Father Bernard, I write to you under the cover of night, near candlelight, as the snores of our fellow Fathers fill the adjacent room. I know not what is in my power of disclosure, nor what will, through the guiding hand of God, reach your ears. I pray the good man Big John will see to it you receive this letter, as I have received yours. I want to assure you that what you have heard is not imaginary. The disturbance you have felt around you, and the whispers in the halls of our great Church, are real. There are letters, hundreds of them, from all over the world. As we speak, they are being studied at all four corners of the Church, shielded from the prying eyes of the public, penned by what we are calling “The Man From Nowhere.” I, along with Father Birmingham, Father Theroux, and Father Wilson, are working under the tutelage of the Archbishop Bartolucci, and have been tasked with the reading and summation of the writing that follows the ‘Great Rambling.’ But beyond this period, and in the year since the discovery of the letters, I have been fortunate enough to read the collection in its entirety. I even have, in my possession, a great number of transcriptions, which, in a moment, I will share with you. The letters were written by a man named Philippe Audiarde. In them, he described an event, precipitated by “a deep and terrible sneeze” (Letter 1, 2 years after freeze, denoted by ‘AF’) — a sneeze so great, Father, that what would succeed it is unimaginable, unthinkable, and unbelievable. The world, he said, went silent. Philippe Audiarde, if the letters are to be believed, found himself in “a world without time” (Letter 1, 2 AF), where all around him had frozen. And, for the next 44, 519 years, Philippe Audiarde would compose 776 letters, or, at the very least, a total of 776 letters have survived his journey through non-time. I can understand, Father Bernard, if it is your natural inclination to declare this a bold-faced hoax. This reaction has been most fortunate for the Church. As the letters were discovered, and rumours circulated, the Church has promptly steered public opinion to just that—rumours. That being said, it is the official opinion of our group of Fathers, and by our holy extension, the Church, and the historians who have viewed the letters, and the men of science who have verified the age, that these letters are exactly as old, and as real, as they claim to be. However, there is a problem. The turmoil these letters are causing, in both our small group, and the Church at large, has been troubling. I myself know not what to make of it. If the letters are to be trusted, and again, I believe they are, what are we to believe about our world? What is the public to believe? How could the Church still remain the moral and metaphysical authority when it offers so little guidance in the face of this apparent phenomenon? It can’t, and it doesn’t, which is why I fear that should these letters be made public, the Church may crumble. And at the same time, I see wisdom and sincerity in the words. I see a man emerging from eternity to guide us home. So, I’m at an impasse, and I know not how to proceed. Which is why I am writing this letter to you, Father Bernard. I have always trusted your judgement, advice and council, and I need it now more than ever. I shall summarize the letters for you here, some in full, some in my own words, and should you deem them worthy for the world to see, so be it—I will release Philippe Audiarde to the world. These are the full facts, as I know them. Philippe Audiarde (of which, no formal record exists) was a French bricklayer who was born on a small farm outside of Paris in 1855. The terrible, time-stopping sneeze occurred over a coffee with his brother, Tomás (of which, again, no record exists). They owned a bricklaying company called the “Audiarde Brothers” (of which, I am sure you can surmise, no record exists) together in Paris, and were discussing payment from an outstanding client. He was, and would forever remain, thirty eight years old. Throughout his ostensibly infinite lifespan, he would be constantly “struck by the weirdness of it all” (Letter 612, 32,415 AF), the inconsistent nature of his world. Some of his bodily processes still progressed as if they were moving forward in time, like the growth of his hair or toenails, but he felt no hunger, or thirst, and didn’t require anything to run his bodily engine. It was, he was, outside of the laws of physics—a machine in perpetual motion, while everything around him was still. As such, he no longer ate, drank, or used the toilet, except in the rare—until he would stop altogether—times he would indulge in food or beverage. When he looked up to the sky, the moon and the stars and the sun hung motionless. “What heavenly strings hold them up, while I prance around earth, is a mystery as mighty as the universe’s great and enduring questions” (Letter 47, 410 AF). Philippe would go on, filling most of his early letters and sparing no detail, to write of the juvenile and craven acts he would perform during his first weeks and months alone. I will say that the sins committed were primarily sexual in nature, Father Bernard, but I’ll leave those barbaric details up to your imagination. Granted, this period was short—an infancy in the time of Philippe, but, should his word be released, I suspect Philippian detractors shall give great credence to this period, to point to it and say, “ah hah! There he is, Philippe The Damned.” But, it seems clear to me, that just as a rebellious child tests his new world, so did Philippe, pushing it to the limits of human depravity, until he knew not what to do with himself. “I tried to get it to start again today,” he writes, in his fourth letter, in the fourth year after the freeze. “Time, that is. I want out. I need out. I am going mad in this place. It is a purgatory. A hell, maybe. Thoughts of death often cross my mind and perhaps I am already dead. Already a soul wandering an afterlife. But how to start it again? Pepper lines my nostrils and I have sneezed a thousand different ways. I roar from the bottom of my guts, but still I am here alone.” For 34 years, Philippe would wander the world, looking for answers to his time-stuck questions, but the world, in its stillness, remained silent. Then, one day, he had an awakening, a movement of spirit. “I sit here in the Stuttgart Library, surrounded by once living vessels of knowledge, wondering: what does a man do with all this time? I’ve rowed the seven still seas, hiked windless deserts, explored the dark side of the earth, and laid low in the shadows of foreign lands. But looking around I realize that other lands lay at my fingertips. That the worlds created by man are near infinite. I have the unique chance to hear from them, speak to them across centuries, to open up their minds and explore what they want to show me. I’ve been granted an audience with all of mankind and I dare not waste it any longer” (Letter 5, 38 AF). What would follow—and I’ll be brief with my summation, Father Bernard, because this is not my area of expertise—was an “Age of Consumption,” during the years 38 AF to 1786 AF. Philippe, during this period of consumption, roamed the world’s libraries, consuming every text known to man, including literature, biographies, plays, and poetry. He learned multiple languages (and would begin to write his letters in English), produced his own works of fiction (which are breathtaking, I assure you), he transcribed history, memorized and reproduced philosophical texts word for word—if his letters are free of embellishment—studied ancient rhetoric, until he finally, after a long and arduous battle with the subjective arts, made his way to science. Objectivity, however, in a world like his, didn’t exist. The basic laws of physics weren’t congruent to the things he saw and experienced. Without that baseline to build a coherent understanding of his world, science was, at best, a doctrine from another land, and at worst, simple fairy tales that didn’t match up with his day to day knowledge. Take letter 334, dated 1786 AF, which began with the words, “I now know death” and tells of an experience he had, which science would not dare take up or explain (and when has science ever touched upon a terrible, time-stopping sneeze?). Philippe was in a small rowboat, on the English Channel, when he slipped, hit his head, and plunged into the murky depths. While he cannot recall the events that took place immediately after, what he does know is that he regained consciousness, without any serious injury, on a shoreline near Dieppe, France, his boat nowhere in sight. Let me be candid, Father Bernard—does this not sound like a man being guided by the hand of a God? After this event, one thing was clear to Philippe: it was the end of any illusions he had regarding the power of science to explain his world. “This event has reminded me, as I often forget, that I know nothing of where I am, who I am, or what I am. Only that I am trapped here with nothing but time ahead of me. I understand now that not even death can be my escape.” Philippe’s ostensible death would engender a period of great confusion. This era, as I had mentioned previously, Father Bernard, I call, “The Great Rambling,” though others are partial to calling it the “Philippian Dark Ages.” While it precedes my area of study, I believe it precipitates it. I will, first of all, grant you (and others) that this is a period of somewhat incoherent thought, the ravings, perhaps, of a madman, but there are glimmers of truth throughout this period of writing. For example, this section of letter 448, in 23, 418 AF: “Time. Time. Time. All I have is time and nothing else. An abundance of time. Man-made time. But what is time with no point to compare it to? Does it exist? I move forward but nothing else does. Is a point on a map a point if there is nothing but infinity in either direction? Where does it exist without context? Do I exist? Am I existence? Questions lead me nowhere because I am nowhere in time. I am the man from nowhere. No context. No place to go, no place to be. A whisper with no ears to hear me. Writing to no one. Writing to not-me, future-me, current-me, past-me. Who am I? Why was I chosen? Why am I here? Is it my goal, my purpose, to explore the far reaches of madness? To discover what one is capable of, when he has the time to build it, to achieve it? I have no wants, no goals, no far-fetched future to strive to. How can I achieve anything when there is no one to advance my achievements, no one to build upon them, no one to clap their hands at hard-fought sweat. What is man without another? A void. I am a void. I am a hiccup. I am an error of God, who forgot one of his lonely creatures in the crevices of time. Will he one day remember me? Will he one day pluck me from this place? Would he deem me worthy of the context of time? Or is that his goal? Am I here to learn, so that I can bring back my troubles to mankind? Lift them up from an opium of time, through a time-stuck seance, and give them the word of Philippe, all that I’ve learned, all that I know, for them and them alone. Am I conduit for God. Is this his purpose at work? Or am I systematic error of the universe? Is there a difference?” Tell me, Father Bernard, am I imagining it all? Or is there is an inkling here, a sparkle of something akin to a religious moment, where our dear Mr. Audiarde begins to understand his greater purpose. I read his words and see a dull blade being sharpened by time. He begins, like a wandering prophet, to understand his purpose. His eyes glaze over, and God speaks to him, through him. Is not God one and the same—a creature out of time? Take his statement, “Will he one day remember me? Will he one day pluck me from this place?” He understands his damnation, this purgatory of time-stuck cleansing, but still, he moves forward without any destination. Is he being tested, as many who have heard the word of God have been tested before? Are these the words of the Almighty, coming through our dear Mr. Audiarde? Have they found their way to me, so that I, Father McFerrin, could share them with the world? Am I, with my own humble beginnings, being called to be the messenger for God? Am I being tested? Perhaps this is the kernel of truth that I was looking for when I set out to write to you, Father Bernard. I did not see it until now, had not realized my own potential purpose in these machinations of God, but here we are. I can feel a spirit moving from within me, and I am now, as these words spill out onto the page, trembling with anticipation, but let us not stop here. Let us move on to perhaps his greatest work! The Treatise, dated 43,526 AF, was the 775th piece of writing penned by Philippe. In this work, his handwriting is slightly altered, as if it were written in haste, or as if a great wave of inspiration filled his spirit, and propelled his hand movements. It is on the longer side, at 98 pages, but not near the longest of the Philippian letters. It begins with a short story, a parable perhaps, titled “Do Geese See God?” about a young child who glimpses his own relative mortality while caring for a dying goose. In the final moments, the young protagonist sees his own reflection in the eyes of the goose, and he understands, for the first time in his short life, that all things must die. It is as if, Father Bernard, he is himself a god coveting the brief lives of us mere mortals, looking upon us from the heavenly altar of non-time, and creating his own fictional universe, where death is real and everywhere. While it is a moving experience for the reader, I believe its true audience is our dear Philippe himself, who is suffering from an eternity of stillness, yearning for mortality. With no end in sight, his only recourse is to instead warn us, which he does in the next section, the heart of the treatise. Here is one part, Father, in his own words. “My dear reader. You who are the legions of the unstuck. Those fortunate souls who are cursed with a short 70 to 90 years. To the universe you are nothing but a whisper in the wind. You will create nothing. You will be nothing. You glimpse life. You grasp out to take it and before you can grab hold, your fire is put out, never to see flame again. This ephemeral gasp at life is both your noble curse and your salvation. You’ll find reminders of your mortality appearing in all aspects of life, in every society, on every mountain and at the bottom of every bog. You’ll think about it on rainy days and dark nights, when you’re tucked into bed or when you look into your lover’s eyes. Unlike me, who is damned to exist outside of time, you are mortal and your time is short. Do with it as you like. I give you permission. I give you the freedom but with an offering of hope. There is more to this world than what you simply experience, more than you can fit into a day. Life is full of the wondrous and the strange and I am here, a prophet whispering from another land, to tell you not to fear it. Because none of this is real. What is real is beyond you, beyond all of this, and beyond me. I know not what to call it except Godliness, and it is everywhere.” I can still remember the first time I read these words, Father Bernard. I was, as I am now, overrun with emotion, taken back by their bluntness. At first, I tried to bury them beneath a lifetime of church-borne theology, where there were no more prophets, and no more words of God, but who am I to shun this man? Who am I to say that this isn’t the word of God speaking through Philippe Audiarde? Who am I to say this isn’t an act of self-sacrifice, to guide the world home? As you know, I am only a man of God. I have known nothing but a life of devotion and faith. I have dedicated my whole life to one text, only to discover another, as true and rich and improbable as any that came before it. But to be told, with such sincerity, the conviction of which could only be borne out of forty four thousand years alone in a purgatory, that there is something more than this life, something close to God, as I have always known, has cryalistized in my mind an act of truth. How could I, now that I know this, turn away from this man? Do I not have an oath to God, and not the Church? Isn’t that where my allegiance lies, Father Bernard? Isn’t that where yours lies, as well? Is it not my duty, as a servant of God’s will, to spread his word far and wide? And hasn’t Philippe suffered more than any prophet before him? He has lived an eternity, unanswered. Who would I be to not heed his words? To let the words of this man, my prophet, disappear with the wind. To come so close to Godliness, only to turn my back on it. I would be a coward, not deserving of the title of Father. I would be no man of God. I would be nothing. No one. But with this, it is an opportunity to show the spirit of God that resides within me, to become the bearer of Philippe’s words, which are holy and true, purified by an eternity of time, and spread them forth. And so, my answer has become clear and my purpose is all but done. With my help, acting as the messenger of a prophet, a new age will be upon us and it will be the Philippian age. And our good Church, if it is acting in the interest of God, and not its own motives, will recognize it for what it is: a new path forward, closer to His Holiness, with the venerable Philippe at its helm. I have only one question left, Father Bernard: Are you with me? Signed, Father McFerrin on the holy day of May 10th, 1894.


