"Never forget,” is the mantra of that day. These 33 eighth graders from Duke Ellington Middle School, wandering through the newly opened museum dedicated to that day, will never forget- because they never remembered in the first place. They were only one. The youngest were still crawling, unable to communicate in anything but babble. The oldest were running, jumping, talking, even beginning to count. But they were all one-year-olds on that infamous day twelve and a half years earlier, and as such, have never known the world to be any different than it is now. Airport security has always been a hassle, terrorism has always been an omnipresent threat, and there has always been an eerie solemness over the first few days of the school year. Zara is one of the oldest, nearly two then and already fourteen now, but she has no better memory of that day than any of her classmates do. According to her parents, she'd had her own commentary on the events of that day as they unfolded: "What happen?", “I scared", and "no go, Daddy". She had started talking quite early, though, and ever since she has always been either the loudest person in the room or the quietest- no in between. Today she is the quietest; she lags at the back of the small group she has been assigned to, following her classmates as though not quite certain of where she is or what she is doing. She flinches slightly whenever a particularly distressing image comes up, but although her teacher has asked twice if she is okay, all she says is, "I'm fine"- an utterance so simple that she could have formed it on that day. The other students share generic answers to the generic worksheet that they were given, but there is no joking or teasing like there usually is. Even though they were only one, they know how serious this event was, and they know that any idiot who decides to joke about it will be reprimanded and shunned. They will all be obnoxious kids again the second they leave, but they are all able to feel faint stirrings of sadness about this event, although they were only one. Zara feels everything more intensely than average- another eight years will go by before she has a diagnosis for this- but even knowing how she is, her near complete silence today has baffled her teachers and peers. She has a piece of paper folded up in her coat pocket, which she occasionally takes out and examines for a few seconds. Her friend Jessica glances over and is able to catch a glimpse of it- a photograph, an old one but not black-and-white old, of three young men and two young women standing on a pier with the then-standing towers in the background. One of the women looked quite a bit like a grown-up version of Zara, about ten years older or so. “Who's that?” Jessica asks, but Zara immediately folds the photo back up and puts it away, so she decides not to ask again. The group comes upon two recording booths, where people can record their own memories of that day and have their stories become part of the museum. The students pay no attention to it- it’s not on their worksheet, and there are no memories that they can share because they were all only one. Jessica feels a tap on her shoulder. “I’m going to stay here for a bit,” Zara says. The rest of their group has gone on to the next exhibit, but Jessica can copy their answers later anyway. “Okay,” she says. Zara waits in line, and Jessica awkwardly lags behind, wondering what someone who was only one could possibly have to say about that day. She hopes the crueler boys in their class don’t see this; they bully Zara because her sensitivity makes her an easy target, and she doesn’t want to have to go to the guidance counselor's office to support her when they return to school- it seems that Zara ends up in the guidance counselor's office quite often these days. There is a vacancy in one of the booths, and Zara quickly fills it. She hesitates for a moment, taking the picture from her pocket. She places her finger over the image of one of the men, the one standing next to the woman who resembles her. With her unsteady hand, she presses the record button. “Hi, Mr. Goldstein,” she says. “It’s Zara. Robyn’s baby. Well… Robyn's *daughter*. I'm obviously not a baby anymore.” Jessica remembers that when the class was walking around the memorial pools outside, Zara stayed in one place for some time, her finger on one of the names engraved in the marble. The name was Mark Goldstein. On the permission slip each student had been given for this trip, it asked whether their family had been personally affected by the tragedy- if they had been, they could choose to stay home, or they could choose to show up and be treated with kid gloves the entire day as though it would make the slightest bit of difference. Everyone had shown up, and no one had been treated with kid gloves, so the assumption had been that this trip would be a more