Alone, she watches the water flow over her cave dwelling. This cave has been her home her entire life and the small forests and cliff that surround her are the only world she’s ever known. She gets up and begins to walk alongside the flowing river as she has done 1000 times before. She’s lined the river with different edible plants that she was able to find foraging. Outside of the occasional bird or fish this has been her main sustenance. As she walks she picks a few different fruits for breakfast. She follows the river all the way down the 2 mile path she knows by heart and arrives at the falls. She looks over and sees no bottom, nothin but mist and fog. She looks around, the landscape etched in her memory. Cliffs surround her, and for all but the falls it is a harrowing and impossible fall, no where to climb and no way to jump. She thinks to herself that she could be happy with life above the falls. That she has everything she needs and lives a life of peace, she doesn’t need more. For the first time in a long time a stabbing thought, a jaded memory comes to the front of her mind, her as a young child laughing with her parents sitting on a soft bed. She can’t remember her parents or anyone else well. She can’t remember a time where she was not by herself and not responsible for herself. She still questions how reliable this thought is, it’s the only memory that ever comes to mind, how does she know these people are her parents? How does she know they were with her here? There was no trace of them, has she always been alone on this island? Do other people exist? She has nothing more than a feeling, a yearning, to go on, but lately the fire inside her seems to be growing and pushing her to find out if there is more out there. She takes another look out on the horizon and turns around to walk back towards her cave. With each step she begins to feel more sick and upset. By the time she is back she breaks down crying. She looks at the cave wall by where she sleeps and sees the picture she has drawn using berries, a crude drawing but none the less effective, her present day sitting with the two people from her memory. In that moment she realizes that she needs that as much as food or water. She can’t live another day without anyone to share it with. At this moment she decides she’s going over the falls. She spends the entire night foraging for anything she can find that may be useful -food, sticks leaves, anything. She builds what she can of a bucket and raft over the next few days testing it in her small, calm part of the river. Once one was able to hold her afloat she loaded it up with everything she had and walked with it alongside the river holding it upright with a long stick. When she made it to the falls she looked once more out and looked for resolve within herself. A reason to not do what she was about to, a doubt, but any semblance of one was gone. She jumped into her make-shift raft and floated toward the falls. The river rages and almost immediately flips her over, but she holds on and gains a balance squating on the raft. She tied everything down best she could with leaves and branches and she held them as secure as she could. She used a large trunk to steer her way away from rocks and towards the center of the falls, she figured this would be the place with potentially the deepest and most clear bottom when, if, she lands in water below. She moves closer to the edge, her heart now racing. She closes her eyes and dreams one more time about a life with people she loves. She opens her eyes, she is inches away from the falls. She looks out to the horizon and sees what looks to be artificial lights in the distance.


“Look!” A man shouts from the tightly packed crowd, pointing towards me. “The Antichrist!” “Oh sweet Mother!” A woman moans, holding her face in her hands. “How horrible! How unholy!” Another man screams. I look from them to my pale hands, my doughy arms, my faded black pants and shirt, my shoes that were bought five years ago on clearance, then back to them. “So, um… Yeah. Hi.” “Oh God!” A few scream as they sprint away. I watch as they scurry like packed rats down the street, turn at the corner, and disappear behind a row of brick buildings. After a while, there’s nothing but silence, stillness. The clouds drift in reverse here, and there’s no sun, at least not one I can see. The four-way I stand in is empty, trash blowing in the breeze, cluttering the water drains. “What the hell am I supposed to do here?” I ask myself, aloud. I shrug, and start down the road. There’s shuttered shops and dingy buildings that have rooms for rent, there’s trashcans spilling their contents onto the sidewalks, there’s towering tan brick churches at almost every corner, though there seems not many people live here; there’s so many things of the same that I wonder if I hadn’t just been dropped in another town in the same world than a parallel one. “Hey!” I turn to the voice. It’s a short teenager huddling in an alley. He’s wearing camo shorts and a white t-shirt, and carrying a broken bat. “What?” I ask. “Are you the Antichrist?” I raise my hands, let them fall. “I suppose so.” “You don’t look like the son of the Devil.” “Not many people look their part either.” “What’s that mean?” he asks, stepping out of the alley. “Doesn’t matter. What do you want?” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I was bored.” “We all are, but not everyone talks to strangers. Didn’t your parents tell you not to do that?” He shook his head, nearing me, stopping at the end of the sidewalk. He rocks on his feet. “Nah, I don’t have those.” “Sure you do; everyone does.” “Well if do,” he says, “I never met them.” I look at my hands, move my fingers. I feel something coursing within, like a dull warmth. Maybe there’s something in me after all? “Would you like to meet them?” His eyes go wide, the grip on his bat tightens. “You can do that?” “Maybe,” I say, “or I can at least try.” The teenager bites his bottom lip, moving his head from left to right, and eventually nods. “Yeah, I guess, at least once.” “All right.” I walk over to him and grip his wrists. “This might not work and it might hurt a bit, but I’ll try. Now close your eyes.” Hesitant, but the boy obeys. I do, too, and focus on the warmth, focus on fanning the flames. It grows and overwhelms my arms, washes over my chest and fills my body. I smell burnt hair, charred hot dogs. There’s a whooshing sound and the ground is gone and I feel air wafting against my legs. Then, there’s solidness beneath my feet and I open my eyes. “Fuck,” I say. We’re in Hell. The Hell. Brimstone stretches forever into the distance before being overtaken by mountains that scratch the sulfur sky. Fire erupts from fissures in the ground, moans and groans echo through the air. Smell of piss and shit and rot stings my nostrils. “Tony?” “Anthony?” The teenager opens his eyes, shakes my hands away and moves around me. I turn. There’s a man and a woman in tattered clothes with scorched flesh and burnt away hair. The man is missing an eye, the woman an arm, but they look similar to the boy. “Is that you, son?” the man asks. I hear the teenager sniffle, his chest hitch. “Da— dad? Mom?” “Oh Lucifer!” the mother shouts before oily tears stream down her face. Al three of them embrace, and another type of warmth fills me and something stings my eyes. I wipe the fiery tears away quickly. No one needs to know the Antichrist can cry. If you enjoyed the story and want to read more of my work, visit my and consider subscribing.


A refreshing splash of cool water on my face, same time everyday, part of my early morning routine. Dabbing the towel to my face I looked in the mirror, is that a new wrinkle, or just a crease from the pillow? I leaned in for closer inspection, just a pillow crease. Not that another wrinkle would bother me, I am glad to have gotten to this age, against all odds, I survived. Funny how the reflection of my face in the mirror seems to change, I know over time I have aged, yet sometimes I still see all the younger versions of me looking back. The longer I stare, memories of all those years flood in. Good times, fun times, exhilarating times and occasionally the sad times.  I often replay these events over and over, wondering, if it were possible to go back in time, knowing what I know now, would I do anything differently? If I did change anything, would it change anything about who I am today? I am glad it isn’t an option because I really like who I am today, I hold dear all the memories good and bad, all of them combined made me who I am. All those experiences taught me about life, people, and true value of living a happy and fulfilling life. Learning this took a lot of trial and error, emotional growth is just as much a part of life as aging is. I remember when I first realized that timing is everything and not everything negative that happens, has a negative outcome, like the time I got in my car to go to the bank, and it wouldn’t start. I was so mad, thinking ‘oh come on, not now I can’t afford car repairs. After 20 minutes of fiddling with the engine, it started and I went to the bank, as I pulled in the parking lot, I saw police cars every where. I found out that it had been robbed 15 minutes earlier. Wow, I thought, if my car had started the first time, I might have walked in on the robbery, I might have startled the bank robbers and got shot. This reality put me on a path of looking at situations and events differently. I started to view life from the bright side, almost like a mystery to solve, what ever was happening to me, I had to search for the why? What was I learning this time, were negative situations just annoying moments that were actually protecting me from horrible things? Sometimes I discovered yes, sometimes I never found out, but I continued viewing life as an adventure and mystery to solve, rather than negative.  It made life less disappointing, like the time we put an offer in on a house we really wanted, but didn’t get, three months later we drove past it and it had burnt to the ground.  Or the time my husband didn’t get the job he applied for and then two days later was offered his dream job, a job he didn’t even know was available at the time, they called him.                                                                                One time I had forgotten to trust in timing, and of all days for my husband to be late getting home from work. (this was in the days before cell phones) I was in tears because our refrigerator broke, we couldn’t afford another one, anyways he entered the house to find me crying, I shouted where were you? He replied that he had stopped in at a friend’s house to see his new kitchen renovations. This upset me even more, here we were, no fridge and his friend was getting a new kitchen. I continued to cry and asked how big the kitchen was, to make him almost 2 hours late, he laughed and said, “well it took a while to load his old fridge in the truck. As it turned out, not only was his old fridge only 3 years old, but it was also my dream fridge, black, 2 door, freezer on the left, fridge on the right. He had replaced all the appliances with stainless steel versions.                                   Over the years we have experienced hundreds of situations like this and for the most part, trusted in the timing instead of being frustrated. Time is a strange concept; it has many sayings that prove this. Time is money, time after time, time of your life, time waits for no one, time flies when you are having fun, time is the most valuable thing a man can spend, time is the wisest counselor of all, time is an illusion. There are dozens more but there is ones that stand out strongly for me are in reference to birth- IT’s TIME! and death, ‘It’s not my time.’ ‘gone before his/her time.’ I think these effect me so deeply because I have been surrounded by a multitude of births, as a labour coach and by deaths of many family members, as well as cheating death 3 times myself.                     Over the years I have seen the passing of both of my in-laws, both of my parents, my sister, and my youngest son. I noticed that when people speak of older ones passing, they say “it was their time” but for the young they say “gone before their time”. In my situation, each time the doctors said I was going to die, and I didn’t, people would say “I guess it wasn’t your time.” I always found these references to be odd, almost as if everyone had the exact amount of allotted time on the planet and didn’t stick to the plan. I see the reflection of the sun rise in the mirror now, another day has begun for me, I guess what I am trying to point out really is, that the time is now!   Life isn’t short, it’s the longest thing you will ever do. Nobody knows how much time they have, but no matter how much time that is, make it time well spent. Learn about your life, the good times, the bad times and the weird times. You can not always control what happens in your life, but you control your attitude about it. So go ahead, enjoy your time on earth, do all the things you want to do, don’t be concerned about the destination, it’s all about the journey. Don’t be concerned about what others think, as long as you are not harming anyone, just do what makes you happy. The only one who can see the whole reflection in the mirror, is You.


In the fall of 1996, I was on the cross-country team. Before each race, the team would warm up by running the course. During one such run, I was forced to stop because I almost shit my pants. The key word here is almost. In my youth, I knew not to test fate, so I turned back around leaving my team and headed straight for the restroom. The toilets were metal and disgusting, but beggars can’t be choosers. I immediately exploded when I sat down, and I knew right then and there that I would be dropping out of the day’s race. My team, my family, and my friends were counting on me to finish—like always—dead last. Would they be disappointed if I weren’t closing out the race? When I finally emerged from the bathroom, my team (and their families) were waiting for me. Apparently, the story had gotten mixed up, and they were all under the impression that I had actually—in actual fact—shit my pants. There was nothing I could say to make them see it my way. Needless to say, there were jokes. These jokes continued the following week at school when everyone was telling the story. “Troy shit his pants and couldn’t run.” “Hey, Speed Racer, did you shit your pants?” “Keep on walkin’ Shit Pants.” Then, about a month later at the Fall Sports Banquet, I received the Most Improved Award. Now, you might be thinking, “Most Improved? I thought he always got last place.” Well, by the end of the season, I was no longer last. There were usually one or two people right behind me trying to steal my spotlight. As my coach was delivering his introduction of my award, he regaled the audience with the mixed-up version of the story, the one where I actually—in actual fact—shit my pants. So while everyone was red-faced and laughing so hard they were crying, I had to get up in front of all of them and accept my “Depends Award”—my coach’s nickname for it. A very pleasant experience. The truth is on that fateful autumn morning, I didn’t shit my pants. I just sharted a little.  \* \* \*  In the year 2000, I had gained a little weight after graduating high school. I was a little chunky, not super chunky, but enough to make my belly button talk. So in January of 2001, I decided to start running again. By the summer of 2001, I was full-blown OCD about it, running 5 miles six days a week. One summer day, I began my run like any other day. My course was a 2.5 mile run away from my house. About a mile in, I started to feel a little weird, but as any runner will tell you, stopping is out of the question. As the road straightened out, I noticed a group of guys riding four-wheelers on the old railroad tracks that were parallel to my course. No big deal. Common practice. At the 2-mile mark though, I started to feel cramps—I had been here before. Then, as I was just about as far away from my house as humanly possible, it happened: full-blown bubble guts. I tried to remain calm, but my body wasn’t having it. Why had it come on so fast? Was this some kind of karmic retribution? What had I done? I tried turning around and running back, but I realized very quickly that my colon could not hold its contents at that speed. So I tried walking briskly. Nope. Still about a mile and a half from home, I began getting hot flashes and goose bumps. This was going very, very badly. I was not prepared for this digestive incursion. Some immediate decisions had to be made, and I was not emotionally prepared to make such decisions. What should I do? What could I do? I was already clenching cheeks, tip-toeing on the side of the road like some cartoon bad guy. I could barely take another step. Should I go in my shorts? What if it leaks out and runs down my leg? Everyone driving by will see, and they’ll think, “I knew he really shit his pants that day. ‘Almost,’ my ass.” I decided that my only option was to go in the bushes. Wiping logistics would have to be determined later. I waited for all the cars to pass, then ran off the road and over to the train tracks. I looked around, saw that the coast was clear, then squatted down over some rocks. I’ll spare the details, but just know that the details were very messy...very hot and very messy. Only once I was relieved of my burden did I remember the guys riding four-wheelers just 20 minutes earlier. What if they came back? This operation would be compromised. I don’t know if I could escape fast enough. If I pulled up my pants too fast, I’d have shit all over my back. And what would they say? “Shit Pants is at it again.” “My God, he can’t stop himself.” “Look at ‘im. Just squattin’ there. Little pervert.” Getting caught was not an option. I couldn’t survive it socially. The anxiety set in, but I still had to figure out how to wipe. Should I use my underwear and just leave them there? What if they could be traced back to me? I grabbed some leaves and prayed to God that it wasn’t poison ivy or poison oak. I’ve never wiped so fast and so unthoroughly in my life. I pulled my pants up, checked for passing cars, and when no one was around, I ran back out to the road and walked home as if nothing had happened. When I got inside, I threw my underwear and shorts away, then got in the shower and rinsed off. I was an animal that day.  \* \* \*  For years I was fine. Life was good. That is, until yesterday. For the last month, I have run/jogged/walked a five-mile course two or three times a week. Yesterday, I decided that I would run once it cooled down. I figured 6 pm would be good. It would be cool enough, but the sun would still be out. Last time I ran at night in San Pedro, two men—on two separate occasions—swung at me as I ran past them from behind. One of them even said, “What the hell?” as he swung. Apparently, in San Pedro if you are running toward someone at night, you don’t have good intentions. I also had to make sure I got past a certain spot in the bushes by the beach while the sun was still out. That is not a place where I want to frolic in the dark. Last time I was there, the city was doing construction, and I saw a woman with a stroller go into the bushes down the very manicured dirt path (kind of like a little side park). I thought, “This gentle mother must know a way around the construction,” and I followed her only to realize too late that I had just been led into a homeless encampment/drug den trap by its supplier. That wasn’t a baby in that stroller. That was crystal meth. Thank God I had on running shoes because running is exactly what I did. I have no qualms about openly running from people. I do it all the time. Prior to yesterday’s run, I had drunk a total of 8 espresso shots and had eaten only a bowl of cereal, two hard-boiled eggs, and an apple with peanut butter. I didn’t consider the consequences. Years of peacetime had made me forget the scourges of my rectum. It wasn’t until right around the secret homeless encampment/drug den that I realized something was wrong. My insides started to twist; my mind started to panic. Again, I was at almost exactly the farthest point from my house. I decided that I had to just keep going. I only had to make it back. And, actually, that seemed to work for a little while. My future started to look brighter. Then 23rd street hit. I had been walking for a little while at this point, and I thought I would run a little more since I was only about a mile from home. After about 10 steps, I realized that running was now off the table. If I ran another step, I would dump. Up until this point in my life, I’ve never had to clench so tight. You know when you swallow air to make yourself burp? Well, it was kind of like that but heavier, considerably more miserable, and on the other end with a lot more fear and regret. A group of misfit teenagers were on the other side of the street. Two seemed to be arguing and the rest watching. Was a fight about to break out? As a teacher, I’m used to intervening in these situations, but a gang fight might be just the distraction I need if I suddenly find myself with shit running down my legs. With all the attention on them, I might be able to clean myself up with a sock or something before anyone notices. Maybe they’ll all get involved and it’ll really become a scene! However, much to my dismay, they stopped arguing and went on their way. I was left with 13 more blocks to go. My head down, my breath heavy, my pace quickening (as much as my clenched butt would allow), I charged on. Every few blocks or so, I would get a wave of severe cramps with the understanding that I could blow at any second. I thought maybe if I sat down it would help, but that was also chancy since my body might interpret that position as a command to release. So I kept going, wincing and whispering “Oh my God” over and over. About five blocks from my house, things got really serious. I walked over a piece of upended sidewalk (from tree roots) and the bubble guts came on so hard that I almost just let go, but this was not Bellaire-Neffs Road. There were no train tracks or bushes to hide in. If it was going to happen, it was going to happen out in the open for everyone to see. I pulled from deep down inside me. This will not be the day that I shit myself in public! I held it in as hard as I could knowing that I was probably causing irreparable bodily damage. My poor lower intestines. They don’t deserve this! Just a few blocks from my house, I walked—head down in full panic—past two men standing near their stoop. Judging by my demeanor, they knew something was wrong. What was that in their eyes? Sympathy? Disgust? I couldn’t dwell on such matters. I rounded the corner and arrived home. I entered the code to my building, ran up the stairs and into my apartment, and tore my shoes off. Side note: I just bought these shoes, and they are half a size too big. So in addition to battling a severe case of diarrhea, I also went running in essentially what might be described as Asics clown shoes. Needless to say, when I was finally on the toilet, something really, really special happened. I literally screamed when I finally let it go. And then I—out loud—thanked God for bringing me home to glory.  Not again bubble guts, not again.  P.S. Is this why they call it “the runs”?  P.P.S.


It happened on Halloween. It was supposed to be my off day, but I ended up working a double shift because Tim and Nora both called out. They were the latest victims of a nasty stomach bug making the rounds at work, which we'd taken to calling the Panacea Plague. Tim and Nora were pharmacy technicians, so their calling out wouldn't normally affect me, but since the other two techs had just quit, Mike had no choice but to move Zach and Carla from cashier and photo to pharmacy, since they were the only cashiers with active tech licenses. From there, I suppose, he had no choice but to bombard my phone at six a.m. with frantic texts. Can you work nine to close? Frankie? Hey Frankie, just checking to see if you got my texts from earlier. Frankie?! I really wanted to tell him no. Halloween was my favorite holiday, and my daughter was finally old enough to enjoy the experience of trick-or-treating. Ever since mid-September, when the October schedule posted, I'd been anxiously awaiting what would surely be the best Halloween since I'd become a mother. If I closed my eyes tight enough, I could see it: After I dropped Lily off at daycare, I'd catch up on laundry while watching classics like Hocus Pocus and Bedknobs and Broomsticks and sneak a stash of pumpkin-shaped peanut butter cups and other premium candies before setting out a bucket of candy for trick-or-treaters. That afternoon, I'd surprise Lily's class with cupcakes for snack time, the kind from the grocery store bakery with too-tall swirls of orange and purple frosting decorated with plastic spider rings. From there, I would go home to change into more festive attire while Lily's dad Drew picked her up, took her to his condo, and helped her get into costume. Then, we'd meet in a neutral neighborhood to trick-or-treat together. As a family, for lack of a better word. But the truth was that I couldn't afford to say no to a twelve-hour shift. Not after I had lost half a week of work to my own bout of the Panacea Plague earlier this month. Being sick for three days shouldn't cause a financial crisis, but without paid sick time and a strict no-overtime policy, I just wasn't able to catch up. Late fees were rolling in, first on my credit card and then my student loans. I was getting dirty looks from the preschool director when I dropped Lily off at daycare because my portion of her tuition was late. Again. Not for the first time, I considered telling Drew how tight my finances were. I knew that he'd cover the full amount of daycare and give me whatever I needed to get caught up without batting an eye, because he'd done it before. Most recently when I was out of work for almost a month. But I didn't want to take advantage of his kindness, so I texted Mike back: Sure thing. See you at nine. I dragged myself out of bed and dug through the laundry hamper, on a quest to find the least dirty uniform shirt. I sprayed it down with Febreze, shook out the wrinkles, and hoped for the best as I tugged it over my head and tucked it into my last clean pair of khakis. After I'd gently shaken Lily awake and sent her stumbling bleary-eyed to the bathroom, I began the process of packing my lunch. After a moment of consideration, I pulled out my phone and called Drew. "Hey Frank," he said, picking up after just one ring. "Everything okay?" "Hey, Drew. Yeah, everything's fine." I cradled the phone between my ear and my shoulder, freeing up my hands to untwist the tie on the loaf of bread. "Sorry to call so early. I hope I didn't wake you." "Nah, I've been up since four." He stifled a yawn. "International sales meeting that could have absolutely been an email." "Ugh. That sounds awful." I cut a banana in half and peeled the yellow skin back so I could slice it into rounds. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm not going to be able to come trick-or-treating tonight.” I could feel Drew deflate in the silence that preceded, “What? Why not?” “Mike asked me to come in to work today. We’ve got several people out with the stomach bug again.” As I spread peanut butter on a piece of wheat bread, Lily appeared beside me and shifted her weight into my hip, a five-year-old’s halfhearted “I’m awake and not happy about it but I love you anyway” brand of hug. She’s changed out of her pajamas and dressed herself in black cat leggings and an orange dress featuring a family of ghosts. I leaned down to press a kiss to the top of her head and pointed to the table, where a fried egg and a piece of toast with jam was waiting for her. “Can’t he ask someone else?” Drew asked, sounding indignant on my behalf. “Not really. There’s no one left to ask. Everyone else is sick.” Horrified, I realized I was crying, and the choking feeling in my throat was building quickly toward a sob. “This isn’t fair.” I winced at the unusual sharpness in Drew’s voice. “I know. I’m sorry to do this so last minute.” “Don’t be sorry. I’m not upset with you ,” he said. “I’m upset for you. I know how much you’ve been looking forward to this.” “Yeah.” I swiped at my eyes, knocking hot tears off my face before they could dry and make my cheeks tight and sticky. “Maybe we should just wait until tomorrow. I know several places downtown are doing trick-or-treat events.” “No way! I don’t want her to miss out on this because of me.” “Okay.” He hesitated. “Frankie, did you tell him you’d come in because you need the money? Because if that’s it, you know I can—” “We’ve talked about this, Drew. I don’t want to take money from you unless I absolutely need to. You cover Lily’s health insurance, and most of the daycare tuition, and your mom always buys her a lot of clothes when she sizes up…” “That’s all stuff for Lily. I’m asking if you need me to do anything. I care about you too, you know,” he said, an edge to his words that wasn’t there before. I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. This again. The conversation we always talked around but never quite allowed ourselves to have. Drew and I were friends long before we were co-parents. We met during an early orientation week at college, the summer before freshman year, where we and eight other incoming business majors familiarized ourselves with campus, registered for classes, and debated the eternal question: to rush or not to rush? (Both of us, for the record, decided not to rush.) It didn’t take long to realize that Drew had a crush on me. While the feeling was very much mutual, neither of us seemed eager to change the nature of our outwardly platonic relationship. And then, we went to a bonfire during fall midterms our senior year and let ourselves get tipsy enough to tell each other the truth. When I found out I was pregnant a few weeks later, he told me he loved me and asked me to marry him without skipping a beat. He was certain about me, so certain it scared me. I let him down as easily as I could, arguing that our baby deserved stability. Trying to build a new romantic relationship alongside raising a child seemed like to exact opposite of stable. I always expected we'd start dating once we got our footing after Lily was born, but it never seemed like the right time. Drew...didn't feel the same way. "Frankie. Please." The way he said my name, tender and full of promise, was too much for me to bear. "Listen, I've got to scoot if I'm going to get Lily to daycare before nine. Please take lots of pictures and text them to me, okay? I know you'll have a great time." Before Drew could protest, I'd disconnected the call and shoved my phone in my pocket. "Thank God you're here," Mike said. "Go open the other register please, I'm dying here." There were three people in line, none of them with more than two items. I looked at them, then back at Mike, trying to figure out if he was joking. The look he shot me confirmed he absolutely wasn't. "Sure thing. Just let me go clock in and take care of these," I said, holding up my wallet and keys. A flicker of annoyance passed over his face. "You still haven't set up ExpressLane yet?" ExpressLane was a new feature Panacea had introduced a few months ago. Employees were encouraged to download the Panacea Partners app, log in with their employee ID, and enable automatic timeclock events. There were sensors at the main entrance, which would clock you in or out depending on whether you were going or coming in. The break room and restroom had sensors too, although Mike and the corporate HR partners who'd visited on ExpressLane launch day assured us that those would only clock us in or out if we spent more than our allotted fifteen minutes of on the clock break time. Almost everyone else had signed up that very first day, and I was the last holdout. I was weirded out by how much information the app seemed to track, and the list of permissions it requested when I opened it the first time seemed way too long for a simple timekeeping app. Why did Panacea need access to my call history, my camera roll, my contacts just to clock me in and out? I didn't mind the few extra minutes it took to walk back to the locker room and punch in my code. By the time I made it back to the front of the store, the customer queue had evaporated and Mike was waiting by the main register with a fresh cash drawer. He glared at me as I walked behind the counter. "Took you long enough." He swiped his manager card to sign out and stepped back so I could sign in and swap the drawers. Once I was finished, he handed me a price gun. "Between customers, start marking down all the Halloween stuff by fifty percent. Candy, costumes, decorations, it's all going on clearance. Should have been done yesterday, but of course it wasn't." He walked away without waiting for a response. You're welcome for coming in on my only off day, I thought as I grabbed the price gun and headed for the seasonal aisle. I was surprised by how quickly everything Halloween-related cleared out. Before I took my lunch break at two, all of the costumes and decorations were gone and the only thing that remained was a few bags of B-list candy. Their only selling points seemed to be "big" and "nut-free." I snapped a picture and texted it to Drew once I got settled in the break room. If your condo association changes their minds about trick-or-treating last minute, we still have a few bags. Let me know if you want me to set them aside for you. A response buzzed in almost immediately. Haha. I don't think I need any more Halloween candy just yet. I'm still trying to work through all the rejects Lily left at my place. I frowned. What was he talking about? Lily had done a little trick-or-treat party earlier in the week at daycare, but she'd only brought applesauce pouches and organic fruit snacks home from that. Maybe this was a joke, one that didn't translate well over texting. I laugh-reacted to Drew's message and locked my phone. Unwrapping my sandwich, I noticed in dismay that the bread had molded. Like, really molded. It wasn't something I could have easily overlooked this morning, even if I'd been distracted by the conversation with Drew. These were quarter-sized splotches, dark blue covered in fuzzy white fibers. I swallowed back my disgust and peeled the sandwich open. The slices of banana were slimy and black, just shy of completely putrefied. With a shuddering gag, I tossed the entire thing in the garbage and started scrubbing my hands clean in the sink. Mike poked his head in the break room. "Hey Frankie, you on the clock?" "Will be in a few minutes." "Good. Once you're back, I need you to help Amy update the seasonal aisle. Inventory and planograms just came in. And Frankie?" I turned to look at him over my shoulder as I turned the water off. He was peering into the garbage can with a worried expression on his face. "Yeah?" "You really need to consider setting up ExpressLane, okay?" After Amy and I finished stocking the seasonal aisle with Thanksgiving decorations, I typed out another text to Drew. Thanks again for being cool with me working on Halloween. I appreciate it. He responded with a row of puzzled-looking emoji, followed by How many times are you going to apologize for that? It's fine. Around six-thirty, once I'd finally calmed down a customer who was downright irate that we didn't yet have Christmas items out in the seasonal aisle, Mike told me he could cover for the rest of the night if I wanted to leave early. "I kind of forgot you had a kid when I asked you to work until close," he said sheepishly. "Carla just reminded me. If you want to try and make it to trick-or-treating..." Tears welled up in my eyes. "Oh my God. Mike. Thank you. This is her first time trick-or-treating, and I was really bummed to have to miss it—" He held up a hand with an expression that said, I'm a nice guy, but don't push it. "See you tomorrow." I signed out of the cash drawer and handed it over, then sped walked to the break room to get my stuff and clock out. Mike's letting me off earl y!!!!! I texted Drew. That's great , he replied. Too bad he couldn't have let his heart grow three sizes on Halloween. I frowned. What was I missing here? Drew's texts hadn't made any sense today. My stomach rumbled and I remembered it had been twelve hours since I last ate. Low blood sugar must have affected my sense of humor more than I realized. Jennifer, one of the pharmacists, was talking to Mike at the cash register when I walked back through the store and toward the main entrance. She furrowed her brow in concern when she took in my bare arms. "Don't forget your jacket, hon," she said. "It's freezing out there." "Oh, is it?" I said with a frown. "I thought the overnight low was in the seventies today. Well, I have a sweatshirt in the car." "Frankie." Mike's face was grave when I looked up at him, and a strange feeling unspooled in the pit of my stomach. "Set up ExpressLane tonight, please." "You don't have ExpressLane yet?" Jennifer's eyes widened. "Yeah, you need to do that." "Okay... Well, I'm off to trick-or-treat with my daughter. See y'all tomorrow." Before either of them could say anything else, I walked through the doors directly into a blast of sleet. "Hey Drew," I said, trying not to sound panicky as I fastened my seatbelt. "So I'm leaving work and it's crazy cold. And stormy. Not at all the weather forecast I was expecting for today. Anyway, um. My car won't crank. So if you don't mind giving me a call when you get this... Yeah. I'd appreciate it." I ended the call and rubbed my hands together, desperately wishing for a blanket, a pair of gloves, anything to help shield me from the intensifying chill. Five minutes passed, then ten, then twenty, without a return call from Drew. I picked up my phone to see if I have any missed call notifications. I didn't, but that isn't what caught my eye. At the top of the screen, plain as day, my phone reads Fri, December 18 . After several restarts, my stubborn phone would still only display the incredibly fake and not at all real date. Since Drew wasn't calling me back, I didn't see how I had any other option but to walk back inside. Mike was waiting for me just inside the door, looking remarkably more tired than he was just half an hour ago. "Hey Frankie." "Hey. So listen, this is very weird and I'm not sure if you'll believe me—" "But when you left the store, it was way too cold and your car wouldn't start and your phone told you it was December 18th?" My eyes widened. "Um. Yeah. Something like that." Mike sighed and rubbed his forehead before reaching into his pocket and handing me a card. ExpressLane Expert Line, 1-888-555-3535. "Go back out to your car and call this number. They'll tell you what to do." "But I don't use Express—" "Believe me, I know," Mike said with a weary sigh. "Just call the number, Frankie." Thank you for calling the ExpressLane Expert Line, a partner with Panacea Pharmacies Incorporated. To get started, please state your employee number or enter it on the keypad. For assistance with setting up your Panacea Partner profile, press or say 1. To report an outage or other software issue, press or say 2. For assistance with a missing timeclock event or to report delayed timeline experience due to postponed ExpressLane integration, press or say 3. "Three. Three. THREE." I could have just pressed the button, I knew that. But after everything I'd been through today (this month?), it felt so much better to shout.


“Ah! Look who’s finally here!” Rodney looks over at you, smiling and getting Jack’s attention by nudging him with his elbow. Jack looked up from the book he was reading, an odd expression on his face. “Reader! Wasn’t expecting you, to be honest. We’ve been looking forward to meeting you for some time now, y’know. Jack stuck his hand out for a handshake, but hesitated. With a sheepish smile, he retracted his hand. “Sorry, I guess that’s not really possible, huh? With us not being physical and whatnot, I mean.” “We could always ask Author to write that we shook hands, but that’s not really the same thing, is it? But, really, it’s all

unnecessary. We have things to discuss, so we shouldn’t waste our word count.” Rodney explained. He stood up from the brown leather accent chair, stretching his back. He wore a neat, brown suit with a stylish black tie. His hair was a dull red, slicked back with a bit of hairspray. A single strand had come loose, falling down across his forehead. His face was stern, thin eyes hidden behind thick framed glasses, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed. His voice was loud and stern, not matching his appearance at all. “Author.” Rodney snapped, staring off at an empty corner. “Please, stop. No one wants to read lengthy descriptions of a character’s appearance. It's obvious you’re stalling for time.” “Come on Rodney, let her have this.” Jack interjected. “I’m sure Reader wants to know what we look like, don’t you think?” “As much as I trust in Author, I can’t have our story escape from us. Besides, it doesn’t matter what I look like. If Reader cares so much, they can make something up. We’re wasting words here. We have a limit if we want to be eligible for the contest.”

“And when was the last time Cara got even close to reaching that limit?” Jack pointed out. “She’s barely even gone beyond 2,000 words, let alone 3,000.” Rodney placed a hand on his chest, taken aback. “Don’t you say her name so lightly!” “Oh, come on. They already know her name, it’s right up there. See?” Jack gestured to the top of the page. “No need to be so damn cagey.” “Still, we must use her proper title as a sign of respect. She created us, and she can just as easily abandon us. You must know of the many, many WIPs she hasn’t touched in mouths. You don’t want us to end up like that, do you?” A flash of genuine fear goes across Jack’s face. He tries to hide it by rolling his eyes. “Whatever, dude.” Jack gets up as well, tossing his book on to the coffee table. He was opposite to Rodney in many ways, from his more casual clothing to his softer facial features. His blond hair was long and messy, and the old sweater he wore was stained with something you couldn’t recognize.

“Which is another way of saying she couldn’t think of anything.” Jack whispered to you. He felt a sudden, slight pain in the back of his head, as if he had been hit with a rolled up magazine. “What? I’m right!” he argued.

“Jack, I’m begging you, stop messing with her.” Rodney pleaded, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance. “Look, Reader’s probably getting tired of all this. You’re wondering when we’re going to get to the point of all this, aren’t you?” “Don’t assume that! Maybe they love this!” Jack said. “Why don’t we ask them?” “We both know we can’t do that. Since Author has no control over them, we can’t know their answer. Plus, there will be more than one Reader reading this, and they will all have different thoughts and opinions.” “Then let’s give them some options to pick from, like those old “choose your own adventure” books!” Jack suggested.

1. Agree with Jack (page 12) 2. Disagree with Jack (page 49) “This is a short story! We can’t give Reader different options!” Rodney exclaimed. “We don’t even have that many pages to flip to! Hell, this isn’t being printed, so we don’t have pages period.” “Ugh, fine, fine. I guess we can just move on then.” Jack sighed.

“Thank you!” Rodney said forcefully. He took a moment to compose himself before continuing. “Now, as you know, Author is creating this for a contest. We’re here to discuss our odds and, if I may be so bold, give some incentive to let her take the win.” “I’ll give you twenty bucks if you let her win.” Jack interjected. Rodney’s eye twitched. “Please, God, shut up. This is so important, not only for us, but for Author as well. A contest win would surely get her more commissions, which you and I both know she needs.” “Man, who cares!” Jack falls back on to his seat, flinging his feet over the armrest. He goes for his book, but Rodney is quick to snatch it away. “Why are you acting like this? What, do you not want to win? Do you just not care?” Rodney questions frantically. “You haven’t been taking any of this seriously, despite the fact that the entire reason Author created you was to be in this story to help me. Why are you going against her wishes?” “Because, the second this story ends, she’s not going to care anymore.” Jack's voice had gone unexpectedly cold. He cocked his head, supporting it on his arm as he looked at Rodney dead in the eyes.

“She doesn’t care about us, Rod. The only reason we exist is because this story needed characters, and she wasn’t going to use any of the ones from her real projects. I mean, hell, look at our fucking names even. Jack and Rodney?” “Those are fine names!” “She chose them with a name generator! They have no deeper, symbolic meanings, they’re filler, just like us.” Rodney’s face fell. A look of disbelief and horror spread from across his whole body, letting his arms hand low and his heart drop. Jack just snatched his book from Rodney’s hand. “I’m not about to waste my limited existence doing work for someone who doesn’t even care.” Rodney was frozen in place. He tried to speak a few times, but the words died in his throat. Jack didn’t seem to care as he lazily flipped through the pages of his book. “...She does care.” Rodney mumbled, barely audible. “Give it up, Rod.” “No. No!” Rodney straightened, determination and resolve flowing through him.

“If she truly didn’t care, she wouldn't have published this. She wouldn’t have edited this if she didn’t care. She wouldn’t have written this in the first place if she didn’t care! Jack, don’t you see? While, yes, we are not her most developed or thought out characters, we are still her characters! She cared enough to make us exist, to let the world see us, to let herself be judged through us!” Rodney ranted, a hopeful smile appearing on his face. Jack still looked unconvinced, but he continued to listen.

“I mean, look! Reader is proof of just that!” Rodney turned, that hopeful smile now aimed at you. “Author cared enough to let Reader meet us. So many of her characters don’t get such an amazing opportunity, but we did!” Jack looked over at you, trying to read your expression. After a moment, he just let out a sigh.

“...Ah, well, what do I know. I’m just a jumble of words, after all.”


The kid who lived in the dark It was a beautiful, great day for a little boy to go outside, get dirty and have fun. Otis put on tons of

sunscreen all over his face and body in order to ensure he wouldn’t get burned. But just as Otis walked out of his house and into the glaring sun he felt a sharp pain. This was no ordinary sharp pain, the pain was rapidly moving throughout his entire body as if he was thrown in a fire pit and left to suffer. The little boy scream in agony, but the ball of fire that was up above was unforgiving. The ray from the fiery was shooting down on the little boys' skins like lasers.

he still felt like a burt rotisserie chicken. HIs skin was bubbling and rough and bumpy rashes appeared all over his skin. He began to smell the gut wrenching smell of burnt skin. Little Otis was running around like a chicken without a head screaming and yelling, flopping his hand as if he was under a bee attack. Otis began to scratch himself in order to relieve the pain, but that made it worse. The itchiness and burning sensation that he felt was getting worse and worse. He fell to the floor exhausted. Then all of a sudden a dark figure brought him inside. Otis imagined that it was his father, but couldn’t tell because his eyes were in the process of dilating. The father set him on the bed, asking him what had happened and what was going on. “What happened out there son, it looked like you were trying to dance all by yourself” The boy couldn’t speak a word, his eyes were blanked and looked as if he had just seen a ghost.

After that day the Otis would never go outside. He couldn't risk the chance to feel the agonizing pain he did that one day. Otis wouldn’t even think of going outside even when all the other kids were playing and having fun. Instead he would stay inside of his little dark room and work on stuff like homework or play video games. It became concerning to his parents, They decided that is was time to take him to the doctor for a check up. The doctors weren't any help they said “Everything seems great with otis, no sign of any allergies to the sun. We are not certain, but we believe it may have been an anxiety attack.” Otis knew it wasn’t an anxiety attack, he knew it was real and it didn’t matter to him if anyone else believed him or not. His parents thought it was an anxiety attack as well and tried to encourage Otis to come outside and try it again. “ Come on Otis just come outside it will be fun, you have to get out of your comfort zone and just try. Come on!” Otis was not taking any chances. “No I told you once and I’ll say it again, I know I have a sun allergy whether you believe me or not.” After week’s of trying to persuade him to go outside without any luck they gave up and accepted that their son will never go out in the sun again.  Months passed, And Otis will finally be starting school. The butterflies in his stomach were flying around in his stomach, he was nervous for the first day of kindergarten. As he walked

through the gates of the school he was wearing a full body cover beekeeping suit. He looked like an astronaut on the moon with all that gear and protection from the sun. Everywhere he went there was someone looking at him with a smirk on their face laughing at him as he passed by. He felt embarrassed, his face became hot pink and his ear became burning hot. His head sunk into his shoulders as he walked to his class. During lunch time it was even worse for Otis,

nobody would even want to sit near him.

“ This is for sure the most embarrassing day of my life.” Claimed Otis. Years have passed and things didn’t get better for Otis he was still getting made fun of and messed with all of the time. Otis is leveling up the rankings of school going from Elementary to Middle school to now in High school. Otis was know as the kid who would stay inside during snack and lunch and read a book. Otis was also very musical oriented and loved to draw.

As a ninth grader he felt it was about time to step out of his comfort zone and try a sport. That day he sprinted home and was on a mission to figure out what sport he would be trying out for. He went through the list putting an X on all of the sports that he didn’t like and all of the sports that were outdoor, in the end the only sport left was Ping pong. “Perfect!”  Exclaimed otis excited and confident.  Otis began to love the game and got better and better. Instead of being insecure about himself and worry about what people said about his sun allergy, he grew a priority in Ping pong.

He wasn’t the best at Ping pong but his love for the game kept him going. Their practices were held inside the gym and everything was going great. Otis didn’t have to worry about the sun allergy and he was playing the game he loved. He was playing well against his opponents and was building his confidence around in classmates and fellow teammates.

The day came when Otis wouldn’t be so lucky. When the gym was under maintenance nobody was able to practice inside, meaning Otis would have to face his fear and step out into the sun. However Otis’s fear of the sun was far more that his love for ping pong, He stayed home locked in his little room and would begin to miss practicing. After no Practice for two weeks he got an email from the coach telling him that if he were to miss one more practice he’s off the team. After hours of hard thought and contemplating he finally made the decision to go and practice. He dressed up in his sun protective suit and headed to the school for practice. Once he got there it was even worse the coach told that he couldn’t wear that suit for practice, anxiously Otis went into the locker rooms and took it off. Just as he was coming out of the locker room he grew scared, He took a step into the sun and he could feel the beaming sun hit his face. He began to feel the heat warm his skin, Otis felt a sharp pain go throughout his body. He wanted to scream out loud until suddenly there was no pain, the sun felt great on his body the warm sun cradle him like a warm blanket. Confused he proceeded to go to practice and he didn’t feel a single pain.

Later that day his parents took Otis to the doctor to see what had happened. The doctors finally had the answer that Otis had been waiting for his entire life. “After running a test on Otis here we came to the conclusion that your son is allergic to Sunscreen. It seems that the sunscreen you put on that day many years ago was what caused the allergic reaction.” Everyone in the room was looking at each other in such awe. Otis couldn’t believe that this entire time it wasn’t the sun, but instead the sunscreen that kept him away from the outdoors.


WHO IS THAT It has been a long day.  I have been thinking all day.  Thinking about  my life and all the things I've done.  All the events of my life.--All the people in my life.  My parents -my sisters.  It's been many years. The memories  come back and dwell in my mind.--My sisters and I have gotten older.--Our lives have moved in different directions.  Today I think about all the fun we had.  I was the youngest -the only boy --My sisters were older and I was the baby of the family.  That was good---Where's Terry -He's been gone a long time--My Mother tells my sisters -You better go look for him--And so they do--I had went down the road  from our house --it was winter --the snow was deep.  A pond was close-the bank was high-it was by the road -down below laid a snow bank  and it was very deep.  I decided I would stand on the pond and jump into the snow. That would be fun--And so I did----I hit the snow and went  in deep--above my shoulders -only my head showing--I was stuck and I was scared . I worked and I squirmed but I could not get out.--I was only 6 years old.  But I knew my sisters would come to help me.-I cried out -Help me -I'm stuck in the snow and I can't get out.--Then I see them -it's getting dark  and I am so afraid.-My sisters--Deanne-Bonnie and Cheryl --their coming to save me.  They dig me out -They put me on a sled they have brought . They take me home and warm me up.  I thought then--it is so good to have someone who will come looking for you -if you've been gone too long . Today  I think about  that day-when I was only 6 --I walk by a mirror and what do I see--I see myself -when I was 6 -I look -wet-I look cold .  And then I know -the reflection I see is from the day I was stuck in the snow.  It is good -I don't want to move -I want to remember that day and who I was--I wish it was then  -but it is now -so many years gone by --I stand there and I look -a reflection of years ago. I cannot let go.--My parents- my sisters  and myself in a house.  A family that stays the same -no one grows older--Life goes on and we cannot stop it --I hear my sister say --Terry -It's time for Church--You better get ready-I'll help.  you.  We all get in the car--3 in the front 3 in the back.  We get close to Church--The bell is ringing -We are going to be late. We run up to the Church-we go up the stairs  and we open the door.-we go in -the Church is full .  But our pew is empty -the Church is full.  But our pew  is empty --it is our seat -everyone has a special place. Do not sit   in someone else's pew.-And so we sit down.  A song is being sung.  I sit between  between Deanne and Bonnie -I liked sitting  between them. I feel safe.  I know they will tell me what to do. They will open the hymnal and point out the words.  They  will find the number of the hymn and point it out to me.  Then we will sing .  My Mother has told me we must go to Church  every Sunday---Jesus is here  and He wants to talk to us.-He want's to tell us what He has done for us.  We cannot miss-We never do.  --I stand up--I put my arms on the pew in front-and I look all around-I see all the people . I know their names -Families sitting together --The Women in their hats and their dresses and their high heeled shoes. Some of them wear scarfs and they have them tied below their chins. The men are in their suits and ties. And their long sleeved shirts--Their skin is tanned from the sun and the wind.  Their hands are rough from  the shovels they have held. They are all farmers --My Dad is a farmer from Nebraska -who moved to Idaho with his wife Marie. He is a Sharecropper -We never had much money --but we were okay-we never went hungry. We were always happy and content with what we had.-I was happy--How could I not be?-My sisters loved me and I had toys and a dog named Spotty.  Our Church was out in the Country--A tall -very tall tree stood close. It did not move -it did not fall.  Rooted deep in God's great earth.  The steeple stood high-on top was a cross-that was lit.--Surrounded by fields of Clover.-So it was called The Clover Lutheran Church.  A School across the road and that is where my sisters and I went to School.  We rode a bus -it picked us up at our  house every morning--I was 6 -it was my first day of school. I was scared-I did not want to go-My sisters were older-they had already been going. They said it would be fun-I might learn something--there  would be other kids to play with--We had recess. -My sisters got me ready--Bonnie said I had to look good for my first day of school.  It was a Christian School--Clover Lutheran school. My teacher was nice.  Her name was Miss Leader-I liked her--I was not afraid. My sisters were in another class . I wish I could see them. Deanne had told me -do not be afraid -I'll be close by. And she was.-We learned about Jesus -We sang songs and we prayed.  At Christmas we would have a Christmas program  in the Church.  We practiced a lot.--It was on Christmas Eve-And it was a night.-Only lit by the Christmas trees and lights on the altar. The Church would be full of people-all the parents, We had lines to remember. Each class would take their turn. We would stand on the altar and look out to the congregation.. We would tell the story of Christmas  and we would sing songs about Jesus.. The people listened--I hope I did okay?--When we were done another class would come up. We sat on the sides -all in in classes -there were Christmas Trees on both sides of the altar.--They were tall -very tall-lights from top to bottom -Ornaments covered the trees -Tinsel on the branches.  A Manger with the Baby Jesus sat below one tree --His Mother Mary-His Father Joseph -Jesus was in the crib. Sheep and cows looked in. When the program was over we walked out. We were given a sack of candy and peanuts.  And a orange.  We drove home -my sisters and I were excited.  Santa had come while we were at Church.  He had brought us presents. So we opened our presents.  We were all happy-it was the best night of the year.--And now I look in the mirror that has suddenly appeared. I see myself on Christmas Eve.  With my train set.-I move for a better look.  I see myself stuck in a snow bank--I see my sisters coming to help me.  I holler-I'm stuck in the snow and I need help. I hear my sister Deanne--We're coming to help you.-How good it is to look in to look in a mirror and see a reflection of my life.


“I apply for jobs I don’t want, to work with people I won’t like in a country I don’t know,” I say in one quick burst. Dr Bremen leans back and observes me over the rim of his octangular glasses before saying: “Good. That’s a start at least, but we still have some unpacking to do. Why is it you apply to these jobs if, as you say, you don’t want to actually work them?”. I ponder this a moment. “I’ve never really considered why before; I just know that I don’t want to actually find a job, even though I’m constantly applying”. “Mm-hmm” replies the Doctor, “well then, have you any idea where this drive to apply comes from?” “Social pressure I suppose. My family want me to do well and apply myself. God knows I’ve been hearing that ever since Ellen was placed in the advanced class back in 2nd grade. “Evan is a good student” they used to say, “but if he just applied himself to his work he’d excel like his sister”. “I see,” says Dr Bremen. “Would you say you experienced some kind of pressure to follow in your sisters’ footsteps?” “Yes exactly!” I reply hastily—half delighted to have found a piece of the puzzle and half surprised I’d never made such a simple connection before. I always had a hard time expressing myself without writing things down. “All I ever hear is how great Ellen is. She’s been made partner at her law firm already—she only started two years ago. My parents rave about her any chance they get.” “So would you say you resent her?” “Not exactly. It’s not her fault she’s so great. In fact, she’s one of the only ones who takes the time to help me figure my own life out. Sometimes I like that. But other times it's frustrating, like she’s so perfect that she has time to get her own life in order and manage the life of her baby brother. What I mean is, she means well, but she’s like all the others” I stop at this point, afraid I’ve said too much. “Like all the others in what way?” Presses the doctor. “I don’t know… it’s like… they only see life in fast-motion—like they're playing on the highest speed setting in a videogame. Money, career, house, investments, success. Like some linear progression. Do this. Get that. Reinvest. Upskill. More experience for your resume; push for a promotion; work harder, make more. Go. Go. Go. I just don’t get it, I never have. My mind doesn’t work that way.” “How does your mind work?” asks the doctor. “How does anyone’s mind work?” I reply sarcastically. “What I mean is, what is it you feel is different about your mode of thinking to those around you?” “It’s hard to put into words. A lot of the time I feel distant. I can get caught up in the tiniest detail. Or sometimes I can just sit and enjoy the whole thing, the moment, the feeling in the room—smells, sounds—then I zoom out. I picture it all. The whole thing. This giant organism called Earth, with all of us performing different functions, influencing the whole. It sounds kind of cringe when I put it like that but I don’t know how else to put it. “Remember what we talked about. Describing your own feelings as “cringe” only stifles your thought and causes you to withdraw. Come on Evan, I know you know better than that by now”. I nod slowly while trying to collect my thoughts. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that everyone always seems so anxious to change the world in some way. To create or destroy, to uproot or control. I just don’t feel that urge – at least not as strongly. I tend to get lost in the complexity of it all. Sometimes this hurts me and I find everything confusing and I struggle to make sense of my own relation to things around me. But other times… I don’t know, I’m just perfectly happy thinking about the whole thing working in unison, perfect the way it is. Like serendipity.” “I see,” says the doctor, “and you feel that this mode of thinking clashes with the thoughts of those around you, your family and friends?”. “It clashes with the whole system,” I say, a little too emphatically “I don’t know. I don’t want to go all Karl Marx, but sometimes I feel our whole direction is skewed. We chase goals that we never chose ourselves, but which benefit the economic and social structure we’ve been born into. I mean, of course, some people are naturally ambitious and want to do well and compete with themselves and others or make a lot of money and reach the top of their careers, and that’s okay. But it’s the people who don’t fit that mould that suffer. People like me.” “So then, this brings us to applying for jobs you don’t want” the doctor leans forward slightly, “If I understand you correctly, you feel that society puts a pressure on you to follow a certain path, and you struggle to reconcile this with your vision of the world?” “Exactly!” I nod excitedly. “I apply for jobs in insurance and banking because I feel like that’s what I’m supposed to do. But my heart’s never been in it. And then I wonder whether it really is society at fault, or if it's me? I mean, there are plenty of people who’ve said no to the rat race and done just fine. I just… I never felt like that was an option for me. Besides, what would I do? Live like a bum and float about? How would family gatherings go then? At least now I get introduced as our son Evan, he’s had an interview with XYZ insurance company this week. Instead, it would be: this is our daughter Ellen, she’s a partner at Hook’s law firm. And this is Evan, he’s… travelling? On a gap year in his 30s…? I don’t know…” “Well let’s not catastrophise just yet. Are there any jobs you could see yourself working?” The doctor asked, before scratching his chin and adding, “actually, let’s leave the subject of jobs for now. What kind of life do you imagine when you think of yourself as old and content?” I look at the doctor for a moment in confusion. I watch his glasses slide slowly down his hawkish nose as I realise, I’d never really taken the time to think that. Should I have thought about this sooner? I stop myself before I spiral into what-ifs and reply “I guess I see myself surrounded by nature. I’d like to live in a small cottage with lots of books.” “Good,” says the doctor “and how would you spend your time?” “Well, I’d like to have a small garden, maybe some chickens too. I’d like to read a lot and maybe write too. I used to love writing as a child. It was all I ever wanted to do, but since I left school, I haven’t written much at all. I always found it easier when I had a teacher to assign me homework and give us topics to write about.” “Interesting. How would you feel if I were to assign you homework?” Asked the doctor. “Are you going to grade me too?” I laugh. “No no, but maybe the structure could help you. Your first assignment could be to think through this vision you have of the future and try to put it into words? We can review it during our next session.” “That sounds… actually like a good idea,” I say. “Does that mean our time is up today?” “Almost” he replies, “unless there’s anything urgent, you’d like to talk about?” “Not really” I reply as I stand up. “Thank you, doc, same time tomorrow?”. “Same time tomorrow Evan” he smiles.


***I accidentally submitted this story under the incorrect theme. The theme I chose is as follows: Write a modern version of "The Tiger, the Brahmin, and the Jackal," in which someone suffers from their own good deeds and must turn to an unlikely source for help. The Shooter, The Teacher, and The Student Once upon a time, a Shooter wearing a mask to hide their gender was seen walking into the back door of a school. The school alarm hadn’t sounded at their entrance and the Shooter began to panic. Suddenly, a teacher ran out of her office to see why the alarm was sounding and she saw the Shooter. The Shooter was trying to get back out the door but in their confusion had turned around and didn’t know anymore what door was the exit. Many of the doors were locked with supplies and the Shooter was sweating and swearing under their breath.

“What are you doing in our school?” the teacher asked.  "Please don't hurt the children." “I went to the wrong building and now I just want to get out of here,” replied the Shooter. “I was just trying to play a trick on my friend.” “Can I call someone for you? You need help. I can help you." said the teacher. "Just open the door for me and I'll go. Jeez, why can't you do what I ask?" "You need to leave,” said the teacher. “I’ll open the door but you have to go. You need to go find help.” “Yeah, I told you I’d go. Just open the door now!” “How do I know you won’t just go into another building and hurt the children if I tell you how to get out of here?” asked the teacher. “I promise I won’t. This was a foolish prank and I just want to go home.” The teacher went to the exit door and was about to push it open when the Shooter pointed a gun at her.

“Wait,” said the teacher, “You said if I showed you the exit you would leave and go home and no one would get hurt.” “Stupid woman,” sneered the Shooter, “Why would I just leave and allow you to call the police and tell them that someone with a mask came into the school?” “But you said you would if I showed you the door,” replied the Teacher.

“Listen if you can find one student who can give me a good reason not to shoot up this school I will leave and go home and no one will get hurt.” The teacher agreed and started making her way down the hallway. She went into the classroom where all the students were so advanced that they were already taking college courses. She ran over to one student and put her hand on his shoulder. “There is a Shooter out in the hall and they said if someone could give them a good reason not to shoot they would leave and no one will get hurt,” the teacher told the student.

“I’m busy studying and that Shooter probably isn’t even smart enough to pull the trigger. Just open the door and push them out,” said the student.

The teacher shook her head in frustration at the pretentious student and left the classroom. The teacher walked further down the hall and saw a classroom where all the students were working quietly but didn’t have test booklets on their desks. The teacher put her hand on one student near the back of the room.

“There is a Shooter out in the hall and they said if someone could give them a good reason not to shoot they would leave and no one will get hurt,” the teacher told the student.

“I’m busy working on my book report. Maybe just tell them to sit and relax for a few minutes. They probably just had some silly fight with a friend and they’ll get over it. I’ve had fights with my friends and it really is not a big deal.” The teacher shook her head in amazement at the apathetic student and left the classroom. The teacher walked further down the hall and saw a classroom where there were only a few students who were sitting on squares of rug pieces playing with cars and other kinds of vehicles. The teacher put her hand on one student who had stopped for a moment to think about the traffic jam of cars.

“There is a Shooter out in the hall and they said if someone could give them a good reason not to shoot they would leave and no one will get hurt,” the teacher told the student.

“Oh no! Maybe they just need a friend right now to talk to. Maybe they were bullied and now they feel sad. I can try and talk to them and see if I can help cheer them up.” The teacher took this student by the hand and led them back down to the back door of the school.

The Shooter laughed. “What is this young child going to say to me that will make me change my mind? I will just shoot you both.” The student looked the Shooter right in the eye. “I’m sorry you are feeling so sad today. I used to be afraid to come to school because the kids who were smarter than me would make fun of me and the work I was doing in my classes. I’ll be your friend. We can talk and you might start feeling a bit better.” The Shooter looked at the student who appeared bright and nicely dressed. “You would never be my friend. You and your friends would laugh at me and say I was different. I would never fit in.” With that, the student went to the Shooter and wrapped her little arms around his waist.

“Well, I’m not giving up on you so you can either leave here with no one or you can accept my friendship and be able to say you have a new best friend.

The Shooter looked from the teacher to the student. They showed the teacher that the gun was only a plastic toy and asked the teacher to throw it away. The teacher took the toy and put it on the floor and smashed it with her foot. The Shooter took off their mask and held hands with the student. The Shooter was just a young boy from one of the classrooms.

“My name is Jessie. I’m really not very smart and the other kids keep making fun of me. It has made me so sad and mad.” “Jessie, my name is Taylor. I’m not very smart either but I listen to the things my teacher tells me and I know I am learning every day! You can come to my classroom today and spend the day being friends with me. You’ll feel so much better if you have a good friend you can talk to.” Jessie looked at Taylor and gave a faint smile. “That would make me feel so much better.”

The two walked back into the classroom hand in hand and smiling.


There were worse ways to die I thought. Of course, the cancer has ravaged my body for months now. It left me bedridden. Barely eating or drinking. Drifting in and out of sleep. Too weak to string many words together. But, at least death hadn’t been abrupt. I had time to make amends. To tell people how much they mean to me. I even got to check a couple of items from my bucket list. Even today, surrounded by my family. Yeah, there were worse ways to die. I had felt the end was near for a couple of days now. I barely spent any time awake and what little I did was dimmed by the drugs that they gave me for pain. But, no amount of drugs can hide something that I knew in the deepest part of my marrow: I was going to die today. Oddly enough, I was okay with the entire situation. Dying would certainly be a relief from this suffering. My breathing was becoming more shallow. The time between breaths lengthening. I read one time that when you’re dying your body releases endorphins so that you make a more peaceful transition. I just hoped I ended up in a good place. That was my last thought before I drifted off, embracing the eternal sleep that comes for us all. It seemed like no time had passed since I closed my eyes. I slowly blinked myself awake, but the blinding lights I half-expected didn’t swim across my vision. In fact, it was quite dark. And small? I reached my arms out, trying to find purchase on something to clue me in on where I was. Both hands encountered...was that fabric? Denim and cotton and what felt like tulle. I rustled the fabrics around and heard the tell-tale sound of hangers sliding. I took stock of my other senses which all seemed to be intact. I took a deep breath. Fresh linen scent. My feet sunk a little into the floor. Carpet. I took a couple steps in each direction, arms outstretched. A wall here. There’s the corner. That’s the space with the clothes. Painted wood? Sliding my hands down and to the sides, I felt it then. The hard coolness of a doorknob. Freedom! Freedom from what, I wasn’t sure exactly. Shrugging to myself, I turned the knob. I couldn’t stay in a closet for the rest of eternity, could I? I don’t know what I thought I was opening the door to, but this wasn’t it. My eyes darted around the room, taking it in. Pink walls on all sides. A small canopy bed against one wall, draped in lacy white. Stuffed animals were piled across the comforter, on the verge of toppling to the floor. White furniture dotted the room, cheap trinkets and baubles stacked on their flat surfaces. At last, I focused on the center of the room. A little girl sat poised over a small table, her wide eyes staring back at me. She held a small teacup in her hand. “Finally! You’re here!” she exclaimed, slamming the cup down to the table in her apparent excitement. I turned to look over my shoulder. Was she talking to me? I turned back around just in time to see her leaping from her chair, barreling towards me. Her hand grabbed one of my own. “Sit down here by me.” She led me over to the tiny chair adjacent to her own. She patted the empty seat before returning to her own. I squatted down, feeling like my body was folded up into a little ball. My knees were nearly at my ears, the chair was so small. The little girl was making herself busy, pouring another pretend up of tea and putting the finishing touches on a melamine place setting. She was dressed like any other little girl playing “tea party” I surmised. Purple dress with golden accents. A plastic tiara askew on her hair that probably needed a comb through it. She was cute though. And, she reminded me of my nieces. “Okay so here’s your tea.” She handed me the tiny cup. “Now, take your cup and hit mine. This is what my mommy does with her friends sometimes.” She held her cup up in the air. I realized she wanted to ‘cheers’ and tapped her cup with mine as daintily as I could manage. While I pretended to take a small sip, she turned her cup up and drank her “tea” in one gulp. “Mmm. Mr. Snuggles, you made good tea today.” It was at that moment I realized two larger stuffed animals were our other two table companions, the big pink elephant apparently the aforementioned Mr. Snuggles. She turned her attention back to me. “What’s your name?” “Sophie.” “I’m Gracie.” I stuck my right hand out. “Nice to meet you, Gracie.” Instead of shaking my hand, she slapped it in imitation of a high-five and promptly fell off her seat in a fit of giggles. I had just started laughing along with her when the door to her bedroom swung open. “Gracie? Who are you laughing at, sweetie?” A woman who looked to be about my age stood confusedly in the doorway. Gracie sat up and pointed a small, erratically painted fingernail in my direction. “My new friend. Sophie!” The woman who I presumed to be Gracie’s mother swept her eyes around the table, looking carefully for any sign of something out of place or sinister. Evidently, she didn’t find anything of consequence despite me sitting in a chair 10 feet from her. Gracie spoke up again. “She’s right here, mama!” She gestured again toward me. A look of realization passed across the mother’s features. “Ohhh. Yes, I see her now, Gracie. But, it’s time to come down for dinner, okay? Let’s go wash up.” Gracie scrambled off the floor, scurrying off in the direction of the door. Stopping abruptly, she looked back. “C’mon, Sophie! Mama made mac and cheese tonight!” She waved wildly, encouraging me to follow her. Her mom’s laughter carried down the hallway. “Gracie, you and that imagination.


TW: murder To whom it may concern,

My name is Rob Conway, and I’m a monster. We all were back then. Monsters with an insatiable appetite to hurt others. But it wasn’t our fault. At least that’s what I tell myself at night to fall asleep without dreaming about him. It wasn’t our fault. It was the Shadow’s fault. But let me tell you everything from the top… It all started in 1956, in Newberry, a small, coastal town where the cliffs met the sea, and the everlasting green hills were dressed in groves and rivers. It was a nice town to live in. Not as busy as the major cities, and not as dull as the villages of the area. But, despite its beauty, Newberry didn’t offer us much: a few record stores, one or two pubs for the drunkards, and nothing more than that. So, my gang (Billy the Dull; Smith the ‘Smithie’; Davie the Bigfoot) and I had to find other ways to pass the time. First, it was bike rides around town, but that grew dull very quickly. And then—it was Smithie’s idea I remember—we built a fortress in Newberry Grove. We spent most of our time there, fencing with twigs, talking about the girls we liked, smoking our first cigarettes, and having a first taste of beer. We called it, the Newberry Saloon and it was a lawless land where we were the outlaws, the sheriffs, the knights, and the kings! That’s how life went by in Newberry. And it was oh-kay, I gotta admit, nothing wrong with all that, right? Well, there was nothing wrong with Newberry, except for the Shadow. You see, the Shadow was always there as we grew up. We saw it in the windows of stores, in the woods, and in remote parts of the city. Sometimes the Shadow followed us home. The Shadow never picked one person to follow. It somehow managed to follow all of us. I don’t remember when I saw the Shadow for the first time. It must have been before the time I started to form memories, but it was always there, following me, watching me when I was sleeping. But how can you tell something like that to others? Some would call me mental, or worse. But that was a good scenario. I was mortified that someone would confirm my story, and that’s when the Shadow would become real. I always called myself crazy, because I thought that the Shadow was of my own making, a twisted vision of my mind trying to trick me, until the summer of 1956. We all sat down, cracking a six-pack of cold ones, having our second-ever smoke. It was the smoke, the beer, maybe it was the heat of the summer, but I decided to share my crazy. “Screw it,” I said and stood up. I turned and pointed at the Shadow, and I saw it in their eyes. “You can see it too?” I asked. They all nodded with somber eyes. I could see it engraved within them: they knew where I was pointing at. I wasn’t crazy. And know, you can think that this was a children’s story, but let me tell you what happened after that. That same night, when I came home, my father was in his armchair, with the local paper in his arms, and the Shadow standing right behind him like a guard. My mother strolled inside with an anxious smile, serving him a drink. She glanced at and left back to the kitchen. “Where have you been?” my pa asked. “The Saloon,” I said. My father rolled his eyes, lowering the paper, “This nonsense again…” He took a sip of his drink and eyed me carefully. “You see, Robbie,” my father said, staring at me along with the Shadow. “Your mother and I…we know.” “What do you know, pa?” I asked. “That you can see the Shadow,” my pa said and leaned closer. I swore that I heard the Shadow chuckle and grin. I could feel its hunger, its longing for something that I couldn’t understand at the time. I remained silent and my father smiled. “You see,” my father said. “I think it’s time I tell you what my pa told me.” “Okay,” I said uncertainly. “We all see the Shadow, son,” my father said almost compassionately, and he was never so compassionate. “We all see it, and we must obey it. He is the one in charge. We do not resist, and we do not ask, we just do, do you understand?” “Why?” I said with terror. “Because I said so, Robbie!” my father shouted, slamming his glass of whiskey on the table beside him. He cleared his throat and rubbed his tired-looking eyes. “Look,” my father said, calmly again. “We never address, and we never challenge the Shadow, do you understand Robbie?” My father was scary, and I didn’t feel I had a choice. “I do,” I murmured, and at that moment, the Shadow became clear as day, dark like a stormy sky or a nebulous, winter morning. “Attaboy,” my father said, as he always did when I said something that he approved of. “Let’s have dinner now.” And so I did. Ever since I could not only see the Shadow, but I could hear it, whispering things to me during the night. Its slimy, rotten voice pierced into my mind, like a parasite feeding from my own sanity. At first, I didn’t understand what the Shadow said, but the more the days went by, the clearer I could understand its meaning.

When I met with the gang again, they all had the same terror in their eyes, but it all affected us differently. Davie seemed colder, distant. Billy became harsher as his jokes were insulting and he shared all sorts of crazy ideas. Smithie was like me: mortified. The Shadow became a part of our gang. We never talked to it. We never talked about it, but we let It follow us around. It followed us to the fortress and when we took our bikes out for a ride. It followed us when we bathed in the river. And it took all the joy away from the little things we did, replacing them with vile thoughts we didn’t want to have. But we obeyed the Shadow. One day, a new kid came to town. George DeWitz was his name, and his smile is still engraved in my mind. George was not your typical 1950s boy, and certainly not a typical Newberry boy. George was always dressed in lighter colors and one day we saw him wearing a dress. We all noted how George behaved more like a girl than a boy. We didn’t mind George. He seemed like a good boy. But the Shadow didn’t agree with us. “He is not normal, Robbie!” my father had shouted at me when I told him that I wanted to invite George over for dinner. “No boy like that will ever set foot into my home! And if you are like him, you better pack your things and leave!” The same night, the Shadow repeated those words; words that I do not care to write here, and words that no one should ever write. It said all types of words for the boy we knew as George. I didn’t believe that George was any of those things, but the Shadow had a weird way of poisoning us. Eventually, I cracked, and I didn’t want to go against the Shadow. We started calling him names; the names Shadow taught us. We started hazing him, hunting him down, striking with sticks. Whatever the Shadow commanded. One day, the Shadow even ordered us to throw him into the river and we did, without asking, without addressing the Shadow, because we were all afraid of it. That’s when the Shadow made us take it too far. It told us to haze George and trick him, make him believe that we will hang him. We took George out to our now ravaged fortress. We placed a noose around his neck, and we pulled him up, and up. We were laughing I remember, and I can’t feel more disgusted by that memory. If you had been there, you’d see children believing to do the right thing—what the Shadow commanded. It was Davie and Billy who enjoyed it the most, but we were all laughing because the Shadow told us to. We were laughing and poor George was choking. We would stop, pull him down, let him leave. But the Shadow never told us to stop, so we never did until George was no longer fighting. Until George was dead. No one ever pinned the murder on us, and George’s parents simply skipped town. We were never punished for our mistakes, and that was our punishment. We all felt ashamed. Dirty. We wanted to be punished. We wanted to be thrown to jail and rot. Poor Billy even went to the police and told them what we did. They all laughed and let him leave. Billy told us that some even thanked him. Our crime went unpunished, but we deserved punishment. We never talked again with the gang. We all left for college, and no one ever returned to Newberry. Years later, I learned that Billy took his life, tired of listening to the Shadow. Davie joined the Army and never returned home. Smithie tried to redeem himself, track the family down, and George’s father killed him with a shotgun on their front porch. George’s father went to jail and Smithie died the way George died. But we all deserved what happened to us. Me, I’m still here, and now that I write all that I know that it was our fault. Because I escaped, but it took me many years to do so. All I had to do was address the Shadow, and I did one day. It was a day that the Shadow commanded me to kill another boy like George. It was the same thing my father had told me one day: “These men should be put down like sick dogs.” And for the first time, I asked. “Why?” I asked with tears in my eyes. “Why do you call him that? He is a person! Why do I have to kill him? He is just like me and everyone else!” The Shadow’s grin vanished and its eyes didn’t glow as hot anymore. “Why!” I shouted, louder than my throat could handle. And a why was all it took for the Shadow to retreat to its smoky, dark home, away from me. Why was all I needed to ask to make the Shadow go away. If we had addressed the Shadow, George would be alive, Billy and Smithie would be alive. Davie would be here, with us, and we would all be a happy gang. But we never dared to do it, and that was our fault. Our fault. It wasn’t my pa’s who told me to not to address the Shadow. It wasn’t George’s who chose to be who he wanted to be. It wasn’t the Shadow’s fault for being there. It was my fault for not ever asking why. I can’t write another word without thinking that it was all my fault. And I can’t live with that burden anymore. I might have won the Shadow, but it took everything from me. Whoever reads this, remember. Always address the Shadow, even when everyone tells you not to. It’s the only way for you to live.


He sat alone in his cell. Same thing he did every day. He would sit, sleep, think, and masturbate the days away. He did nothing. And that's what they punished him to. Nothing. That's what death row is. First you do nothing, then you die. But his day was coming. The day that shoved some toxic chemicals in him and kill him. But that's not what he was waiting for. He was waiting for his last meal. The last chance to have one last piece of the outside world. He'd been waiting years. He dreamed of this last meal. An 18" Italian sub from Fontane's Deli. Fontane's was a small deli in his hometown. He's wanted it for so long and finally it was coming to him. An 18" Italian, lettuce, tomatoes, oil, vinegar, oregano, and no onions. He hated onions. He paced around his cell counting down the days, the hours the minutes. Finally a knock came to his door. A man in a guard uniform announced almost as if the cowering man in the cell had no idea the day it was, "Time's up. Come get your last meal and get ready." He flinched at the thought of death, but smiled at the thought of that delicious sandwich waiting for him. He sat down, two guards to either side of him. He smiled as the sandwich was presented to him. His drink was a bottle of root beer. Glass bottle. The other stuff just didn't compare. He sipped at his root beer and smiled at the sweet taste he hasn't enjoyed in years. He picked up his sandwich. He bit down. He chewed. He smiled. And slowly his smile turned to disgust and his face twisted into a fearful look of despair. He whispered to himself, "...fucking onions...


My sister lives in B.C. (Canada) and is looking for a house. She decides to put an offer in for a home pretty much in the middle of nowhere and– half in jest–asks if the current owners had ever seen bears on the property, to which they reply they had not. *The next day* a bear manages to open a glass sliding door and get into the dining room while the current owner and her boyfriend are in the house. They begin making noise (like you're apparently suppose to) in hopes of scaring the young black bear away, but it isn't budging. The owner barricades herself in a bedroom while the boyfriend begins putting together a rifle that was in pieces throughout the house. Meanwhile the girl is on the phone trying to convince a 911 operator that this is a *real* emergency (give that a try sometime, haha). The boyfriend finally gets the gun together and puts the bear to rest right in the dining room. Next step is to repair the bullet hole he put in the wall. I guess it was later discovered that the bear had a pretty bad infection, which is why it was so bold and unaffected by the noise the two generated. TL;DR - a bear was shot in the dining room of the house my sister is going to be moving into *the day after* the owner had told them she'd never seen a bear on the property before.