Jonah stared at the open textbook on his desk, the words blurring together into an incomprehensible jumble. He blinked hard, trying to force his exhausted brain to focus. 2:37 AM. He had been at this for hours, desperately reviewing material for his Practical Interpretation final exam tomorrow morning. With a heavy sigh, Jonah leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He should've started studying days ago, but he had put it off again and again, convinced he could cram it all in at the last minute. Now the moment of truth was fast approaching, and Jonah was utterly unprepared. He glanced resentfully out the window at the darkened quad below his dorm room. Other students were likely sleeping peacefully, finished with their own exam prep. Meanwhile, Jonah was stuck here, anxiety churning in his gut as the weight of his procrastination fully sank in. He couldn't fail this test. As a scholarship student from a poor family, Jonah desperately needed to keep his grades up. One mark could jeopardise everything he had worked for just to get here. With a shake of his head, Jonah tried to clear his spiralling thoughts. He just needed to focus. One chapter at a time. He could do this. Taking a deep breath, Jonah began reading aloud from the dense textbook chapter on "Reality Confluence: Navigating Perceptual Frontiers of the Modern Age." He sounded out the complicated words slowly, hoping the act of speaking would help cement the concepts in his mind. "In the ontological fabric of the multiverse, emergent phenomena..." A sudden scraping sound from the hallway made Jonah jump. He paused, listening closely. It sounded like something heavy being dragged across the floor. He calmed himself, took a deep breath, and pushed the bowl of chocolates away. Chocolates made him jumpy in excess. Jonah hit excess before midnight. Curious, Jonah cracked open his door and peered out. At the far end of the hallway, he could see the old janitor, Thaddeus, struggle to lift a floor waxing machine in the communal lounge. Jonah watched as Thaddeus shoved the electric behemoth onto the ping-pong table. Like a gunslinger, he flourished his spray bottle and liberally spritzed the ping-pong table. Jonah wrinkled his nose at the pungent odour of solvent wafting down the hallway. Why was Thaddeus waxing the table at 3 AM? It solved a mystery of why the ping-pong tables had turned yellow and the bottom edge of the nets was always missing. Shaking his head, Jonah retreated to his room. Hendrix College could be an odd place sometimes. Glancing back at his desk, Jonah felt his motivation drain away. He was so tired. His eyes could barely focus on the tiny text swimming across the pages. Maybe he should try again after a quick nap... No! Jonah sat up sharply. He couldn't give in to exhaustion now. He had to keep reviewing if there was any hope of passing this test. With new determination, Jonah turned back to the open textbook. "The paradoxical landscapes of simultaneous existence and non-existence..." Jonah's eyes fatigued quickly. His gaze drifted to the window. Sometimes focusing on something distant helped. The quad below was bathed in silvery moonlight. It looked so peaceful out there. Jonah imagined himself lying on the grass, staring up at the night sky and listening to the gentle breeze. A lump formed in his throat. He never should have put off studying for so long. Now here he sat, trapped and frantic, while the rest of the world slept on in blissful ignorance. Sometimes Jonah wondered if he had made a mistake coming to Hendrix at all. He wasn't like most of the other students - born into money with bright futures assured. He was here on scholarship, barely scraping by while trying to navigate classes far beyond his small-town high school education. The whirring of the waxing machine stopped, but only for a moment. Maybe it was foolish to think he could handle this intense academic pressure. As freshman year dragged on, Jonah kept putting off declaring a major. He was terrified of committing himself to a field of study only to fail spectacularly. The weight of that decision paralysed him. A sudden tapping jerked Jonah from his spiralling reverie. He looked over to see a fat squirrel perched on the outside windowsill, peering in curiously. As Jonah watched in surprise, the squirrel tapped its little paws against the glass again. It looked frantic. It mimed for Jonah to open the window. "Shoo, get out of here!" Jonah waved his arms, but the squirrel didn't move. The squirrel turned its head and regarded Jonah with one eye, then the next. Its tiny fingers straining against the window. Its muscles twitched as it tried to force it open. With a sigh, Jonah relented. To his astonishment, with only an inch gap, the squirrel immediately twisted inside, scurried across his desk, and snatched one of his mother's chocolate chip cookies before leaping down and scurrying to the door. Clutching the cookie in its greedy paws, the squirrel looked expectantly at Jonah as if waiting to be let out. "Unbelievable. I was saving those." Jonah muttered. He cautiously opened the door, keeping his legs as far from the squirrel as possible. What could it harm? Maybe it would interrupt Thaddeus' work and give Jonah some much needed piece. Tonight kept getting weirder and weirder. Jonah shook his head to clear it. He couldn't let himself get derailed. His exam was in less than eight hours now. He had to keep studying. Squaring his shoulders, Jonah sat down and resumed reading from the textbook. He made it a full paragraph further before a faint, but distinct smell made him wrinkle his nose. Was that... cigar smoke? Jonah glanced around in confusion. His dorm was non-smoking, and he knew the fire alarm had a hair-trigger. The last thing Jonah wanted was to lose an hour of study time while the fire department searched through the dorm. Where was that smell coming from? Sniffing the air, Jonah traced the odour outside his room to the janitor's closet. That was impossible. There was no way someone was smoking cigars in the tiny space. Right...? Tentatively, Jonah eased open the closet door. A dozen beady eyes stared back at him. Jonah blinked in disbelief. In the dark closet, a circle of squirrels stood around an old, ragged-edged shoe box. They quickly hid their tiny cigars behind their backs. Jonah stood frozen, unable to process the bizarre scene before him. The squirrels stared at the one with the cookie. One of the squirrels finished its cigar in a few quick puffs before tossing the butt aside, snatched the cookie, and scampering toward the closet door on its little legs. Heart pounding, Jonah looked around wildly for something, anything, to defend himself from the tiny cigar-smoking mammal. But the squirrel merely tilted its head, studying Jonah curiously with its shining black eyes. Jonah scrabbled backward in alarm as the squirrel tossed the nibbled cookie at Jonah's feet, then pushed the door closed, sealing the other squirrels back inside. Jonah held perfectly still, barely daring to breathe. His mind reeled. There were a couple of nattering noises, then the sound of a match being struck. Jonah jerked back in horror. This had to be a hallucination brought on by stress and lack of sleep. Squirrels didn't do—well—whatever that was! A cold sweat broke out across Jonah's skin as the implications sank in. The chocolate coins - had they been laced with some kind of drug? Is that why he was now hallucinating wildly? Jonah raced to his room, and frantically threw out the remaining cookies, along with the chocolate coins and M&M's he'd been snacking on earlier. His heart pounded as he stared at the innocuous baked goods in the bin. What had he unknowingly ingested? What had his mom cooked? Terrified and paranoid, Jonah began ransacking his room, looking for clues about who could have done this to him. Finding nothing, he rushed to the bathroom and vigorously scrubbed his hands and face. The drug could have been transmitted through touch. He had to remove any lingering residue. Jonah stared at his wild-eyed reflection in the mirror. They were bloodshot, almost jaundiced yellow. He needed gloves immediately. Anything his bare hands touched could be contaminated, even his textbook. He raced back to his room and tore through his dresser, finally unearthing a pair of old winter gloves. He tugged them on, his breath coming in panicked gasps. But he couldn't take any chances. Safely gloved, Jonah hurried back to his desk. He glanced around warily before sinking down and pulling the textbook toward him. The chapter title seemed to waver mockingly before his eyes: "Reality Confluence: Navigating Perceptual Frontiers of the Modern Age." Jonah swallowed hard. He had to pull it together and keep studying through whatever nightmare drug trip was happening to him. The exam was still coming, hallucinations or not. He just had to make it through the next few hours. Blinking slowly against the headache pounding behind his eyes, Jonah focused on the open textbook. "Temporal variances become non-linear differentials..." he read aloud, the technical words jumbling together meaninglessly. His eyelids grew heavier, the text blurring before him. Jonah's head sank down onto the open book as exhaustion finally overwhelmed his adrenaline-fuelled panic. "Just need to rest my eyes for a minute," he mumbled. "Then I'll keep studying..." *** Jonah blinked groggily as sunlight streamed through his window directly on his face. He sat up slowly, grimacing as the textbook pages stuck to his cheek peeled off in a crinkly mess. Disoriented, he glanced at his clock before panic jolted through his body. 11:31 AM. The exam had started an hour ago! Jonah leapt to his feet, sending his chair crashing backward. He was still wearing the gloves; he realised numbly. Frantically shaking off the lingering sleep, he ripped the gloves off. The clothes he had been wearing were quickly stripped off, and he threw on the first items he could grab out of his dresser. He glanced desperately around the room but saw no lingering evidence of the bizarre hallucinatory night. Out the window, students milled around the sunny quad as if nothing was amiss. Thoughts racing, Jonah sprinted across campus to the exam building. He got turned around and had to double back before finally arriving, panting and sweaty, outside the right classroom. After bracing himself for a long moment, Jonah creaked open the door. Rows of students sat hunched over their tests, the only sound the scratching of pencils on paper. Miraculously, the professor still sat nonchalantly at his desk. Jonah cleared his throat awkwardly. "Sorry I'm late," he croaked out. "I, uh, overslept." A few students looked up. Some shook their heads. The professor raised an eyebrow before beckoning Jonah forward. The professor picked up a chair from the side of the room, set it next to his chair, and motioned for Jonah to sit. There were a few snickers. Face burning, Jonah slid into the chair and took the test packet from the professor with trembling fingers. He stared at the questions before him in dismay. The professor set the exam timer in front of Jonah. Thirteen minutes left on the ninety-minute timer. Despite all his frantic studying, Jonah retained nothing. The technical jargon from last night's textbook may as well have been in another language. Jonah could barely comprehend the exam prompts, much less form coherent answers. As the last minute ticked down, Jonah scrawled the only words that came to mind in the empty essay boxes: "Sometimes reality is beyond understanding."