contemporary version of a trip to the Holocaust Museum or Arlington National Cemetery- a place of education and solemn respect, but not of personal pain. "I'm sorry that I don't remember you," Zara says. "I wish I could. Mommy says my personality reminds her of you- maybe that's because you were a preemie, like me. She says that, when I was a baby, I was afraid of most people that weren't her and Daddy, but I liked you. Maybe I knew somehow that the both of us were miracles." Zara takes a shaky breath that sounds more like a sob. "She says that, when I was little, I used to tell her stories about a man that comforted me at night when I was scared. I told her that he said he and I were special so he had to protect me. The older I get, the harder it is to believe in stuff like that, but… maybe that really was you. I always felt so affected by what happened here- not just to you, but to everyone- even though I was only one when it happened. After all, the youngest person who lost their life here was just a few months older than I was. Her name was Christina, I think- the same name as my best friend from elementary school. She... she was on the plane that... that killed you." The rest of the group have come back to see where Zara and Jessica have gone, and now, unbeknownst to Zara, are listening as she talks to the first of many missing people in her young life. "Uh... I'm starting high school this year," Zara says. "Lilac is starting college. She's going to Columbia- she wants to be a lawyer. She said that she promised you when she was little that she was going to go there one day. She's so happy, but… it still hurts her that you're not around to see it." There are a few older teenagers, alumni of Duke Ellington Middle School, who sometimes meet Zara after school, and Lilac is one of them- a highly animated redhead who always wears an American flag-shaped locket around her neck. Now it is apparent why. “Mommy told me about the bombing… the first bombing,” Zara goes on, “how The Five were all trapped in an elevator when it went off, and you all pried the elevator door open to get out. Mr. Smith and Mr. Bates said that, because you all found a way out once, when the towers fell, they told themselves that you must have found a way out again. But there was no time- the plane crashed right into ParkShed's offices. Eleven employees inside at that moment, and eleven names on this memorial. If they hadn't both been running late to work that day… it would be thirteen, and I wouldn't have any memory of them either." She is starting to cry. “I didn't see much of them or Ms. Baxter when I was little. The ParkShed Five couldn’t bear to face the fact that they were The ParkShed Four now. But when Mommy got sick, they started coming by again, because they didn't want to meet for the next time as the ParkShed Three…" A third of Zara’s class is now watching from a tentative distance, and other museum-goers are beginning to notice as well. It is far from the first tragic spectacle that has happened in this museum, and it will be far from the last, but moments like these are always far more impactful than any artifact pulled from the rubble. “A few months ago, we found out that Mommy’s tumor is growing again,” Zara says. “She doesn’t remember much anymore, but she still remembers you. She… she doesn't have much of a filter anymore either, so she’ll just blurt things out to me that I don’t think she would tell me if she was all there. We were talking about love the other day, and she… she said that she's been in love with three men in her life, and that… just one is still alive. I assume the living one is Daddy, and I know the man she dated right before him died last year, but I wondered… I found this picture, and… I noticed that she's looking at you in the same way that she looked at Daddy in their pictures later. I always knew she'd loved you, but… I never would have thought it was because she was *in* love with you once." Zara's hands tremble so much that she can barely hold the picture. "That would explain a lot," she says. "If part of her was still in love with you all along. But it wouldn't even matter now. You're gone. You've been gone. But sometimes she doesn't even remember that. Sometimes she’ll get confused and think you’re still alive, that none of it happened. Yesterday she promised to take me to Windows on the World one day, and I didn't even bother reminding her that it's gone. She forgets that Grandma and Grandpa are gone now, too. Every time someone reminds her that they’re gone, or that you’re gone, she cries like she just found out. She forgets so much, but when she forgets you, we’ll know it's over. But when she forgets you, it won’t matter anymore…” The recording has shut off, but no one dares to move. Zara’s sniffles turn to sobs. “...because when she forgets you… it won’t be long until you’re together again.


