Everyone had told her that San Francisco was one of the greatest cities in the world: The temperature was always perfect—not too hot, not too cold; it was a haven for the LGBTQ+ community; it was full of big tech and big dreams. So she moved across the country, sight unseen, to this land of moderate weather and equality and prosperity, because her boyfriend had gotten a job at Google with a six-figure salary, and you couldn’t refuse a job at Google when you were from nowhere. She should have Googled more about how everyone hated the Google (and Apple, and Facebook, and other tech company) buses before going to the land of Bitcoin. She had to Google “what the fuck is Bitcoin.” She had to Google “how do you use a city bus.” She had to Google “what are the best non-tech jobs in the Bay Area.” She had to Google “how do you get rid of rat mites.” She had to Google “what to do in an earthquake.” She had to Google “how do you deal with depression.” “How’s San Fran?” her friends who stayed in nowhere texted her. “Nobody in San Francisco calls it ‘San Fran,’” she replied. That was something the Googlers had told her in person, and she’d confirmed with a google. Google wasn’t even in San Francisco. It was in Mountain View. But all the Googlers lived in the city and commuted there via wifi-enabled company charter buses. One day, two months after the move, with still no job lined up, she stared out the window of her boyfriend’s studio apartment on Castro Street in posh Noe Valley. One of the later morning charter buses from Apple was stuck on the steep hill. It had bottomed out where the extreme incline flattened at the cross street, Elizabeth. A whole scene was unfolding right before her: The techies, stranded. The public bus using the same route, unable to pass. The passengers on the public bus, angry at the privileged tech workers, spewing vitriol as they hoofed it up Castro. She sided with the people riding the public bus. The power of Castro Street was immense, and it often left her in awe: It was so steep, and at the top, she loved looking out over The Castro neighborhood, with all its rainbow flags, and at downtown, with its towering buildings, the ugly eyesore of Salesforce Tower with its capitalistic projector on the top floors displaying everything from basketball games to the Eye of Sauron. She lived toward the bottom of the hill, and walking up it was a workout. But she still preferred that to getting on the bus. She was still figuring out how the buses worked. And the last time she’d gotten on the bus, a homeless person kept banging on the windows, scaring the other passengers. When the driver told him to knock it off, the man threatened to light the bus on fire. She got off even though it hadn’t made it to her stop. “I’ve got two interviews this week,” she told her boyfriend that night over a pizza he’d ordered for dinner. They were sitting on their futon — her one contribution to this fully furnished apartment — watching the latest episode of My Hero Academia . Her boyfriend paused the anime. “That’s awesome, babe,” he replied. “Yeah,” she said. “Maybe then I can actually pay for part of the rent. Not half, though. I won’t make anywhere near what you make.” “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “But this place is two thousand dollars a month! It has rats, and it’s two thousand a month!” She didn’t want to have this conversation again, and yet she couldn’t grasp that their rent for a place with no bedrooms and a Murphy bed cost more than her parent’s three-bedroom house in nowhere. “The landlord is working on the rats,” he assured her. “The exterminator got rid of the mites. It’s okay now.” She hugged a futon pillow and nodded. “Can we get back to the show now?” “Yeah,” she said, and took a bite of her slice of pizza. This extra large barbeque chicken pizza cost $40. In nowhere, it cost $20. Getting to her first interview in The Presidio, the very northern part of the city that was once a military base, took nearly an hour — much of it spent looking at Google Maps, trying to make sure she was on the right bus, headed in the right direction. Getting to this remote office required riding three different bus lines. When she got to the building, she hid in the bathroom working up the courage to go into the office. In the office, she was interviewed by a blond-haired man wearing a black t-shirt and chains and piercings. She wore a grey suit and a purplish-blue blouse. “You met our acquisitions guy in New York, right? That’s how you heard about this position? A lot of the people here, they’re ex-New York people,” the gothic man said. “Yes, I took a course on publishing and heard him talk about this startup. It sounded really cool. I love the idea of a digital archive of old magazines,” she said. What she meant was, this was one of only a handful of publishing companies she’d learned about in San Francisco, and she didn’t know what else she was qualified for. “You get to read a lot of great pieces this way. I’ve learned a lot. It’s really cool. So, do you know XML?” She did not know XML. “Well, that’s okay. It’s pretty easy. You can pick it up quick. We’ve got pretty good documentation in Google Docs. Let me show you around the office,” he said. There was a pool table. There was a PlayStation with VR capabilities. There was a kitchen area full of snacks. There were no cubicles. Everyone was wearing t-shirts and hoodies and jeans and sneakers. Many had brightly dyed hair or streaks of hair. Everyone had a Mac. She’d interned for a startup before, in nowhere. She’d gotten a glimpse of this life through that. And yet: She was wearing a grey suit with a purplish-blue blouse. She’d never used hair dye before. She had a Windows laptop. Her favorite PlayStation games were from the PS2. “Do y’all have Beat Saber ?” she asked. “This is the most critical question. I’ve been wanting to try that game.” “Absolutely. Do you want to play right now? If you can beat me, you automatically have the job!” her interviewer joked. As they put on the equipment, he added, “Fair warning, I’m in a band, so I’m pretty musically inclined.” She did not beat him at Beat Saber , but was assured she’d impressed the team anyway. They’d get back to her on whether she was hired. This editor position would pay $12 an hour. The next day, she had an interview at a traditional publishing house headquartered downtown, just off of Market Street. From Noe Valley, she hopped on the bus at the stop just outside her apartment, and got off after going up and then down the Castro Street hill. In an attempt to get to know the city better, she decided to take the F streetcar line above ground, even though the trolleys were much slower. Then she could see all the stores she might want to shop at, the restaurants she could dine at, the people she could meet.

When she got on the trolley, she noted it was one of the restored cars from Italy. It took her past a bookstore, a bar that doubled as an arcade, a Super Duper Burgers, a Peet’s Coffee. She didn’t eat beef or drink coffee, but she had picked up enough from the Googlers and Google to know that she was supposed to care about these establishments, that they were quintessential to San Francisco. The office was in one of the rougher patches of the South of Market area — was that human poop she spotted on the sidewalk along the way? — but she got there early, with 10 minutes to spare. She spent that time alternatively scrolling Twitter and taking peeks around the office. It wasn’t like the startup one. This one was cluttered with papers. There were no games. There was a coffee machine and not much else. This was a space where things got done, and she felt a little more at home here. “So, why are you interested in this position?” the interviewer asked. She was a sharp Asian lady wearing a bright blue dress. “My boyfriend bought me some of your books as a present once. I really liked this educational slant on geeky things. I think you’re doing a lot of good for the world. Your books really helped me understand more difficult mathematical concepts.” “That’s amazing. That’s exactly what we’re hoping for. I’m glad our books were helpful. Now, let’s see if you can help us . Here are some sample pages that need editing. Note any edits right on the pages. You’ll have a half hour.” Twenty-five minutes in, with two pages left and a deep fear that she was missing all the spliced commas and incorrect equation answers, she knew she wasn’t going to get this job that paid $28,000 a year. The competition in publishing, in the Bay Area, had beat her. She left the office and let a deep sigh escape her as she stood waiting for the light with tons of other people — tech bros, queers, vegans, hipsters, wannabe DJs. She watched a Tesla almost hit a pedestrian. The pedestrian kicked the Tesla as it passed. The light changed. She entered the crosswalk. In the middle of the crosswalk, a man in a business suit turned around and spit on an old homeless woman who’d be asking him for money or food. His head turn, the spit, it was all so full of vitriol. The lady recoiled. Other pedestrians threatened to call the cops on the man. He walked away. She wanted to hurt this man for his dehumanizing actions. She wanted him to pay for his insult with a black eye, a police report. But she didn’t punch him, didn’t kick him, didn’t do anything at all except seeth the whole subway ride home. Then she played too many hours of Final Fantasy XII until her boyfriend came home and she could tell him all about the sights and the smells, her awful interview, this awful stranger on the street. There were no new jobs to apply to the next day, or the day after that. She thought that maybe she should learn to code. She kept playing Final Fantasy XII until she couldn’t take it anymore.

A walk around the neighborhood. That sounded nice. Not 24th street, though. She couldn’t bear to pass all those quaint Noe Valley shops she shouldn’t go into since she didn’t have any money. Not the bakery. Not the bookstore. None of the ice cream places. No. The temptations were so great here. She didn’t want to go to The Castro, either, and see the rainbow sidewalks and the sex toys and the nail salon called “Hand Job.” No. What she wanted was to enjoy Karl the Fog rolling in in the afternoon over Twin Peaks. On the walk, she googled why the fog was named Karl. She googled who is behind the @KarltheFog Twitter account. She looks at the best tweets from the account (“Sorry for the sudden tears but I had a breakthrough in therapy where I realized I spend more time making others happy instead of making myself happy and I need to focus more on me first”). The walk up toward Twin Peaks and the radio tower on top of it was even steeper than Castro Street. She wondered how all the cars parked along the road didn’t slide down, didn’t roll over on their sides back into the valley. It was these things that left her in awe of the city, these literal heights, these spectacular views. She missed the weather in nowhere — the leaves changing, the snow falling, the thunderstorms — but the hills and the fog made up for it here. She could see Karl spilling over the peaks now.

She made it to the top of Elizabeth Street, where Market Street turned into Portola Drive, where the neighborhoods of Noe Valley, Diamond Heights, and Twin Peaks combined. She stood in the middle of the pedestrian bridge that crossed Market and turned to look back the way she’d come, turned to see downtown in the distance and the sprawl of the million dollar houses, the big-time small businesses, all beside it. She was the only one on the bridge, the cars passing by below her. This was one of her favorite views, this space between the high of Twin Peaks and the low of Noe, the middle place few people bothered to go or knew to want. It didn’t take too long for the fog to finally descend around her, blanketing her in grey. The cars below looked like smoke bellowed around them. She could hardly see to the end of the pedestrian bridge. Downtown was no longer visible to her. There was no longer a peak to look up to or a hill to look down from. There was only this bridge, suspended above the sliver of road she could still see, and the cars on the road that were more cautious now. The girl from nowhere breathed in the chill and let herself fade into the fog.