Dennis Preen scowled as he got out of his Audi. The noxious blanket from the paper mill covered the town today, giving him a banger of a headache. The prickly summer heat didn’t help matters. He could feel his armpits seeping the second he emerged from the civilized comfort of the car’s air conditioning. He paused only to retrieve his briefcase from the trunk before stomping up the hill, shading his eyes from the cresting sun.              He saw the old man’s bald red skull bobbing in time with an unheard melody through the sweat stinging his eyes and the fog on his glasses. “Mr. Karron, I presume?”              The old man tossed another shovelful up on the excavated pile and laboriously pulled himself out of the grave. He stared at Preen warily, not extending a callused hand, but merely nodding.              Preen took his hand back, gratefully. “I’m Dennis Preen, from Preen Casualty & Life. I spoke to your wife.”              Karron spit.

             Preen pulled off his spectacles, wiped them with a handkerchief, wiped each eye, then put the cloth back in his coat pocket and the glasses back on his face. It did no good for his respectability; his remaining hair was wet and plastered to his scalp, giving him the look of a cornered defendant. “Do you think we could talk inside?” * * *              Preen took the glass of lemonade gratefully, despite it being pink and tart and pulpy. Kulkarni and Grayson had arrived, easing his anxiety somewhat. Karron sat like a stone in the recliner, not blinking.

             Preen gulped and began. “Well, gentlemen, it’s good to be together at last.” Kulkarni looked down at his feet, Grayson looked at his watch, and Karron kept up his gargoyle act. “These are unprecedented times, gentlemen, unprecedented indeed.”              No one spoke.              Preen resumed. “You, Dr. Kulkarni, are in the business of saving lives. You, Dr. Grayson, are responsible for recording and looking into why lives were lost. And you, Mr. Karron, handle the mortal remains once lives have been lost. Me? Why, I simply manage the financial risk of a life being lost.”              “It’s a small town, Preen. We all know each other. Get on with it,” Grayson grumbled.              Preen pursed his lips. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. “Unprecedented times means unprecedented risk. Dr. Kulkarni, what’s your practice’s revenue look like year-over-year, without that government subsidy?”              Kulkarni swallowed. “Down 54%.”              “When the subsidy stops, how will you pay your medical school bills?”              Kulkarni looked away.              “Dr. Grayson, surely one man’s feast is another’s famine. How’s your caseload this year versus last?”

             “Up 230%.”              “And from your impatience, may we presume the county isn’t augmenting your staff accordingly?”              Grayson leaned forward, eyes blazing like the Ancient Mariner. “You’re damned right they aren’t! They keep saying there’s nobody to augment with. Every county’s in the same boat. ‘Just make do for now.’ I’m sixty-seven, for God’s sake!”              “And Mr. Karron…”, Preen smiled gently, “Why was our town’s funeral director digging a grave by hand today?”              “You know why,” Karron said, his voice guttural.

             “I do indeed. It’s because in a time when so many can no longer work, so few will work, isn’t that right?”              Karron nodded ruefully.              “As for me, life insurance payouts are up fourfold this year. Fourfold! Policy pricing hasn’t been able to keep up---'unprecedented events’---and so a 132-year-old insurance firm with the best reputation in the state is on the verge of financial collapse. It can’t go on, gentlemen, it mustn’t go on!”              Grayson stood up. “What are you going to do about it, Denny? Another miracle cure? It’s been done!”              Preen sighed. “I’m going to manage the risk, Doug. And help you do the same.”              “Aww, hell, I can just retire. I don’t need this crap.”              “Do you have enough to retire on, Doug? Crypto took a bath this year. You sold the boat. How long will the proceeds last you? I know the Coroner’s Office doesn’t pay in the big leagues, Doug, but three divorces in you need major league pay. Am I wrong?”