It is a warm humid summer night abuzz with the sounds of crickets and the occasional passing car. As we sit at the kitchen table listening to music and drinking, he begins to tell a story. The story is lost to me as I study his features as he speaks. The slight curve of his mouth as he smiles. The redness of his cheeks. The light twinkle in his eyes as the kitchen light catches them just right. He begins to laugh, and I snap out of my trance. He notices and asks what's wrong, but I only reply that something in my mind had distracted me. He laughs again and simply brushes it off as he does. The drinks begin to take their toll as I feel myself slipping into the calm relaxed state where the world seems to pass by without a thought. We sat listening to the music and the crickets of the night. It all seems so perfectly still. The song changes and suddenly without a thought I spring up. He seemed surprised by my sudden action as he sat in his chair. I quickly grab his hand but he first resists saying he can’t dance. I say I can’t either and continue to insist and finally he gives in. He stands and comes to the middle of the kitchen with me. At first, we clumsily dance to the beat but slowly find a rhythm. What seems like an eternity we dance to the music. We dance with all our heart and soul. Sweat slowly drips from my brow and I see he has also begun to sweat. It is in that moment I realize we are now dancing mere inches from one another. How had this escaped me? How had the world seemed to blur so suddenly? I stop and admire him. He has his eyes closed as he continues swaying to the beat of the music as if in perfect harmony. His cheeks are red and as if he had sensed something wrong, he stops. Slowly opening his eyes, he looks at me and blushes even more. All I can think in that moment is he is the most beautiful person on the planet. As we stand so close, I can feel the heat of his body. The music was almost silent over the beating of our hearts. I looked into his eyes and saw something. Something primal and unstoppable. In that moment I raise my hand to his face and as it laid upon his cheek, I feel a rush as if lightning had coursed through every fiber of my body. I know he felt it too for a look of shock appeared on his face. He closed his eyes and in that moment I moved closer. As I closed my eyes and our lips brushed, it again felt as if lighting had coursed through my veins. His lips were soft, yet his stubble was prickly. He did not react. He stood perfectly still as if petrified. I pulled away and he had opened his eyes. He just stood there silently staring. I stepped back and felt as if I had made a mistake. A feeling of pain and regret washed over me like a tidal wave. I felt ashamed and I began to turn to walk away but then I felt his hand upon my wrist. He stopped me and as I turned, he smiled. He moved closer and this time he kissed me. This kiss though was different. It wasn’t soft but firm and forceful. It was a kiss born of a primal passion and desire. In this moment, the music stopped, the world stopped, and it was as if the very heavens were fixed upon us. The kiss lasted a mere few moments but for me it lasted a lifetime. All the feelings of pain, regret, and shame washed away. As we both pulled away, I looked him in the eyes and saw tears rolling down his cheeks. I too quickly realized that I had begun to cry as well. These tears though were not of sadness but of pure happiness. In that moment, I knew I made the right decision, and so did he. We choose to have faith in one another and feel love. Once more we pulled each other into a passion fueled kiss. Moments passed and finally we collected ourselves. I gently took his hand and lead him to the living-room where we sat on the couch side by side. He laid his head upon my shoulder and we sat there for a time, both thinking. Finally, he broke the silence and said, I have waited for you to do that for what feels like a lifetime. In that moment we both began to laugh. We had waited so long for one another and now we finally took that leap of faith. I laid my head upon his and we sat there for a long while. As we both faded off to sleep within one another's arms, I remembered something and whispered it under my breath... journeys end in lovers meeting.


(WP) The Little Fox and the Drums of War The fox had heard stories of the city her whole life, despite living in the wood since she was born. Being the oldest of all the kits, though, gave her an advantage over her brothers and sisters. Only her eyes gave her away as something not quite human, but with all the noise, she couldn’t really think of stealth. The wood was full of noises too, but nothing this harsh or loud. Her stomach grumbled, but she resisted returning to her animal form. She might not be human, but now was the perfect opportunity to act like it. She followed her nose deeper into town, her mouth watering at the savory scents of chili and garlic. Her father had warned her that she only had a few hours in her human form before she had to return to the forest, and she was feeling high on the sensation of it. She wasn’t here for pleasure, but none of the guards were with her and no one would be reporting back to her parents. She found a restaurant and sat down, ordering food for herself: hot and spicy ramen, soft boiled eggs with yolks like miniature suns, noodles covered in chili oil. She ate every bite slowly, savoring it. This was certainly different from hunting a woodland creature, but no less pleasant. As soon as she was finished with her food, she left money on the table, thinking about why she’d been allowed to go into the city for the first time. She was to spy on the humans who her kind despised; they consumed endlessly, violating the land and the natural laws that governed the world. She hadn’t wanted to, but her father insisted that she be the one to scout for the humans’ plans. After all, of all of his children, she was the only one gifted with such immense power. “*The gods gave us these powers for a reason, little one. These humans, they are a disease, a pestilence that must be erased from the earth. Only then can the world regain balance.”* But, try as she might, the little fox just couldn’t hate humans. What her parents said was true: they did consume, and burn, and rage, and hate, but they didn’t deserve to be eliminated completely. They were also kind, and good, and loving, and damn it all, they tried to make the world a better place. She changed back into a fox and headed into an abandoned building; she could hear the boom of voices bouncing off of the walls, though the humans were just whispering. She hid in the shadows, knowing that she only had a little bit of time left before she had to return home. “There’s a rumor that there are shifter families in the woods, the most prominent being a family of foxes. We have to burn the forest to the ground. How else will we prevent them from meddling with our plans?” The little fox didn’t need to hear anymore; she slunk out of the building to report back to her family. War was coming, and she had to stop it.