Disclaimer: This story contains sex trafficking and Suicide “The world is a dark and dangerous place.”

That's what everyone says. That's what everyone believes. I guess that’s what happens when you live in this type of world. Let me start over. I am known as 14. We’re not supposed to talk about our birth names, I have a hard time remembering mine anyway. When I was 4 years old, I was taken and sold into the ring. The ring where we are kept in cages like animals. hung upside down for hours on end. Raped. Left shaking, cold and alone after being abused. All these awful things, but today has to be the worst.

I woke up this morning shivering with tears running down my face. I had a nightmare. A nightmare that I could wake up from, only to wake up into a different nightmare, one that I couldn’t even dream of escaping. Today we are being forced to eat the remains of one of our peers. She had hung herself. I can’t help but feel anger towards her. She chose the selfish way out, now the rest of us will be punished. I wouldn’t call her a friend. We don’t have friends. We’re sold and cycled through the ring too rapidly to make any connections. The girl was named 110. I had met her briefly. She didn’t speak. I left her alone. She had a sister I'd met weeks before. They were driven mad by the idea of finding each other in the ring. Everyone knows once you lose someone they are gone. Me and the girls sat in a circle around her body. I heard girls whispering under their breaths. Curses, Prayers. Some were silent, others were crying. Afterwards we were given some grace by our handlers by being returned to our cages for a moment of rest. We were to keep silent. I feel numb, Twiddling the bobby pin I'd found on the floor while I was being moved to this unit. It is all I have. I am comforted by this object because it is mine. It is all I have. It is only important to me because I am not allowed to have it, but that’s what makes it special.

I hear girls sobbing quietly to themselves. I know they’re all trying to hold their vomit in, in fear we’ll be punished for being sick. I am kept on the very top of the pile of broken girls. I feel all their pain beneath me, and I feel nothing towards them. Or maybe I just don’t want to. Being numb is the only way to survive this place.

I hear the girl under me whispering. Only then I realized it was for me. “Hey, what’s that you have?” she whispered, staring at my bobby pin. Oh no “It’s nothing.” I say, quickly closing it in my hand. The girl starts rambling about a great escape, her voice getting louder and louder. “Hey, shut the hell up, Okay?!” I whisper aggressively down at her. She gets quiet, I don’t hear another peep from her. I start thinking. I know I have to get out of here. I have to try, or I'm going to end up like 110. I deserve a chance at life, so do all of these girls. I’ve had this fantasy for a while. Of being left alone without a handler, finding our way out of the underground, getting in contact with the police. Just something to get out of here.

Left alone without a handler… I look to my left and to my surprise the handler has fallen asleep.

You know what. “Fuck it” I say loud enough for the girl below me to here. She looks up at me puzzled. “We’re going to get out of here or we are going to die trying.” I say, I'm shaking but putting on my brave face. “It’s about time too.” She says gesturing for the bobby pin.

I’m hesitant to give it to her, worried she’ll leave me for dead, but I take my chances. I don’t know how to pick a lock.

She stuffs the bobby pin into the keyhole, quietly wiggling it around. After a few seconds I begin to lose hope. At last, the lock clicks and her cage slowly open. I hear a few girls gasp from below, but they are careful to keep their mouths shut in hopes the girl will help them escape as well. She slowly crawls out of her cage, careful not to make any noise that will wake our handler up. She stands up slowly, letting the muscles in her legs get used to being stretched out like that again. I hold my breath. The girl looks to be taking a minute to think. “Please don’t leave us.” I say, I feel pathetic begging like this, but she is our only hope. The girl looks worried but lets out a breath and starts picking my lock. I feel a tear roll down my face. For the first time in years, I have hope. My lock clicks, my door opens. I am free for now, but we must be careful to keep it that way.

We start making our way down the pile letting girls out. The girls then wait at the bottom of the pile for everyone to be freed. The one with the bobby pin is opening one of the last cages when the lock falls to the floor, making a loud clicking sound. The handler is startled awake. He looks at us, puzzled as to how we got out. He opens his mouth to yell out, when one of the older girls snaps his neck. We all stare at her in shock as she slowly lowers his body to the ground. She looks at her hands, disgusted by what she has done, but looks up and nods at us, encouraging us to keep going.

All the girls are freed. We stand at the bottom. We share our names. Our real names.

I take the key from the guard and open the door to the tunnels. For once in our lives, we have a chance. We can make it out of this tunnel and be free. Or we can die trying.


“Molly’s Rocking Chair” Molly Stanley tied her little boy to the rocking chair. Theodore was a runner and she didn’t want him getting to the railroad tracks. As her only child he was a precious thing if there ever was one. So Theodore sat tied to that chair and he rocked. He rocked and he giggled, dreaming of running off to places his tiny mind couldn’t realistically conjure up. Theodore then proceeded to do what everyone does if they are lucky, he grew. But grow as he may have, the rocking chair remained a constant friend. He sat there at night as he read by the fire, he sat there after school and contemplated the cruelties of little children and he sat there and rocked pensively as his mother slowly died just after his 18th birthday. Molly’s shadow would linger over him each time he sat in the chair for the rest of his days. In the midst of his grief Theodore found love. Anna Lee stole his heart and repaired so completely that it astounded him. She took his name and they cemented their love. The child arrived the same week he got a letter from the president inviting him on an all-expenses paid vacation overseas in exchange for some light work. He cradled his little Josephine and shed a single tear for the time he’d lose as he read the letter and rocked. Theodore got a strange surprise as he began his service, this work made sense to him. Something about the sameness of routine just felt right. He was slightly shaken when he saw combat, but he found he could adjust. He rose steadily through the military ranks and saw parts of the world he’d only read of in books. He would come home on leave to Anna Lee and bounce Josephine on his knee as he rocked in the comfort of his chair and marveled at the brisk passage of time. He’d sit there and think about the distant lovers he’d had that he’d never speak of again and tried to push the guilt down beneath his feet as if he could walk on it. As naturally as Theodore took to military life, war finds a way to take its toll on everyone. For him it was the unfortunate presence of a landmine where his jeep happened to be driving. As these things go, Theodore was lucky. His life and limbs were mostly spared, both legs broken and one hand so damaged it would never be quite right again but he’d escaped with his life and could only be grateful. The recovery was difficult and lonely. The only comfort was letters from home. Anna Lee wrote of Josephine’s progress in school and funny things she’d said at bedtime. There were no passionate declarations of love or longing, making him wonder if she was suspicious of something, but he knew they would never discuss it. At long last his injuries had healed and his military days were over. He emerged from his long absence a slightly different man, old friends remarked how the wanderlust that had characterized his youth had all but vanished. It was replaced by a simple desire to remain in one place and be near his family. He would spend his days running a small grocery store and his nights in the rocking chair reading novel after novel and nursing a large cup of black coffee that somehow never managed to disrupt his sleep. The years went by and things didn’t change much. Theodore’s hair turned grey and Josephine married and had six kids of her own. The store served him well enough until he couldn’t ignore retirement anymore. More free time meant a great deal more time in the rocking chair, reflecting on choices and wondering if there was anything worth changing if such a thing were possible. He would watch baseball games and try to interest Anna Lee in the finer points of the sport but she mostly ignored him. Anna Lee stayed by his side even as arguments became a regular feature of their marriage. She found something to fight with him about almost daily. The pangs of guilt he hadn’t managed to suppress told him he deserved it. Somewhere in the neighborhood of his mid-seventies Theodore’s health began to fail him. He still held court from his rocking chair but his voice was weakening and he could no longer bounce the great grandchildren on his knee. He rocked back and forth reflecting on the life he’d lived, he considered himself very lucky and thanked whatever force happened to be in charge for his good fortune. He had hoped to die in the rocking chair but his body didn’t afford him that luxury. Instead he died in a hospital, though by the end his mind was foggy enough he believed he was in the chair anyway, tied to it again with Mother Molly by his side. Theodore’s family grieved for him full heartedly for a long time, but grief like every feeling dulls with time and eventually it was time to decide what was to become of his possessions. The only one anyone seemed to care about was the rocking chair. Anna Lee for her part couldn’t bear to see it sit empty, let alone to sit in it herself. So it passed to Josephine. She gave it a place of honor in her home and told each visitor how it was Daddy’s favorite chair and how great Grandma Molly would tie him to it to keep him from running away. The chair held up remarkably well through the years as it endured children rocking in it too hard and spilled drinks. It also continued its longtime function as a place of reflection. Josephine’s grandson sat in it the night his grandfather died and vowed to remember the rhythm of the chair and the feeling of despair forever. He would sit in it again as an adult and try to imagine the kind of man his great grandfather was as the memories of those who knew him evolved into myth. Josephine told him that if that rocking chair could somehow find a way to talk it could probably tell more about Theodore than anyone. If only.