             Grayson sat down.              “Financial ruin, gentlemen. We are all facing it, right now. Dr. Kulkarni has done the math; it’s why he’s here. I’ve shown you the equations for Dr. Grayson, it’s why he hasn’t left. As for Mr. Karron, it’s not about what he stands to lose, but what he stands to gain.”              Karron’s eyebrow pitched. “What do you mean?”              “What proportion of business have you had to turn away for the lack of a crematorium, Mr. Karron.”              “A fair bit. But I don’t have the help anyway.”              “If you had the equipment and the staff to man it, at present volumes what would the effect on your annual revenue be?”              Karron rubbed his dirty jaw. “Well, I don’t know. Probably triple.”              “Triple!” Preen smiled. “That’d pay for a front loader to dig some graves, wouldn’t it?”              Karron ruminated.              “This is America, gentlemen. The Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave. What did our forefathers do when faced with unprecedented circumstances? Why, they rose to the occasion---they innovated . And so shall we.”              Preen scanned their faces. He smiled. He had them. He had them!              “Dr. Kulkarni, what does the federal government pay for each confirmed diagnosis in our present regrettable circumstance?”              “$28,000.”              “And if the diagnosis happened to be of influenza, how much would you get then?”              “Well, just the normal Medicare/Medicaid or private insurance reimbursable rate of course.”              “And in the case of a patient’s unfortunate demise, who confirms that they were, ahem, so fortunately afflicted?”              Dr. Kulkarni pointed at Dr. Grayson.              “Quite so,” Preen said. “Similarly, in the case of an unfortunate death with a favorable diagnosis, we insurance providers get a sizable offset, courtesy of dear old Uncle Sam and the American taxpayer, failing which, our industry would collapse under the weight of excess deaths.”              Karron raised his hand.              “Yes, Mr. Karron?”              “Where do I fit in? It doesn’t matter to me what killed a man, so long as the body comes to me.”              “Ahh, yes, Mr. Karron, that is so. But let me ask you this, prevailing upon your superior knowledge of corpse disposal methods: has anyone ever exhumed a pile of ash in order to verify cause of death?”              Karron scoffed. “Of course not….”              “Then you gentlemen get my point, and why Mr. Karron’s participation in this endeavor is so crucial. As for his reward, that sparkling new crematorium, we are going to fund it by sharing the proceeds from maximizing our eligibility for those federal funds I just spoke of.”              Grayson shook his head. “So let me see if I follow: we’re going to fake the cause of death…”              Preen held up an open palm. “…liberally diagnose in accordance with the uncertainty inherent in medical practice and the inaccuracy of testing methods….”              “…and rake in a bunch of cash accordingly. Then what?”              Preen smiled. “Then we share the wealth across the system, gentlemen. Equally.”              Kulkarni frowned. “The math doesn’t add up. There isn’t going to be enough cash to spread to meaningfully address the financial burden to all of us, much less to pay for a crematorium. Not in a town of this size, anyway, and in a bigger area there’d be more folks to cut in. No way. It won’t work.”              Preen leaned back in his chair. “Well, I’m sorry, gentlemen. You disappoint me. You’ve forgotten a very important player in this effort, one with deep pockets and a strong financial incentive to ensure that the excess corpses from excess deaths do not long remain on this mortal coil.” With a theatrical flourish, he produced his smartphone from his jacket pocket, pressed a button, and turned the screen to face them.              Kulkarni gasped. “I know her! She’s on CNBC all the time. I can’t make it through a shift without one of her reps pushing something on me.”              “Dr. Kulkarni,” the silky voice purred from thousands of miles away,  “Can we count on your support?”              The men in the know looked sheepishly at each other, each performing the cost/benefit analysis in his own way, to the tune of his own conscience, and each nodded solemnly in turn, as finally did Mr. Preen.              And that, Dear Reader, is how the bone orchard received its bumper crop in the Year of Our Lord two thousand and twenty-one, one small town at a time, as Goethe himself warned us so many decades prior would be the case.


Laurel doesn’t eat anything. This used to terrify me when we first started living together. Her dinners would consist of instant ramen and a single egg. Soft, small bowls of pasta with canned tomato sauce. Frozen ravioli. Peanut butter and jelly. These meals were put on repeat. I watched them, day after day, mildly appalled but still too shy to offer her my own cooking, feeling that any criticism of her diet would be presumptuous, and not wanting to make her uncomfortable in having to refuse anything she didn’t like. I didn’t really know what she liked yet.

Over time, she began to have stomach problems. She had problems with eating food and with her appetite. Anxiety roared in my chest, I seethed with worry. I felt self-righteous and overwhelmingly protective. Immediately, I began to connive a plan. I would do what I could. I started cooking again, I finally started cooking. Weaponizing my concern, I was able to learn what she liked by asking her, bulldozing through my previous anxiety with this new, more powerful one. This illness (which is still unresolved, much to Laurel’s consternation and my red-hot fury) is what led to me cooking for everyone from time to time. And from time to time, the others cook too. This is how I discovered what they like.

Laurel likes pasta and bread, potatoes and rice. She likes salted butter and scrambled eggs. She will eat meat, if it is presented to her in small pieces. When she is feeling sick, fruit is easiest for her to eat, and she has only recently started liking soup. She dislikes cake and likes pie. In ice cream, she likes caramel. In tea, she likes honey. The vegetables she will eat include peas and carrots and sometimes spinach, and corn and I can’t remember what else. She doesn’t eat pork. Sometimes, when she is feeling ill, she finds it easier to eat if she doesn’t prepare the food herself.

Amy came next. She is Vietnamese and American and so she eats like any non-American does. In other words, she eats wonderfully. Her parents (by which she means, and so I mean, her Mom and her Aunt) collectively provide for her. Her aunt cooks for her, having a long history of cooking, and her Mom drives food down for her every other weekend. Tupperwares filled with brilliant red, creamy chicken curry, with potatoes that starch up wonderfully, soaking up the broth. Caramelized pork that we eat with bananas and rice and soy sauce. Chicken and green beans and long, thin noodles with tiny quail eggs and quivering curls of pink shrimp. There is often fruit too, a grocery bag heavy with a dozen plums, or a package of lychee, artfully demure and royal red.

I used to be unspeakably jealous of this display of riches. What struck me most was the orange juice. Her parents would, sometimes, provide her with a plastic water bottle filled with freshly squeezed orange juice. The pulp would separate from the liquid as it sat in the fridge, a brilliant, bouncing orange on the bottom, languorous and half-clear on top. The first time they brought it, a well of emotion rose inside of me. I almost cried. They would have had to juice oranges, probably four or five or maybe more, because oranges don’t actually have that much juice. They'd have had to save a water bottle, keep it for this purpose. They’d have had to use a little cup, or a spout, to pour the juice into the water bottle. They would have had to clean up the pulp and the rinds and the bits of spattered juice. Then drive with it for two hours. For their daughter to have a bottle of fresh orange juice.

Growing up, I was the one who cooked for, and not the one who was cooked for. I thought I had let bygones be bygones, but when I saw that orange juice, I realized that I had not. Even now, as I write about that orange juice, I grow a little sad.

But I am proud to say I am no longer nearly as jealous of Amy as I once was. Envy being one of my most prevalent vices, I would call this a remarkable accomplishment. It is no small feat for someone who has always adored food to not be jealous of a friend provided with copious amounts of skilled cooking on a biweekly basis. It also helps that Amy shares, easily and graciously. But I am steering us too much in my direction.

Amy likes salty foods. Her snack of choice is a little metallic pack of dried seaweed; she likes shrimp chips and crackers, olives and fries. She likes large amounts of garlic, and sweet and salty things, like chocolate covered pretzels. She drinks coffee, but only sometimes. She would like to know more about tea, and drinks it whenever it is offered. While she is sustained by the tupperwares of her aunt’s cooking, she loves being at home and eating it fresh off the pan, or out of the pot, or from the oven. I cannot think of anything she will not eat. That doesn’t mean that she eats everything, but it does mean that she eats most things. This is a trait I find most congenial in a friend. Some of Amy’s friends are also Vietnamese and American. They also eat wonderfully, and it is nice having them around when there is food involved.

Audrey was the last arrival in our apartment. I knew Laurel’s taste first, and then I met Amy’s, and finally I met hers. My taste bears some similarity to all of theirs, in various ways, but I think Audrey’s is the closest to mine. This is because she cooks, and cooked before coming to live with us (Laurel cooks too, but she started after). There is a special place in my heart for people who cook.

One of the first things Audrey made for us was a chicken chili, with beans and green peppers and sour cream. It was thick with flavor, rich with cream, substantial, skilled, and delicious. I was touched, and it is difficult to explain why. On the surface level, she had made dinner after we had all agreed to take turns making dinner. She was simply fulfilling this quota. But below the waters, my heart stirred. Laurel’s cooking, tentative and new, that was fulfilling the quota. Audrey’s cooking had heart, history, and interest. Growing up, no one had ever cooked for me in this way. It is the same way I cook. Audrey is allergic to nuts. She likes her tea plain, like cheese pizza, with no toppings (hold the milk and sugar). Her favorite foods are lasagna and chicken pot pie. She taught me to like spam. When she shops at Trader Joes, she buys the coconut macarons, and eats them two or three at a time. She makes sandwiches for lunch, grilled cheeses with American and ham, or toasted bread with turkey and lettuce and tomato and mayo. She makes these sandwiches for me, sometimes. I have always held packaged, sliced bread under heavy disdain, because the European in me does not trust bread with distant expiration dates. But I like her sandwiches, questionable preservatives and all.

When I cook for my roommates, I plate the food before putting it on the table. To a casual observer, it may simply look as though I am putting equal amounts of food into four bowls and setting them in front of each person’s seat without discernment. But I will let you in on a secret, since you have graduated to not-so-casual observer. You can’t split a meal perfectly into four parts. So the bowl in which there are a few extra chunks of chicken – I’ll set that in front of the person who has an exam tomorrow, who’s going out later tonight, who had the most classes that day. The bowl into which a few more green beans happen to slip in won’t go to Laurel, she doesn’t like green beans that much. The sandwich that’s a little crispier, that’ll go to Amy. I couldn’t tell you why. The prettiest looking plate usually goes to Audrey, because she gives me compliments on my cooking the most reliably, and flattery will get you everywhere. Of course, I’m not a saint, sometimes I take the biggest portion for myself because I made it and I’m hungry, goddammit. But I do what I can. I’m wrong sometimes. Even now, I’m still trying to puzzle out what they like.


It was a warm and breezy summer day. I just stood there and soaked in the sun for a minute. The nursing home I was at had a beautiful outside garden. My sister seemed to really like it out here. I made sure to find one of the best places when it became apparent she couldn’t take care of herself alone anymore. She still insisted she could even at 90, but I was the type of big brother who was always a little overprotective even though she may not have needed me to be. I started pushing her wheelchair again when she asked “What are you staring at?” “Oh sorry” I said with a smile. “Just lost my train of thought.” Which was mostly true. Over the years I’ve learned that the older you get, the quicker time passes. So I’ve been making it a point to sit and take in moments I wanted to remember. And I wanted to remember this beautiful day that I got to spend with my sister. It could be one of our last and I didnt want to forget her. You see when I was about 23 I found immortality. I’m not entirely sure of the limits of my immorality but in appearance I haven’t aged a day since then. I’ve watched both of my parents succumb to the old man with the hourglass, and almost every one of my friends too. My sister was just about all I had left. So I made sure to spend a lot of my free time with her. Its always hilarious when people see us interact. I watch them go by thinking I was her son, or grandson now I suppose. Their faces are always surprised when she hits me or we start bickering like siblings. I’m glad some things never change. We arrived at her favorite spot. A place where we could see most of the garden and specifically not the road. For some reason she hated watching the cars pass by. Honestly I didn’t like watching the road either. Too much has changed since we were kids. And the vehicles that passed by were living evidence of that. So we preferred to focus on the greenery and the flowers. Nature seemed to be ageless. I parked my sister next to the bench we always sit at and sat down. The moment I did she immediately tried to stand up from her wheelchair. Normally I’d protest but I’ve learned over the many years no matter how much I may object, she will always do what she wants. I watched her quietly concerned as she made her way from the wheelchair over to the spot next to me on the bench. I held out a hand to help her sit down. She accepted it though it seemed reluctant. “Beautiful day” I said looking around. The sky was littered with enough clouds to give you occasional shade with no hint of rain. “Brother?” I heard my sister ask “Yeah what's up?” I responded still looking at the sky “What are you gonna do when I’m gone.” She asked gravely. Which was not usually like her. Despite her age, she's always been a bright person. The question caught me off guard. We usually kept conversation light and just enjoyed moments like these together or rewatching our old favorite shows, or new episodes of new shows we picked up. Once in a while I dragged in an ancient analog TV and I would watch her play skyrim on a game system I had miraculously found about 10 years ago in almost perfect condition. But she just caught me off guard. She had a knack for doing that. Stupid siblings. “Raid your room for valuables and sell them for drugs.” I said with a straight face. She looked at me unamused. I met her eyes and smiled. I know she wanted a real answer but I didn't want to think about it. Mainly because I hadn't thought about it yet. I was afraid to. I broke eye contact first and looked down at my feet. “Honestly I don’t know.” I told her in a quieter voice. “Can’t we just enjoy the day?” I asked in a brighter tone. She didn’t seem satisfied but she didn't pursue the issue. “You should make some new friends. How long has it been since you’ve had a regular friend?” She asked after a while “Hah!” I responded. The surprise at the question was real. “I hadn’t thought about making friends for a while.” “Theres a lot of cute girls that come visit their grandparents. You should talk to them. I could ask around for when they’re coming to visit.” She was teasing me but I know she be excited if I took up her offer. “Its not like I’m not here most days already.” I shot back. She chuckled. It was good to hear. After a moment she turned her head to me. I met her gaze again. “Please… make new friends.” she asked. It almost sounded like she was begging. I felt dread settle over me in a cold wave. It was clear she was concerned for me after she was gone. I held her gaze. “I will. I promise. But for now, let just enjoy the rest of the day.” I asked her, hoping to placate her. She nodded. Seemingly reluctant but the conversation was over. And we went back to enjoying the weather and the view.


Patient Z had been diagnosed with schizophrenia accompanied by paranoid delusions. What made him unusual was that his delusions seemed to be contagious. Several other mental health professionals had come to share some aspects of the patient's psychosis after interacting with him. To avoid preconceptions I had only studied observations of his behavior, rather than diagnostic sessions. When the orderlies brought him into my office, they allowed him to enter by sliding with his back along the walls. We had placed his chair against the wall and positioned my desk facing his chair. Once seated, he seemed calm and rational, though his eyes indicated a lack of sleep. "Good morning, Mr. Z. How are you today?" "As usual, doctor. And you?" "I'm fine." I looked down at my notes. "Do you know why I'm here?" "You want to ask me questions. To find out what's wrong with me." He looked at me. He was able to make eye contact but not sustain it, his gaze frequently flicking up and over my head or shoulder. I made a note. "You either won't believe my answers, or wish you didn't." "I'm prepared to listen to you with an open mind, Mr. Z." He stared at me for a long moment. "I'll tell you what you want to know. Why not? Don't say I didn't warn you." "Would you like to tell me what's going on in your own words?" He looked over my shoulder organising his thoughts. The he looked down and met my gaze. "Have you ever heard of P.T.?" "Do you mean 'physical therapy?'" "In this case, 'P.T.' stands for 'playable teaser.' It was a demo released by Konami for an upcoming video game in 2014. It was wildly popular but was withdrawn from circulation some six months later." I made a note. "If it was so popular, why did Konami withdraw it?" "The official reason was that the game's creator, Hideo Kojima, had a falling out with Konami." "That's not the real reason?" Z paused for a long minute. "Point of no return, doctor. Do you really want to know?" "Of course, Mr. Z." "OK. It's on your head." I waited for him to continue. "What you have to understand, doctor, is that playing this demo is profoundly disturbing. As you play you are stalked by a ghost or creature named 'Lisa.' Data miners discovered that Lisa is always behind you, though you can't see her. Eventually you get hints that she's following you around. Shadows and noises, sound effects …" He trailed off, staring upward with haunted eyes. "Mr. Z?" He seemed to recover his composure. "Sorry doctor. Anyway, the lucky players, the smart players … stopped playing. The others …" Again, I waited. "The unlucky players found that their perceptions had been … heightened. They began to see things. In reality. Things children sometimes see but stop seeing as they age. Do remember seeing the boogeyman as a child, doctor?" A shadow seemed to fall over him. It's not beneficial to engage patients in their delusions, but he had struck a chord. "Yes. It had empty eye sockets and …" "Purple hair. It is a creature of unspeakable horror." He swallowed, and again he looked over my head. "It's standing right behind you, doctor." I felt a chill down my back, and the hair stood up on my neck. I carefully rolled my chair to the wall behind me, all the while dreading that I would bump into the thing behind me. Never to be safe again.