I was finishing a cigarette on the porch of my house (something that only older people do) and thinking about everything and nothing at once, like when you try to remember the time you and your friends went out to play for the las time. The dogs were laying there beside us in the warm summer night, the lights from the nearest city glistened between the hills we could see from our comfortable knitted chairs. We opened a bottle of cheap wine and kept up our nice conversation, we were laughing, since I met her I always loved the small grooves that her smile made upon her her cheeks, her beautiful brown eyes and her long curly hair that made her look radiant when in a burst of laughter it covered her face. Hearing that goofy laugh could always make me feel better, it could always make feel like everything was alright no matter how my day had gone. After a long while of laughter and just being silly, she put her head on my shoulder and we both looked at the stars, neither of us saying anything, I looked at her, her eyes and the stare she gave to the stars that always gave me atleast this feeling she was trying to understand the universe, trying to find out a greater meaning than our being here. I always ended up staring at her, always baffled and intrigued by that profound stare. I would have loved to stare in to her mind for a brief second and get a small glimpse at her magestic thoughts which I'm shure would have had the answers to the universe and life itself. I stopped staring at her and focused my thoughts on the starry sky again, a light breeze flew by making it a delightful summer night. All my problems were forgotten, this moment was pure peace, the kind of peace many men and women would not live on their lifetime, the kind of peace that would make anyone jealous. She got of my shoulder and started towards me, those beautiful brown eyes coming closer to me, those eyes that I could almost feel were looking deep into my soul. I closed my eyes and started to meet her half way in one of those deep kisses I found so soothing. As I came close to her I saw that little mole on her lower lip, that mole that I found extremely sexy and that gave her perfect lips a personality of their own. Right before my lips touched hers, she disappeared, I found myself kissing the air as my eyes slowly opened. My eyes that popped out of a zombie like thin face, from a head that was attached to a beaten and zombie like body. A zombie like body that was covered on ripped rags and covered in dirt, blood and grime from days of travel by foot. There where only crumbles of the mountains that once stood tall and adorned the landscape, the city lights were glistening no more and there was a dark cloud that covered the sky as far as the eye could see. There was a very particular smell in the air, a thick disgusting smell which I had come to get used to in the past weeks, it was the smell of death. Three weeks have passed since the bombs were set off, as far as I knew no war was started and after the explosions there was no one who could provide information. The last time I spoke to her was over the phone, the last video call, the last time I saw her face... Those eyes that were once trying to explain the universe were now filled with terror, blankly looking at the phone, knowing it was the last time I would speak to her. Finally I'm back here in this porch, this porche filled with bricks, concrete and pieces from neighbouring houses, between the rubble a red tricicle, now scratched and rusty reminds me on the place a young kid used to imagine he was riding a race bike, an airplane, a fast car and I rember vividly how he closed his eyes when in his imagination the vehicle being imagined hit too speed. Here sitting on this chair, were we once lay, laughed kissed and loved I hope for my death and know I'll go to heaven, for living without her has already been hell, surviving was a curse and getting here was my last wish. Now I can finally rest on this chair, the only thing that remains standing from this once beautiful and colorful street, now I can rest forever and finally go back to her, to those beautiful eyes, those soothing lips and that curly hair. I can only wish for one last kiss, for a radioactive kiss.


You’re being threatened by a goose. You have no idea what you’ve done to make this bird so angry, but it’s been getting very scary lately. It’s been sending you notes, slid under your door, so you know it knows where you live. The notes don’t say anything except ‘honk,’ but from the handwriting you can tell that it’s an angry honk. It calls you on the phone, late at night and early morning, and ignoring it won’t work. The goose just lets it ring and ring and ring and ring until eventually someone picks up and the goose honks loudly into the receiver then hangs up. If you’re lucky, that’s all that happens, but usually the goose calls again, sometimes a few hours later, sometimes a few minutes, sometimes immediately. Soon, you spot the goose standing outside your house, next to a big sign that just says “HONK!” Your parents call the police, but they eventually say that because the goose is on a public sidewalk and not their property, they can’t make it go away. The goose honks in your direction and fluffs its wings as the police drive off. Things get worse. One of your parents is driving when they realize their brakes don’t work. They’re able to jump out of their car before it runs into the highway. The police come by again and tell you they’ve taken in the goose for questioning, but had to let it go because it wouldn’t answer any questions–it had already called a lawyer. They suggested, in the meantime, getting a restraining order. That’s what you do. The goose, legally, cannot be within 500 feet of you. You don’t see the goose for a few days after that. You feel calm for the first time in a while. You go to bed and sleep soundly. When you wake up, though, there’s a goose feather on your pillow. Your blood chills. You look around your room and see everything has been moved, like someone was going through it when you slept. Then there’s a loud knock on the door. It’s the police. You ask whether it’s the goose, but they say no, it’s you. They tell you the goose was killed last night, and that they found your backpack near the body, covered in goose blood. You tell them no, that you were home asleep the whole time and bring them to your room to show them, but then they spot the goose feather. They ask where you got it, why you have it. You say you don’t know. They compare the feather to another one they have on them and find it’s a match. The cops arrest you and you’re marched to their car in your pajamas. You keep saying you’re innocent, that you didn’t kill the goose, but they don’t listen. You can’t believe this is happening. They shove you in the back seat and lock the door. Then, as the car pulls away, you see it: the goose. Standing on the roof of the house across the street. It lifts its wing and waves at you. You scream for the cops to turn around, that the goose is right there, but they just laugh as you get further and further away, the goose growing small until fading from view completely.


All the kids in the neighborhood knew he was a superhero. It wasn't a myth, it wasn't a rumor, it was a fact. I only told people who had sworn to secrecy but apparently everyone else saw it too because it spread like wildfire. No one had to tell me he was, all the signs were there. He kept to himself, people would never visit, no one knew where he was from, I barely knew his name. Well, actually I did, Jedd. I knew from when I would ask my mom about him. I was pretty sure she knew Jedd was a superhero too, she just didn't want me to know and tell the wrong person. When asked about Jedd my mom would turn to me and sternly say "Now Monty, don't get tangled up with Jedd, you don't want anything to do with him" which of course, made me want nothing more than to talk him. It wasn't that I didn't have the chance to, everyone knew he watched over the high school, keeping kids safe from the evils of the world. Jedd had informants inside the high school, keeping tabs for him. I would see people, usually alone or two at a time, walk up to Jedd and they would go over to his car to talk alone. Upon leaving Jedd would thank them and tell him they always knew where to find him if they needed him. I had been watching Jedd since he moved in last month, just to make sure he was the guardian I had hoped. As soon as I was sure I went up to him and told him I knew his secret, my parents had told me; which wasn't exactly the truth, but that's what had confirmed it for me. I told him that I told all the kids in the neighborhood, but only after they had pinky promised not to tell anyone else, but I think that other people had caught on too. He looked at me shocked and told me to go home, he was busy, which was understandable, superman never needed a sidekick. So I went home with a warm fuzzy feeling, I had just confirmed what I had for so long knew. Later that day, about five minutes after my dad got home Jedd pulled up in his car and my mom came up stairs to tell me dad was having a friend over and she would stay in my room and play with me until he left, which was nice, my mom was always out of the house or in the garage, where I was never allowed, with dad. After a few minutes I heard shouts a few snippets were all I could understand, things like "he is only ten" "how did he find out" "what if he tells the neighbors". I heard my name a couple of times too, but when I asked mom what they were fighting about she told me not to worry and that I had built the best wooden tower she had ever seen. Suddenly I heard a loud bang, followed by a loud series of footsteps coming up the stairs, my mom turned quickly toward the door and said quickly "hide!" and pointed to the closet. "lets play a new fun game! And dad is coming to play too!" but when the door opened it wasn't dad, it was Jedd, who pointed at my mom and another loud bang came from his hand. My mom fell in front of the closet mumbled "...not to get tangled..." and faded off again. Jedd came over closer to my hiding spot and slowly opened the door and the last thing I saw was my childhood super hero, the guardian of the high school standing over my moms body with a silver tube in his hand that flashed, and my world exploded into darkness.


The first thing he noticed was the familiar numbing in his nose. That familiar feeling was coming, like a blast from a space rocket. A feeling that could be reached by no other thing. Like a wonderful stretch, or a powerful, itching orgasm. The feeling was incredible and had a brilliant excitement that filled his body from his feet to his fingertips. Warm, bitter mucus slid deliciously down his throat as he knocked his head back with a thrust and pinched his nose. He snorted deeply, tasting that familiar chemical taste much more now. His head was beginning to rush. He envisioned his brain, with vessels and pulsing flesh, pushing itself up on two legs, and running, *sprinting,* into an infinite. Liam opened his eyes at last, looking forward. His vision had sharpened with immense clarity. Waves of ecstasy bolted exponentially from his chest, outward down the lengths of his arms and legs. He’d begun to think that his arms were involuntarily floating from his sides as he tilted his head back once again and looked at the ceiling, his pupils black and gigantic. His white popcorn ceiling now harbored a lovely light blue tint, and he let out a moan of pleasure as that *feeling* intensified. Rita Bailey was sitting in her large velvet sofa-chair, with a silk zebra robe that had pink handcuffs and bottom lining. The chair’s support had seams and buttons that formed diamonds of felt. There was a tall lamp that stood next to it that casted a mellow orange light over her. This was Rita’s reading spot. At this time, she’d been reading *Twilight*. Sitting in her chair, with the book in one hand - the cover had ghostly arms that held a red apple out to the reader - and a glass of wine in the other, she looked up from her book, at her open bedroom door. She removed her pink reading glasses from her nose and looked at the lit hallway. She hadn’t been hearing much from Liam anymore, and she was becoming more and more aware of it in the recent months. Twenty years, and two doors down the hall, yet she had this feeling that she didn’t know her son, at all. That he was some stranger. She’d *birthed* him, of course she knew him, but still… The quiet seemed more full. It was rather disquieting for Rita. She was dimly aware that she’d been pulling off the skin on her fingers. Rita bit her nails until they bled, and now there was a battleground of flaky ragged skin at her fingertips. She attacked her fingers for most of her life, really. It was especially bad when she was in elementary school. A span of time that seemed so far away, it felt ancient. Her third grade teacher, *Madame Thompson* (she required that each student use *Madame* when referring to her) who taught her French class had once seen Rita biting her nails while she’d been teaching. Madame Thompson was holding a wooden three foot ruler and smacked it sharply on her left hand. It scared Rita; It scared everyone. Half of the projector’s casted light cut her face into halves. Her right eye locked on Rita’s, her left was dim from the darkness of the classroom. Rita saw an evil cat, waiting behind a closet door in the blackness. “*Rita*,” she said. Rita only looked at her. A bolt of terror shot into her chest and sizzled uneasily on her scalp, then she was feeling other eyes turn on her, as well. Her palms were hot and moist over the cool wooden desk. Her fingernails throbbed horribly. “*That is a very bad ‘abit,*” she said in her strong Belgium accent, “*I’m saying this in English so that you understand. You ‘ave your ‘ands in your mouth like a little mouse.”* She brought her hands to her mouth, scrunched her face, and made chipping mice noises. Three kids began to giggle. “*Pretty little girls, you see, need to have pretty hands… okey?”* She said, extending her fingers outward. She then pompously walked down her row, with every pair of eyes on her, and pointed her ruler to Rita’s hands. *“Those nails are just* too *short, girlfriend. That is how you get* disease, *Rita,”* she clicked her tongue several times and shook her head in disapproval. Madame Thompson carried on with her lesson with no other input. Rita was frozen in horror, utterly embarrassed, feeling like crying. Oh, Rita cried quite often in her French class. She fought it miserably until the end, and was finishing what she’d started the second she stepped out the door. She realized now, in her reading chair, that she was not pulling, but now biting her skin and nails in the wake of this dreadful memory. Rita immediately seized her hands, slapping them to her thighs. There was nothing she could hear. Usually she would hear music from Liam’s room. It was never very loud, something that Liam had always been rather respectful of, but it was still there. Rita heard nothing, but the air-conditioner. *He’s probably just asleep*, she thought, and looked at the clock on her bedside table. The clock read 9:03 PM. Suddenly, she felt like checking on him. She hasn’t done this since he was sixteen, but she had an odd urge to see him. She got up and started forward, instinctively moving her hand toward her mouth, she fought it back. Now in the hallway, a dim worry began to drift over her. *He never goes to sleep this early, I’m just gunna check on ‘im real quick, no big deal.* She envisioned herself knocking twice, opening his door, and seeing him reading a novel in his bed. *The Stand* it would be. A book she’d recommended to him a while back. He would have corded earbuds in his ears, and his gigantic black curls would be hanging on the pages. Rita had been quite right about her thoughts of Liam being this sort of stranger. Liam was becoming a stranger to his mother and intended to keep his doings under her radar. He went many lengths to make this possible. Little did his mother know, but Liam had started selling cocaine, and had become severely addicted somewhere along the way. His habit now progressed to individual binges in his bedroom that sent him incoherently babbling in euphoria while his records played (these past few weeks, it had been *The Wall*) on his three-year-old vinyl player. When his mother reached the door, she was met with a faint clicking sound coming from inside his room. She then realized it was his vinyl player. It was skipping at a steady rate. She looked to her right at the bathroom door next to his and saw that it was pushed open slightly. The light was off inside. “Liam?” Rita said lightly. No response. She waited a second, then tapped his door twice. “Liam,” she said again, with nothing in return. “Liam, are you--?” She said, reaching for his door knob that he’d locked three hours earlier. She rattled the doorknob and listened once again. The skipping continued. Anxiety started to crawl up her throat. “Liam,” she said fiercely, and rapped his door hard three times, “unlock this door right now.” She tried to forcibly open the door in a light panic, then seized her hair for a bobby pin. She pulled it down and her hair fell over her eyes. Light gray hair strands lay on her hands as she bent the bobby pin outward. She fit it inside the doorknob’s circular keyhole and fumbled the lock to turn. When Rita finally managed to open the door, she could not have been more ill-prepared to see what she saw, because the whole time she’d been thinking about Allan. Her husband had died of a heart attack ten years before, scarring her with a trained paranoia of the quiet. Of the Dark. At first, she had to push the door open from the scattered clothes that lay on the floor, but she didn’t have to go far to catch the full picture. The skipping vinyl could now be heard much louder. Liam’s arms lay limply by the sides of his wooden desk chair. He was facing perpendicular to the door, so that his mother saw his side-angle. His legs were kicked out on their heels. Liam’s neck curved over the back of his wooden chair, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, showing red and blue veins. Vomit that looked like chunky cream soup spilled thickly out of his open mouth. He was completely motionless. Rita dropped the pin and let out a blood-curdling scream that lasted for at least fifteen seconds, driving her fingers madly into her hair. Betty, the next door neighbor, who actually sat to the left of Rita in that very third grade class, flipped around on her couch, her blonde pony-tail twisting and whipping her in the face, and looked across the yard at the Bailey’s. Betty and Rita were now life-long friends, and she remembers Rita’s fingernail episode, along with many others, almost as vividly as Rita does. They shared many vivid memories, including the one that they would form in the next five minutes. She pranced out of her house, and bolted toward Rita’s. Betty walked into Rita’s house to hear more screams like broken glass cutting horribly into the kitchen from the back of the house. All of the lights had been off. She cut right out of the kitchen toward the hallway. Liam’s door was open and Betty could tell that Rita was in there. She could hear her hoarse, helpless wails from his room. “Liam…” she cried and fell into deep tears and cries that were so unsettling she could already feel the onset of tears of her own. “RITA!” She called out, jogging down the hall. Betty swung around the door to see Liam laying on his side on his maroon and yellow carpet. A pool of vomit sat next to his face in creamy chunks. Rita was on her knees next to him, with a phone to her ears. On his desk, a small bag of white powder was opened on a book cover. His desk was scattered with this white powder in chopped lines. A blue debit-card was stained white next to them. Rita turned and looked up at Betty, to see a horrified expression on her face. “Oh, Betty…” she wailed, her face broke into pieces. Betty could hear ringing on Rita’s end, and she lightly took the phone out of Rita’s trembling hands, she did not protest. “9-1-1 What’s your emergency?” “Uh, hi…” Betty ran her fingers through her hair, “my neighbor’s son just overdosed I think.” “What’s the address ma’am?” “It’s, 318 Coyue Road.” “Okay. We’re sending someone over, right now, okay? Just hang tight. Is he breathing or showing any sort of response?” Betty examined Liam. He seemed to be convulsing lightly. Only the whites of his eyes showed. A low, guttural moan surfaced under the vomit. His feet were twitching. “I- I don’t know, ma’am, he’s thrown up all everywhere, I don’t know if he’s alive or not.” “That’s quite alright, what’s your name ma’am?” “Hillinger. Betty Hillinger.” “Okay, Ms. Hillinger, it’s quite alright. Just stay on the line for me okay?” “Okay…” Betty replied, and realized with panic that Rita now had cocaine in her house. Sure, the EMS would come to save the day, but then the Police would have questions to ask. Betty crooked the phone in-between her shoulder and walked over to Liam’s desk. She grabbed his trash can, took the debit-card and began swiping the coke into the garbage. “Do you know the name of the victim?” “Uh, yes. It’s William Bailey, his mother is Rita Bailey, she’s watching him right here.” Rita had been holding Liam’s head and looked up stupidly at Betty in her dazed hysteria. She grabbed the baggie and tossed it in with the debit-card. Betty slipped out of Liam’s room and into the kitchen. She put the bag on the counter and reached under the sink for Clorox wipes, went back and wiped his desk. “Do you know what drugs he’s taken tonight to cause the overdose?” Betty stopped mid-cleaning, “No ma’am, I-I’m not sure,” and continued, throwing the wipe into the bag with the rest. She began frantically looking around for any other evidence, and could not find any. “Alright… ” The responder replied. Betty could now hear sirens coming from down the road. She darted back out, tied the bag closed and threw it into her own garbage bin down the drive. Betty was opening the screen door to re-enter when she saw flashing lights coming down Coyue. The ambulance stopped on the road and three men came rushing toward the house, through the front yard. “EMS has arrived so… I’m gunna let you go, okay?” Betty said, a crack in her voice now. “Okay. Bye, Bye now.” The responder replied, and ended the line. She walked down the hallway towards Liam’s bedroom. She didn’t want to see him again. It was scary, seeing his limp scrunched up body like that. His skin was all pale and his face was smashed into the carpet and it pulled the right side of his face down as he slumped. *Ohh, fuck me* Betty thought. Rita was stroking Liam’s hair softly. Her face never left his. “Hey, baby. They’re here, okay?” Betty crouched down next to Rita and put her hand on her shoulder. Rita turned to face Betty and her face shattered once again. Seeing Rita like this, with her overdosed son behind her, tore a part out of her that she would never regrow. She fixed on Liam’s face. His right eyelid was pulled down so far that she could have reached in and picked it like a blueberry out of his skull. The responders came to the bedroom door with a stretcher. They rolled into Liam’s room, and Betty took Rita’s hands helping her up. The men picked up Liam and set him on the stretcher. Rita placed a hand over her mouth and began wailing hysterically. It was now Betty that began to cry. Silent streams of tears flowed out of her eyes. She saw Liam; the same two-year old Liam that played with his little boats in the tub when she babysat, the same five-year old Liam who was obsessed with Legos, the same ten-year old Liam that played “Count On Me” in the talent show at Leido Heights; was now being lodged onto a stretcher with vomit coming from his mouth and white veiny eyes that bulged at the wall. “My little baby…” Rita said helplessly. Tears ran down her stuffy cheeks and red nose as she watched them rush Liam out of her house, and into the ambulance. Rita climbed in with them, Betty followed in her Prius.


I would sigh if I could get myself to move. I have been sitting here for 45 minutes, maybe more? As soon as I read his letter, that old familiar feeling in my bones returned. Each limb was heavy, too heavy to move. As if I had been dipped in cement and set out to dry. A permanent gargoyle of some sort, never to move again. I like to imagine that onlookers could see my sad gargoyle face and think to themselves, “Oh my! Now there is the epitome of pain and suffering! It is palpable that this creature has suffered the most out of anyone! It makes one cry to even bear witness to this creature’s eternal misery!” Yes, that would be something. As I turn to stone, my eyes water and burn from not blinking enough. The walls are so bright, they burn those imaginary colors in my retinas that dance around my peripherals of my vision. “Can’t I get myself to move? Even just a little finger?" My thoughts race as I panic over whether or not I have control over my own body. "Surely I could move if I wanted to? Right? How long has it really been? No way of knowing except by looking at a clock. C’mon. Just look at a clock.” My inner monologue spiraling out of control is interrupted by a brash, unpleasant meow and I remember that I forgot to feed my cat, Albert. He jumps onto the bed and headbutts my leg to remind me that his dinner is late. I reach over to pat him and I realize that the spell is broken. I can move again. Like a new-born deer, my legs wobble as I take my first few steps. I stumble my way into the kitchen, where I grab the wrinkled, smelly bag of dried cat food and I pour him his dinner. “Not too much now, Albert. You’re getting fat,” I say to him as he scarfs down the kibble I have put in his bowl. Now that I am up, I shouldn’t return to the bed, but it has a siren’s call. I walk back into the bedroom and pick up the letter back up. I’m going to reread it to make sure that all of the words are still the same. Maybe they will have rearranged themselves to tell me that he’s decided to stay, or he has gone to the grocery store? I pick the letter back up. The paper was surprisingly thick, like card stock, and a rich, creamy shade of off-white. I always kept high-quality paper in the house. Never to use. But only to fantasize about using when there is something important enough to use it. I guess this was important. I read the first sentence and there is a sharpness in my chest so painful, I audibly wince. The words haven’t changed. They are still the same. This time, instead of being heavy, I am hollow. My bones are made of glass and the slightest movement might cause them to shatter. There is a void inside me. The thought of food provides no comfort, sleep is temporary relief; I know that the emptiness is waiting for me when I awake. Suddenly, my phone buzzes. I nearly sprint off of the bed to check if it’s him. No. It is my phone carrier. Letting me know that an update is required. The heaviness returns. Even that fleeting moment was bliss compared to now. I will call him instead. I dial the number frantically, there is the sound of ringing and the sound of his voicemail. They blur into one quick moment. I leave no voicemail. I call again. And again. And again. No luck. Defeated, I walk over to the liquor cabinet. I grab a bottle of vodka and take a swig. It burns so much that I reflexively start coughing, but I drink it anyway. A tingling warmth courses through my veins and for a moment I feel alive, full of fire and vigor, ready to have another go at life. I laugh to myself and chuckle, “Fucking jerk”, to myself, which stirs something inside me. Playful giggles turn into heaving sobs within a quick moment as I try to sputter out, “Fucking asshole!” between loud, exasperated breaths. Then I don’t quite remember what happens next. It was as if a banshee took over me, I shrieked until my voice was hoarse. Tears cascaded towards the ground. I slammed doors and punched walls, leaving my knuckles bloodied, purple-ish blue and swollen. The walls and doors bore no marks of my fury. I thought I was stronger. I paused to look in the mirror once the fire and liquor in my veins diminished. My face was a reddish-pink, with eyelids so swollen, you could barely see my eyes. I had somehow cut my eyebrow in all my thrashing and it left streams of rust colored blood all over the left-half of my face. How long ago did I cut myself? I inhaled through my teeth sharply as I patted the wound with a damp washcloth. I cleaned myself up and the puffiness of my face started to reside. Sniffling and limping back to bed, I felt the pain rising in my chest that demanded it be attended to. I neatly folded the letter and put it inside my dresser drawer. Albert lay asleep on the bed. I crawled underneath the covers. I wrapped my arm around him and cried a little bit more. “I just have to make it to tomorrow,” I whispered to myself. “To tomorrow...” I don’t remember when I fell asleep. But when I woke, Albert was there and the letter was still in the drawer. It was a new day. I got out of bed.


Trey opened his eyes slowly, seeing his nightstand next to his bed like he did every morning. It would be the last time Trey woke up in his bed. It would be the last time Trey woke up at all. He checked his phone to find no new notifications except for a calendar reminder. August 17th. He got out of bed and walked down the stairs of his parents’ small house. Sitting at the kitchen table lost in a thousand-yard stare was his mama, a large woman of color who spent her entire life trying to keep her family happy and healthy. Trey sat down across from her, noticing her coffee cup was full, but no steam was rising. She finally noticed him after a few minutes, tears welling up in her eyes. “Everything’s gonna be okay, ya hear?” His mama was trying to be strong for him, and he knew it. “Yes, mama. But...do you think...do you think he actually did it?” Trey needed to know the truth. Months of court cases, trials, and hearings left him mentally exhausted. But no matter what he heard, he refused to believe his father had killed a police officer. “I don’t know, baby. Your father is a good man, he just got caught up in a bad situation.” Trey noticed his mother had a picture frame in her hand. He couldn’t see what picture she was holding, but he guessed it was the one from the beach. That was her favorite. A perfect day with clear blue skies and the sounds of laughter filling the air. They had gone on vacation to Hawaii a few years ago, and it meant the world to Tamara. Trey’s family was not wealthy, but James had saved enough money for them to go on that trip, and Tamara wouldn’t trade those memories for all the money in the world. James had tried to teach Trey how to surf, but Trey was never a patient child, unlike his father, who had all the patience in the world. Tamara had gone swimming with dolphins, the boys were too nervous, and Tamara never let them forget. “Is today still...the day?” Trey asked, knowing her answer affected the lives of both men in the family. His mother couldn’t bring herself to say anything, so she just nodded her head ever so slightly. It was decided, then. On the day his father would be put to death for the murder of a police officer, Trey would take his own life. He spent the day making preparations. He washed the dishes, washed his laundry, swept the floors, vacuumed the carpets, cut the grass, and he even packed up his stuff in boxes so his Mama wouldn’t have to go through his stuff. As the sun set, Trey watched through his window, hoping his father got to see one last scene of beauty. He thought about what people would say about him. They’d ask why he did it, but he had a better question. Why not? High school was over and Trey had no idea what he wanted to do with his life. He didn’t have many friends, was too shy to play sports, wasn’t the smartest, and had no idea how to live his life without his dad’s guidance. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing special about him and there never would be. Midnight approached, and Trey slipped into the bathroom with a bottle of his mother's sleeping pills. He stared at himself in the mirror, trying to find the courage to end his suffering. He knew his father was set to be killed at 9PM in a California prison, but he lived on the east coast. Trey thought it would be kind of poetic to do it at the same time as his hero was going to be killed. His Father was his best friend, the last good piece of his life, the last reason to stay alive. Trey took one last look at himself. He traced his right hand up his left arm, his chocolate skin was soft until he reached his shoulder and felt a scar. A memory rushed into his mind; the day he fell out of a tree and broke his arm. He smiled to himself, he was always falling off of something. He looked into his brown eyes, up to his short brown hair, and back down to the beard he was trying to grow. His only regret might be not getting to experiment with facial hair. Trey took a deep breath. “I’ll see you on the other side, dad.” Trey popped off the white top off the orange container, but before he could pour the pills into his hand, an arm reached through the mirror before him, and pulled him in. Trey was standing in a room of mirrors. His brain filled with scenes from scary movies that take place in settings like these. The fear was overwhelming as he covered his eyes with his hands, fell to his knees, and cried out “DAD!” A moment passed and something was touching Trey’s shoulder. For another moment, Trey was too afraid to look at what was touching him, but he peaked through his fingers to see a familiar face. “Dad? What are you doing here? How is this real? How is this happening?” Standing above Trey with his hand on his son, was Trey’s dad. He was wearing his Hawaiian shirt, and had a lei around his neck. His clean-shaven head and black goatee always made Trey think his father was a better-looking Terry Crews. “It appears I have taken the form of your father, though I am not him. You must understand, I am the master of mirrors, whatever they see, I too see. You were prepared to take your life in my presence, and I stopped you.” “What? Is this a dream? I gotta be dreaming. Maybe I am! I took sleeping pills! I probably didn’t take enough!” Trey’s mind was eased by the thought. This was all a dream and absolutely 100% NOT REAL. “Perhaps you can explain your reasoning as to why you wish to end your existence.” said Mirror dad. “If you’re going to look like my dad can you at least talk like him?” “As I said before, I am not your father, nor did you attempt to end your life. Moments ago, I reached through your bathroom mirror and brought you to my home before you could swallow the pills.” Trey looked around the room. He thought he saw movement in some of the mirrors. He looked below him, and lowered his body until his face was staring directly at the floor. He could see a woman taking off her make up. Next to that one he saw a man talking to himself in a public bathroom, and in another one he saw a group of ballet dancers practicing their plier. He looked at every one that he could, seeing different people doing different things from all over the world. “Okay, so let’s say this isn’t a dream...why did you stop me?” “Why do you wish to end your existence?” “I don’t know...I” embarrassment washed over Trey. “Do you deserve to die?” “I guess not but I...” “Is the world better without you?” “Probably, the only person that will care that I’m gone is mama.” “800,000 souls leave the earth every year. Each one hoping to find peace in their death. But the dead do not understand that even though their burdens have lifted, those who loved them now carry the weight.” “Look mirror dad, I didn’t ask you to stop me. You’re preaching to the wrong choir, okay? People die every day, what is one more worthless life?” “Is it your understanding that most human beings enjoy happiness eternally?” “No, of course not. Everybody gets sad sometimes.” “But ‘everybody’ does not take their life when it happens.” “Yeah, but a lot do. You said 800,000 people kill themselves every year, right? Just add me to the list.” Silence filled the air. Trey began to feel uncomfortable as his father’s look alike stood unmoving. After a while, he finally spoke. “Are you aware what the purpose of mirrors are?” “Is this a trick question or...” “Are you aware what the purpose of mirrors are?” Mirror dad was sterner this time. “To see yourself, I guess?” “That is correct. A mirror is not only a reflection of what we see, but a reflection of who we are. You can lie to others, but you cannot lie to yourself. Well, successfully anyway. There will always be a truth we share with ourselves, even if the world knows something different. Every person who has ever existed has two faces. One that is worn, and one that is true. The worn face is perceived by others as your true face, people believe that they know who you are because they have seen you, or heard you speak. Hundreds of people think about who you are, based on their perceptions of you. Perhaps you are considered quiet to friends, but your Mother sees you as rambunctious. Perhaps your neighbor thinks you kind, yet your scorned lover thinks you cold. There are hundreds of versions of you in the minds of people you meet. The facades humans wear to be perceived as something acceptable by society, groups, or family members. The lies that are spun to make others believe you are more than what you are. But how many people know your true face?” Trey felt confused. Was everyone in the world just as scared as he was? His heart was beating fast, and he felt himself begin to sweat. He followed a bead that fell from his forehead and landed on the ground. He looked in the mirror below him and saw the man who was talking to himself in the public bathroom. “You always know when you see one. Being honest with one's self is not an easy task to accomplish, but when you succeed, you begin to see who you truly are.” Mirror dad was standing over Trey, looking at the man below. “Your true face.” Trey whispered. “So, you can see everybody’s true face?” “Incorrect. I can see what humans truly are. Their reflections, hidden to even them.” “I wish I could do that.” Trey looked up to the being who had the appearance of his father. The being smiled, and brought his hand up to eye level, and snapped his fingers. Trey opened his eyes slowly, seeing the nightstand next to his bed. But something was different. On his nightstand was a pair of reading glasses with a sticky note under them and the writing, “Try me.” Trey jumped out of bed in a panic. “That wasn’t real. That could not have been real.” He jumped over his bed to the other side where his phone was on the floor plugged in to the wall. He unlocked it and looked at the date on the screen. August 17th. Trey dropped the phone unintentionally. After taking five deep breaths, he walked to his nightstand and looked at the glasses without touching them. He moved one finger closer and closer to the glasses, afraid of what would happen when he touched them. When his finger finally touched the frame.... nothing happened. Trey exhaled. He picked up the glasses and inspected them. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so he put them up to his eyes. He could see a bit clearer, but other than that, they seemed like ordinary glasses. He put them in the pocket of his sweatpants and walked towards the bathroom. He crept to the door slowly, checking his corners, just in case. He opened the door handle like he was trying to sneak up on someone. It slowly creaked open, revealing an empty bathroom. He peeked into the mirror, wondering what he would see this time, but he only saw himself. Trey sighed with relief, and walked out of the room and down the stairs. He found his mother in the kitchen, sitting at the table with cold coffee and a picture frame in her lap. He didn’t want to go through this again, so he turned around to go back upstairs, when he caught a reflection in the stainless steel of his refrigerator. Once again, he saw his father in a Hawaiian shirt and a lei instead of himself. Trey jerked his neck to look behind him to find nobody there. He looked back in the mirror and saw his father wave at him. He then made a motion like he was putting on glasses. Trey felt his pocket and remembered the glasses. He was sure everything that had happened to him was all a dream; from the house of mirrors to the strange version of his dad. But he had to be sure. He took the glasses out of his sweatpants pocket, and raised them up to eye level. He looked through them while he faced the kitchen. He could not believe what he was seeing. In the same spot where his mother had been was now a giant brown bear. A brown bear that was...crying? Trey took the glasses off and put them back on multiple times, and no matter how many times he did it, he couldn’t believe it. He sprinted up the stairs, hearing his mother call his name from below. He ran into the bathroom and locked the door. “A bear? What the hell does that mean, man?” Trey spoke to the mirror. At first, he only saw himself, but he quickly faded away and the image of his father appeared once more. “Your mother spent her life protecting the people she cared about. She is strong and brave, and will do anything she can to keep you safe.” “Mama Bear.” Trey whispered. “My dad used to call her that.” An idea hit Trey. He put the glasses in his pocket and he ran out of the bathroom, down the stairs, past his mother, and out the door. His bare feet began to hurt as he sprinted down the sidewalk of the small neighborhood. He used the grass instead and within a few minutes found himself on the outskirts of a small town. He placed the glasses on the bridge of his nose and found they sat perfectly on his face. He was in awe as he witnessed animals and monsters alike in the hustle and bustle of the work day. Dogs, cats, mice, bears, vampires, zombies, werewolves, and more walked in and out of shops, drove cars, walked their pets, and shared meals. He began to walk around, passing stores along the way. In the glass of the stores he could see his father walking alongside him. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? To see people for what they really are. To see them for their soul, and nothing else.” “Yeah, but why do some people look like evil monsters?” Trey continued to move the glasses off and back on, seeing human beings become anything other than human. “Some humans drain the life out of those around them. Some walk-through life mindlessly, with no purpose or passion. They just exist, stumbling past it all. Some change in an instant, becoming completely different thanks to alcohol or drugs, or sometimes, a problem of the mind. The dogs are loyal, working for their treats. Cats have everything done for them, barely having to lift a finger for themselves. The biggest problem of all is the lie that lingers in the lives of the lost. You tell yourself that you are happy. That you are living the dream. But how many true faces do you see?” Trey walked around with the glasses on for hours. Among all the creatures, he did not see one that looked human. He walked and walked, until he arrived at the park his father would take him to when he was younger. He sat on a swing next to a cat being pushed by a dog. “Trey?” a young man's voice carried from a hundred feet away. Trey looked around at all the creatures around him, and couldn’t decipher which one had uttered his name. He took the glasses off and looked around once more. He saw Riz, a Bengali boy he had classes with last year in school. Riz was tall and had glasses, and never wore a pair of shorts in his life. It could be over a hundred degrees and he would still wear jeans. “Yo, Trey! What’s up man, it’s been a minute! How you been?” Trey did not want to deal with Riz. Riz was always talking about something nerdy, which Trey enjoyed, but not in public. “Hey man, I’m cool. What about you?” “Dude I’m great! About to go grab a coffee with some peeps, you want to come? We can catch up and...” “Sorry bro, I’m just dealing with stuff right now, but maybe next time.” Riz looked a bit hurt, but quickly replied. “For sure man! Maybe next time. Take it easy, okay?” Riz began to walk away, and out of curiosity, Trey put the glasses on. To his amazement, Riz looked the same. “WAIT!” Trey jumped off the swing and ran up to Riz. “Oh, cool you want to come?! Awesome!” “No. No, just wait, just listen. Your true face is just you?” “Uhm, I don’t think I...” “How do you see yourself for who you are? Everybody is something else and here you are, just you?” “Hey when did you get glasses? They look good!” “Stop joking around man! Tell me why you look like yourself!!” Trey was beginning to yell. “Chill out my man! Look I don’t know what you’re talking about, but come to the coffee shop and we can hang out!” “Yeah, okay man, I’ll meet you over there.” obviously uninterested, Trey turned around, looking for someone else who appeared the same with his glasses on and off. “Uhm, okay man. See you soon!” Riz walked off, unbothered. Trey walked around the park for another hour, and when he couldn’t find another true face, he sat in front of the fountain in the middle of the park. In the reflection of the water was his father in his Hawaiian shirt and Lei. “Ask.” said his mirror dad. “I don’t get it. How can that loser be the only person who looks normal?” “Rizwan is a young man of few worries or cares. He is unapologetically himself. He will not hide his passions and hobbies. He is willing to face ridicule for his beliefs and ideologies. He does not hide behind a mask, he wears his true face, always.” “But I thought you said everyone has two faces?” “Everyone does, but not everyone chooses to wear their true face. Rizwan has friends that will last a lifetime, he has family that love and support him for who he is. He has faced scrutiny his entire life, being called names for enjoying his books and games, for laughing when something is funny, for being kind when it is easier to be cruel. He has weathered the storm of insecurity, and now the sun shines on his smile. Not even your rejection of his offer was enough to deter his bright mood. There are people in this world who love who they are. Everyone is capable of reaching this level of self-enlightenment, but the battle may only be won by beginning it. Do not be fooled, Treyvon, it is *not* easy to become who you truly are. But it *is* worth the fight.” Trey thought about everything he had seen and heard today, and after some time he investigated the reflection of the fountain. “My dad always called me Treyvon; it was nice to hear it again.” A tear rolled down his cheek as he stood up. “Do you think my dad wore his true face?” “He was one of the few.” Trey smiled. He walked up to his house and wiped his feet on the welcome mat before walking inside. A brown bear roared and wrapped its arms around Trey. Trey took the glasses off with his one free hand and tossed them to the floor. He hugged his mom tighter than he ever had. Tears streamed down her face as her agony erupted from her voice. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without him, Trey. I don’t know how to be strong anymore. Those jurors found him guilty but I know in my heart he didn’t do it, baby.” She was weeping harder now. “I can’t lose you, too. Please baby, don’t you ever leave me.” Trey held her for a few minutes, and finally looked her in her eyes. “Everything is going to be okay. You are the strongest mama bear that I have ever known, and I promise that I’m going to keep you safe from now on. No matter what, I’ll never leave you, okay?” She sniffled and cleared her throat. “Mama bear. You sound like him. You look just like him, you know? So handsome, and so loving. You’re a good boy, baby. He would be so proud of you.” “Not yet, but he will be one day. I’m gonna be just like him. I’m gonna wear my true face.” Trey and his mother spent a few hours together in silence. She would begin to cry randomly throughout the day, and Trey made sure he was there for her. As midnight approached, Trey unlocked his phone, and sent a text. ‘Yo Riz, coffee tomorrow?’ He tossed the phone on his bed, and walked into the bathroom. He closed the door, and looked into the mirror. He saw only himself. He waited a few minutes to be sure his reflection wouldn’t change, and once he was satisfied, he stared deeply into the mirror and said, “Goodbye, Dad. I love you.” James sat in front of a small mirror in his cell. He took the glasses he was wearing off, and tossed them into the mirror. The mirror rippled as if he had thrown a stone into a pond. “Thank you for letting me spend one last day with my son.” James said holding back tears. “You always did right by me, it was the least I could do for you.” said James’ reflection. The mirror rippled once more, and James saw his son before him. “Goodbye, Dad. I love you.” James smiled as tears trickled down his face. A buzzing can be heard from the entrance of the cell. The jail door slides open. “James, it’s time.” said an officer standing in the hall. James took a deep breath, slowed his mind, and stood up. He let the guard hand cuff him and followed him down the hall. At the end of the hallway was a door with words above it. ‘Death Row.


Once again, I was up before my alarm. My ceiling was flaking, that cheap coat of paint didn’t last long. Sitting up I hugged my face with my palms, my tongue running over chapped lips. I sat there for a while, hugging myself as the heat turned on, a soft buzz filling the house. My feet found their way into my house shoes and my body managed to shuffle itself into the bathroom.

I winced at my reflection, quickly splashing handfuls of water onto my skin. I redid my ponytail and brushed my teeth, making myself look at least a little bit more alive. There was a chill in the air as I walked to the living room to start the coffee pot. It was still dark outside but it was almost sunrise, and I wanted to see it. The forecast said it was supposed to rain for the first time in a long time, a sign of the end of winter and the start of fresh spring. I will always prefer rain over snow. It seemed to bring the land to life while snow seemed to want to muffle it in a disguise of white beauty.

Burned coffee beans, overtook the scent of stale air. Filling my mug I took a careful sip, the strong taste of straight black making me grimace. They say it’s an acquired taste, they never say how long it takes to acquire it though and it has been a couple of months. The only reason I drank it was because it was the only thing that made me feel alive for the few hours I needed to leave my domain.

Grabbing a towel I wrapped it around the mug and carried it outside. It was still cold, but not freezing, and seeing as I never come out of a hoodie, it was manageable. I sat down on creaky wood, taking a couple more sips as I watched the sky slowly change colors.

The trees whistled as the wind blew the last remnants of winter off the ground. Taking a deep breath, the soft scent of fresh water enveloped my senses, matching the graying clouds above. A part of me knew I was going to hate the feeling of my soaked clothes if I stayed, but another part of me couldn’t bring myself to get off the front steps. It had been so long since I’d felt the feeling of water droplets against my skin. This winter has been nothing but harsh air that seemed to coat your lungs and leave an ice overlay on every surface. Thunder resonated from afar. I raised my head, ready to feel a cold splatter when instead something soft kissed my cheek. My eyes fluttered open as I looked around, trying to see if a leaf was swept my way when they increased by two sizes at what I saw.

The clouds were still gray, but floating down were multicolored petals, lotus petals. They had the shine as if they were covered in a light glaze of water. Reaching out I let the tip of my finger touch one, an aura of light seeming to encompass it the closer it came.

As soon as it touched my skin, it turned into a swirl of warm flames, dancing onto my hand until it shaped itself into a little girl. She danced along my arm, her movements filled with nothing but joy, until the wind whisked her away. Instantly I was taken back to when I was that young and the only thing that worried me was the sun going down, making me have to go to bed.

Shaking, I reached out to touch a beautiful royal blue petal. At my touch it swirled around my arm, making its way around my neck and to my cheeks, kissing at the tear-marked paths. The sticky feeling was replaced with a light feeling of water.

I immediately choked up, every touch of the petals causing darkness to rise. I spent the entire winter burying my feelings, the memories, the harsh reminders.

Flames of color danced around me and warmth spread through me at the sight. The sight enveloped me, the blustering wind becoming nonexistent. The purples and the red mixed to bring my darkest memories to life. They dissipated into gray shatters, while the other colors came together to bring me hope, kissing my etched wrists, brushing my tears away, weaving themselves through my locks.

I was very aware that this couldn’t be real, that I must still be asleep. Even so, I didn’t care. With each petal, I felt more alive than I have in a long time. Tears fell freely but I didn’t feel sad, I felt relief.

Sobs escaped my lips as I went under a wave of remembrance. It swept through me, the pain, the anger, the sadness. Everything that caused me to use the cold as an excuse to not leave my room. But a flurry of red petals, but not red like the eyes of anger but, red like sunkissed roses, surrounded me. They dissipated in a shower of what I can only say was shimmer.

I closed my eyes, allowing the feeling that they left to comfort me. It made the cold wave evaporate, the memories burning away like aflame photos one after another. A breath I didn’t know I was holding escaped and with that, I felt whole again.

The cracks that decorated my inner being started to bind. My heart, which sent shockwaves of pain through my chest with every pump, became unnoticeable.

Opening my eyes I looked up at the petals turning their natural color. They were still aglow and when I touched them they became wisps of pale pink.

For a few minutes, I remained still as stone, watching each petal fall until the sky turned a soft blue and the rain seized. I stood with fresh energy, feeling new in familiar skin. The wind had stopped, and the sun peaked out, rays of sunlight touching the longing grass. I snapped my head as my alarm rang from inside and took one last moment to take a deep breath before walking inside, not realizing I had completely forgotten about my coffee.


The Lodge was available in Grand Lake, Colorado for a Memorial Day wedding reception. My daughter and her fiancé were thrilled! It made sense to exchange vows in a small, Catholic Church tucked back among Aspen and Evergreens and only a short distance from the sparkling, mountain lake. After all, they sailed competitively on this body of water and now they would sail through a wedding ceremony and, more importantly, a long and happy life together. The guest list was so lengthy that it curled like a grocery receipt. Both families had many friends and none were the same. Shortly after the invitations went out, our daughter and her fiancé rushed into our home to express their delight that most of the invitees had accepted. My husband Sean and I sank deeper into our comfy family room chairs as they told us how excited everyone seemed to be. It appeared that most were willing to travel over a mountain pass for this event. The setting would be beautiful and cooler weather would be a welcome relief from the heat that had arrived in Denver earlier this year. The happy couple walked out and Sean and I looked at each other with quizzical expressions followed by a long moment of silence. “It will be a spectacular wedding,” I said! “You betcha,” was his unenthusiastic response. “And aren’t we fortunate to have retired Monsignor Kelly as the priest,” I commented, faking positivity. “I imagine he’d rather be fishing,” Memorial Weekend, 1995 came in no time, it seemed. The lodge had rental cabins and they were filled rapidly by eager guests. Our family of four arrived to find water a rare commodity in the cabins. A tiny stream oozed out, if lucky. I immediately made up my mind to be the first one up to shower. Never mind the bride. Let her wait. She set this whole thing up. I succeeded to rise early, shower and slip into my pink, crepe ‘Mother-of-the-Bride’ suit before the others arose.

I added a parka to my outfit and walked outside to falling snow and fallen faces. Disgruntled family and friends, upset about the lack of water, flooded me with complaints. Ignore them and carry on, I told myself. Back in our cabin my daughter stood shivering in the wedding dress I had once worn. My husband and son were ready. So, off we drove to the sweet, little mountain church. The place was empty. No one was there, but we were early. There was nothing to worry about. The guests slowly began to enter the church. I looked away when the cabin folks walked in with grim expressions.

A full, freezing church warmed up a bit, but not warm enough by the frozen stares I received. Eventually, all were there except for two important figures in a wedding scenario, the photographer and the priest. News then circulated that the photographer was stuck in snow on top of the mountain pass. A friend who expected to witness a wedding ceremony stood up and rushed to his car. He pulled out a camera from the trunk. How smart I was to invite a former newspaper photographer! A mountain man, friend of the groom, joined him and returned with his guitar. He provided music for the ceremony, strumming and singing Fill my thirst by Bill Stains. Okay, that part was taken care of! But what topped our worry list was the 95-year-old priest, who was to marry them. My thoughts returned to earlier wishes. By now, I could care less whether my daughter and her fiancé sailed happily through life together. Just let them sail through these turbulent wedding ceremony waters successfully. But, the good news was that we now had a guest photographer and a cowboy guitarist, fresh from the pews. The major problem was a missing priest. I stood visualizing all sorts of reasons he wasn’t here, none of them good. Freezing temperature, impassable mountain roads and his age made for unsettling explanations. Sean and I conferred while looking over our guests, shivering on cold, wooden benches in the church, which my daughter and I once thought was quaint with its mountain, woodsy simplicity.

“Who in this crowd could perform the marriage ceremony?” I asked him. “What about the protestant Youth Minister, whose wife dragged him here to witness her friend’s wedding ceremony?” he responded. “I can’t think of anyone better,” I replied. It wasn’t quite legitimate, but we had no other choice so we began to approach him when the crowd heard a loud, angry voice near the church entrance. I could see that we finally had a priest but, not a happy one. “What #%@&^* took my parking place,” he yelled.

The entire congregation had turned, first with feelings of relief, now doubts, to see that the he had finally arrived. The Best Man, brother of the groom and vintage car collector, sheepishly walked to the church entrance, made his confession and went outside to move his 1957 gold Dodge. The ‘going away car’ sped away earlier than planned. He had graciously gotten the priest’s keys, part of his penance, and parked his jeep in the Reserved for Priest space. The priest threw on his vestments and headed down the aisle, waiting to greet the young couple and begin the Wedding Mass. In his fury, he forgot the ceremonial booklet and stumbled through the wedding ritual with my daughter’s help. After all was official, the congregation clapped. and the priest left without a word. At that point, I regrouped and extended my earlier, kind wishes to the newlyweds.

Everyone cheered as they climbed into the gold Dodge, sporting a Just Married sign on the rear, for the drive to the Grand Lake Lodge where they would join family and friends at the reception. Monsignor Kelly walked out of the church in a parka, gloves and boots. He glanced at the couple he had just married. A smile cracked his crusty face and he waved to them. Then, he left for his cabin in the woods. Fishing was on hold, though, for another day. The guitarist wasn’t the only mountain man among the group.

An hour later, a weary, disheveled photographer with all his gear, trudged up a snow-packed path to the little church in the woods. He opened the door, looked around at the empty structure and snapped a picture.


"Grow up; that's what I want him to do," Vic growled as he stormed out of the cabin and off the porch, the squall of anger stinging his head and warming his ears. He blinked at the bang of the screen door he slammed for exclamation.     "Damn her," he mumbled as he stomped along a path leading into the woods. The morning dew felt cool on his sandaled feet and turned the kicked-up dirt into mud on his toes.           How could she bring this up now? This was supposed to be their 5th-anniversary trip. Spend a long weekend at the cabin they first made love in, rekindle the old flame, and remember why they got married in the first place. But she goes and brings up her brother Brad. How he lost his job AGAIN, needs a "small" loan, and might be moving in with them for a while. Brad's a bum; her parents and everyone else have coddled him his whole life. He will never learn to stand on his own two feet unless everyone stops bailing him out.

          Vic was far into the woods when he stopped to catch his breath, the first one he was conscious of since he rushed out of the cabin. He put his hands on his knees then stood up with his hands behind his head, a trick he learned in peewee football. He was quite winded for only having walked a short distance. The cool air dried his mouth, and he licked his lips with all the moisture he could muster.

           He looked up at the azure sky through the bare branches of the trees above him. A tree stump sat in the middle of a glade like the main stage of a theater-in-the-round formed by the surrounding foliage. He sat down on the stump, rested his elbows on his sore knees, and let out a final hard sigh that returned his breathing to normal. He rubbed his fingertips over his eyes, still feeling the itch of early morning. The sweat on his face cooled as a breeze whispered through the leafless trees. His mind couldn't focus on any thought other than how this trip wasn't turning out the way he had imagined.

           He heard footsteps rustling through the woods toward him and felt somewhat vindicated, thinking Wanda had followed him to apologize, not noticing that the steps were coming from a different direction than the cabin. Conjuring up his best look of defiance, he waited for Wanda to appear out of the trees and come running to him filled with remorse and compunction.

           But instead, an old man appeared. He reminded Vic of the old pictures of the miners who flooded San Francisco during the gold rush of the 1840s. A dirty gray beard covered most of  his face, allowing only his nose, eyes, and preternaturally red cheeks to peek through. A brown, frazzled hat sat on top of his head, covering a gray, ochlocratic mass of hair that was peculiarly long for a man his age. Vic's eyes locked with the intruder's and stayed there as the man calmly, almost surreptitiously approached.

    "You look like your mamma done reached out and stung you with a switch young feller," he said in a gravelly voice that seemed to whistle from the breath that carried it.     "No...no," Vic stammered, bewildered by the surreal character standing in front of him. "I'm just out getting a little fresh air...um, do you live around here, I thought this area was pretty darned secluded."     "I live around everywhere, son," the old man said with seeming familiarity, "don't like to call no place home, cause when you do, they can take it away from ya. But if you ain't got no perticular home then there ain't nothing to be taken away. Don't get me wrong, I've had plenty of homes, just none that grew on me enough to make me stay there too long. But, I'll tell you son, I know a troubled young man when I see one, hell I was one myself once"      "Nah...it's just...nothing..I mean my wife and I...no, I'm just getting a little fresh air. Where did you come from?" Vic asked, hoping he had changed the subject.     "Bloomington, Oklahoma, down abouts Greer County. You probably never heard of it have ya. I never even seen it on a map and I been around and seen quite a few maps. They taught us to read maps in the navy, though they was nautical maps, but what's the difference, its just about findin' where you are and findin' where you want to go and figurin' the best way to get there. There's times when we could use a map of life, so we could see where we are and figure out the best way to get where we wanna go.

           "You look like you could use a map just of that sort about now. By the way, what's your name….mine's Nicholas. You think with this beard and all that comes from my lookin' like St. Nicholas, but it doesn't. Nah, my mamma named me after the last Russian Czar, you know the one they murdered, him and his whole family. The killers were the ones who brung in communism to Russia, my mamma used to call them the Bullshits or somethin' like that. She and my daddy left Russia and came here to America right after that group took over. She told me she named me after that Czar because he was the last good leader Russia ever had. I never used to tell people that story, knowin' that most aren't too fond of Russians. Did you know czar is actually a short form of Caesar?" "No, I..uh..didn't…uh…know that," Vic stammered, "but what I meant was where did you come from just now. There is only one road and that ends at the cabin, and there's nothing but woods for miles in every other direction." Vic wondered if he should have mentioned the cabin, still too unnerved by his new companion to relinquish suspicion.     "Well, I's tryin to get through these woods, to go from Route 8 about nine miles back that a way and head over to the next town, maybe find me some work and make some money to live on."  Vic wondered what kind of work a man this old could find.            "That's quite a long walk old-timer, you must have been on the road for some time now."            "Since I was nineteen," Nicholas answered obtusely. "It's a tale I'm none too proud of, but since you're askin', I reckon I can tell you about it."            "No I mean…" Vic attempted.            "Ya see, my older brother, there was just the two of us, was in Vietnam, you know the war. Well, him and some others were on a mission one night when they got ambushed by a group of Charlies. Most of the Americans with my brother was killed, but my brother was only wounded in the leg. Them Charlies took him prisoner and didn't really give a shake about his wound. Well, by the time they brung a doctor to see him, the leg got the gangrene and they had to cut it off, right above his knee. When the war was over, he came back and we saw he had no leg and we was horrified. You see, he was a ballplayer, probably coulda played in the big leagues. But there weren't much call for a one-legged ballplayer. He went to coaching, but you could see he never forgot that he'd lost his chance to be a ballplayer. He said he really felt good about helping those people against the Charlies and that they were real appreciative of the American soldiers who were over there. They was mostly farmers and couldn't fight Charlie themselves. “I admired what my brother done, so I joined the navy. Learned real good how to be a sailor, and I was lookin' forward to being a hero like my brother. And then they told me I was going to Vietnam too."

           "That was probably pretty scary," interrupted Vic. "I guess I better be getting back now, I think I've had enough fresh air."            Nicholas didn't react to Vic's voice. As Vic got up to go the old man sat down on the stump, fixing his stare straight ahead, not looking at anything particular, just looking with a wide-eyed intensity.

           "Anything you need sir, a few bucks or something until you can find that job you're looking for?" Nicholas continued to stare. "Nah, I'm alright," he answered softly, folding his brown hands tipped by cracked, yellow fingernails. Then the old man looked at Vic and forced an ersatz smile, a replacement for the one he had lost long ago.            What the hell, thought Vic, I can go back to the cabin and argue with Wanda, or stay here and listen to this man's war stories. Probably is a bunch of crap, but he looks like he might be entertaining, so I guess I'll humor him. "I imagine you were quite a war hero, huh," Vic patronized.            "Nah," Nicholas responded, his voice regaining volume. "When I was to get on my ship to Vietnam, I kept thinkin' about my brother and how he had lost his leg and I got real scared that I could lose mine or worse, get killed. I told my brother I was thinkin' about not goin' and he told me there were people over there who needed help, how the Charlies were killin' em all. I heard what he was sayin' but couldn't take my mind off where his leg used to be. That night I snuck away, and never went to Vietnam. I been gaddin' about ever since, sometimes livin' in one place for a year or so, when I can find work, but I always been afraid the government would come lookin' for me because of what I done. The old man's hands squeezed together into a two handed fist. "I never went home 'cause I knew my brother would be ashamed of me for runnin' instead of fightin'. But enough about me, I'm just a silly old man, what about you young feller, it was more than fresh air you come lookin' for out here ain't it."

           Vic looked at Nicholas and his feelings changed from amusement to pity for the old guy.            "I'm sure the government quit searching for you. Me, well I just had a little spat with the missus, you know how it is."            "No, I don't son. Never been married myself. Movin' around like I do it's hard to find a woman. I had a girl though, but when I took off, I didn't even call her. I always wished I'd a written her a note or somethin' explaining everything. She was very beautiful and sweet. Many a times I wondered what happened to her, whether she was married and if she had kids and all. We had talked about getting' married when I got out of the navy, but like I said, when I took off…" Nicholas' head slowly bowed down as he spoke and he was talking to the ground now, oblivious to whether Vic was still listening or not. Vic pawed at the dried leaves with his foot, both to fight how uncomfortable he felt and to determine if Nicholas still knew he was there.            "I’m sure she is doing fine,” Vic mumbled, swallowing dryly, wishing again to change the subject. “My wife is beautiful and sweet too, heck sometimes she’s too sweet and let’s others take advantage of her. Take her brother, for example, he is a no-good bum, but every time he needs help she gives it to him. I tell her that she has to say no to him sometime or he will always take advantage of her,” Vic wondered if he should have used the word bum. “That’s what I’m doing out here in the woods, I had a fight with my wife over her agreeing to let her shiftless brother come stay with us until he can find a new job; I’m sure he was fired from the one he had. And it’s not just her family, she is always donating money to some cause or another. I tell her most of them are rip-off artists and that they are just after money to get rich on, but…” Vic felt his voice rise and his ears get warm. He saw the old man looking at him with a pathetic look on his face. Great, Vic thought, I’ve gained the sympathy of some homeless tramp, I must sound pitiful.” “You ever seen movies of the Hindenburg goin’ down?” Nicholas asked suddenly. “Well, sure I have, they always show that old news reel of it crashing in a ball of flames,” Vic responded glad the conversation was moving on. “I really must be going now, nice to meet you Nicholas, good luck.” “That crash killed 36 folks, but I mean have you actually looked at the movies?” A confused grimace and a shrug were all Vic could muster, now feeling discomfited as well as confused. “Most people look at the big dirigible and the fire and all that. But if you look at the folks on the ground, you see they was doing different things. Some of them was running from the Hindenburg, while others were running toward it. That’s all there is to it. Those are the only two kinds of people in the world, those who run to the Hindenburg and those who run from it.” A single tear ran from the old man’s eye and disappeared into his beard before reappearing as it leaped from his chin and landed on the dried leaves below. “Well, take care,” Vic said as he patted Nicholas on the shoulder and started to walk away. He turned once to look back and saw that Nicholas was still sitting on the stump, head down, eyes fixed on the ground.            Vic picked his pace up and headed back to the cabin, noticing that the sun’s heat was gaining intensity as it continued to burn off the morning haze. He was almost jogging, listening to his feet crackle against the terrain. When he spotted the cabin, something caused him to stop and look back, but he was too far away, and the woods were too thick for him to see Nicholas in the clearing. He continued to look for a few minutes, trying to figure the whole thing out, then started briskly toward the cabin, hopped up the steps, and went inside, gently closing the screen door behind him. He entered the bedroom where Wanda was folding clothes and putting them into a suitcase that lay open on the bed. “We could clear out my den, and Brad could stay in there until he gets back on his feet,” Vic said in a low voice so as to not startle Wanda. She dropped the shirt she was holding onto the bed, walked over to Vic and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face on his shoulder. Vic embraced her and felt the tingle that always accompanied her touch. He caressed the back of her head with his hand. A tear escaped from his eye, ran down his cheek, leaped from his chin, and landed on the dry, wooden floor below.


1 st person: My legs burnt from the long climb but the tyrant’s surprise and dread at seeing me made it all worth it. After months of on and off fighting, I realized this would be my final stand. Win or lose, no in between. I couldn’t afford to lose, I had a kingdom to rule. This selfish woman wanted to usurp my throne, however, I was determined to defend it with my life. She used to be my lover, my soulmate; every time I called her “my princess” she would blush so sweetly. We had planned our wedding for years but when my father died it had been postponed. I was the only son; the crown was mine to take. I wanted to rule and bring prosperity and wealth to my kingdom. Naturally, I accepted the crown. I had just scaled the hill this pitiful woman had taken refuge on and my breath was heavy. I could see her slowly backing away from me, fear evident in her wide eyes. A single tear rolled down her cheek. 3 rd person: A huge crowd started gathering at the foot of the hill. Two figures could be seen on top. One was our beloved queen, the other a deranged madman. Five months ago, when the king had died, the young prince had taken control of the kingdom. At first, we had been glad to have a strong and young ruler but we soon learnt just how misleading appearances could be. He had been too young to take the crown, too inexperienced, too eager. He had declared war on nonviolent countries and attempted peace with bloodthirsty ones. He had brought a wave of destruction and horror to our weak kingdom. We had all started to lose hope. Nevertheless, when a woman had stepped up to correct the impossible situation, the light of hope had shone brighter than ever. A charismatic, beautiful, young girl. She wasn’t yet of age but after only a few treaties and gifts she had managed to calm the kingdom’s new, raging enemies. She had always worn a cheerful smile and encouraged us, she had promised that a brighter future was just around the corner, waiting for us. We had believed her and loved her, she had been an angel fallen to earth. The prince had been supposed to marry her but he strongly disagreed with the peace treaties she had made without alerting him. She had risked angering her king to shield us from the horrors of war and our gratitude was immense. We would have done anything to save her. However, as we all stared up at the hilltop, tears in our eyes, we understood we could do nothing to protect her. The prince clutched a dagger in his left hand and she backed away, even from so far away we could all see her legs shaking. 1 st person: “Why did you do it? Why did you betray me? We could have loved each other, a kingdom at our feet. You and I, queen and king.” I asked her desperately. I wished for nothing more than to hear her say sorry. “You were destroying your father’s kingdom, I had to do something, I was the only one that could save them.” She replied between sobs. I could see that a crowd had gathered below us, good, they would see me end this tyranny. 3 rd person: It is said that the prince went mad after his father’s death. No one had seen him mourn but we all knew just how much his father meant to him. The prince’s mother had died while giving birth to him and his father had grown him without marrying a second wife. We had also seen the young couple, now trapped in a deadly dance, stroll through the castle, hand in hand. Head over heels for each other. She was a mere a villager but she had captured his royal heart. We had enjoyed watching this young couple fall in love with each other, each day more. Simultaneously, we all gasped as our prince lunged, aiming with the dagger for her stomach. She backed away quickly but tripped on her white, long dress. On their wedding day the queen had been forced to flee. The naïve prince had threatened to declare war to yet another rich city. He had wished for money beyond anyone’s dreams. Jewels and territories. She had tried to talk sense into him but he had refused to listen. We had all heard the shouts when she run away from the palace, already in her wedding gown. He had threatened her life, his words cutting through the air so loudly the castle servants had heard. “Cross me another time and I will make sure you won’t say another word”. A humble family had given her safe heaven in their farm but evidently the steep climb and wooden fence hadn’t been enough to keep the prince from finding her. He had been utterly enraged at her escape and when he had ordered his guards to kill her and they had refused, he had gone after her himself. The tension in the air was almost palpable. It was obvious the crowd wished to surge forward and save their queen but they knew that wasn’t possible. 1 st person: In a heartbeat I was standing on top of her, my knife to her throat. I watched as a droplet of blood fell down her neck. The crowed screamed, I knew they wanted their king to end this peasant’s life but I needed to enjoy the moment and take my time. “Do you not regret it? Do you not wish to have used the people to obtain all the gold and glory there is?” I asked her, incredulous of her stupid choices. “A king doesn’t use his people, he leads them, he kneels at their feet and does as they wish. A king is there to make his kingdom powerful, a king isn’t elected to steal and condemn his warriors to a pathetic death.” She spat in my face these arrogant words. But I had enough of her stupid preaching. She may take the high road but I would never believe her words. With one swift motion, I plunged the sharp dagger deep into her chest. She gasped softly and uttered her last words in a barely audible whisper. “A good king protects his people with his life, a bad king kills his people to protect his life. You killed me because you couldn’t kill your regrets, you cannot save the people you sent to die, you cannot save the people that are dead because of you.” Her words hit me like a blow but the weeping and wailing of the crowd was what made me realize just how wrong I had been. I stared at the bloody dagger, tears cascading down my face. I had just wanted to make my father proud. Without thinking, I touched the pointy dagger to my chest. I had killed her, I had killed the love of my life. I had condemned them, I had condemned the people I was supposed to protect. Then, all went dark as I plunged the blade into my heart.


Once upon a time, there was a woman that misplaced her house keys. She couldn’t find a way into her house. She looked underneath the doormat but it wasn’t there. A few weeks back, she lost her original house key and used a backup key. She never created a copy nor did she found her original key. Now her backup key is gone. Every square inch of her home was heavily secured from the doorknob to the toilet. Even the fridge had security and so did the water sprinklers and the air conditioner. Breaking into the house was impossible. The woman couldn’t come up with any else to do except to break in. At first, she tried to throw a brick at one of her windows. The windows were bulletproof and ended up shattering the brick. She tried to pick the lock in her home but the doorknob electrocuted her. Poor woman. She forgot that the chimney also has security. She climbed onto the roof of the home so she could Santa Claus her way down the chimney. But then she forgot the chimney had motion detection security. Every time someone tried to enter the home from the chimney, it spewed out black smoke. And so that was what happened. After being nearly knocked off the roof by the smoke, she came down and walked towards the back of the home. There was a problem. The back of the house had a fence that was covered in thorny vines and hissing venus flytraps. She also had three giant black panthers and a teacup Yorkie securing the back of the house. They were all gazing at her ready to come at her if she made it over the thorny fence. The house wouldn’t budge. That was when the woman had to be creative. She tried everything. She tried knocking the doorknob off the door but the doorknob was made of solid steel and wouldn’t come off the door. She rented a crane so she could break into the house with a wrecking ball. It didn’t work. The house was destruction-proof. She planted dynamite around the house and waited for it to blow up but the house stood still. The house was bomb-proof, tornado-proof, earthquake-proof, zombie apocalypse-proof, black hole-proof, radiation-proof, waterproof, floodproof, and the firey-pits-of-hell-proof. Nothing could destroy the home. Getting ready to give up and sleep on the lawn for the night, someone opened the door. It was her husband. The husband stepped outside after hearing some “noises.” When he saw her, he waved. “How’s your day?” The house was noise-proof so even if there was a war going on outside, no one in the house would know. She yelled back, “You were in the house the entire time!” The husband was too deep in his Doritos to notice his wife outside. She was livid. Her husband stood there staring at her while munching on a bag of Doritos in his Dorito-stained shirt, “Oh…You should’ve rung the doorbell.” The woman growled and stormed into the house with her smokey face, soiled clothing, and hair. Not a single word was exchanged that day after that embarrassing hour. That night, the husband slept on the couch.