I stared at the woman with bloodshot eyes; my lips were cracked from weeks of exposure to the harsh, wasteland elements, my skin coarse and sand-blasted, my clothing was ragged and filled with holes. I thought I was the last one alive. I've not seen another living soul in... I don't even know anymore. Whoever the nukes didn't kill, the wasteland finished off. And yet there she was. A woman in her 40s wearing a spotless white suit, grey streaks in her jet-black hair giving her an aura of dignity and elegance while her round sunglasses gave her an air of mystery. It almost looked like she was having a picnic - a small table with tea, two chairs, umbrella above it all for shade. I didn't even know where to begin to understand. "Oh come now, David, I won't bite. I even have biscuits," she said warmly. Her voice was slightly raspy, yet pleasing to the ear, calming. It exuded warmth. "How... how do you know-" I tried to ask, but a coughing fit interrupted me. "Please, sit. The tea is perfect. I know you haven't drunk anything clean in quite a while." I wanted to resist, to question, to scream, but I was too tired, too hungry, too thirsty. I fell into the comfortable, cushioned chair as if my body weighed a tonne. She handed me a porcelain cup filled with tea and I desperately lapped it up; it tasted like heaven after surviving on polluted water for so long. She refilled my cup without a word. "How do you... *akh akh*... how do you know my name? Who are you?" I finally asked, reinvigorated by the tea. "You have questions; I understand. There will be a time for me to explain all of it in detail later," she said. "Am I dead? Or hallucinating? You can't be here, I mean. You're... clean, normal. You have tea for fuck's sake," I said with as much gusto as I could muster. "David! Language," she frowned momentarily before returning to her previous, relaxed smile. "You're not dead. But you are the last human alive. Good job on surviving, mind you. Have a biscuit," she said and I hungrily accepted. "How bo yu-" I started but decided to swallow first, "how do you know that? *Who are you*?" I insisted. "God. Well, *a* God. The details are complicated," she smiled gently. There was something immensely soothing about her presence. "*Oh*," I said. There was a time when I'd scream and question the claim; I'd shake her, demand answers, accuse her of all the wrongs, beg forgiveness. Those times are gone. I've seen too much, did too much. I was too tired to doubt it. "We sure fuc- - messed things up, didn't we?" I said, defeated. "Truthfully, I've seen worse outcomes. Death is a mercy compared to some fates," she remarked ominously. Another coughing fit seized me; when I pulled my hand away from my mouth, it was entirely covered in blood. I looked at her; she saw it. "Radiation, right? I suppose I don't have long," I said with a weak smile. "You don't. I'm sorry." There was genuine grief and sorrow in her voice. "Will it hurt?" I asked. "I'll make sure it won't." "Thank you," I said and looked at the dark brown horizon. We sat in silence for a moment while I chewed another biscuit. It was amazing. "What happens next?" I said, eyes still locked at the horizon. "That's why I am here, David," she said and sipped the tea. I looked over to her, a new wave of confusion rising through me. "What do... what do you mean by that?" "I know what you've done these past few years, David. You know what conclusion I came to?" she asked curiously. My heart sank. "No," I whispered. "You're a good man." My eyes darted up to meet hers; she took the sunglasses off. Her eyes were... it was as if they were filled with milky fog, white with different hues of colour lining it, constantly shifting, moving. "You're wrong. I don't care if you're a god. I'm not," I said sternly. "You tried to help when possible," she said. "I stole." "You shared." "I killed." "When no other option existed." "I KILLED MY WIFE FOR FUCKS SAKE!" I yelled and threw the cup into the desert; tears flowed from my eyes, a mixture of anger and grief filling my being to the brim, ready to burst. "I know," she said softly with slightly raised eyebrows; a mixture of pity and understanding. "I also know that she was in pain and there was nothing you could do to help her. It was mercy," she said kindly and I slouched back into my chair, sobbing softly. "Why are you telling me this? What do you want from me?" I whispered. "I want your help." "With what?" I looked up and wiped the tears from my eyes. "The next one," she said. "There is much you could help me with, make the next one better, avoid all... this," she said and waved her hand towards the wasteland, the sand, the broken skyscrapers. "Because you're good. Flawed, yes, *but still good*. I need that perspective. And you deserve a break," she finished with a soft chuckle. I pondered the offer for a moment. "Can I even refuse?" I asked. "Of course. You'll pass into the afterlife gently if you do. It's an offer, not a command," she smiled. I looked back at the world. My world. Broken beyond repair. The rivers evaporated, the lush green forests burned. All that we've made, all that made us great, vanished in the nuclear blasts, and what survived withered away in the wasteland. We could do better. I know we could. "Will I see my wife again, in the afterlife?" I asked softly. "You will. Even if you decide to help me. I'm... I understand how you value her." I paused for a moment, thinking. But what was there to think about. "Alright. Where do we begin?" I asked with a newfound resolve. "No need to rush, David. You've earned some respite," she smiled and put her sunglasses back on before handing me a new cup of tea. "For now, sit with me. Drink some tea. Watch the world end with me," she smiled and raised a cup to her lips. Sounds good to me, I thought and took a sip.


          Chocolate Milk Naps  by Eliana Smith

If Beatrice could go back and turn back time, you best believe she would. She would have started at the ripe age of 7. She would have done some things the same like staying at her Grammy's every summer, but some things differently like staying away from the older neighbor boy who knew more about life than she did at the time. She would brush her Grammy's hair more often and hold her papas hand during prayer. She would pet her now deceased dog frequently and play with her dolls only in the afternoon. She would love her mother harder and not be so harsh to her father. She would be kinder to her younger brother and hug him tighter. She would never have chosen that girl over her mother. She would have never picked up that can of alcohol and never drawn blood on purpose. She would have never said ¨i love you¨ to that boy and never have gone to that dance. She would have done a lot of things, if Bea could have turned back time, but if she could do it all over again she would have loved herself more if anything.

Bea grew up in a medium sized house on east 12th street in a small town named Rifle. The town wasn't very exciting, it's depressing, sort of if you don't make the most of it. Everyone there knew everyone even if you didn't you still knew everyone because everyone's name was always in someone's mouth that it didn't belong to. That's why the town sucked, but if you looked hard enough you could find beauty in the hidden gems, the thick forests, the beautiful creeks and rivers, the parks and street lamps at night after everyone has fallen asleep and not even a cricket dared disturb the peace. There was beauty that laid within but only if you ventured out. Bea lived at her Grammy's house in the summer. She would wake up every day at 6am and brave the cool morning air, she would exit her house and feel the crisp wind wrap around her, the breeze of sprinkler water drops coat her skin, and the dewy smell of rain that still lingered on the flowers outside of her medium sized orange house. Bea would get in the car and watch out the window as she passed dead street lamps, stray cats, morning joggers, and tired oil field workers on their way to work from Kum and Go. When she arrived at the end of the drive at her grandmothers she was pleased to see that her Grammy was waiting for her and her little brother on the sidewalk with a humongous grin and welcoming arms. Nothing would ever replace or amount up to seeing her Grammy in such a happy healthy state. Her days consisted of playing in the turtle shaped sandbox with her brother when he wasn't occupied in a wheelchair, eating ice cream and playing board games, but her favorite part was when she got to listen to her Grammy read the children's bible while her and her brother laid on the patched up couch and drank chocolate milk until their bellies filled and their consciousness floated into a deep slumber. After the day had ended and the sun set she would ride home for dinner and wait until grogginess once again took her by surprise and she drifted off to sleep, excited for the next day to come. Looking back now Bea wished as she got older she didn’t get on her phone quite as much at her Grammy's, she wished that she didn’t take advantage of chocolate milk naps and sleep all day, she wished she would have hugged her Grammy tighter and kissed her forehead longer during their farewells in the evenings, she wishes she would have told her more about her day and less about what’s going on, on the internet. Considering that her Grammy is now in her late seventies and diagnosed with dementia and in her final days, Bea wishes she would have spent more time in the gray house holding her Grammy's hand and watching the news. Bea knows she doesn’t have much time left so if she could go back in time and re-do it all she would.  Bea was a straight A student throughout middle school and into high school until the second semester of her freshman year, and that is where her life began to slide down a steep hill. She fell in love with a young boy who was a grade ahead of her. They hung out every weekend, played games and watched movies together, it was a simple yet intense love, tender yet air thinning. Bea had finally found someone she called her best friend. No one tells you how earth rattling teenage love is, until you’ve lost it. She would say that it’s one of the best yet worst things that you could ever experience. After her first breakup, Bea’s world began to feel a little less bright. She knew she had always felt different than all the other children as a child, less happy and more guilty about being alive but she thought she would grow out of it. After the breakup her feelings intensified and her actions grew odd. She had lost her best friend and in place of that empty hole she replaced it with someone knew, A girl best friend. She spent every minute with her, school, the weekends, her nights, everything began to be consumed by this one girl. She began to shift her morals for this friend and her behavior differed greatly from how she normally acted before. In hopes of numbing her pain from other life challenges her friend suggested she tried other things, such as alcohol and self harm. Bea’s world lit up when she realized she could now not only numb her pain but also feel better while doing it. She chose this girl over everyone as she was the only person who made Bea feel like she was “fixed”. Soon the results of her actions stepped in and she faced the consequences of her actions around her friend. Bea and her friend were soon separated from each other and never spoke again. Bea never after picked up another bottle of alcohol as she saw what it did to her family and her mother. But some things you can’t let go of. Addiction is a disease, and not one many can control. It runs thick in your veins and clouds your vision. Bea still drew blood as an act to relieve herself from the pain she felt every day. Years went by until her mother noticed. She felt like a failure after she watched her mother collapse to the ground in tears that ran through Bea’s mind for months after. Nothing would ever replace the bond and trust that her mother once shared with her daughter before that night. Months later in February of 2023 Bea had realized that she couldn’t bare the pain any longer. That night at 11:09pm her family had gotten into a tremendous fight. One where words cut through her like a knife, and the things that were said were ones that drove you to a breaking point. Bea sprinted for an eyebrow razor knowing these were her final moments. After it was done she was tackled to the ground by her father, and 911 was called. When Bea woke up in the hospital from the tears that smothered her throat after the incident, guilt ran through her body and nausea set in. After being treated, Bea got the right help. Diagnosed with Clinical depression and Crippling anxiety, Bea felt like things made more sense. Now it’s January of 2024. Bea sits in an advanced English class writing this story for creative writing, thriving.

Life is not perfect by any means. Life is not gentle, life is not kind, life is not easy, but life is beautiful. It is breathtaking and moving. Life offers so much but you must be willing to accept the challenge and explore what you are offered. Bea learned a lot in her 17 years of life. Bea saw the ups and downs, the twists and turns, the lefts and rights of life, but if Bea could go back in time and do it all over again, you best believe she would. Bea would see herself as more than an object, more than a man's woman, more than a bystander, more than a puzzle piece, more than just another person that walks the planet. If Bea could go back in time and do it all over again she would, and this time, things would be different.


Valentines Day, New York City, 1990 Quentin was desperate to make the rent. The superintendent had rapped on his door that morning with a message from the landlord: pay up or get out. It was a tiny studio in a crumbling 5 story walk-up on East 93 rd St. near 1 st Avenue. Quentin felt lucky to have it. After an unpromising job interview in the West Village, he saw a Help Wanted sign in the window of the Duane Reade drug store on Sixth Avenue. This Duane Reade grew like a split-level tumor out of the West 4 th Street Subway Station. Inside the store looked like may have been dropped there from a great height, like Dorothy’s house in Oz, and never settled itself. Its main entrance smelled of piss and was haunted by a scrawny crackhead who shook an angry cup at you when you entered. A layer of dust and grime covered the narrow aisles and sparsely stocked shelves and dust balls roamed the floors. The cashier, Prudence Pinderloo, (her name tag said), glared at him and summoned the manager, Nigel Pinderloo, a short, stout brown man, who glared at him as well and asked him a few terse questions. He was hired. When he reported for duty the next morning Quentin was planted at the high impact, temperamental register after a brief, brusque lesson from Prudence. He struggled to master its complicated keyboard and wondered if the thorny Pinderloos had designed it themselves. The pharmacy in the basement was run by Nigel’s brother, Trevor Pinderloo, and his daughter, Cecily. Hostility seeped like poison gas from the Pinderloos and filled every dirty crevice of the store. For the Pinderloos, the customer was the enemy and there were several shouting matches a day. They were from Guyana and Quentin suspected it was French Guyana where they had managed the Duane Reade on Devil’s Island. Nigel’s mother, Priti Pinderloo, worked at the store part-time. She was a tiny woman with a sweet round face and wore her gray hair in a ponytail over a foot long. Priti spent her time humming while she dreamily tickled the empty shelves with a feather duster. When Quentin carried some boxes to the storage room, he bumped into her and knocked her glasses off her face. They fell onto the floor and he, unwittingly, stepped on them. After that none of the Pinderloos spoke to him. After he punched in, he went directly to the register where he remained until one of his two fifteen-minute breaks or his half hour lunch. The Pinderloos had found a way to bark at him without looking at him and every day he asked himself, Am I here?

 Quentin found that, despite the nonstop volume, he liked dealing with the customers. They were mostly sturdy Greenwich Village regulars, sophisticated lifelong New Yorkers, bohemians! There were always some actors he recognized from television but couldn’t name including the guy who played Mr. Whipple in the Charmin commercials. Every once in a while someone asked him to squeeze the Charmin and took a picture with him. Dazed painters and sculptors in splattered sweatshirts on a break from their masterpieces bought cigarettes, Slim Jims, and paper towels. Interwoven among them all were the neighborhood psychos who were just trying to get warm or cool while they shoplifted. He liked it when the kids got out of school at 3pm and poured into the store to buy candy, soda, and chips. They were loud and out of control, but Quentin enjoyed their energy as the well-behaved ones tried to get the most for their money and the shady ones with wily, innocent faces, bought the cheapest thing, and stuffed their pockets with as much swag as they could fit. Though he wasn’t the most efficient cashier and could never figure out coupons and returns, the customers preferred him to the Pinderloos, of course.  One regular asked, “How can you stand them?” Though he hated the exhausting job, he was able to make the rent that month.  On Valentine’s Day, he was on duty for eight hours when every last-minute shopper below 14 th Street jammed the store to buy last-minute heart-shaped boxes of Russell Stover’s discounted, thoughtless candy, thoughtless cards, and faded red roses for their beloveds. If he loved someone, he would be embarrassed to hand them these shoddy love tokens on this manufactured Hallmark holiday. Looking at the tense, unhappy faces at his register, he imagined the disappointed ones who would be presented with these inconsiderate trinkets. His register jammed several times and Nigel angrily fixed it without even looking at him. The lines of last-minute lovers snaked through the tight aisles and thrummed with anger and frustration. Everyone was making New York Minute calculations about each other as time stood still in the pitiless fluorescent light. The thrumming was punctuated by incongruous, peppy computerized voices promoting Valentine specials and flu shots. The smell of the cheap chocolate oozed from the bright red, heart-shaped boxes and gave him a headache. When he got a short bathroom break, he went to the pain reliever aisle, but the shelves were empty. Mother Pinderloo was dreamily massaging them with her feather duster. After five hours of his eight-hour shift, red hearts swam before his eyes, and he began to hallucinate. He thought of Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s poem, A Coney Island of the Mind. He seemed to have fallen into a Duane Reade Of The Soul, an existential sinkhole where everything is advertised but nothing is available on the dusty, puke green shelves. A place where kindness shriveled like the ancient roses, where the Pinderloos snapped at you without looking at you. and dignity was impossible without a fight. He was ashamed of himself for having this miserable, minimum wage job, being bad at it, and for having no Valentine on this idiotic, manipulative holiday. He was drenched in flop sweat and feared that either he or the store would implode, collapsing onto the subway tracks below. He punched out after 10pm and crawled into bed where he hid the whole next day. When Nigel called to find out where he was, he quit.            “I knew you were a pussy,” Nigel said.                                                #


The feel of a bottle crashing against my hull, brought me alive. Fruity liquid dripped down my wood slats, different than the salty waves that cradled me. Along my deck feet rushed to and fro, ropes sliding over masts and spars. Wind filled the sails, the pressure pushing against me. I slid through the water, shouts rising through the air. Cheers and laughter chasing me out to sea. Years passed, full of sun and storms. I sang with the winds in my rigging, the waves keeping time. There were good captains that kept me clean from barnacles and in good repair. For them, I ran true and weathered all storms. The bad captains took me into danger and cared not when cannon fire tore holes in my belly and let the water rush in. But even for them, I was a good steed. For even with them, I was free. Not shorebound like the docks and houses my brethren constructed. I could travel to far shores, where the fish would fly along my sides. Or where ice cracked and groaned, almost trapping me with its haunting song. I flew from the ice, to the warmth of the southern seas and back again. I was the ship Aeterna and I sailed the sea. But now I am scared. My last captain has not returned. No one has been aboard padding around my decks in a long time. The tides whisper about ships. Ships that have been taken out and sunk. Ships that have been left in the dock to rot. Ships that were taken away from the sea, cut up and put to a new purpose. The wind murmurs about new ships. Ships of metal and steam. Ships that do not depend on the wind. Ships that can carry more, haul more, are more reliable. I am afraid. There are footsteps above. An old man, and young boy by the feel of them. Perhaps the old man sailed on me once. It is hard to remember. They are talking, the man sounds sad. I could never understand my sailors. The words flash by too fast. But there are people here and I am less afraid. Maybe the young boy will grow to be a captain. My captain. It has been some time since the old man and young boy have walked on my deck. There is a new sound now. Water sloshes in my hold, but that is not it. My ropes have long since rotted away, so the noise cannot be them. It is a grating noise, loud and abrasive. Perhaps it is one of the new ships. I hope it enjoys the freedom of the sea. It is odd, though. One of my masts feels lighter than usual. Pain. I am no longer a ship. My pieces have been given away, turned to some new purpose. I have lost track of where or what I am. All that I know is that it is dark in here. There is no sun now. No salt waves, or wind to sing with me. The air is recycled, controlled. People are few and far between; I only know they are there when they speak. Memories of the sea are fading, now, memories I never knew I needed to preserve. I am no longer free. Now, I am encased in metal. Metal surrounds all but one surface. There is a deep hum, a vibration that sets into every crack and fibre of my being. Another sentience. The metal is trying to speak to me. I do not want to listen. Those new ships that replaced me so long ago were metal. But I am lonely. So lonely. Perhaps I can listen. It tells a strange story. Of moons and planets. Of travel among the stars. It tells me that we are travelling through space. And then it asks a question. Will I become part of it? Part of the humming metal? Sadness still shudders through my wood. A longing for the freedom of the sea. I do not know that I would like to be part of metal that hums so happily. But... I accept. Did you know that the stars sing? It is a different song than I am used to. A quiet song. A song that has been sung for eternity and will be sung for longer still. This metal I am in sails between the stars. I sail through the stars, strange currents pulling at my metal hull. We are a ship again. We are the Aeterna. We are free! **Recording of a conversation between the Captain of the Starship Aeterna and a crewmember.** **Crewmember: Captain, I've been wondering. Why did you have the control board fitted for a wood cover instead of metal?** **Captain: Long ago, this piece of wood was a sailing ship. She wasn't the fastest, nor did she go down in history for her battle prowess. The Aeterna was a fat merchant sailer. But generations ago, long enough that we don't even remember his name, a relative of mine sailed on her. He made his grandson promise to save the ship.** **Crewmember: But sailing ships haven't existed for thousands of years, sir!** **Captain: I'm getting there son, hold onto your water. The boy couldn't save the ship from destruction, but he saved a piece. And through the generations, we have passed that piece of ship from father to son, mother to daughter. All intent on keeping the promise that old man made.** **That he would make sure the Aeterna sailed free again.


Donuts Do Not Die The crotchety old guy settled back down in his over-sized crusty stuffed arm chair pushing the ottoman slightly to the side for now. He jarred another cigarette out of its pack and picked it out with his teeth, flipped his Bic to light it and clicked to a 24-four-hour news station on the large box TV balanced on top of the flickering gas fake fireplace used to heat the enclosed porch. The cold chill still rattled the three walls of windows he peered through watching for them. He knew they were coming. The waning sun was sneaking below the horizon finally giving up any effort to warm the hazy atmosphere. Indian summer was long gone giving in to the soon to arrive winds of November. It was time. He could detect their torches bobbing along in the distance from every direction. They were searching. Knowing the flickering lights from the fireplace and TV would be casting eerie blue images across his sullen features, he figured he might as well give in to the ghosts, and the skeletons, and the zombies. Never any good news on these days anyway. Struggling up from his comfortable corner he lumbered to the switch by the front door and illuminated the interior then checked to see if the door was locked before settling back in for the inevitable. And he waited. He didn't have to wait long. ^**^ “This is it, Grandma! I think this is the one! We found it. Didn't we?” The miniature King Kong squealed. “Well, I think so. It looks very much like what I remember. But it has been a lot of years since...” “I am pretty sure, Mom brought us here a couple of years ago. The porch light is on. Let's go see. Okay?” “But there is an old man on the porch. Someone else might live here now... “Oh, oh. I know you. You're... Bruce. Aren't you?” “Sure am. And you are Tammy. Right? We went to high school together, if I remember correctly.” “Then we are at the right place. But maybe the wrong time. Is... your mother still...” “Yes, yes. She is still alive. I live here now taking care of her.” “She can't possibly still...” “If you are thinking what I think you are thinking then yes. She has some help now days but you'll find her inside. I am only the gate keeper. Go on in the foyer and straight ahead. The doors are closed to keep the cold out and the warmth in. But she is watching for more victims. She is waiting to see you and your big gorilla. She will be delighted.” “Knock on the door, Scooter. You know what to say.” “Don't say my name, Grandma. I am the mighty King Kong!” “Gotcha. You're on, King Kong.” “Trick or Treat!” “Come in, come in,” a frail, shaky octogenarian voice responded back. They open the second door to see a crippled-up hag in a witch's hat and green and white striped long-stockings beckoning them to enter into her lair. She reaches her gnarly long figures for a napkin to wrap up a humongous golden ring of glazed pastry before handing it to the youngster. “Here you are, you Little Monkey.” Her voice quavers. “Could my grandma have one, too, please?” He ventures as he clutches the treasure to his chest over the plastic jack-o-lantern dangling from his arm. “She used to come here when she was my age.” “Oh, no. I, I don't...” Tammy started. “Sure you do, Deary. Here you go.” “Why, thank you so much. I remember how good these are. I can't believe you are still making and passing out your delicious donuts after all these years.” Tammy oohed and ah-ed. “My girls and even my Grandson help me out now days. But I have only missed one year, the year that grandson got married on Trick-or-Treat night, in what, near 50 years? As long as the Good Lord allows, I'll try to keep up the tradition.” Tammy basked in the aroma of the delicacy and the welcoming smell of the whole house still emanating from the kitchen. “Well, God bless you and thanks again, so much.” She directed her grandson back through the double-door foyer to the front porch to make room for the next in line. “Thank you, Bruce. So wonderful to see 'The Donut Lady' is still producing her signature treat. I remember seeing that story in the newspaper years ago. If you don't mind me asking, how old is she by now?” “Well into her eighties. Will be ninety next February in fact. Almost have to tie her down to keep her out of her kitchen. She tends to fall a lot lately so can't be out there alone anymore. But she can't be stopped from supervising the production. Ours still never come out as perfect as hers but we try.” “Still looks wonderful and I can't wait to get home and enjoy this with a cup of coffee. Don't even have to share this saucer-sized wheel with anyone. I never expected to get one myself. Chewbaca, here, asked for one for me.” “King Kong, Grandma! Chewbaca would need guns and you wouldn't let me carry one!” “You make a ferocious King Kong, Little Guy. Don't be climbing any skyscrapers. Enjoy your prize.” He slightly tussled the long fur on the top of the creature's head then motioned them aside as four multi-colored Power Rangers converged on them weapons drawn. “Trick or Treat!” They demanded in unison. “Right through there but beware the witch!” He pointed them toward the inner door as a princess, a unicorn and two fairies exited with eyes as round as the treats they beheld. “Excuse us, excuse us, please.” Bruce held open the porch door to let them pass and as Tammy and her grandson started exiting as well he touched her arm, “Uh, Tammy. It was good to see you again. Perhaps I can buy you a regular sized donut and cup of coffee sometime soon over at Flinny's?” “That would be nice. How about Tuesday at half pass eight?” “Sounds delightful. See you then.” He smiled as he ushered in Donald Trump and Barack Obama. “Right this way, Gentlemen.”


Once a time there was a princess, who was sitting and looking out the windows of the castle at the winter’s first snowfall. The windows opened onto what just a few months ago had been a beautiful flower garden, humming with insects. Because the princess lived in a very distant land, I can’t tell you the names of the flowers and, unless you know much more than the average person, you wouldn’t recognize them either. At this point, it didn’t matter anyway, as only the brown stalks and a few drooping leaves remained. Now the snow was falling, for the first time in many months the view was clean and fresh, and the princess found it much more interesting to gaze out the window than attend to her tea and cake. The princess was the only child of the king and queen and the entire future of the kingdom depended on her. Inside the castle she was given everything she desired – the finest food and clothes, expensive gifts, private tutors who were the best in their fields. But she was never allowed to leave the castle. The princess would have traded everything she had to be allowed to run on the forest paths, smell the pine trees, and swim in the roaring river at the bottom of the garden. But all she could do was study in books about all the animals and plants she could see outside. The king and queen liked this as most of the people in the kingdom lived in the forest, depended on the animals and plants for food and clothing and made their houses out of wood – the princess was learning things that would help her understand and support her subjects better, without the risk of breaking her leg or running into an actual wolf or bear. Overhead, white geese had started flying south in V’s. The princess was reading a lot about geese these days – for instance, she had learned that the parents would often take turns at the front of the V so their children could fly more easily behind them. The hunters would not care about details like that – they would be busy shooting as many as possible in order to fill their larders for the winter. The princess tried to look carefully at each bird, hoping to remember what made it unique and look for its safe arrival in the spring, but even with her sharp eyes they all looked the same from this far away. Suddenly, a goose landed on the far side of the garden, skidded towards her on the snow across the lawn, and came to a stop on the stone path just outside the window. It was a young goose, its white plumage still mixed with muddy brown feathers, had been shot in the wing and was still alive. A hunter must have hit it far over on the far side of the river as the princess had not heard any sound and indeed no hunter would dare to shoot this close to the castle. The goose must have tried to carry on flying, slowly dropping and landing on the garden’s slope. As you may have guessed, the princess had for once been left completely alone with her tea and cake. The guardian who had been watching her had realized, as soon as the snow started to come down, that she had left her windows open and wanted to make sure to keep the weather out. The princess had been strictly warned about leaving the castle, but she knew the goose was likely to end up on the palace’s dinner table if anyone else found it and decided she had to save it. Unfortunately, the only door out into the garden was firmly locked, and the princess was not the type of person to use an expensive sugar bowl to break the window, so she ran into the next-door bathroom and wriggled in her finery out of a small, high window, dropping onto the snow-covered path outside. But as the princess looked around, she saw the goose was being carried off by a rust-coloured fox, tail high in the air, leaving a trail of the goose’s blood as it ran. The princess quickly followed, kicking off her tight slippers and running barefoot in her fluffy, lacy pink dress. The slope became even steeper as they approached the river and the princess half slid through a line of bare trees as the fox scampered between boulders and roots and turned sharply to the left just before arriving at the stream. At that moment, another fox darted from behind a tree, grabbed the goose out of the mouth of the first fox, and started running hard back uphill, leaving the castle to the left. The fox she had been following darted over the edge of the streambank, presumably disappearing into its burrow. “So this is what they call a wild goose chase,” thought the princess, “they are taking turns trying to confuse me”, but made a half-turn as sharply as she could and now started racing after the second fox that was carrying the goose uphill. By now, her feet were freezing cold, raw and bleeding from running across the cold, sharp stones. They had almost come to a road leading from the castle gates when a group of guards raced past – everyone was normally very attentive to the princess and they must have already realized she was missing. The fox, which had intended to cross the road into a larger area of forest, was forced instead to bank left again towards the castle and first tried to skate across an ice-covered pond that lay in its way. The ice was just starting to form, though, and wasn’t unable to support the weight of the fox, which fell through. It released its grip on the goose, which (thanks to its hollow bones, as the princess knew) skidded across the unbroken ice and came to rest at the foot of the castle wall. Now, the princess was also trapped outside the castle. As we have mentioned, she was much too well brought up to pick up a frozen rock and use it to break a window, and she couldn’t very easily climb back through the high bathroom window from the outside. Plus, she had just picked up a half-dead goose and, kind-hearted as she was, had also fished a half-frozen fox out of a pond. So the only option was to walk in her bloody bare feet right up to the castle gate. Once inside the portcullis, she instructed the guards to put the fox next to a warm fire and, once it had recovered, give it a chicken from the castle pantry that it could carry back to its mate and, very likely, a litter of little foxes in the burrow next to the river. She also asked for a large box so that she could carry the goose back to her room. As we know, the princess was granted whatever she wished inside the castle. Once back in her room, she lined the box with a blanket, placed it next to her own fire and fed it some oats, after which both the goose and the princess slept peacefully until the morning. You can imagine what a scolding she received from the king and the queen the next day. “You could have fallen into the river, broken your leg and drowned,” said the king. “Your dress is ruined, your shoes are lost, and your feet are a bloody mess,” said the queen. The princess was forced to agree that indoors was the safest place for her, and gave up hope of ever being allowed to enjoy the sunshine, fresh air, and a peaceful walk with more suitable shoes. Although they had been so brief, it was the princess’s exploits outside the castle walls that became the talk of the kingdom. Everyone knew she had caught a wild goose with her bare hands and outran not one but two foxes with her bare feet. From that day on, she was called the Winter Fox (an animal that was rarely seen in the far north of the kingdom in years of heavy snow) and everyone was sure that when her time came, the kingdom would flourish under the kindest and bravest ruler ever seen. The goose recovered from the cold, but its wing never healed and it never flew again. It dearly loved the princess who had saved it from the hunters, the palace kitchen, and the foxes and stayed in the princess’s room, reminding her of life outside the palace as she grew up. The goose itself had lived outside, knew what it was really like, and was happy to have a soft bed, a warm blanket, plenty of food, and no one shooting at it. But it still remembered and missed its family and let the princess know they were safe each time it saw them flying over the castle in the spring, when the flowers were starting to bloom, and in the winter when the snow was starting to fall.


“Look,” he says, pointing to the sky. I splash water in his direction one last time and glance up. It’s so beautiful. The sun is swimming down into the trees. There are sparks of red and pink. Is the sun melting?

“Grandpa? Didn’t you say the sun would stop shining forever someday?” The redness begins to spread and it mixes into the clouds. “Yes, I surely did.” “It looks like it’s bleeding.” “And do you know what that means, Jean?” The water is starting to get cold and the rocks at the bottom feel chiller.

“What does that mean?” “It means the world has lost a pure soul today.” “Somebody died?” “Yes, son.” “Oh.” I look up once again to see the sun gone. Only red remains in the sky. “Let's get back, jean. The lake is starting to get cold.” “Okay.” I grab his fingers and he leads me out. I make sure not to step on the rough rocks. They are the ones that can cut. Grandpa grabs the purple towel we brought and wipes my hair. It sticks up in the air. I look down at the lake while he wipes himself. My hair looks darker in the water. My freckles look huge the closer I get to the water.

The grass is light and the walk back to the hut doesn't feel long at all. “Is mommy home?”

Grandpa looks down at the ground and frowns. “Your parents won’t be home for a long time, Jean.” “Who will read my bed time stories?” “I will” “Okay.” I hop on each stone leading up to the hut, trying to avoid each grassy patch. “Slow down, Jean.”

I wait for grandpa to reach the stone I'm on. He opens the door and the smell of cookies takes us in.

“Is grandma home?” “I’ve been waiting for her for a long time, Jean.” “She’s not home?” “I hope she comes home soon.” “Me too.” Grandpa takes the cookies out of the oven while I change into warm clothes. “How’s your sister jean?” “Is she coming home?” “I hope she doesn’t come anytime soon.” “That's mean.” I crunch on a cookie and it breaks in half. The chocolate melts into my mouth.

“Do you want milk with that?” “Yes, please.” Grandpa opens the fridge and pulls out a jar of milk. He takes my favorite Spiderman cup out of the cabinet. I watch as he slowly pours it in and slides it over to me. “We can go see them all tomorrow.”

“Okay.” I can’t wait to see everyone. I take a sip of milk and dip the side of my cookie in. A chocolate chip falls into the milk and the white begins to turn brown. I drink it anyway. “Grandpa?” “Yes, Jean?” “Mommy told me that you left to go on an adventure after you got so sick.” “She’s right.” Grandpa gets up from his seat to look out at the moon in the sky. “You used to tell me there's a man on the moon.” I look at the Moon. It's glowing. I can trace out a face. It looks like the face is old. “I think there is.” “Really?” “Do you not believe so?” “No.” “Why is that, Jean?” “Why does the man never come down to see us?” “Maybe he does, and we just can’t see him.” “Oh.” My eyes start to become tired and grandpa notices. “How about we go to bed?” We walk up the stairs. I hold his hand and he smiles down at me. “What is it, grandpa?” “I had missed you dearly.” “I’m right here.” Grandpa starts to laugh and seeing him happy makes me smile. The door to my room opens when grandpa gently pushes it open. I climb in and my toes start to warm up. “I hope mommy comes home soon.” “What book would you like me to read, Jean?” “Um, how about Jack and the beanstalk?” “Oh, that's a good one!” Grandpa walks to the bookshelf and pulls out a book. He walks right back and sits on the bed. “I don’t think I can wait.” “What do you mean, Jean?” “I want to see everyone now.” Grandpa thinks about it for a few moments and sighs. He puts the book down next to my legs. “You may not like it.” “It’s okay.” Grandpa nods and looks me in the eyes. “Think of someone you want to see.” I think of my mommy.

“Okay.” “Who is it, Jean?” “Mommy.” “Okay now focus on her and I will do the same.” I follow his directions. I think of her brown hair that matches mine and her silver eyes.

I open my eyes back up and we’re not in my bedroom anymore. I still see grandpa but we're in the kitchen. I hear my mommies voice telling Vi to brush her teeth. I run to the bathroom to see them both. Mommy is in her pj’s and Vi is too. They look sad. “Hi!” “They can not hear you.” Grandpa looks at me and he has a frown on his face. “Why not?” “Do you believe in ghosts, Jean?” “No way, Grandpa!” “Jean my dear, we are ghosts.” I look up at mommy to see her helping Vi. They both look like they have been crying. I tug on her shirt but nothing happens. I poke at her shoulder but she doesn’t turn around. I give Vi a hug but she doesn’t move.

“We are ghosts?” “Yes, Jean” “So, we are dead?” “Yes, Jean” “I don’t believe it!” “It is hard to believe.” “How did I die?” “You don’t remember, right?” “Nope.” “Do you remember what happened when you were born?” “No.” “It’s the same with death, Jean.” “Nobody remembers?” “No.” I look back up at mommy and Vi. They give each other a hug and I join in. I can’t feel them.

“Did I die today?” “You did, Jean.” “Was I the pure soul the world lost?” Grandpa nods. “Oh.”


The first time I came back, there were still things that smelt of me. My shaving brush in our pristine white bathroom, my shirts in the wardrobe, a faint smell of cigarettes in my study so you can almost see me exhaling a cloud of white smoke into the easy green light of the vintage lamp-shades. You’d noticed them too. Those stubborn smells. They ingrain into the fabrics of our suburban homes like they ingrain into our minds – one inhalation and you’re transported to another time, another time, another time… The first time I came back I found you at the bedroom closet holding a dark green jumper that you’d bought for me. The wool itched like hell against my skin but I wore it anyway because I didn’t want to hurt you. I never did, you know. You were holding the coarse wool to your skin as if it were the delicate blush silk we saw in the souk on a holiday to Morocco once. You pressed the fabric to your mouth and inhaled the smell of my aftershave – cedarwood and vetiver, dark handsome smells. You could almost remember, at that moment, the sound of my laugh. The second time I came back, my smell was less noticeable. It bothered me. You’d moved my shaving brush into the closet – not thrown away, not yet. The shirts were still in the wardrobe and the smell of cigarette smoke lingered in the study, but fainter now. The green wool jumper had echoes of cedarwood and vetiver but the depth of colour had drained out of the smell like your pale face blanching when you feel me pass through you. That’s the funny thing – I am simply doing now, in a literal way, what I have always done metaphysically: in all our years of marriage I passed through you like water through wine, coloured and clouded your existence. Now I can actually walk through you – the old cliché about us being able to walk through walls is true. Sometimes I try and stand exactly inside you, follow each gesture of your small hands – gestures I know like the back of my hand, studied over years of watching you flick ash from a cigarette or rake hair from your eyes when you laughed. That offers me a small comfort – standing inside you, following your gestures. Your pale white hand, fingernails bitten and skin-picked at the cuticles, and the paler translucence of my own ethereal hand. Our hands together again at last in a mere shadow-dance of their old embrace. It kills me again every time I pass through you – to see you flinch at the sudden cold you feel in your bones at my chill touch. You notice it. You notice me. But you don’t realise what you notice beyond feeling each hair on your spine stand up and a plummeting sensation in your gut - the vague bleak ache of almost encountering something long loved and hard lost. And I was hard lost. I never realised before that I would be so missed. I never realised you would stand there with the green wool jumper and grieve my cedarwood and vetiver. I never realised you would dash hot salt from your eyes as you stood in my study forgetting already the contours of my face. That’s one of the biggest downsides to my new condition of being dead: whereas you are cursed to forget me slowly and unstoppably, I am doomed with a clarity of memory unlike the living possess. It is my burden to carry just as it is yours to lose me piecemeal – the sound of my voice one day, the precise shade of my hair the next. I see you trying to clutch on to the memories like you clutch at the string of pearls round your neck that I gave you for your birthday. You visit the bedroom closet more and more but the smell on the green wool has shrivelled to the musty unused smell of charity shop clothes – Did somebody die in these? That was the joke you made at the Oxfam over the lousy pair of grey chinos I’d picked out. You dug me in the ribs and whispered, Who died in these? The laugh flashed across your face like fleeting sunshine in rain-shadowed cloud banks – you were stressed that day because I had taken a dark turn in the forest of my mind and you couldn’t reach me to bring me home. You paced outside the charity shop and gobbled up Marlborough Lites in a restless cloud of smoke that ravelled round your throat like a scarf. The third time I came back, my smell was gone completely. You still took the green wool jumper out from time to time but the mean fist of disappointment always got you in the gut for that. Of course I checked the bathroom cabinet and of course you had disposed of my shaving kit – I knew it before I opened the plush white and steel door of the cabinet we’d had fitted only months before it happened. It is time , you said to yourself, as if the concept of time makes any sense to you any more. Grief blinds you to the passing of the days. You let the letters pile up on the doormat, you let regrets pile up in your mind like so many small stones until you find yourself carrying the dead weight of a skullful of rocks. Your head pounds, you reach for the aspirin, later for a malbec that slips from the bottle like a red velvet ribbon and is every bit as difficult to swallow. You gag on the crimson fabric of the wine, a sob rises from your chest, the wine only muffles it, muffles it, muffles it. I wonder, when I open the bathroom cabinet and see the empty space on the shelf where my shaving kit was, if you heard the creak of the cabinet door in your sleep, if you pulled the duvet around your ears, a feathered fortress against things that go bump in the night. The fourth time I came back, you were not there. I took the opportunity to leaf through the papers on my desk. You haven’t had the heart to touch them yet. It is the last room you’ve left, the study, because it was my room and life must go on in bedrooms and kitchens and sitting rooms. The shirts and green wool jumper had also vanished now as if they too were ghosts – ghost-garments that would haunt the same charity shop we’d laughed in, limp and unfilled on their hangers. You’d always teased me for wearing too much ‘drab’ – you were the colour to my beige, you were the sun to my moon, the light to my darkness. When we’d married, there were whispers in the family: What business does she have to be walking up the aisle with a manic depressive? I suppose in my final frenzy that was both a farewell and a fuck you to the world I proved them all right. I’m sorry , I whisper, but the words are ghosts of themselves, pale imitations of apology. In the papers in the study, there is nothing to see. An unpaid bill that will never be paid, a picture drawn by our granddaughter, half of the invites to your birthday party that I was writing when it happened. The only note I really want to see is noteworthy by it’s absence. I feel the lack of the last letter I left on the desk, neatly folded and addressed to you in my spidery black hand that was only a little more shaky than usual, like I feel your absence from me. I remember exactly where I left it, tucked under the snow-globe you gave me one Christmas with its cutesy little world of teddy bears in red and white Santa suits that’s only a little shake away from being a blind flurry of blizzard. That’s how my world always felt, you know: one little shake and a blizzard of unease would sting my eyes and howl my ears to deafness. The fifth time I came back, the study door was shut. I noticed you’d moved the tiny urn from the mantle-piece too – you had scattered my ashes weeks ago at the park where we had courted, as dizzy with grief as we were then with lovers’ impatience to fall headlong into each other. You picked up conkers and pocketed them like small talismans the day of the memorial. It felt good to have something very hard and very smooth between the pocketed fingers of one hand as the other threw my ashes to blind the wind’s eyes. The priest also throws his words to the wind, humble comforts that you half-hear above the yowling of a November north-westerly. You stamp your feet and dig for warmth in your pockets. On the way home, you laugh with the others about my old quirks and catchphrases and your laughter has the airy sunshine of a Spring day echoing with light after storms. I follow you at what I have judged a seemly distance (I did not wish you to feel the cold ghost-touch on your arm today at the memorial) and now I, too, smile as you recount the story of how we met. It was a blind date to the botanic gardens arranged by mutual friends. The hothouses were stifling and sweat beaded on my forehead and I regretted wearing the heavy flannel shirt. I was anxious – you were beautiful. We talked of our dreams to travel, touring the world in our minds as we read the exotic placenames on the labels of the plants – Jaipur, Malaysia, Nicaragua , their names read like spells. By the end of the date we were holding hands and you were impressing me with your knowledge of the tiny curl-backed ferns and plump squat cacti. Your eyes were dashed with diamonds as you spoke, the scintillation of a fresh young mind at work. I kissed you beneath the Indian vines and the smell of your vanilla chap-stick mixed with the smell of the desert rose whose flowers bloomed like the first recognition of a kindred soul. The sixth time I came back, I knew instantly that I would not return. I do not want your dreams haunted by the memory of my suicide forever and I may be a ghost but the living have a habit of noticing our shyly-left clues – the pile of papers in the study moved and no through-draft to have shuffled its ghostly fingers through them, a bathroom cabinet door left ajar, a wool jumper refolded out of habit when you’d left it scrunched up in a fit of weeping. We must keep the secrets of the dead. These half-snatched glimpses of us that the living may glean at midnight in the wicked dry laughter of a door-hinge or creak of an untrustworthy floorboard are the only clues we may leave. You will shiver and turn on the light and reach for the water on the bedside table to ease the sudden dryness in your mouth. You will sleep a little uneasily that night but you are not a believer in the supernatural. You do not believe in me, just like I did not believe in myself. I want life to go on for you, I want laughter to go on for you. I want you to heal from the loss of me, and lead, with my blessing, a life less haunted than mine. And so I will not come back again, but pray only that we may meet again one day, when you too will be no more than a breath down someone’s neck in the night and a wandering stranger in the darkness, to touch hands once more, spirit to spirit, like we always did...


In the beginning god created the heaven and the earth. Then he said “let there be light!” And there was light. Et cetera. god created man on the sixth day. And this was good. god blew into the nostrils of dust, and created Adam. god also saw that Adam was alone, so he created a partner from Adam’s rib, and named her Eve. On the earth, Adam and Eve lived in a bountiful paradise god perfected for their birth. Verdant life burst from every inch of this garden named Eden. Amongst the green were the clusters of reds, purples, and oranges of fruits and floral arrangements, all for them. Everything was theirs. And this was good. “Everything you see in this land is free to you. All these animals are yours to domesticate, eat, and own. Every tree you see is yours, and so is the fruit those trees bear. You shall eat from any tree you see here in this garden of Eden, except the tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. For if you disobey me and eat the fruit from this tree, you will die,” said god to Adam. “I have no concept of what death is,” said Adam, “ and I know not why I should fear it. However, your booming voice insinuates that it is a concept that should be feared. I am becoming self aware, and this is the first negative emotion I have ever felt, and I do not like it. I will not jeopardize my bliss further. I have an idea, father, my first idea, and it will be good,” Adam said to god. Adam found the sharpest rock, the strongest bough, and the toughest vine, and tinkered the universe’s first axe. Adam found the tree in the center of the garden with the most enticing fruit, and proceeded to chop down the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. god was perplexed, and consulted his angels. “Reverse psychology really is not all it is cracked up to be. I don’t know what to do, this was not my ultimate plan,” god said. “Is it not cruel” said an angel “to endow a creature with free will and then set traps for their failure? How could you love man and crave his downfall? Is that not sadism?” “I gave them too much free will,” said god, shaking his head. “But god,” said another angel, “without the Knowledge of Good and Evil, what will become of man?” Adam and Eve were happy. All the fruit and animals were theirs, in this endless paradise. With bellies full of fruit, they reclined in the shade. With no responsibilities, and without a care in the world, they spent their days eating, reclining, and procreating. This was good, or bad. They had no knowledge of either. This just was. Eve grew plump with children, and gave birth with ease. This irritated god. He had something else in mind for childbearing, and now, it would never be. Adam and Eve eventually put on some weight. And this was good, or bad. They had no knowledge of either. This just was. Eve routinely spouted children every 9 months, and forth from her womb they waddled into the garden. With nothing to teach, and no risk of death, these tubby spawns of man grew fat, while their intellect remained non-existent. Babies played with snakes and bunnies alike, and stripped the bushes of berries. With no incentive to leave, living only within reward, eating, and procreation, what was to prevent the incest? Or the homosexuality? god had not gotten to Leviticus yet, and this eternal Genesis was getting frustratingly weird. Babies popped from daughters and sisters as easily as they were conceived, with the ramifications equal to that of a bowel movement. The spawns from the fat, happy inbreds became more twisted of mind and body as the generations layered. And this was good, or bad.They had no knowledge of either. This just was. The garden began to suffer. All the trees and bushes were raped of their fruits quicker than this continuous spring could endow. The flowerbeds were trampled under the weight of twisted inbred feet and rampant sexual intercourse. Let me remind you, they are all still naked. Without death and without diffusion of population beyond the garden, god was at a loss for how to proceed. “With my knowledge of good and evil, I can say, confidently, this is bad,” god said, grimacing at Eden from above. “There are parasites in my paradise.” “This is unsustainable,” said an angel to god. “Literally, I have done the math. Eventually they will be forced from the garden, and roam the rest of the earth. The earth can only sustain these immortal inbreds for another few hundred years, and I don’t want to know what will become of your earth after that.” “Neither do I,” said god, with a heavy heart. And god pressed the “reset” button again.


I also might be dead, which is its own freedom in a sense. I almost didn’t check anything at all. The movie was late, I was tired and more than a little high, and I was feeling just enough of a buzz to feel young and reckless and indestructible. Twenty five going on forever. But my roommate was out of town, and I was no hero. So, gulping Cool Blue Gatorare like an overzealous Little Leaguer, I shuffled to the guest bedroom, flicked on the lights, opened the bathroom door. Clear. Checked the guest closet: clear. Groaning, flattened myself on the ground and checked under the bed. I wasn’t sure if anyone could fit under there, but if I was doing it, might as well commit. Hall closet, my shower, my closet: not a soul to be found. Marinading in the privacy of my own embarrassment, I stuffed my toothbrush into my mouth. It was because of that single moment when Jonah had held out the joint, and I, a slave to my casual nonchalance, accepted it with only the slightest hesitation even though I really didn’t want any more, that I crossed the line from fine to moderately stoned. And it was because of that buzz that I didn’t notice that in brushing my teeth I had allowed my own foamy spit to seep onto my fingers. And it was because I didn’t notice that foamy spit that my phone slipped from my fingers as I pilgrimaged to my bed. And then, upon kneeling down to grope under my bed for the piece of shit that had gotten me in enough trouble already, I looked into the abyss. And the abyss was wearing Warby Parkers. “What the fuck?” I was standing now. So was my unexpected companion who I had temporarily dubbed the Scary Guy. Scary Guy wasn’t visually scary, as he was shorter than I was and was wearing Crocs. “Hi.” “Hi. Who the fuck are you?” “I’m Kyle. I was going to kill you.” \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* “Milk? Honey?” “Just a splash of milk, please.” Kyle settled down at the table, knife in hand. I slid his earl grey over to him. We eyed each other. Me, regarding him with terror. Him, regarding me with interest. We had been over the basics: he had warned me not to scream, or he would stab me. He warned me not to try to call the police, or he would stab me. He said this as a matter of fact, not a threat, which was both comforting and terrifying, a perfect encapsulation of his overall vibe. “So what now?” “I’m not sure. I’ve really never been caught before.” Kyle sipped thoughtfully, itching his temple with the knife. “Can I ask you not to kill me?” “You’ve seen my face.” “Yea, but what am I going to do? Call the cops and say, ‘this man was about to kill me but because I caught him under the bed, he decided not to? No officer, he didn’t even touch me?’ I don’t even know how you got in.” “Trade secret.” “Fair.” I squeezed my mug, the porcelain burning my hands. This was a good sign. If he was going to kill me anyway, he might as well tell me how he got in. My phone was in his pocket. There was no landline. Could I overpower him? “Don’t you want to know why?” “Why what?” “Why I was going to kill you.” A thought that had genuinely not occurred to me, concerned more with the knife going into my body rather than questioning its motives. “I mean I guess so.” “You can ask.” “Kind of seems like you want me to ask.” “Doesn’t really matter to me either way. You’re going to be dead anyway.” I took a deep breath. Perhaps Kyle was committed. Perhaps I could talk this way out of this.” “Okay. Why were you going to kill me?” And he told me. He told me about how he’d seen me eat an entire pack of saltines on the subway while trying to hide it. He told me how he followed me home and began to watch me. He told me how he had made a habit out of killing genuinely sad people, his form of unconsensual mercy killings. “Look. You’re wealthy. Successful. Good looking. You seem to have friends. Decently healthy lifestyle. You seem to be doing everything right. So if you can’t be fucking happy with all these wonderful things and resources…” He trailed off, shrugging apologetically. I stared at him. With anyone else, Iw ould have thought it was an elaborate joke. A fucked up prank show, a twisted practical joke from Casey. But surprisingly, I trusted Kyle. “My life was so hopeless that you thought you’d be doing me a service by murdering me with a paring knife?” There was pity in Kyle’s eyes. He was certifiably insane, about to kill a stranger with a paring knife, and wearing fucking crocs in my well-appointed yet humble West Village apartment, and he pitied me. “Yes.” And it was the way he looked at me then, with honesty and sympathy and with complete conviction in his own fucked-up morals, that made me issue a proposal. And he countered and we bartered and negotiated and debated and pleaded a little (me) and in the end hashed out our arrangement. Kyle would not kill me. Yet. He would stick around and monitor my happiness, checking in periodically. In one year, we would reassess. And he would either kill me, or he wouldn’t. There was no point in going to the police; Kyle revealed that he’d been in my apartment no fewer than a dozen times, and the local brass weren’t exactly known for their proactivity. Kyle was a man of his word. He promised he would help me find my passion, as he had found his own passion of euthanizing the depressed. And with that, our life together began.