**THE START** As I sit here in Dayroom discussing this new project, I start reflecting on how this journey all began and what led me to where I am today. I was born and raised in Los Angeles and come from a very large family. I had many positive people in my life, but negative as well. My mother and father never married, and I'm their oldest son. Although my father had a history with gangs, drugs had more of an influence on his life. Regardless, he was a very hardworking man and always put a roof over our head and food on the table. He never once influenced me to be in a gang or do drugs, actually it's quite the opposite - he tried to steer me away from that lifestyle, but seeing that him and everyone else in my surroundings were involved with those things, it was hard to stay away from it. It was kind of hypocritical of my father to tell me what to do, when he was directly doing them himself. As for my mother, I have very few positive memories of her. Unfortunately, her life was harder and worse than my fathers. She did not have custody of her children, and I stopped living with her when I was about 5 or 6 years old. One of my earliest memories was saving her life when I was 5. I had to use the bathroom and pried the door open to her laying naked in the tub, overdosing on heroin. Fortunately, my aunt was living upstairs and we were able to call the paramedics. She was in a coma for months and when she woke up she had to relearn how to function as an adult - she was never the same after that incident. My mother was in and out of prison for most of her life and turned to prostitution to support her bad drug habit. In 1998, she was murdered in downtown Los Angeles and in 1995 my father also ended up dead behind drugs. So this is the base of what my life has been like for most of my life. There were many obstacles growing up, but I don't blame anyone for the choices that I have made which have led me to where I am at today, and now I sit here in a level 4 maximum security prison in the state of California. I've been incarcerated going on 23 years; serving 80 years to life for a first degree murder. I fought my case in Los Angeles County jail and ended up in Pelican Bay State Prison in 2002 until 2009. I then transferred to Corcoran for 9 months until I got caught up and ended up in the hole. I was validated as an associate to a prison gang, which meant during that time you get put into solitary confinement indefinitely. At the end of 2009 I went from the hole in Corcoran to the SHU in Pelican Bay State Prison where I was in solitary confinement for 7 years. I was finally able to have the indefinite solitary confinement overturned and released to the mainline; general population. From Pelican Bay I went to Salinas Valley State Prison for exactly 367 days, but I ended up getting caught up again and was put in the hole for close to a year before being sent to Kern Valley State Prison in 2017 where I currently stay. During these 23 years I have seen so many changes. Good and bad, as within myself.


Regret Vera looked at me. School was just out and we had agreed to go to her house after school. Our English teacher had given us an assignment: write a two-page story about a strong feeling you've had this school year. Both her and I had a hard time coming up with a topic, so we had agreed to sit together and write our stories. “Let’s go!”, Vera said. When we came out of the school building, the sun was shining. For the last couple of days or so, it had already been cold outside, autumn was clearly coming. But today, it was bright outside and pretty warm. We started walking towards Vera’s house. She lives half an hour away from school, outside our village. We walked past the lake. There were tiny waves on the lake that made the sunlight dance in a million miniature suns. There was the small beach and the jetty where we had spent so many days during the summer. “I want to sit on the jetty”, Vera said. That was a great idea. I was feeling quite hot already, and we would have our feet in the water while discussing what we would write about. We sat down and took off our shoes. “Cooolllld...!”, I yelled when I dipped my toes. Vera laughed. After a while, it just felt good. We talked about many things, but English class wasn’t one of them. The sun was still shining. A woman with two children had arrived at the little beach at the far end of the jetty. The children started to play on the beach, and I heard their mother raise her voice and say “stay in the shade!”. A couple in their 30s had laid down on the other side of the jetty and were tanning. The man had taken off his shirt, and the woman was wearing a bikini, or? no, she was actually just in her underwear. This day had surprised everyone with it’s summeriness. “Let’s take a swim!”, Vera suddenly said. “Ha ha, yes, let’s!” I said, thinking she was joking. “I’m serious!” “But…” “Yes, we don’t have our bathing suits. But, noone will see us or even care! We just jump in quickly!” “OK, but…” “Yes!”, she exclaimed, “I knew you were up for it!” And before I could say anything else, she started unbuttoning her jeans. I fumbled a bit with my dress. Vera was already pulling her jeans off her legs with great force. Her wet feet were sticking to the inside. I was touching some of the buttons on my dress. “It’s going to to feel so wonderful in this heat!” Vera said while folding up her jeans. She put them down neatly next to her shoes and socks. I looked at the mother and her children. They were digging a hole and filling it with water from the lake. “Not in the sun!” the mother shouted. I looked at the tanning couple. They were on their backs with their eyes closed and softly talking with each other. What if someone else came? I was clenching the buttons of my dress. Vera had taken off her top and was undoing her bra. I stared at her. “I am going to go in, what are you waiting for?” she laughed. Vera now stood on the edge, with her back towards me, her arms stretched upwards. She was breathing in and out deeply, preparing for the cold rush that would come when she would enter the water. I saw the freckles that started in her neck and went down all the way towards her lower back. The pattern looked beautifully symmetrical. Her skin was browned by many days of sun. She had no tanlines to speak of. I could see the fine detailed imprint that the underwear she had just worn had left on her body. It somehow reminded me of the emperor’s new clothes. She looked back at me. “The last one in is a rotten herring!”, she yelled, lifted up her arms and dove in the water. She made a perfect curve. Her feet were slightly apart when they disappeared into the water. A few seconds later she came back up. She swam back to where I was sitting and looked up at me. “Are you not coming?” she asked, using her normal voice. “That’s okay”, some seconds later. She swam away. I watched her moving in the water. The sunlight was still dancing on the waves, although now the pattern was different, from this close to the water. I closed my eyes and could almost feel how being in the cold water must feel for Vera, how the rush of just jumping in and not worrying about anything must feel for her. Vera swam to the wooden platform with the jumping tower that was floating in the water a small distance away, where the water was deeper. She climbed onto the platform and then to the top of the tower. “Geronimo!” she shouted when she let herself fall down all the way into the water. I watched. I saw the tanning couple were sitting up and were looking at Vera too, with smiles on their faces. I was still holding a part of my dress in one hand when Vera came back and climbed the steps back on to the jetty. She sat down next to me and brushed the water off her body with her hands. “The water was lovely!” she said. This time only to inform me, the tone of voice she had used earlier to try to convince me was gone. My window of opportunity was gone too. “Let me just dry up in the sun and then we go home, okay?” When we arrived at Vera’s house, her mother was wondering where we had been. She saw Vera’s wet hair and laughed, “okay, I thought so!”. She made lemonade for us and served cookies. We didn’t really make much progress with the story writing. When dinner time came, I said I had to go home and went outside. I started walking back to the village. It had become cloudy and it was a bit chilly in the air. I pulled my jacket out of my bag and put it on. When I walked by the lake, the water looked grey and uninviting. Summer was definitely over.


As the sun set lower in the sky he adjusted the brim of his ballcap against it. The brim already soaked through with sweat, even though the game was barely half over. The day had been hot, and tiring, and the lasting heat was magnified by the sea of asphalt that surrounded the ballfield. The parks and diamonds and courts at the north end of town wouldn't have this issue. There are tall elms, oaks and pines, and expanses of grass, in lieu of the heat reservoirs of the pavement. There would be a working water fountain as well and the dugout was probably nicer in all likelihood. And who knows, maybe even some grass in the outfield? Not here though, no room in the budget, barely enough in there to chalk the foul lines. The early evening glare from the slowly sinking ball of fire hampered Bobby greatly as he peered in towards home. Whomever built the field had the diamond facing East- ish so that the batter doesn’t have to face into the sun at setting time. That, however, lines up the Right Fielder directly facing into the sun. No wonder the pros have those ridiculous flip down shades.

“They look silly, doncha think?” Bobby had once been asked. Oh sure, the other team supposed he wasn’t all that great because he’s out in right, it IS where they put the weak links after all. Little did they know that he used to play college ball for a serious DII program. None of his new teammates knew that either though, in a cruel twist of irony. And so they planned on just lofting it into the sun and then start runnin’ like hell . Usually, the plan resulted in a surefire hit every time. So all in all, not a great place to be. Not terrible mind you, it was a game he was playing after all, it’s just he preferred to play Left Field, is all. Bobby was the new guy on the team, they had been a man down and his coworker reached out to see how he was occupying his evenings. He had demurred at first, white-lying about all the hobbies, house projects, and friends he had to deal with. But, the truth of the matter was, it was a nice way to preclude the thoughts of Beth from entering his brain. Or so he had hoped. It had been 19 days since she moved out. June the 12th was the day she split. For good this time, he knew in his heart of hearts.