Stormy Day It was a beautiful day. The big fluffy clouds looked like cotton candy ready to be picked. There were towering cumulus clouds that could be an indication of rain to come. If you gazed long enough at them and had a vivid imagination you could see faces, animals and all sorts of things in the clouds. The blue hue of the sky looked like the Caribbean Sea with its clear vivid colors. There was a calmness in the air and a gentle breeze blowing from the west. The weatherman was calling for storms in the afternoon, however looking at the sky you wouldn’t think it was possible. The tree leaves were wearing their autumn shades of orange, red, gold, and green as they danced and swirled to the ground with the breeze. It was a perfect Autumn day to take a walk through the forest. Once in the forest there was a stark difference in the temperature. It was 10 degrees cooler under the canopy of trees. Little animals could be seen darting about the forest floor gathering nuts and other items to get them ready for the upcoming winter. Birds could be heard flitting in the tree tops and calling out to other birds. It shattered the quiet of the forest. Walking on the carpet of fallen leaves, the crunching noise reverberated though the forest scaring the birds who took flight above. The forest was quiet again. Wandering through the forest brought up memories of long-ago days as a child running through the cool forest and gathering the colored leaves to take home and put them in a scrapbook. There were tons of acorns and pine cones on the ground. More treasures to take back home and make something crafty. A loud rumble could be heard in the distance and the forest quickly turned dark with the approaching storm. It was a little spooky in the forest with the fast approaching storm turning it pitch black. Looking around at the nearby surroundings it appeared I had wandered farther into the forest than was originally planned. A sense of dread came over me as I knew that the little creek would flood and leave me stranded in the middle of the woods. With my heart beating faster I picked up my pace to try and get back to the creek crossing before it was too late. A loud clap of thunder was heard overhead and the sky lit up like the Fourth of July. The sky opened up and the torrential rain came down like someone had opened a dam and the water came spilling out. Panicked I picked up the pace and half power walked and half ran to beat the rain that would fill up the creek. It was the only thing between me and civilization. A sense of dismay came over me as I knew I wouldn’t get to the creek in time before the rain caused it spill over its banks. I had to come up with a plan fast or I would be trapped. There was nowhere to go to keep from getting drenched. I started to run and at the time it seemed like a good idea. I didn’t take into consideration the that the leaves would be slippery under my feet. Running like my life depended on it I sped up the pace and as luck would have it I tripped over a small limb and crashed to the ground. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to catch myself. I hit my head so hard I saw stars and blackness. Laying there for a minute to catch my breath and shake the fuzziness out of my head before I got up. It was a bad idea and the pain shot through my whole body and left me dazed and confused. Great, this was no time to be clumsy. I tried to get back up on my feet and as I did a sharp burning pain shot right through me. It appeared I had broken my ankle when I fell. The thought of spending the night in the forest didn’t thrill me. I had to come up with a plan and I had no idea what I was going to do. I started to have a panic attack and all that did was add to the horrendous situation I was in.  I had made it to the creek and its banks were flooded with the rain and started filling up the surrounding ground. I felt like I was going to die if I didn’t get out of the forest soon. Getting a grip on myself I started to take deep breaths to try and calm my thoughts before I went into a full-blown panic attack, which would add injury to insult to my current situation. I started to crawl towards the creek on my hands and knees. Every little movement caused my injury to send sharp shooting pain through my whole body. It almost caused me to pass out with every jarring pain upon movement. I am strong woman and I had been in other situations worse than my current one. Drowning wasn’t an option so I crawled inch by inch towards the flooding creek. The ground had tons of rocks and broken branches caused my hands and knees to bleed. However, I ignored the pain and kept going towards the creek. Once I got there the water was freezing cold, causing me to shiver uncontrollably. I almost wanted to give up as my situation only got worse. Once at the creek the water around it was about 4 inches deep and at this point I was going to have to swim to get to the other side. My only saving grace was the creek didn’t have a fast current. The storm overhead proceeded to get stronger. Jagged lightening kept hitting the forest ground. My current thought was I was going to be the next target and get electrocuted. That was not a happy thought and made me even more determined to get the other side of the creek. Once over to the other side I wasn’t sure I would be able to get to the house. The land was nothing but wide-open field and I would have no protection from the raging storm overhead. I guess I should have taken heed to the weatherman and stayed home. However, at this point that thought was moot. More determined than ever, I kept crawling on the soggy rain flooded ground. Not sure how I was going to get across the creek I kept going. The creek was about 18 inches wide with a mild current. The overflowing banks kept bringing more water into the forest making my situation even worse. I was at the bank and I did the only thing I could. I plunged into the water praying I would make it to the other side before I drowned or got struck by lightning. A loud clap of thunder was heard overhead and the lightening soon followed. The strikes were getting closer to me and it turned my body into one big goose bump. I was freezing cold because of the water and the drop-in temperature. What a messy predicament I found myself in. The water was freezing cold and it sent a jolt through my body. My ankle was adding to the situation. Freezing, in pain, and scared to death I kept on crawling forward. The water helped to keep my foot afloat giving me the motivation to keep going. Inch by inch I tried to swim across the creek. Thank God it wasn’t very deep and I could stand up on one leg if I needed to. The storm raved on and little rivulets of rain streamed down my face. The torrential rain kept coming with no sign of letting up. Cautiously I swam across the creek and eventually after what seemed like hours I made it to the other side. The ground was flooded, but I kept crawling until I made it to the edge of the forest trying to come up with a plan on how I was going to make it across the field to the house.  I could see the house from my position, but I could also see the dark and ominous storm on the horizon. The sight sent a shiver down my spine as I started to crawl towards home. My hands and knees were bleeding profusely at this point from all the debris on the ground. I started my long, slow trek across the field. The lightening was hitting the ground all around me and loud claps of thunder continued on. I kept praying that I wouldn’t get struck by the jagged lightening as it hit the ground. Finally, I was about five feet from the house. The pain and the situation I was in made me want to cry, however I refused. I finally made it to the doorstep of the house and collapsed from the pain and exhaustion. The storm seemed to be getting stronger and the clouds were swirling overhead. Great a tornado was just what I needed. I managed to get the door open and get inside. I tried to stand up so I could turn the heat up to warm myself. The movement made me collapse again as the pain from my ankle shot up my leg and throughout my body. I took some deep breaths to try and calm down. I had managed to turn the heat up to 85 degrees and the warmth sent a sense of wellbeing throughout my body. I was in the house, out of the rain, and relatively safe from the raging storm outside. I crawled to the window to watch the storms and swirling clouds. Minutes passed as I held my breath and watched the cloud slowly creep to the ground in a funnel formation. I prayed that the forming funnel cloud wouldn’t reach the ground. As I watched the funnel cloud start to dissipate and disappear, I let out a deep breath as the funnel cloud disappeared back up into the sky. Now that I was safe and warm I had to deal with my ankle. I called a friend who came over and picked me up to go to the hospital. They took x-rays and confirmed that my ankle was broken. They cleaned up the wounds on my hands and knees and put a cast on my ankle and sent me on my way. I thanked my friend when they dropped me off and I laid down on the couch to relax. I slept for a few hours as the storm raged on outside. When I woke up it was calm and quiet. I looked outside and the sun was trying to peak out of the clouds. It appeared the storm was over. I reflected on my day and thought about how lucky I was to have survived my horrendous time in the forest. What started out as a nice quiet walk into the woods quickly turned into a living nightmare. As I reflected I decided that next time I would heed the weatherman’s warning. The nightmare in the forest made me a stronger person and I knew I could survive anything thrown at me. With that thought in my head I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down to read a book. I knew that life could be tough and we have choices that could make it easy or hard. