jotting down local sports leagues anyway.  Could there be any vacancies for mascots?  That would be a first for me. I’m on a bench when two boys, brothers probably, approach Arlo.  Their ages around 8 and 12, if I had to guess.  The smaller boy is absolutely swimming in a black sweatshirt and sweatpants.  The larger boy also doesn’t appear to come from great means; draped in layers of bulky cotton in lieu of a crisp nylon shell. Arlo appears to be offering them the same beginner lessons I flunked out of.  But they take right to it, french frying  and pizza-ing all the way down the bunny hill, again and again.  Eventually, Arlo shows them how to pop off their bindings and someone tosses the first snow ball.  I catch my breath in my throat when it seems to devolve into a playful Gumby wrestle-mania.  The kids are hanging on him without warning, trying to take him down to the snowy ground.  Arlo fights to stay upright, swinging playfully, but trapped. I’m too slow to make it to them in time.  Damn snow, damn skis.  “That’s enough kids!” That’s all I can call down to them through cupped hands.

There’s five of them now, unable to control themselves in the quest to take down Gumby. Arlo doesn’t fall until his clothing rips.  The vintage polyester windbreaker tears under the weight of dangling children. The sound of rotting fabric threatens to break me. Arlo loses his balance as one of the kids falls away, clutching the piece of cloth.  I am running and stumbling towards them.

“Stop!” I yell out. “Got ya!” The 12 year old boy shouts in glee, removing Arlo’s mask.  They both freeze for a moment,  eyes wide, inches apart.  At least half the mountainside takes a collective gasp. The boy recoils and scrambles to his feet.  Anger flushes his face.

“Man, what the hell is this!” He stands now between Arlo and his brother. “I’m sorry.” Arlo says. “You weren’t supposed to see.” Tears leap to the boy’s eyes “See what?  See that you hate me?” He wipes his nose with the back of his sweatshirt. “My mom says people like you actually just hate themself.”  He grabs his brother by the hand. “And I have to remind myself of that almost every single day.” The brothers turn to walk away. Parents are hurriedly steering their children away.  “I just didn’t see it coming from you.” Arlo and I walk back to the car, hushed disapproval from everyone we pass.  There’s nothing to say in the moment, and neither of us try.  I drop him off at his motel. “I’ll call tomorrow to check in,” I pause.   “With any job leads, I mean.” “Go home, Doug,” Arlo says quietly and shuts the door in my face. I sit in my car for a long time after that. Asking Saint Sheila what she would do, but I don’t know.  Her heart was always for the victims of  life’s tragedies, not the perpetrators. I don’t even know what Arlo is anymore.  Messy, like me I guess.  But there was a time Sheila gave even me a second chance.  So I pick up the phone. “Sheila.  It’s me Doug.  Look, if you’re there, it’s not about me.  I know someone who needs your help.” She doesn’t hang up.


“You were doing it for how long?” “You mean, formally?” “With them, I mean.” “A few months.” “And how long since you stopped?” “Three months. Two and a half.” “And why?” “I just couldn’t do it there anymore. I was in agony. I couldn’t make them understand.” “But you want to resume? It was valuable?” “I think so.” “So you came to me. Why me?” “We’ve known each other forever.” “Yes, we have.” “You’re not a stranger. I trust you.” “I said I’d help you, and of course I will, but I need to ask a few questions.” “About what?” “Lots of things. So I can figure out the best way to go about it. With you, I mean.” “You already know a lot about me.” “Not the right things.” “Okay. I guess.” “Do you know specifically what they were having you do before?” “I don’t remember exactly.” “How often did you go there?” “Twice a week. I think. Maybe once, come to think of it.” “And it hurt?” “Torture. They changed it when it hurt me, but it never helped. Oh, wait, I just remembered. I did it twice a week for awhile, and then once a week.” “Whose idea was it to cut back to once a week?” “Theirs. They wanted me to do it at home too after that. To show some progress.” “And did you?” “A little bit, for awhile. No, not really, I guess. No.” “Why not?” “I was busy?” “That sounded like a question mark.” “Well, sometimes I was busy. Sometime I’d have something more important to do. And I didn’t want to do it anyway. I wasn’t up to it. It felt like it hurt even more when I did it on my own.” “Why do you think that is?” “Why it hurt more by myself?” “Yes.” “No.” “Then can you tell me which specific parts of it hurt the most?” “All of it, I think.” “But some more than others?” “It’s hard to say. There must have been. It’s hard to remember. Everything sort of blended together.” “This all seems so vague.” “It was a blur. A nightmare, really.” “Can you try to remember? This will be so much better if I know some things.” “I don’t know what to say.” “Does this hurt?” “Ow! Yes!” “How about this?” “Oh, ouch! Ow! Ow! Ow!” “Do you feel like it ever got any better with them?” “No. They didn’t take my pain seriously.” “What do you mean?” “I’d say it hurt and they’d say it shouldn’t hurt.” “Shouldn’t hurt?” “Like what we were doing shouldn’t hurt. Like I was overreacting and not being compliant enough.” “Are you sure that’s what they said?” “Maybe they said they didn’t know why it should hurt.” “Big difference.” “They still thought I was overreacting.” “Were you?” “Now you don’t believe me either.” “It’s not that at all. Sometimes we exaggerate to make a point. Do you think you ever did that?” “I had to make them understand.” “Understand what?” “That I was … that I am different. More delicate than most people.” “How do you mean ‘delicate’?” “I feel more pain than other people. No one understands that.” “How do you know you feel more pain than other people?” “I just know it. When I’m with someone and they say they’re hurting or sick, I can tell they aren’t suffering as much as I do. I’m very empathetic.” “You’ve said that before. How do you know you’re empathetic?” “I can just feel it. I know it deep inside me. We know what we are.” “Do we?” “Well, I do.” “Do you?” “Some people stifle their inner voice, but I listen to mine. I will not be deaf to myself.” “That sounds like something in a book.” “I have a program. A subscription. I listen to it.” “And it taught you that you’re empathetic?” “It has helped me to see many things about myself.” “Why do you want to try this again, if it was so painful?” “I now know that the pain is important.” “I don’t know if I can help you.” “You said you would.” “It sounds like you welcome the pain, so how can I help you by ending the pain? Why don’t you just go back to them?” “I don’t welcome pain. I welcome the whole journey. Pain is part of it.” “Did you expect the pain when you walked in there the very first time?” “Of course.” “Then I have to ask. Do you think when they asked you to do these things —“ “Forced me to do them.” “Ah. When they forced you to do them, did you really feel physical pain or was it just the expectation of pain that made you think you were feeling it? Because you’re so extremely empathetic.” “I hadn’t thought of that.” “Consider it. It’s one path to a solution for your problem.” “I am very sensitive. I feel emotion as much as physical sensation. I feel it here, in my spirit, in the center of my being.” “The center of your being. I see. Why did you come to me? “You know.” “No. Other than our family connection.” “That’s not it. It’s the other thing.” “What do you mean?” “You know.” “No, I really don’t.” “You don’t have to deny it. Now I actually know too. In a way, I always knew.” “Knew what?” “That you were a powerful healer in a previous life. You are an old soul.” “And that’s why you trust me.” “Yes. I give myself over to you. Inflict terrible pain on me. I will bear it.” “Sorry to laugh, but that’s just silly. I’m not going to inflict pain on you.” “As you will.” “I’m your aunt, but I’m also a licensed physical therapist. I’m not here to cause pain, quite the opposite. And I’m not some kind of mystic healer. My soul isn’t any older than anyone else’s.” “I know you have to say that.” “Believing this about me is why you were willing to come to me, when the other physical therapists couldn’t help?” “You understand me better than they ever could. You are wise and powerful. Far more than just an ordinary physical therapist.” “I see. Then … you know the secret now. What do you feel when I lay my hand on your shoulder, like this?” “I feel warmth.” “Take a deep breath and let it out slowly. As you do, can you feel the pain begin to dissipate?” “Yes!” “You do. Well. In that case… Yes, I can cure your pain. It will take sixty days. And you have to follow my instructions exactly. Do you believe me?” “Of course. What do I need to do?” “Come here twice a week. I will lay my hands on you and you will feel my healing power coursing through your body.” “And my soul, my spiritual being?” “Yes, of course, your soul too. I will also teach you some simple body movements that you can do at home, every day, that will help to move the healing energy throughout your body and then into your spiritual being. If you do this, the pain will recede a little bit every day until the end of the sixtieth day, when you will be healed.” “I knew you could help me.” “You are so empathetic, no one could fool you.” “Sixty days?” “Exactly. Sixty days.”