And it had felt like a punch in his gut of guts. He hadn’t meant to stray, and hadn’t actually done anything. It was just that waitress slipped that little scrap of torn receipt paper with her number, AND a number of hearts, into his pocket and gave him a peck on the cheek. Surely that wasn’t enough to justify Beth’s running off with her boss, maybe she was just looking for an out? The smudge of the cocktail server’s makeup on his work shirt collar, and perhaps a whiff of her perfume was all Beth needed pack her bags and allow her twelve-years-senior boss to put her up in his condo across town.

“At least, with that zip code there would be no danger of running into her accidentally.” Bobby had remembered thinking at the time. Clang! And the sound of the other team whooping and his teammates yelling direction filled the air. He was snapped back to reality by the sound of the aluminum bat striking the neon green orb that flew past him in the dusty outfield. As the lighting at some of these fields were suspect, the makers of the recreational product on display made the softballs HiVis Green. And Bobby now watched that ball streak past him, reminding him of tracer munitions cutting through Afghani twilight. That brightly colored ball, bouncing now all the way to the fence. One run had scored from his inattention. And now runners on second and third. He got the ball back to the cutoff man and resolved to keep his head in the game.

“Focus dammit !” He scolded himself. This all was further proof that he had let Beth too close. She was the first he had let into his heart. And it felt as if she would be the last, as well. She had always held unnatural sway over him. Bobby watched the next hitter loft a popout to the right side of the infield. Pleased that he didn’t have to battle the sun for that one, Bobby scoffed to himself. “Ball diamonds should point East Northeast, huh? Obviously nobody asked the Right Fielder!” One man down. Another Clang! rang out in the early summer evening. And again the sound of cheers from the other team. A slugger, left-handed this time, had just knocked in the two runs that Bobby had allowed into scoring position with a drive that bounced once and cleared the fence. The now-runner had mishit it slightly but the low fences around the outfield made the line drive’s hop an easy double. That is a danger of Fast Pitch Softball; the speed of the incoming pitch can make it even harder to keep it in the park. Especially with these new CAD designed aluminum bats… Those bats could really “wallop.” That’s how Willy would’ve put it, not that he had approved of computer aided anything. “ Poor ol’ Willy… ” And just like that, Bobby found himself wandering through his thoughts again. Clang! And the hapless Right Fielder was again caught dreaming. This time though, his nearest outfield compatriot had been noticing his inattention and had come to his aid. The team’s aid in all reality. As the ball was lofted into the sun’s glare the Right-Center Fielder got on his horse , and took off on a beeline to the shallow part of the outfield that had been left unguarded by Bobby’s daydream. With a dive, a catch, and a roll, he tossed the ball to the second basemen and dusted himself off with a chuckle. Two men out. “You ain’t in the Beer Leagues there buddy. Get your head in the game!” Said the athletic young man, as he jogged back to his position, shaded slightly his way now. Bobby remembered being that brave once. Before he was sent to “The Sandbox” . The remnants of that sordid experience still clung to him during those hot, sleepless nights. Without her now. Those restless humid nights where she would come to his aid in the moonlight, awakened by his frightened tossing and turning. Holding him tight once he released himself from the nightmare. Comforting him as the faintest of breezes gently rustled the drapes. Now comforting somebody else, leaving him to face his demons alone. “Yes Sir. Cap’n, Sir.” Said Bobby, just a tad too quickly. It couldn’t be helped, it was the training, in there too deep. His subordinate tongue was in there deep too, a remnant from a childhood of questioning authority. Quit with that sass, boy! Bobby had let the self discipline of his tongue slip also, in addition to the long jogs that had been his daily habit. But then, she had been responsible for that too, hadn’t she?

From all he could recollect, the early runs had gotten less and less frequent at her behest. Not that she wanted him out of shape, but knowing that a comfortable man is less likely to stray she worked on him subtlety. And in the mornings when he used to run laps of his neighborhood to try to escape the demons of his deployment, she would instead curl her nude body around his as he made to rise and pull him into a supine position for exercise of a different nature. All that was gone now. Just the memory of her to haunt his night-tortured soul, drenched in the sweat of his terrors. Nobody to hear the groans… No one to hear his sobs. Clang! Again the sudden noise brought Bobby back to the present. It was fortunate that the ball was hit towards him with a good amount of loft. Looking up, he could see that all he had to do to end the inning was to sprint to the spot that the wall would land. This , he knew how to do.

That spot happened to be just at the base of the fence in deep Right Center, well over his neighboring outfielder’s head. He had practiced this very action so frequently in his youth the muscle memory just took over. He felt the familiar burn of his muscles exerting their power and relished the hint of strength hiding just beneath the surface of rust and inattention. Before the nightmares robbed him of his sleep, sanity, and motivation to do anything at all. He made the catch and flipped the ball to the umpire as he jogged past him in to the first base dugout. Always act as if you’ve been there before, son. Slightly winded from his busy half-inning he paused for a sip of something blue from the water jug before sitting at the end of the bench for a minute. He nodded slightly as his team said “Nice catch” and “Good work,” their enthusiasm slightly dampened by his previous gaffes. In his estimation, it was just a routine catch. Ever since he started playing ball, he had always been good at tracking the ball’s flight path off of the bat. He had spent so many hours as a youth chasing popups at Willy’s farm. There was a cobbled together baseball launcher that would simulate a specific flight dynamic, that the older man would deploy often. That machine, along with his meticulous positioning of Bobby in the dooryard during their drills, earned Bobby all that youthful notoriety.

That fielding machine was Barnyard Mechanics at its finest. To start with he had just raided his parts pile, around the corner of the barn tucked under the eaves where it wouldn’t get rained on or covered in ice during the winter. In that pile he found an old bedframe that probably belonged to his wife’s mother or aunt or somebody. He utilized it for the tripod legs the contraption sat upon. Then he fashioned a cup from a coffee can and tack-welded it to a plate mounted on a swingarm attached to a pulley from a closeline. Next, Willy had taken the spring off the milkhouse door and used it to actuate the arm, his rationale being that anybody with good sense knew enough to close ANY door you walk through. A rope and a pin would work to trigger the whole situation. Yessir, the years of living in that old farmhouse had certainly taught unconventional engineering, among countless other skills, some pertinent, some not. Willy was his uncle’s neighbor, and by that designation he was either an Uncle or a Neighbor to Bobby, and with the title, all rights and obligations transferred in kind. As was natural for those parts in that bygone era, he took the matter seriously. Either role was of the greatest import to the raising of a boy in to a young man. Of course your neighbor would look out for you like an uncle, and of course your uncle lived out back, or around the corner. It was just the nature of things out in the sticks. All that was before Willy’s moods changed. Not sure what is was exactly, maybe it was pain finding purchase, maybe it was Reaganomics, or maybe it was NAFTA. But whatever it was, it hit Willy hard. Harder than most, and that was sayin’ somethin’! Suddenly cheers erupted around him, and he glanced up from his thoughts. The commotion allowed for the briefest of respites to gather himself for the moment at hand. As the 6th and 7th hitters in the lineup had done their work and became ducks on the pond, Bobby was up next. First though, he needed to find a bat that would fit his short torso and long arms. His legs were long as well, but that just made for a slow first step and nothing more. It wasn’t like it was the ninth inning or anything, but Bobby felt the pressure anyway. The pressure to perform. It was a strangely familiar feeling for one he hadn't felt in years. He remembered it clearly of course, but that was in college, the early part of it as well! But in this new town, this new team, these strangers, on this shabby field, he felt like he was trying out all over again. And in a sense he was, even in this little podunk league on the poor side of town. He felt he had to perform. He must succeed, for the team, for himself, for the memories of Beth… He just had to… And so he waited for his pitch. And when it came he made sure he did not miss. With a flash he leveled his club and made use of his naturally gifted quick wrists. It was funny that even now, even with the rust, all that natural talent was revealed in his bat speed. And with the pitcher smug at the point of release, he felt everything slow down. The large neon greeny-yellow ball now looked like the size of a beach ball. Luckily the flight characteristic of the softball remained as he met the path of the ball with the path of the bat and made the one leap out of the park. It was a rocket, from the crypt. From the vault of his past. He felt his spirits soar with the flight of that ball. All the turbulence of the past 7 months flew along with the otherworldly colored sphere rapidly shrinking into the distance. As he rounded third and headed back to the bench by way of Home Plate, he remembered that day when the State Championship was won by his bat, legs and glove. And as a sophomore no less! He remembered his teammates hoisting him and mobbing him in the field after “That Catch”, really just another of his routine flies to end the game. And he remembered seeing Willy in the stands grinnin’ like a fool. Reveling in HIS victory, and by his participation making it all that much sweeter. That memory along with the ice cream with the team afterwards. And then, his first sip of beer. Allowed as the season was over and the summer was just beginning and both needed saluting. Sitting with Willy under the eaves of his garage in a couple of shabby lawn chairs, hiding from the sun, finally feeling like a peer instead of a ward.