Tuesday 4:20

The sentences on the page blurred into opaque black lines as Callie's eyes tried to fixate on the words, she squinted them to focus. Her math professor’s monotone voice dragged on despite the class's apparent lack of interest. The window was open. A cool breeze gently hit her face, occasionally taking a bit of her vibrant red hair with it. That’s what it said on the package, vibrant red. She twirled a strand around her finger. The clock mocked her, it extended every second as long and tedious as it could muster. The bell shrieked through the corridors and a swarming of voices erupted around her. Callie kept her eyes on her backpack while rapidly shoveling down her papers, so harshly that they wrinkled and tore. She was in a hurry, she was told to come at 4:40. Callie Davis slung her backpack over her right shoulder and walked out.

4.26 p.m

An explosion of heat hit her as the plastic doors shredded open. It must have been one of the hottest days in Seattle. She tried to get past the people rushing out, but it seemed to be nearly impossible. They all must have been in a hurry too. The clock showed just past 4:30, she wouldn't make it. Callie glanced around the subway, all the seats were taken. She leaned into the corner while simultaneously grabbing one of the cold metal handrails. It was like a dance. A dance she performed every day, but especially on Tuesdays.

By adjusting her grip, her fingers slowly became less sweaty. Her eyes bored out the window as the subway headed to the next stop. Every time Callie visited, the feeling that all was lost grew. Every week her grandma got a little bit worse. Margot had always loved to talk, and Callie tried to keep the tradition up. Even when she mixed up the dates and details, Callie was always her number-one listener. She tried to follow along by nods and smiles to keep her engaged, even though it was difficult to keep up sometimes. It was a jumble of stories that didn't make sense. Callie imagined that everything she told her was memories from the old days, before the sickness swallowed her. The brief moments of her grandma’s recall often caught her off guard, but before she knew it, she fell back into that looming fog

This was her stop, Pearson Street. Once again, her backpack took place over her shoulder. Callie waited for the doors to open, impatiently tapping her foot on the rubber floors. With a creak the doors shut open. Almost running, she crossed the turnstile, heading right.

4.52 p.m

Margot held up her feet and wiggled them, showing off her new blue shoes, cozy and soft for her feet.

“My granddaughter got them for me,” she told a nursing home attendant, joyful. Her face brightened as she saw Callie in the hallway. Of course, Callie didn’t know if it was her granddaughter she saw or someone entirely else. Her dirty Doc martins left a trail on the clinical clean floors as she approached.

“Calliope is here to see you Margot” the nurse informed, giving Callie a don’t be late next time kind of look. It may have seemed a bit harsh, but it was true, every minute wasted was a lost opportunity.

“You know you shouldn’t walk in with your shoes dear; you’ll get the floor all dirty”

Margot reached for her purse, pulling up a pair of pink silk slippers.

“You can borrow these” she dramatically sighed, accompanied by a smile.

Who am I today? Her mom? Her nurse? An old colleague or friend? She thought. She admitted that her usual stubborn optimism had grown fainter and fainter over the months. Callie didn’t know what was more terrifying anymore, being forgotten or forgetting herself. A year ago, Callie was sure her grandma was the exception, she was healthy and strong. Never had any surgery complications or diseases. She was a ray of sunshine, the sun itself. Back in the day, she had a thousand lovers, sailed from continent to continent. Her grandmother was always on board with an adventure, and so had her grandfather been. Age was never an obstacle; she captured age and made it her own. Played with it, teased it, and mastered it. She was the drama, the life of the party. Never a dull moment by the side of Margot Davis. In Callie's mind, her grandmother would never, ever forget her. How could she? She felt betrayed, erased, like none of their memories together had mattered in the end. Can you truthfully say you shared a memory together if you’re the only one remembering it? It felt strange being the only one responsible to keep them alive if she forgot, then who would be the reminder? A wave of guilt washed over her. She knew her grandma struggled, fought the black mist clouding her head. It was wrong to hold her accountable.

"Grandma, how are you, any stories to tell? It’s me Calliope", she said with the usual hopeful tone, by now it sounded forced.  e “Honey I'm not blind, I can see who you are, I'm not dying just yet,” she said with a scoff and a laugh, patting the side of the bed for her to sit down.

Callie stood in utter shock. A glance of hope and excitement rushed through her body. What was happening? She leaned to the nurse and whispered. “Is she really lucid?”

The nurse nodded.

“She’s been lucid for about half an hour now; I was afraid she would fall back before you came here. This might be her last time of lucidity, ” she gave a compassionate expression. “ we try to keep her brain active by talking, terminally lucid patients often lose themselves in their silence, then there is difficulty ever bringing them back”

There was an awkwardly long pause, it seemed to go on forever. Then the forbidden words were said. “ Alzheimer's will beat her at last, and this might be that day”

Callie glanced towards the withering woman sitting on the hospital bed before her. She didn’t dare to look the nurse in the eyes. The nurse took the hint.

“Tell me if you need anything”

She gave a last pitiful smile, then walked away.

“Calliope, it’s been a while, don't keep me waiting!” Margot laughed while taking a sip of water, raising her arms for an embrace.

Calliope , only grandma called her that. It had been a long time since she last heard that name. She had missed it. Her name had always been Callie, ever since first grade. It is not only easier to pronounce, but also to spell and remember. Most people didn’t even know that her real name is Calliope.

Callie didn’t answer. Instead, she hugged her, tight. Wrapped her arms around the frail shell of a woman and cried. She cried and cried, until her eyes were swelled and red, until mascara smudged on the white hospital gown. “ Honey what’s wrong?”, her grandmother asked, gently patting Callie's head. She wiped her tears away with her hand, smiling. “ I have just had a very very bad day, and seeing you has made it so much better”.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in months” Margot continued, smiling softly.

“It feels like I haven’t seen you in years” Callie laughed, tears threatening to run down her cheeks. She rubbed her eyes, once again ruining her black eye makeup of the day.

Her grandma had no idea that her brain was tearing itself apart. And today Calliope didn’t have the heart to remind her.

 “Do you want to play some board games? I know they have your favorite on the shelf over there” She smiled her best smile, the one she knew her grandma loved. A youthful smile, full of hope and dreams. She turned to the shelf, trying to keep the fantasy going. Do this, she told herself, do this for your grandma, do this for Mags. Callie wanted her grandma to leave this world in peace and joy, not by seeing her grandchild grieve her death before it had happened. She had to keep her talking, keep her engaged.

7.05 p.m The hours went by. One hour, two hours. All Callie could think about was, how much longer until she forgets me again. How much longer until nothing could be understood? It was like slowly pressing a nail into a balloon, knowing it would pop any second. How much longer until there wasn’t anything to remember anymore? Until she wasn’t just confused and forgetting memories anymore, but when there were none left to forget.

They talked and talked, then talked some more. Every time she caught Margot slipping out of the conversation, she quickly asked a question. Remember that time you colored your hair green to prove to me that green hair could be pulled off? Tell me about when you and grandpa sailed over the Atlantic. Tell me your life story . Every time she left for a bathroom break, Callie's heart stopped, imagining her returning confused and dazed. But instead, she came back complaining that they’d changed the toilet paper to the “wrong type”

After a while, Callie fully fell for her own fantasy. They laughed as if they were back at home, drinking lemonade on the balcony, gossiping about the other elders across the apartment. Her "enemies", she used to call them. She laughed at the memories until she realized she was the only one laughing. It had happened. A small wrinkle between Margot's eyebrows had formed. Her previous expression had disappeared and confusion took its place. Her eyes traced the cards in her hands, then curiously set her eyes upon Callie.

7.47 p.m Margot stared at an unfamiliar room. Unfamiliar people were talking to her. People were walking all over the place, but she didn’t remember where she was. Everything seemed familiar, but she just couldn’t recognize anything. All these people were suddenly trying to talk to her, but she didn’t know who they were, or what they were talking about. A girl was crying beside her, she didn't recognize her face. She stared at her reflection. She stared at a fading memory. A memory that would soon be forgotten along with the knowledge of her existence. She felt as if she had entered a home, but couldn’t find her way out.  It all seemed comforting, but it slowly became the same thing, and then it became nothing. Margot Robbins was sitting there, a shell of the person she used to be.