Poetic . As I set up my campsite in the verdant heart of El Yunque, Puerto Rico's stunning rainforest, I murmured to myself, "Alex, you've finally made it." Nestled near the captivating Río La Coca, a waterfall's ceaseless cascade echoed the rhythm of this untouched wilderness, hypnotizing me with its majesty. This journey was my self-prescribed sabbatical—an endeavor to escape the mundane and lose myself in the arms of nature's raw beauty. When dusk arrived, the rainforest filled with the soft symphony of its nocturnal residents. It was then I ventured deeper into the woods, lured by the prospect of foraging for berries. Unbeknownst to me, this simple act was about to propel me into an extraordinary encounter that would irrevocably shape the trajectory of my existence. In the midst of this tranquil realm, as the orchestra of life played on around me, my footsteps carried me to a secluded oasis, yet my senses were abruptly seized by a sight so bewildering, it defied every realm of possibility. Before me stood a figure that seemed to have materialized from the fringes of imagination—an entity of diminutive stature, its skin a hue of verdant green that harmonized seamlessly with the emerald foliage. Yet, it was not the creature's otherworldly appearance that ensnared my attention, but the focus of its fascination that stirred curiosity and wonder within me. Standing solitary, a single sunflower bathed in the moon's ethereal glow was the spectacle in this enchanted realm. The creature's gaze, fixated on the sunflower, was a sight so remarkable that it cast a spell upon the very air itself. Perplexed, I stepped forward, inadvertently snapping a twig beneath my feet. The alien's gaze, once captivated by the sunflower's radiance, pivoted toward me, our eyes locking in a moment of electrifying astonishment. A pulsating silence enveloped us, as if the universe itself held its breath, bearing witness to this extraordinary encounter. An unspoken understanding emerged, transcending language and the limitations of mere existence. Neither of us recoiled from the other's presence; instead, an unquenchable curiosity united us in a shared exploration of the inexplicable. In the heart of El Yunque, a silent conversation began—one that would weave the fabric of reality and fiction into an intricate tapestry of revelations. With a beckoning gesture from the alien's hand, the stillness shattered, drawing me into an intimate embrace of the arcane encounter. My initial shock yielded to cautious intrigue as I approached the green-skinned being. There was a palpable aura of friendliness enveloping its form. Accepting the alien's invitation, I sat beside it, both of us facing the resplendent sunflower that had ignited this marvelous rendezvous. The alien extended its small, verdant hand in a movement both fluid and surreal, seeming like a symbol of universal goodwill. An instinctive impulse propelled my hand to meet the alien's in a gesture that surpassed language's boundaries. This fleeting touch fostered an exchange that transcended the confines of words. Our minds intertwined in a fusion of consciousness, bridging worlds and cultures. Through this unprecedented communion, the alien swiftly absorbed my language, erasing the veil of separation that had initially stood between us. Thus a gateway to understanding had been unlocked, paving the way so the true conversation could finally commence—a dialogue that spanned galaxies, dimensions, and the enigmas of existence. As the alien's gaze returned to the sunflower, a scroll of secrets started to unfurl. Its words flowed like a symphony, each note unveiling a profound revelation. "The golden ratio," the alien's voice resonated, resembling a melody whispered through the eons, "is the cipher of creation, a language inscribed in the very foundations of reality." In the embrace of the rainforest, the alien spun a tale of the golden ratio—an intricate pattern embedded within existence itself. With every word, the sunflower's spiral seemed to morph into a portal, a window peering into the structure of space-time. "Observe the sunflower's petals," the alien continued, "a glimpse of the divine proportion, a whisper of the cosmos' intricate gyration." The rainforest bore witness as the alien unveiled the golden ratio's manifestations, from the spirals of galaxies to the delicate curvature of seashells. Each revelation was a note in the cosmic symphony, a testament to the unfathomable intelligence that permeated the universe. As the final echoes of the alien's words resonated within me, the sunflower before us began to radiate with an otherworldly brilliance, as if echoing the cosmic truths that had been revealed. Even the rainforest around us seemed to hum in harmony, a symphony of life bearing witness to the wisdom that had been shared. With a sense of reverence, the alien's gaze lifted towards the star-lit sky above us, its slender finger reaching out to trace the path of a distant constellation—Orion's Belt. Among the glittering jewels of the night, one star on the belt's periphery seemed to pulsate with a unique light, a pharos marking the origin and home of my mysterious companion. In a moment suspended beyond the constraints of time, I became privy to the alien's narrative—a story of an aquatic world, a planet predominantly cloaked in boundless oceans. A tale of evolution, where it's species had risen from the depths to traverse land, a leap that spanned mere cosmic moments. With bated breath, I listened as the alien wove its saga, revealing a kinship that transcended the chasm between our worlds. An evolution mirroring our own insatiable thirst for exploration, a quest to transcend limitations and redefine existence. Beneath the canopy of El Yunque rainforest, a profound connection was woven—a pact binding humanity and an interstellar voyager. With a gift bestowed upon me, the alien bid its farewell, each step it took leaving a lingering mist in its wake, a reminder of its ethereal presence. In my return to my everyday reality, a relentless obsession consumed me. The cryptic artifact held my gaze, its mysterious equation acting like a siren's call, beckoning me into the depths of cosmic understanding. Symbols and letters converged in a complex pattern, revealing a mosaic of surreal riddles that seemed to cradle the very essence of the universe itself." Every night, the artifact rested on my desk, bathed in the soft glow of lamplight, casting a mesmerizing pattern on the walls. I had become consumed, driven by an insatiable hunger to unravel its meaning. I pored over scientific texts, delved into ancient philosophies, and explored realms of knowledge I had never ventured into before. My determination was unrelenting, my thirst for understanding unquenchable. As the weeks rolled on, my mind transformed into a crucible of contemplation, where the universe's secrets melded with my thoughts. My apartment had become a sanctuary of intellectual exploration, its walls adorned with intricate notes, equations, and diagrams. I had become a modern alchemist, seeking to transmute the enigma before me into the pure gold of comprehension. Each day, as I deciphered more of the equation's layers, I felt myself drawn deeper into the riddle. The symbols began to resonate, their harmony echoing through my thoughts. It was as if the universe itself whispered its truths to me, guiding me through a labyrinth of interconnected revelations. And then, one fateful night, as the moon cast its silvery gaze upon my realm of exploration, it happened. A connection sparked in my mind, a thread of insight that wove through the equation's complexity. The symbols aligned, the letters coalesced, and the meaning bloomed like a celestial flower in full bloom. With trembling hands, I traced the lines of the equation, my heart pounding in anticipation. The riddles that had tormented me for weeks now coalesced into a symphony of understanding—a melody that intertwined with the very fabric of existence. The message unfolded, revealing a truth that transcended the boundaries of science and philosophy. It was a revelation that echoed the cosmic beauty of the stars, a dance governed not by an external hand but by the intricate choreography of natural forces. The message whispered of a universe born not from a predetermined blueprint, but from the crucible of experimentation—a universe where elements collided, conditions intertwined, and time sculpted the ever-evolving tableau of reality. It spoke of the elegance of trial and error, the interplay of creation and destruction that gave birth to galaxies and the tiniest particles alike. with a continued trial and success. My heart raced as I beheld the equation's unveiled meaning, a truth that shattered conventional perceptions. The universe, it seemed, was not a masterpiece orchestrated by a divine conductor, but a grand improvisation—a cosmic dance that defied preconceived notions and embraced the fluidity of existence. U=f(E,C,P,T,I) U—The universe and its phenomena, the ultimate reality. E—The elemental building blocks, the very alphabet of creation. C—Conditions, the stage upon which the cosmic drama unfolds. P—The heartbeat of trial and error, the rhythm of exploration. T—Time, the master sculptor shaping the universe's ever-evolving form. I—Interactions, the cosmic conversations that weave existence. This equation, once an enigma, now spoke a profound truth. The universe was not a mere product of calculation, but an intricate blend of elements, conditions, and interactions—a tunefulness of cosmic forces harmonizing through the eons. As dawn bathed my room in gentle light, I sat in admiration, a witness to a revelation that transcended the boundaries of human understanding. The cryptic artifact had granted me a glimpse into the tapestry of existence, a tapestry woven by the universe itself—a universe that embraced the beauty of imperfection, the majesty of experimentation, and the exquisite allure of the unknown. And as the final pieces of the puzzle fell into place, I knew that this journey was not just mine alone. It was a revelation meant to be shared, a message that would echo through the corridors of time, resonating with those who dared to question, to explore, and to merge with the cosmos itself. In the heart of my apartment, amidst the remnants of countless calculations and sleepless nights, I felt a profound sense of fulfillment. I had deciphered the equation, unraveled the code, and in doing so, become a part of the universe's eternal symphony—a symphony that would forever serenade the stars and inspire the hearts of those who dared to listen. Essay . In the heart of El Yunque rainforest, where the verdant foliage meets the ceaseless cascade of Río La Coca, a self-prescribed sabbatical led Alex to an otherworldly encounter. As the nocturnal residents serenaded the rainforest's dusk, curiosity lured him deeper into the woods. What followed was an extraordinary rendezvous with an entity of verdant green, an interstellar voyager, and a shared exploration of the inexplicable. This diminutive figure, cloaked in an emerald hue, fixated its gaze on a solitary sunflower. It was not its appearance that captivated Alex, but the focus of its fascination. This alien being, from a distant aquatic world, held a kinship with humanity's thirst for exploration—an evolution mirroring our journey from ocean depths to land traversal. An unspoken understanding transcended language as their minds intertwined in an exchange that spanned galaxies and dimensions. United by curiosity, Alex and the alien embarked on a silent conversation that wove reality and fiction into intricate revelations. In the embrace of the rainforest, the alien unveiled the cosmic significance of the golden ratio—a divine proportion embedded within existence. From galaxies to seashells, this pattern, symbolized by the sunflower's petals, resonated through the fabric of reality—a language inscribed in the foundations of creation. The alien's narrative, a tale of evolution on its aquatic planet, mirrored humanity's quest for exploration. As it traced Orion's Belt in the starlit sky, Alex became privy to a story that transcended the chasm between their worlds, revealing a profound connection. The encounter's aftermath saw Alex grappling with a cryptic artifact—a mesmerizing equation that encapsulated the universe's secrets. Driven by an unquenchable thirst for understanding, he delved into scientific texts, ancient philosophies, and uncharted realms of knowledge. Weeks of tireless contemplation led to an electrifying moment—a connection sparked, threads of insight weaving through the equation's complexity. Symbols aligned, letters coalesced, and the meaning bloomed, whispering cosmic truths. The revelation: the universe was an improvisation, a dance of elements, conditions, interactions, and time—a symphony of creation and destruction. This revelation shattered conventional perceptions, leading Alex to an equation that defied the notion of a predetermined universe. With trembling hands, he traced the equation, discovering a harmony that embraced the fluidity of existence—an equation that spoke of the universe's complexity and beauty. In the glow of dawn, a sense of fulfillment washed over Alex. He had unraveled the code, becoming part of the universe's eternal symphony—an exploration meant to be shared, a message resonating with those who dared to listen.


“Claire and Patrick are getting a divorce,” Marge said, over the sound of the weatherman’s predictions for the day. “What was that?” her husband, Ron, answered. “I said Claire and Patrick are getting divorced. Apparently, they’ve been sleeping in separate rooms for years.” “Oh dear,” Ron said, “Would you like cream or sugar in your tea?” “Just some sugar. But can you imagine? Married for thirty years and throwing in the towel? I mean, Patrick was far from perfect, but Claire had her own fair share of nut-so moments over the years too.” Her husband mhm-ed from the kitchen, measuring out the sugar with his surgeon’s precision. “I wonder what made them decide to give up,” Marge mused, shifting her large bottom in the chair so she was facing Ron directly, “The kids have been gone for years. It’s not like either of them are eligible anymore. Don’t you think comfort is worth staying in a marriage for?” Ron turned, carefully walking the tea over to the table. “Perhaps they wanted to find their true shot at love?” he said, before turning back to the kitchen to fix his own coffee. Marge’s blood chilled. “But what’s love got to do with it?” she scoffed, ignoring the cold pit in her chest, “It takes a lot more than love to make marriage work. You can have oodles of love and still end up sleeping alone.” “Perhaps they were tired of staying for comfort,” Ron guessed, setting his mug slowly onto the kitchen table, and then sitting with agonizing slowness. He and Marge had both slowed much over the years. Marge remembered when they first married, and Ron would dance her around the kitchen each night while she tried to cook dinner, both laughing until tears streamed down their faces. After the kids had been born, the dancing had slowly faded away. Dinner couldn’t be burned, and it couldn’t be late. A lot of things had faded as the years passed. Marge’s beauty for one. “Do you think it’s because Patrick didn’t find her pretty anymore? Claire was always such a darling thing, but the chemo left her different after all.” Ron pursed his lips, “You said they hadn’t shared a bed for years. It sounds like a deeper problem than chemo.” Marge sipped her tea, then cussed when she scorched her tongue. Her impatience had always been her downfall - but when had she started calling it impatience rather than eagerness? “I do suppose a lot of things can build up over the years,” Marge said once her tongue had cooled, “But still, the timing seems odd.” Ron shrugged, sipping his coffee. Was he a little distant today? Their mornings had seemed less talkative recently. And he seemed more eager to finish the shopping than he used to. To get out of the house… “Maybe there was someone else,” the pit in Marge’s stomach widened, “Maybe Patrick, or Claire, had already found someone else to be with and that’s why they abandoned the other.” “I would hardly call an amicable divorce abandonment,” Ron said, his eyes now on the television, the pretty young news anchor talking about the recent shooting in Illinois. Marge glanced at the thermostat, wondering why the kitchen suddenly raised goosebumps on her forearms. Was a window open? Did Ron turn down the heat again? “So you agree that if there was someone else, it’s okay for Patrick to leave as long as Claire is okay with it?” Marge asked, sweat beading at the collar of her shirt. Ron shrugged noncommittally. “They are both adults, are they not?” Marge’s heart fluttered, and her chest tightened. When was the last time she and Ron had gone to bed together? Always one of them had something to finish. Often Ron wished to read the new medical journals before bed, and did so in his study so the light didn’t bother her. But what if? What if he wasn’t reading the medical journal in his study? “Still,” Marge said, sipping her now cooler tea again, “Thirty years of marriage abandoned for nothing. You and I aren’t far off from that.” “No, it’ll be what? Twenty-six, twenty-seven next fall?” “Twenty-eight, September 8th,” Marge supplied quietly. “Ah yes,” Ron reclined slightly, eyes still focused on the pretty news anchor, “Twenty-eight. It seems like yesterday I met you at the barbershop.” Marge blushed, remembering how she’d met Ron, young and dashing, as she swept the floors in her uncle’s shop. “We’ve both changed so much since then,” Ron mused, “I barely even recognize myself in the mirror these days. And you as well - three healthy children takes its toll.” The kitchen seemed to drop another degree, and Marge busied herself with straightening the place mat in front of her, the daisy pattern entirely her own choice. She barely asked Ron’s opinion on anything these days - she assumed if he wasn’t happy with the décor - with anything - he would have told her. But what if she was wrong? “How is your sister doing?” she asked off-handedly, “Her divorce was finalized not too long ago.” “Ah, Izzy is great. She’s got a new beau and seems very happy. I’m very glad she got a second chance,” Ron smiled, but still didn’t quite glance away from the TV. “Yes,” Marge said, beginning to pick at her nails now, “Second chances are good to have, if needed… I’ve never been fond of needing them, myself. Much rather make the right choice the first time.” “Yes, well, a lot of choices seem like the right choice at the time.” Marge flushed, and she stared at her reflection in the mirror above the kitchen sink. Her hair was dyed a faded rust color now, wiry and short as many women her age wore it. Her skin, once youthful and sun-kissed, had folded in on itself, marked with liver spots and crows feet. It sagged slightly over the collar of her shirt, and she knew she sagged a lot more when she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror before hopping in the shower. She wondered if Ron looked at how much time had changed her. She was impatient, grouchy when things changed. She had always thought of him as mellowing her out, but she couldn’t remember the last time she had told him that. She couldn’t remember the last time they had sat down to have a real conversation without the TV playing noise in the background, and Ron usually not looking at her. Maybe he didn’t want to look at her. Maybe he did see the changes time had made, and decided he didn’t like them. Maybe they were only a short step away from separate beds, and then separate lives entirely. Marge swayed as the earth fell away beneath her, and she weakly said, “I don’t want a divorce.” Ron looked at her, holding her gaze intently. “I don’t want a divorce either. What makes you say that?” Marge coughed, the kitchen now hot enough to make her upper lip sweat. Had she imagined it? The distance stretching between them? Had it simply been what she used to think? A comfort of two people who knew every inch of the other, and not an ominous warning of a piece of paper declaring their marriage void? Embarrassed, Marge glanced at the TV, and sipped her tea, though it was still too hot on her tongue, “Shame about that shooting, ain’t it.” Ron let it drop - maybe he was glad to let it drop, never much of a gossip himself - and nodded solemnly, “Yes, mighty shame it is.”


His first thought was that grass tasted kinda bad. Alex replayed the last few seconds in his head: he had been running, apparently with his mouth open, and had suddenly fallen face-first onto this person's lawn. No, not lawn, backyard. He pushed himself up onto his knees and spat onto the ground. Hell of a case of grass-mouth. The strange thing was, despite how it may look, Alex actually *did* spend a considerable amount of his time trespassing on other people's property, and he had never taken a fall like that one. There must have been some sort of disturbance, an unseen obstacle hidden in the grass that tripped him up. His ankle ached. His stomach clenched as a growing feeling of unease crept over him. He sat up, made sure that his backpack was still on his shoulders, and looked down at what had tripped him. "Oh jesus fuck…" he said quietly. Then he screamed. ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ Police Sergeant J. Foley-Shmitt made a curious clicking sound with his mouth, and flicked the ashes off of the end of his cigarette. He looked at the young man. "Yup. That's a drug-hole all right. Probably could've held at least ten kilos of cocaine-phetamine. Glad you called us.” Alex looked confused. “A drug-hole? Are you sure that’s all it is?” “Yep.” Sergeant Foley-Schmitt tapped around inside the hole with his foot. It was about three feet in diameter and a foot deep. “About as drug-y as a hole can get. Traffickers tend to bury their stash until the price hits a peak, then they dig it up and sell it all at once. Usually they fill the hole back in, but hey, we don’t catch the smart ones.” He stood up straighter, put a hand on his hip and took a long drag of his cigarette, before tossing it onto the grass. “Yeeeup. Looks like we’ve got all we need to make an arrest. We’ll wait for him to get home from whatever deal he’s doing and nab him-” Alex shifted on his feet. “um , officer Foley-” “Sargeant” “Right, Sergeant Foley-Schmitt. Um. You’re positive it’s a drug-hole? Because my first thought was that it was a murder-hole.” The sergeant squinted. “A which hole?” Alex swallowed nervously. “Uh, murder-hole. Like someone kills someone and buries the body?” “Oh you mean a corpse-hole? No it couldn’t be-" "I'm sorry, did you say 'murder-hole'?" A voice interrupted the officer. He and Alex turned around to see a tall, dark-haired woman in a black pantsuit and wearing what she would probably describe as 'sensible walking heels.' "Hi." She said, "Linda Rickwell. I live across the street. I saw the lights and heard the sirens from your cruiser and came over. You should really turn the sirens off by the way. Does Ted have a murder-hole here?" The Sergeant cleared his throat: "corpse-hole, actually, and no, he doesn't.'Ted' has a drug-hole here in his backyard. He's been flooding the streets with pcp for months." She nodded. "I always knew Ted was up to no good. How do you know about the drugs?" "The hole mostly." "Hmmmm" a thoughtful look passed over Linda's face. "I work for the Justice Department. I run into a lot of holes in my line of work. Often they aren't what they seem, mind if I take a look?" “Well,” The sergeant said, inhaling a sharp, masculine breath, “I’d never deny a lady a chance to check out a h-” “Thanks” Linda said, pushing past him. She bent over the hole. A few seconds later she was turning around and removing her government-issued Blackberry from its utility clip on her waist. “Unbelievable” she said, slowly shaking her head while she brought up her contact list. “You seriously think this is a drug-hole? Or hell, even a murder-hole?” “Corpse-” the sergeant began. She cut him off: “you have no idea how serious this situation is. I’m glad I was here. Your incompetence might end up getting a lot of people killed today.” She found the contact she was looking for and pressed the call button. She put it up to her ear. “Jackson? It’s me, Lin. Look, we’re gonna need agent Shifter and agent Fubar to get down here immediately.” she paused. “Yup, we’ve got a B-hole.” ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ It took about fifteen minutes for the black suburban carrying agents Shifter and Fubar to arrive. Agent Bul Shifter was a middle-aged man of below-average height. His build and short, crew-cut hairstyle suggest that he was ex-military. Sarah Fubar was a woman, slightly younger than Shifter. They both wore black suits, and flashed their badges at officer Foley-Schmitt and Alex as they approached. Officer Fubar looked Linda. “What’s the situation?” “We’ve got a Bomb-hole in the backyard.” Linda replied, “We need immediate confirmation and advisement. The guy that owns this house is my neighbor ‘Ted’ Johnson.” Linda began leading the two agents around to the back of the house when Officer J. Foley-Schmitt stepped in front of the three of them. “Now what in the tired-hell is going on here? This is a crime scene. *My* crime scene. This ‘Ted’ guy has a three foot drug-hole in his yard that, until this morning, was most likely filled with marijuana-fentanyl. I’ll bet he’s been out on a corner somewhere slinging sacks of it all day. Who knows who he could’ve sold it to by now: kids, parents, homeless people, hell, I'll bet he’s out there selling dope-sacks to little old ladies, or school teachers. Now, the only way to stop this monster is to wait for him to get home, and nab him. Now, if you’ve got some theory that’s better than the exact scenario I’ve described, then I want to hear it. Otherwise, get out of my crime scene.” “Officer Schmitt?” Agent Shifter said. “Foley-Schmitt” The officer corrected him. “Right. Foley-Schmitt. We’re the F.B.I, okay? Our colleague said there was a bomb-hole here. This is serious business. This ‘Ted’ guy is most likely a domestic terrorist. I’ve seen this type of thing before. They hide a bomb in the backyard, then when the time comes, they dig it up, plant it under city hall, then blow it sky-high. And right now, your unsubstantiated, pet-theory about drug-holes and dime-sacks is gonna cost precious lives.” “City hall?” Linda asked. “How do you know it’s city hall? What if he’s planning on blowing up the stadium?” “Don’t be ridiculous” Shifter said. “It’s going to be city hall. Think about what we know: He has a *hole* in his *yard*. He’s not *home* either. You really think he’s not planting a bomb at City Hall? So far none of the evidence contradicts it.” “Wait,” Agent Fubar cut in, “What if he’s going after the mall downtown?” “What if it was a murder?” Alex cut in. “I swear that hole could have held a body, that’s what I thought when I found it. He killed someone, buried them, then dug them up and went to dump them in the lake. If we go now, we can probably catch him before he skips town for good.” “Look, kid, we don’t deal with ‘what-if’s.” Agent Shifter said. “Unless you have a really good explanation for why this hole definitely *couldn’t* be a bomb-hole belonging to some lunatic who’s about to blow up City Hall, we’re going to get moving. I’m calling the mayor. Fubar, Rockwell, call the fire department and police. We need everyone to evecuat-” Just that moment, a gray Honda Civic pulled into the driveway. A tall, very alarmed-looking man stepped out frantically. “Hey, what’s going on is somebody hurt?” Then, gesturing at officer Foley-Schmitt’s cruiser, “why are the sirens still on? What’s this about?” “Are you Mr. ‘Ted’ Johnson?” Agent Shifter asked. “Uh yeah, that’s me. Teddius Young Johnson. What’s the problem?” “We know about the drugs, Ted.” Officer Foley-Schmitt said. “It’s over.” Ted deflated. A defeated look came upon his face. He lowered his eyes. “That was years ago.” He said “In college. My buddy Kyle, he said that if you soak a tampon in vodka and put it, you know, up your…” He mouthed ‘*rear end*’ “then you get drunk faster. I didn’t know it was against the law. I’m so sorry.” Sergeant Foley-Schmitt grunted. “What? No the *drugs*. Don’t play dumb. You’ve been selling Oxy-Codeine to middle-schoolers all day, haven’t you?” Ted looked confused. “What are you talking about? I’ve been at work all day. I don’t understand.” “Hey, we’ll take over from here.” Agent Fubar cut in. She, agent Shifter and Linda Rockwell approached Ted and surrounded him. “Look Ted, we know you don’t sell drugs,” she said. “We want to know where the bomb is. We found the hole, Ted.” “The whole what?” he asked. “What bomb?” They led him into the backyard. Agent Shifter pointed at Ted's hole. “We know you had a bomb in there, Ted. You kept it for months, just waiting for the right time. Then, when you thought no one would expect it, you dug it up. How long did it take you Ted? An hour? Two hours? Then you drove into town, and you’ve been wiring it up underneath City Hall-” “Or the downtown mall” Fubar interjected. “-Or the downtown mall-” Agent Shifter repeated. “-all day. And now you’ve been caught. You’re going away for a long, long time. But first, you’re gonna give us the deactivation codes.” “I don’t have any deactivation codes, I didn’t plant any bombs-” Ted said. “Don’t try to bullshit me, ‘tough-guy” Agent Shifter said. “I’m with the F.B.I. Bomb-Hole Disposal Unit. And that hole of yours was full of explosive ordinance until this morning, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?” Shifter was beginning to lose his cool. “It’s just a hole!” Ted shouted. “Just a whole lotta bullshit.” Shifter said. “Was it ‘just a hole’ when I stepped on a landmine in Iraq?” He pronounced ‘Iraq’ as ‘eye-rack.’ There was a pause. “You *stepped on a landmine?”* Linda Rockwell asked. “Yeah.” He replied. “It was a dud. It didn’t go off, but I sprained my ankle something fierce when I tripped on it. That’s not the issue here. ‘Ted’ here needs to explain to us what this hole is doing in his yard if it’s not a bomb-hole.” “It was my tree.” Ted said. “My peach tree. I had it for years. It died one winter and when spring came, it never came back to life. Just, gone. It finally fell over a few weeks ago, and so I dug it up over this past weekend. It’s a stump-hole, that’s it.” There was a stunned silence for a few seconds as Alex, Foley-Schmitt and the agents processed what Ted had said. “I can’t believe it.” Agent Fubar said quietly. A look of disgust passed over agent Shifter’s face. “You *scum*. You actually admitted it. You *did* dig this hole.” “But it’s a peach-hole, I didn’-” Ted began. “Rockwell, Fubar, restrain him.” Shifter interrupted. Before Ted could react, his neighbor and agent Fubar had him by the arms. “Foley-Schmitt, search that shed by the garden, I think we’ll find all the evidence we need.” The officer jogged past Ted’s flower garden and apple tree to the rustic wooden shed at the far end of the yard. He kicked the door in and disappeared inside. Everyone waited with bated breath while the police sergeant rummaged in the darkness. He emerged a few seconds later with a large, dirt-covered shovel. The type someone might use to dig up a tree stump. “And there it is,” Shifter said, turning back to face Ted. “I bet his fingerprints are all over that.” “Of course they are,” Ted said, “it’s my shovel.” Shifter shook his head. “You just keep digging yourself in deeper, don’t you?” He nodded to agent Fubar who immediately jerked both of Ted’s hands behind him and began to handcuff him. “Teddius Young Johnson, you are under arrest for Premeditated Bomb-hole Conspiracy in the First Degree.” At that same moment, Sargeant J. Folley-Schmitt shouted “Teddius Young Johnson, you are under arrest for distribution of narcotics. Anythi-” He stopped. Agent Fubar had been searching Ted’s pockets as part of the post-arrest pat-down and had found something. She held up a clear, empty Ziploc sandwich bag. “What the hell is this?” She asked. “What was in here?” “My trail mix,” Ted Said. “I eat it at work. It has protein.” The F.B.I. agents’ hands went to their guns. “There’s a residue in here!” Fubar shouted. “Oh jesus” Foley-Schmitt said. “It’s a drug-sack!” He began running to his cruiser. “Talk to me, Fubar.” Shifter said, concerned. Fubar ran her fingers on the inside of the baggie. “I think the bag was used to hold explosives!” She shouted. J. Foley-Schmitt made it to his cruiser and dove into the driver’s seat. He snatched up his radio and yelled into it: “This is sargeant J. Folley-Schmitt reporting a drug deal in progress, requesting backup!” “He might still have the explosives on him!” Fubar shouted. “He’s wearing a bomb!” Shifter screamed. He pulled out his gun and cocked it. “Fubar, GET DOWN!” He aimed at Ted. At this point, Alex decided to run. Today was not going to be his day to get shot or blown up. He turned away from the madness and sprinted away through the backyard. He didn’t get far before he tripped in the hole. For the second time that day, he found himself face-down with a mouthful of grass. Everything was silent. He sat up and looked around. The sound of him falling, or possibly the squeal he made as he had hit the ground, had gotten everyone’s attention. They were all staring at him, completely aghast. Agent Shifter was the first to break the silence. “Hey, Alex.” he said, eyeing Alex suspiciously, “What were you doing running through Ted’s backyard this morning anyway?” “Um, I like to do that on my morning jog, I run through lots of peoples yards,” Alex said, becoming nervous as the group walked towards him. “Hey,” Sergeant Foley-Schmitt said as he approached Alex and stood over him “What’s been in your backpack this whole time?” Before Alex could reply, Officer Foley-Schmitt reached down and yanked Alex’s backpack off. It had only been slung over one shoulder. He unzipped it and looked inside. The color drained from his face. “What’s wrong, what’s in it?” Asked agent Fubar as she approached, followed by the others. Officer Foley-Schmitt’s face was a mix of terror and rage as he looked at the group.


After a brief hiatus, we’re back for more spotlights from our recently concluded cycle of Serial Saturday! Now all that’s left to do is prepare for the upcoming season and spotlight our fantastic authors. With weekly programs like Serial Saturday we have a great opportunity to get to know writers in our community and follow their progress in such a clear and exciting way. It’s been such a treat to watch people evolve their flash fiction serials with us, especially with universes and characters they’ve been writing for a while. One such story comes from /u/Mazinjaz, a regular from /r/writingprompts and the sunny voice in our discord meetings. Here at we thoroughly enjoyed Mazinjaz’s story of superheroes with a balance of mystery, comedy, and action. But don't take my word for it! Here's a small teaser: >*Rio Storm has a dream: to become a hero, one whose legend will reach and even surpass that of her mother's, Lady Stormbringer.* > >*Lanecia Ward, the Windwalker, has protected the city of New York from its criminal elements for decades.* > >*The two meet, youthful optimism and arrogance clashing with jaded experience. Rio wants to rebuild Tempest, the team that her mother and Windwalker once founded. For Lanecia, the idea only brings back unpleasant memories.* > >*In the background, the machinations of supervillains never really stop...* For our first run of Serial Saturday at it was important for us to get author impressions of how their experience went with us, and give readers a peek at the "behind the scenes" of creating a flash fiction serial. Here's Mazinjaz’s take on that: >This is the story I wrote for the season of Serial Saturday over at /shortstories. > >I'm somebody that has characters that have been around since forever, but with very few things to show for it. Both Theme Thursday and Serial Saturday have helped me go into their stories, figure out new things about said characters, and vastly improve my writing. > >The feedback I've received for my stories during the campfire readings is one of those things that have inspired me to continue working, as well as reading and hearing the stories of other authors on the site. It's been fun, and encouraging, and makes me want to write more. > >... and so I will! > >I still have more stories to tell, and I hope to do something bigger with them soon. With *Tempest Begins* at an end (for now) there is only one thing left to do: show off this newly finished story for obligatory bragging rights here on . Let the bragging begin! Without further ado, here's Mazinjaz’s Table of Contents. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ You can check out more of Mazinjaz's work by going to his profile Congrats on finishing your serial, Mazinjaz, and we can’t wait to see what you do next. <3 from the team at , , and Serial Saturday. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ *For more information on the Serial Saturday program feel free to check out our* *.* We have members from all around the world and who have all kinds of schedules, so there’s usually someone awake to talk to. We also have scheduled readings, oration critiques, spur-of-the-moment story time, or even just random hangouts over voice chat.


I stared at him across the table. He was stirring sugar into his coffee, clinking the spoon against the ceramic edges. I sat with my hands curled around my cup, the coffee in it still black and bitter. Cracks in the faux leather booth dug into my thighs, my skin chilly from the blasting AC. My palms began to burn, and I let them, imagining the heat seeping up through my arms into my heart. Ian sipped his sweetened coffee, his eye twitching as the flavor hit his tongue. A 24-hour diner was not the place to go for the best roast. "So. What do we do now?" he said, staring down at the ring his cup had left on the table. A brown crop circle in a field of corn. I shrugged, tense neck muscles complaining from the movement. "I don't know. You tell me. I was… Everything was fine for me." Tears welled up in his eyes. I waited for pity to rise in me to match, but nothing came. Just emptiness, or at best, something crumbled and sour. "I just… I thought that I could get over it. I did, I truly did. We've had such a beautiful relationship since then, and you've been so perfect. You've done everything for me, for us," he said, putting his coffee down and putting his head in his hand. "But your demon is back." "My demon is back," he breathed, letting it out like a sinner confessing to a priest. He looked lighter after he said it, and I resented him for it. He'd placed his coffee cup down slightly to the right of where the coffee ring was. My fingers itched to move it back, to fit it into the ring from before. "The wedding was incredible," Ian continued. "You were so beautiful, and it's not that I regret it - it's not - it's just that I don't know if I can let go of this sadness in me. From before." He reached over and pulled out a thin paper napkin from the dispenser, jostling several condiment bottles. Ketchup, mustard, malt vinegar, and honey. Sour and sweet. "It was years ago, Ian," the words fell out of my mouth like they had countless times before. I imagined them on a long string, bungee jumping out into the air only to be sucked back in and repeated at a later time. My voice sounded hollow, forced. "I know, I know!" Ian rolled his eyes up to the sky and ran his palms down the sides of his face. His bright gold wedding ring left a red mark on his pale cheeks. We hadn't been on the island long enough for a tan to develop. "I just wanted our story to be different, you know? And what you did… what if I never get past it? What if I'm sad about it forever?" He shifted his gaze to meet my eyes, waiting for my response. A response to a question he had posed so many times before, and that I had answered just as much. Matching his stare was like staring into the depths of the ocean.

I fell in love with those eyes.

The thought came and went, and left more in its wake. I thought about the moonlit swim in the bay the night before. How the water was like glass, and reflected even the craters on the moon. Those eyes that had stared into mine and professed love deeper than I could even imagine. Slipping into the bay like silk and losing track of what was water and what was skin. A start to a honeymoon that should only exist in movies. "I just think I need more time, you know?" Ian said. The absurdity of the phrase snapped me back to the present. "To what?" I hissed. My tone of voice took him by surprise. He was used to me comforting him, soothing him whenever his demon reared his ugly head. This demon of jealousy, he called it. The demon of pride was my secret name for it. "To…" he shook his head slightly as if to clear it. "To be on my own, to make sure I get rid of these thoughts. This demon." The demon. The demon inside him that he blames for everything. For this back-and-forth, lack of commitment, lack of emotional maturity. The demon that comes out whenever he wants to be reassured of my love, as if years of therapy, devotion, and a damned wedding haven't been enough. The anger in my chest formed a hard fist and shot its way up. I opened my mouth to let it out. "What can I get you?" The waitress' voice was low and scratchy, and spoke far more to a lifetime of smoking than the tobacco stains on her fingers could. Her heat-fried hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and the swipe of blue eyeshadow across each lid touched my heart far more than Ian's pleading eyes. She pulled out a pad of paper from her apron and a short pencil from behind her ear, hovering the tip over the pad, ready to not waste a second. "I'm fine with coffee for now," I said, giving her a slight smile as an apology. We were taking up a breakfast table, and although the last thing I could stomach was a greasy fry-up, I felt guilty for not ordering. Without batting an eye, the waitress turned to Ian. "What about you, honey?" The term of endearment scratched at me. "He'll take some perspective," I growled under my breath. Ian coughed to cover it up and said that he was fine with coffee too for the moment, but could he get some water? The waitress nodded and swept away, her pad of paper unblemished. "Hey, are you mad?" Ian asked, a small line forming between his brows. "You know I can't help it. We've talked about this. Sometimes I just wake up like this, with my demon on my shoulder. I want to forget, I do. You're the love of my life, and I can't imagine being with anyone but you. And now we're married, and maybe that just scares me, and I'm worried because I still have these damn thoughts in my head, and I thought..." "Wait," I almost laughed. "You thought that marriage might be a

solution  to getting rid of this demon in you?" "Well, maybe!" he shrugged, sitting back into the booth which let out a soft

hiss  as the cushion compressed. There was a pregnant pause as we both processed the madness of it. He broke the silence first. "I just want to be alone. Without this demon. And when I'm with you, it's here. It's with me and I just want to forget it and let it go. Can we just have a break? Just to give me time to forget all the sadness so we can move on." He reached across the table and cupped his hands around mine, which were still gripping the now-tepid coffee. His palms were large and warm. I wanted to sink into them and let them hold me. Instead, I pulled my hands away. "Husband," I said, for the first and last time. "I have proven again and again how much our love means the world to me. And how I would do anything for you." "Oh, I know, and -" I held up a hand, annoyed at the interruption. He was probably expecting the same speech I gave every time. "And now we are bound by law and faith. Until death do us part." I leaned in slightly. "And now, there is a part of me that is dead. Your demon has killed it. And so, may you two live happily ever after." I stood up and walked out of the diner. I felt the waitress' eyes on me as she half-heartedly listened to the orders of a rowdy family a few tables over. I saw her glance back to where Ian was sitting, but I didn't follow her gaze. I know that his face would show puzzlement, but not panic. He knew I would come back. But this time… I pressed open the front door, heat and humidity hitting me without mercy. I smelled the wet earth from the early morning rain and heard the ocean waves in the distance. And then I felt the weight on my shoulders. My own demons, settling in. I wasn't any better than Ian, really. Each of us, on this honeymoon, had some uninvited guests. 'Til death do us part.


On Tuesday, I wake up early. Before birds, before breakfast, before Tom and Cheryl begin to stir. It’s been this way for what seems like centuries, and by this point I’m quite certain it’ll be this way for the next few, at least. Once I’m out of bed, emerging spirited from my corner between the futon and the piano, I’m off on my rounds. The coffee table, the TV stand, the modest dining room table set for two. Check, check, check again. Two frail bookshelves flank the TV. Once a hub for hungry eyes searching for an escape, the shelves hold equal parts book and dust. But that was memories ago. Woof. The soft rank of dying books, the subtle hum of sleep upstairs. Signs of morning, worn and familiar. Guided by habit, I take to the stairs with vigor. As has become customary, my eager eyes fly past my feet, a crucial paw-placement is missed, and I’m barreling head-over-paws-over-tail into stair seven, eight. I recover, unfazed, and trounce the remaining stairs, storming the hallway. At the end of the hall, the sleeping couple’s door appears cracked, signaling opportunity. In a moment, I torpedo down the carpeted alley, barge through the door and, in another moment, heave my fifty pounds into the air. The still, stocky frame of Tom is my target. I hit. “Christ, Jesse,” Tom says. Cheryl stirs, only temporarily affected. I recognize the tone––disoriented and condemning, yet unable to bury the warmth underneath. Most morning rousings end in a variation of the same. Sitting up, Tom gazes out the cold window. Beyond, a milky haze has settled on the orchard. A sigh escapes. Turning his body out of bed, Tom gropes for a jacket and slides into insulated boots. I follow Tom downstairs. “Goddam warped door, worse than the windows,” Tom grunts, not yet past his sudden awakening. “Windows can’t keep out the goddam draft, door can’t keep out the goddam dog,” he mutters. I can’t imagine why he’s still on the subject. Tom opens the back door, and I run off. Urgent business to attend to. Tom lowers himself in his rocker, takes his pipe out, packs it. From my far-out vantage point between the apple trees, leafless and snow-packed, I can smell the earthy wisps of tobacco better than I can see them. Business attended to, I meander back. The sounds and scents of winter were once tantalizing, but they have grown stale with time. Tom is the gravitational center of my universe. These days, I find that pull to be stronger than all others. “Oh, Jesse,” Tom says, indiscriminately scanning the grove. “These seasons. They’re all the same, the more I think about it. Just a big loop.” For every year I’ve spent here, Tom’s spent seven. He knows. Tom sighs, deeper this time. I circle twice and lay to his left. As yesterday, as the day before. And with every year, we grow more tired of the seemingly endless nature of it all. It’s a shit hole, as Tom says, it’s dying. And, from all accounts, we’re not. In a wasteland such as this, it’s hard not to grow entirely apathetic. That’s the funny thing: we’re not––entirely––apathetic. We’ve still got each other. It’s warm, familiar, and it's ours. Entirely enough.


“There are heroes. This world wants to make you forget that. It wants you to believe that there is only darkness, only pain, and at best, shades of grey. It wants you to believe that those tales of incredible feats of masculinity and heroism are just that, tales. But the world is lying, for there are heroes, heroes like Hercules, like King Solomon, like Sinbad and Ant-Man. I, well I am living proof of that. I, my dear, am the Dinomancer”. Luca watched the progenitor of this speech with a bewildered expression. He looked to be in his middle ages, with stringy dark hair and a depressing hairline. His figure was than less herculean, and his blue eyes filled not with courage, but plain old stupidity. “Uhuh,” she said. He had magic, she could taste it in the air, but a little bit of power didn’t amount much when you were in her line of work, and an idiot with power would just make her apprehension of the dark sorcerer harder. “Okay Mr. Dinomancer, well I’m afraid that a hero isn’t necessary here, I think I have this under control, would you mind stepping aside?”. He gave her a knowing smile, at least he clearly thought it was knowing, but that was hard to give someone when you knew extraordinarily little. “Do not worry yourself, young lady, no job is too small for me. While the Dinomancer maybe a grand title, it is one I carry in service of the common man. When evil shows its ugly face, no matter how big or small, I will rise to face it”. She sighed. “I don’t have time for this shit,” she said quietly. “Fine, if you wanna come, come, but don’t get in my way, and don’t come crying to me if you get yourself killed,” she said. He grinned like a child for a moment before hiding it under his shabby bravado. “There will be no tears to shade tonight, for I will allow no harm to happen to either of us,” he said. “Ight then,” she said turning to the farmhouse. It was a recently new building and looked comfortable. The fact that this guy wasn’t camped out in some castle shaped like a skull labeled “Fortress of evil” or something like that showed he was smarter than your average goon tampering with dark powers better left untouched. The door was locked, but she got through with her subtle unlocking spell, a blast of pure force so powerful that it could liquefy a tank, then stepped through the remains doorway. The house certainly didn’t look like the liar of some warlock, but she could taste the evil in the air. Quite literally in fact. The Dinomancer stepped in after, coughing as he waved away the smoke. “Impressive,” he said. “You know, I’ve actually been looking for an apprentice, maybe if you prove yourself competent during this little quest, I might consider taking you under my wing” “Not happening,” Luca said quickly. The duo strolled through the mansion. Having experience dealing with practitioners of dark magic, Luca knew exactly how to follow the taste of dark magic to its source. The trail led them through the kitchen of the house (This man's dish pile was far more unforgivable than his dabbling with evil Luca thought), through the hall, into the master bedroom. She paused at the door that the taste was emanating from. Behind here, was a man capable of true evil. “Fear not, for the Dinomancer is at your side,” said the middle-aged man accompanying her. “Yep,” she said, not even listening. She causally wrapped her knuckles against the door, and moments later, a shaky snake-like voice replied “Come in?”. She swung the door open to find a hooded man, standing in a room light dimly by candles. Painted on the floor was a pentagram, in what looked to be blood. “That’s not goats’ blood is it,” she asked with a disappointed sigh. The hooded figure shrugged awkwardly. “It never really comes out right unless you use human blood. The Hell Fire smells more like cat piss than sulfur, you end up summoning an elf instead of a demon, you can’t half-ass this stuff ya know”. She nodded thoughtfully, and looked up from the pentagram to the hooded figure, and nodded thoughtfully. “And you’re cool with me just walking in on this?”. The figure shrugged again. “I mean, I really wasn’t expecting you to just knock. I was kinda thinking you’d blow down the door like you did with the one in the front, come in guns blazing with righteous fury and all that. You caught me off guard” He said, sounding a little embarrassed. Suddenly, the candles flickered out, and the darkness seemed to close in on them like a creepy guy with no binderies or deodorant. “But no matter, The Sacrament of Twilight has been complete, my dark power has reached new heights, no one can stop me now!”. There came a booming laugh. “No one you say? You clearly weren’t counting on the DINOMANCER!” shouted her companion, pointing at the man. There was a pause. “The wha-you know what, screw this,” said the hooded figure, before thrusting his hands towards the door. Crimson light glowed from the palms of his hands, before being expelled from them in the form of two orbs, flying right at Luca. “Balgo!” She shouted as she thrust her hands forward. Moments before she and the legendary Dinomancer would have been reduced to paste, a shield of solid blue formed in front of them. The red collided with the blue, and there was a horrible otherworldly whining sound as the shield shattered, the impact throwing Luca and her companion on their asses. *Damn* she thought. *This isn’t some snot for brains kid with an ounce of power trying to be the next Sauron, that was genuine, dark magic* She sat up, whipping the blood from her brow as the hooded asshole cackled in his raspy voice. “You fools, you should have never come here, now your souls will drown in my hate!” He snarled. “Fear not!” said her companion as he sat up *Jesus Christ, I should have just put a sleeping spell on him* “He’s no match for my Dinosaur magic!” he thrust his hand forward as if to cast a spell, but Luca shoved him down, and shouted “Flavos!” she snarled. Flames leaped from her outstretched hand at the hooded figure, but he simply flicked his wrist and a current of red disrupted the fire that would have hit him, the rest hitting the wall behind him, burning it to ash, letting the sunlight flood in. Luca held both hands in front of her, pulling her fingers back to her palms, then flicked them at the hooded figure, shouting. “Vos!”. There was a blast of force that violently flung everything in its way outside, everything but its target. Moments before the spell met the hooded figure, red energy surrounded him. It broke the blast with its own energy, while gently carrying him backward with whatever got caught in the blast, laying his feet softly on the grass. Luca took deep breaths. “Shit” she gasped. That spell was the most powerful thing in her arsenal, and that was saying something! And it didn’t even phase him. What the hell was she supposed to do. Confidently, the Dinomancer strode past her crouching form, an eager smile on his face. “Stop! You’ll just get yourself killed” she pleaded, but he ignored her. “Oh?” asked the hooded figure. “You think you can stop me? Then tell me, hero, what can you possibly do to defeat me?”. The man grinned wildly. “I will summon prehistoric forces to do my bidding and crush you for me” he boosted, making a tight fist in front of him “He” chuckled the hooded figure. “You’re going to summon dinosaurs to kill me? I’m afraid to say that’s rather impossible”. “Impossible you say?” said the man thrusting his hands forward. “Then behold Unprisca! Stegosaurus!” he boomed. The hooded figure looked around expectantly. “I don’t see any” There was a loud crash as something large, scaly, and very heavy landed right on top of the hooded figure. When the dust settled, Luca could see the plates emerging from the reptile's back, the spiked tail, and the unmistakable dinosauresk face. Just under the unmoving beast lay the hooded figure's arm, limp and equally unmoving. “Holy shit” hissed Luca. “Is that really?” “A Stegosaurus? Well yeah? I summoned it, what do you think would happen?” “Is it…dead?” she asked. The man looked up at the sky. “Well considering that I summoned it a few hundred feet above the guy’s head, yeah probably” “W-why didn’t you just summon it on the ground?” “Well then we’d have an out-of-control stegosaurus running around, and that would just be trading one problem for another,” he said. “You mean, you can’t control it?” she asked. “Well, not exactly” he admitted. She turned away from him, back to the dead giant ass lizard.


I was one of the last soldiers inside when the door closed. My unit shouted nothing but unintelligible words full of nothing but fear. There was nothing I could do though. Either I stop and help them through the door as quick as I can or I could survive. It wasn’t a choice made from fear or apathy, I really did care for my unit. However, if I died, that would be it, wouldn’t it? There would only be a few people left and, without someone to defend them, the entire project would be pointless. But maybe it *was* fear? I looked back and saw my brother get crushed by the door as it shut with enough force to crush a block of steel. He was the best soldier I ever knew. He was much deserving of the leadership role I happened to achieve. And now he was gone. And maybe I should’ve just joined him? But no! I can’t feel sad now! The project! “You alright James?” one of the guards said to me while attempting to support me with his arm. “You… Killed Kris…” I said while trying to catch my breath. “I’m sorry James. You saw the hell out there yourself,” the guard said with a sigh, “They were so close to getting in. I know he was your brother, but this is the end for all of us.” “I know,” I said apathetically, “At least it looked quick I suppose…” “Hey, you two, we don’t have time to be stood around chatting. Get to the command centre before we lose the last of our ground!” a random captain shouted down from a partially collapsed catwalk. “We were just taking a break, sir” the guard shouted. “I know, but we don-“ the captain began to say before suddenly being shot, “Just… Get to the command… Centre…” the captain then tried to quickly limp back from the way he came. Me and the guard quickly ran up a flight of stairs. Most floors had several steps missing and the walls looked like they were moments from collapse. “Okay, so this is… It, huh?” the guard said while panting, “The end?” “Probably, I don’t care though… This has gone on for long enough and I just want it to end,” I said without a single ounce of emotion in my voice. “The end…” the guard sighed. Approaching the top floor, we found ourselves looking at a pair of sliding doors surrounded by two fellow soldiers. “Finally, some more backup. I suppose it’s time we end this thing,” one of the soldiers said. “So let’s see, you’re James Mason and you-“ one of the soldiers guarding attempted to say before a loud explosion caused the entire building to shake intensely, “Okay, you’re Sean. Look just go in before this whole thing fails.” The room we entered was a sorry sight. It was fairly large, though only because the original walls seemed to have been destroyed. The room was filled with countless scientists and soldiers. Some of them looked so distant that they could be mistaken for androids. How were we still holding on? However, the main focus of the room was the giant windows that overlooked humanity’s last hope: The last rocket on Earth. It was much taller than I thought it’d be as it towered over the launch centre. Not only that, but it clearly went a fair distance underground too. The rocket was unpainted and looked rather dull. Except for the top which contained a symbol of the Earth with an orange rose inside. Wait, why an orange rose? “He’s finally here!” one of the scientists shouted. Oh right, I had the launch codes. After taking the slip of paper out of my pocket, I handed the code over to one of the scientists who stood next to a panel. The panel was simple: It contained a keypad and a large button. I assume the button was red at some point, but it looked quite faded now. “Okay, launch is ready! Repeat, launch is ready!” a loud voice said over the intercom. “10!” “9!” “8!” “7!” “6!” “5!” “4!” “3!” “2!” “1! Launch is confirmed,” With the countdown over, the rocket now roared to life filling the silo with clouds of smoke. As the rocket past us, we saw the brightest light we had seen in… A long time. It may have just been the light from the flames of the rocket, but it just felt. Hopeful. And warm, though that’s to be expected. “Well… Looks like it’s finally over,” Sean sighed while looking longingly out of the command centre’s window, “We *won*.” “Yep,” I replied, “I hope they make it.” “We don’t really matter anymore, nothing we say or do will affect them now,” Sean said. “And with that, it’s time for… Refreshments,” one of the guards in room said drearily with a fake smile, “Or, I’ll open the door and you can take your chances with whatever’s left.” “I thank you all for fighting so bravely with us, may we all find peace in the beyond.