Sipping milk from the teat of life . But all that was before the hospital. Before the Ol’ Man withered away to nothing. The now-ward, the former guardian, wore a weary look. This man a pallorous fraction of his past sum, once virile and strong, now just a frail echo of his younger self. Bobby had only seen him the once after he was admitted. Once was all he was allowed. It had broken Bobby when he got the letter, early into his stint, that Willy had passed. When the time had come, he had just given a squeeze to Beth’s comforting hand and closed his eyes and left. She relayed that his breath had gotten fainter and fainter until it had just stopped altogether. He had always resented her for that, even though he would have hated seeing Willy fade away into his grave. He would rather remember shaggin’ flies with his old friend, their ages four decades separated. He thought of that man now as he settled back into the dugout, in this moment of mediocrity, the bottom of the order in the bottom of the fifth. Willy’s words spoken in his mind as though the man were still live. “Well kid,” Willy would have doubtless said, “ya win some, ya lose some.”

Bobby wiped a tear from his eye surreptitiously and glanced around to see if anybody had noticed. Nobody had. The game had moved on and again Bobby was just left at the end of the bench with his thoughts and a tie game. As if it didn’t even matter if he was here or not today. Maybe he should have just stayed in bed? "Ain't that the truth Pops!"


When he was born, the first thing he did was scream. But, unlike other babies, he stopped as soon as the scream reached his ear. Doctors and nurses quickly came and checked on him, flashing their instruments, probing him with their green-gloved hands, directing blinding beams of light at him. But all that did not make him scream. It was all the sound, filling the room, reaching every corner and covering every surface. The humming and buzzing of the machines, the quick footsteps on the floor, the agitated chatter and the little screams of preoccupation. He started to scream again, adding even more sound to the cacophony, making him scream even louder. That day, he started his quest for silence. He grew up in a big city, the streets filled with old cars, new cars, people shouting, trucks crashing, music pouring out of every shop and house. He grew up to be a calm and silent boy, always seeking the quietest corner of the small apartment. But he could not find it, so he told his parents he wanted to move away, to some quiet place. The following week, they left the city and moved to a farm. Silence at last! No cars could be heard driving, no people shouting. But after a few days, the farm became too loud, too crowded for him. The hammering engine of the tractor, the hoofclaps of the horses, the infernal mooing of the cows, the savage rushing of the wind. So he decided to seek the silence, wherever it could have hidden. He studied, became a successful businessman and spent all his money on the science of sound and silence. Finally he learned that only up there in the cold space there was no sound, that sound needed air. Everything he had he invested in a journey to the stars, closer to the absolute silence. And finally he went to to the stars. And when he left the shuttle in his spacesuit, total silence surrounded him. He was truly happy, until he became aware of his own heartbeat, of the blood rushing in his ears, the million small sounds of a living body. He wept, having lost the silence, beat at his suit, his heart, his body, commanding himself in vain to be quiet. In blind despair he finally ripped away his helmet, releasing the air inside and letting in the perfect silence, the total nothing and with it, finally, pure joy. A moment later, only the silence remained.


When I was eighteen, I moved out of my parents’ place and into this big beat up house in the city with four of my best friends. The house was massive, which was awesome, but it was also located in literally the worst area imaginable. Just like the single most dangerous part of the city. So, with that in mind, I figured maybe I’d tell you a quick little funny story about something that happened to me while I was living at this house with my buddies. And I’ll try my best to keep it short. Okay. So, again, I was eighteen. However, the friends I moved in with were all a year or two older than me. Therefore, sometimes they’d travel across the nearby border to Canada where you could drink at 19. And I did have a fake ID, but I still only looked about eleven, so I’d usually just hang back. And I’d simply hope that they’d return with, ya know, like some bitches or whatever. So, one Friday night, I got home at like 1am or so. My roommates were all in Canada. I figured I’d just chill and get blazed out while waiting for them to return. I started smoking weed and practicing my Mario Kart skills for a while. Now it was probably just shy of 2am. It was springtime out, first warm night we’d had in a while. I already had all the windows open. I decided to head out onto my front porch to smoke a cigarette. And that’s when the second most frightening thing to ever happen to me while I l lived at this house occurred. I stepped onto my front porch. I lit my cigarette. And I turned to sit down on the chairs we had out there. BUT...there was a dude. A scary dude. Just sitting there. A scary dude just sitting there on my porch. A big, very intimidating, bouncer at a nightclub looking, scary dude, just sitting there, on my porch. Now, if it’s not clear, I had no fucking clue who this scary dude was. He really was just a random guy sitting on my porch in the worst part of the city at two o’clock in the morning. And, keep in mind, I was home alone...and now high as fuck. So, ya know, I was kinda frightened. I figured he might rob me. Or hurt me. Or...worse. But I tried to hide my panic. And I just said... “Hey. What’s uhh what’s up, buddy?” “Hey man, sorry,” he responded. “I just really needed to sit down for a second.” I was like, “Oh... ... ...alright.” He was like, “Smells like you’ve been smoking something good inside.” “Maybe...” I replied cautiously. He just laughed. And then he pulled out a joint. So, I don’t remember much about what transpired over the next hour or so. But I know that when my friends finally got back from Canada; they found me and scary dude sitting inside, fucking with some Mario Kart together. I recall my one drunken buddy shouting, “Who the fuck is this guy?!” And me just being like, “Don’t worry about it; he’s cool.” So scary dude stuck around for another hour or so, but then he left. And then I told my friends about how I’d met him on our front porch earlier that night. And they all, naturally, flipped the fuck out on me. Like, Ian, why are you letting random dudes into our house?!? He’s gonna come back and rob us!! Or hurt us!!! Or...worse!!! And, like, I had to admit they had some good points. Probably shouldn’t be letting random scary dudes inside. So, for the next few weeks, my friends were all pissed at me, and they all just insisted on being super careful to lock our doors and look over our shoulders. I kept telling them not to worry about it because he was cool. But they were still convinced scary dude would return one day. And...sure enough...about a month later... We were having a party. A big party. We’d had a shitload of parties at our house, but this was like the biggest one ever. There were so many fucking people there. I was squeezing my way through the hallway when I saw a commotion going on by the front door. I finally reached the entrance, and then I looked up to see the last person I was hoping to see... A cop. Scratch that, a fucking shitload of cops. They said, “Do you live here?” I said, “Yeah.” They spun me around and put me in handcuffs saying they were sick of breaking up our underage drinking parties. They shouted asking who else lived in the house. And I just watched as my four best friends and roommates all kept their mouths shut. Like dicks. So the cops drove me down to the station. As they were bringing me inside, they told me it was a super busy night, and that I shouldn’t plan on leaving the holding cell until the following morning. As we approached the holding cell; I saw 12 to 15 men already standing inside of it. And they saw me. And that’s when the top most frightening thing to ever happen to me occurred. A big biker looking guy, right by the cell door, looked at me square in the eyes, and just said, “You’re sleeping next to me tonight.” I was like, “Oh fuck.” The cell door opened, the cops shoved me inside, the biker guy licked his lips and immediately went to grab me... But then... “DON’T TOUCH HIM.” A loud voice boomed from the corner of the jail cell. I looked over. And I saw my hero. Scary dude. “What do you care about this little punk?” biker guy yelled back. “Don’t worry about it,” scary dude replied. “He’s cool.” THE END Thanks for reading, you guys.


Kate sat in her car, parked just underneath the golden arches. The warm, welcoming glow from the sign above illuminated her car as if it were a celestial sign from the heavens. She had been sitting there for five minutes, staring straight ahead towards the overflowing, well branded bin. Her hands positioned still at ten and two on the steering wheel in a fierce grip that left her knuckles white as snow. Kate was awoken from her trance by the slamming of car doors next to her. A high pitched squeal waddled towards the place where moments of happiness were made, boxed and sold for £2.99 a head. Kate stole a glance at the chubby little fella storming the castle, his parents walked slowly behind, zombified and disinterested from the world around them. She sighed and let go of the steering wheel. She stroked it apologetically for how hard she had held it. Kate unbuckled her seatbelt gently and got out of her beautiful old car. She stretched and breathed in the nugget heavy air. Kate admired her car. It was nothing special. It did however have a rather magnificent coat of green, that is if you bothered to chisel away at the mud that had caked on over the years. Kate made a mental note to wash it for the thousandth time. 'Old Faithful' she had named it. Old faithful was the world's most reliable car, it certainly had no bells or whistles to be found, age was definitely starting to show in a few places, yet unlike a lot of Kate's life, Old Faithful had never once let her down. Old Faithful had become her freedom and salvation. Kate had one true love in her life, and it was for her car. She locked it and gently patted the wing mirror. Kate turned and walked towards the luminescent temple that beckoned her to enter. Her smile faltered, she thought back to the last time that she wanted something so silly and small. There wouldn't have been a hope in hell not so long ago, that she would have been allowed something as useless and frivolous as this. She was an adult. She had been expected to behave as such. Adults didn't have Smartie infused McFlurries at night. They had red wine, dark chocolate, dry roasted peanuts. All still very nice things mind. But being an adult ment that she would have to do adult things very quietly. Like washing up. Sewing a cushion. Making greetings cards for people that she would rather send a terd in a box. Keeping a home dust free and scented of tropical tiger lillys at all times. Those where the things she had been told to do in order to be an adult. For a long time, untill now, she had obeyed obediently. Being a quiet, reserved, very boring version of herself. Kate shook her head. She didn't want to think about it. That was then, and this is now. She pushed open the door. The door glided open gleefully, squeaking as it did so, almost cheering that she had arrived and welcoming her in. Kate turned sharply towards the play frame in alarm at the high pitch scream that emitted from it. She quickly spotted little tubby fella who was quite clearly on a sugar high. He ferociously beat his fists on his chest, screaming loudly as he could, asserting dominance over his new found kingdom. Kate glanced at the nearby table his parents were sat at. They seemed so oblivious to their child as they sat just resting with their faces glued downwards towards their phones. Kate felt a pang of pity for both parties. The tubby little fella that was literally screaming out for love and attention, and his parents, who seemed so very drained of life itself, that they had very little left to give of themselves to their family. This magical place seemed to give them all a reprieve. Kate joined the queue and smiled, amused at the little tubby fella that had taken control of the ball pit and had cornered the other children all by himself, pulverizing them with well aimed half eaten foam balls that look oh so slightly as though they could be infested and harbouring disease. Little tubby fella was truly on a mission. At least his parents were able to rest in a moment of ignorance for a while. Kate should have been more like the little tubby fella. She should have invoked her inner Tarzan and demanded better. She didn't realise quite just how bad things had become untill her moment of realisation when she had just had enough and smashed a few plates early one morning many months ago. Not out of frustration, not out of joy or even madness. Just because she wanted too. A moment of release. A moment of control. Her husband at the time screamed blue murder, became his inner Tarzan and tried to assert his dominance once again. He called her crazy. He was probably right. He threatened to have her locked up and examined. He didn't want to listen to her reasoning. He liked status quo. He liked quiet Kate that she had become. He didn't like plate smashing Kate that was remenisant of the person he had first met. Kate had been in a pure state of bliss in that moment. She couldn't really care what he thought. She hated those plates with a burning passion. They were chipped to high hell and were found by the side of the road and bought home because they were free. She hadn't been allowed to replace them no matter how much she asked, even with her own money. She truly relished the moment of doing something stupid, without reason or care and of her own free choice. Kate started to become her own person again after that. She listened to music again, she read, she drew, she danced under the moon with a bottle of wine to her favourite songs and started to have the biggest smile on her face once more. Kate learned to say no and found her strength to stand up for herself when times became a little heavy handed, she got herself well away from the situation at hand and found herself a tiny, grotty little flat to call her own. She took control of her own life again. And now.. now she was going to have a McFlurry because she wanted one. She was going to pay for it with her own money that she had worked hard for. She was not going to ask anyone's permission, she certainly wasn't going to listen to anyone's opinions on the matter. Kate stepped up to the cashier. She was beaming from ear to ear. It felt like it had been such a very long journey just to get a dollop of ice cream. Kate placed her order, paid and quickly received her holy grail. Her inner little tubby squealed with delight. She savoured that first spoonful. Did it taste of happiness? Yes. Yes it did.


Standing with my back to the counter I readjusted my Joe’s Easy Fill issued name tag, as I stared mindlessly at the microwave, recapping silently in my head the even less interesting things that had happened this glorious Friday evening. It wasn’t long until that state of mind changed. I heard the door ding and half turned my head before the gun was swung up and pointed right between my eyes. “The money or your life!” A rundown man with hair longer than his life expectancy, and clothes almost as warn out as he was, stood at the other end of the voice. I looked him in the eyes almost expecting it to be the same guy who robbed the place four days before. But it was just some nobody. It wasn’t a bad neighborhood or even a store with much money at all, but people make stupid decisions every day. This time I decided not to point out the bank across the street; I didn’t need to piss off those people again. He moved the gun closer as if it becomes more dangerous with an inch less air in the way to slow the bullet. “Are you deaf, I said empty the cash register!” “Well I’m not going to be a dick and point out the fact that you didn’t say that, but I will point out the fact that your wasting the power of the gun just like every movie villain.” “What?” “Oh you know, sticking it in my face. A gun is a long range weapon, and you’re using it up close, its like buying a wrist watch and hanging it on the wall as a wall clock, or buying a racecar and driving the speed limit.” “No, its nothing like that, the gun is right in your face, it doesn't get much more intimidating than that, I’m not wasting the power.” “Sure you are, it’s right in front of me, I could knock it out of your hand or somebody could sneak up behind you.” He took a step away and looked over his shoulder. I love messing with people that don’t know what their doing. “Dude if you were across the room and have a half decent shot then I would be fucked. But right in front of me, you never know if I’m about to throw hot coffee in your face or something. Across the room what would I be able to do to stop you?” He stumbled with his thoughts for a second then snapped back into action. “Hey! Hands in the air! Now I ain’t going across the room and I ain’t leaving here without my money, so fork it over!” I put my hands up for maybe a second but then they dropped almost as quickly as my jaw. “H-o-l-y shit!” “What?” Through the scruffy beard and aged skin I spotted a tiny bit of familiarity. “I know you!” “Huh? Quick stalling!” “No, you’re Tom Burk! From Maplewood High. Its me Chris Peterson!” “W..what? No, now give me my cash!” “Dude we went to high school together, freshmen year, I would go over to your house and we’d watched *Saved By The Bell.*” “Sorry wrong guy.” “No man, Tom Burk, yeah you totally puked all over the stage at graduation.” “Nope, not me.” “Yeah! Ha, they didn’t want to stop the ceremony so all the other kids had to walk across the stage, still covered in vomit, haha, and the one girl didn’t see it on the floor and totally slipped.” “Nope.” “Yeah dude that was awesome, why did we stop hanging out after freshman year?” “You fucked my sister man!” “Oh yeah! See you remember!” “You think that’s gonna help your cause? I’m the one with the gun in my hand, and you’re the one with the gun in your face.” Some people just don’t have any sense of humor. I never really slept with her I just said I did to piss him off. But shows what kind of friend he was if he still hadn’t gotten over it 15 years later “Dude you still pissed about the thing with your sister, we only did it a few times, we were young.” “You don’t sleep with a friends sister! That one of the unwritten laws. But this isn’t about that, I’m here for the damn money!” He then switched the gun to his left hand. I couldn’t imagine holding a heavy gun straight out for five minutes. “Man if a law is unwritten its unwritten for a reason. If she wasn’t your sister you totally would have gone for her.” “Dude that’s disgusting. Now this is the last time I’m gonna tell you to open the register and hand over the money!” “We’ll I just don’t see any reason to now.” “Don’t see any reason?!?!” “Yeah. Well I know who you are, so as soon as you leave I could just call the cops, you wont even get to enjoy the money.” “Did you forget about the gun?” “No but I don’t really see you shooting me over a couple hundred bucks, how much you got on you?” “On me?!?” “Yeah I figure I deserve some money to keep my mouth shut.” “You must think I’m some kind of idiot!” “No, I know you’re an idiot, but I figure your smart enough to know what’s best for you. So give me fifteen bucks and when I get off in an hour I’ll buy you a beer.” The fury in his eyes sunk away as they drifted their focus to the floor. He put his gun in the back of his belt and fumbled through his pockets. Then he pulled out a crumpled bill. “You, you got change for a twenty?” “Sure thing.” I opened the cash register and dropped it in. Grabbed him a five and put fifteen in my pocket. “Well Tom, its good doing business with you. Meet me in front in an hour and we’ll go down to the Owls Nest for some drinks and talk about old times.” “Yeah… I … I guess so man.” He walked out more disappointed than a kid leaving *Toys-R-Us* empty handed. But hey I think he was pretty lucky. If anybody else was behind the counter they would have hit the silent alarm that we had just gotten installed. He went to a bar that night instead of a jail cell. I don’t think there’s a better outcome than that.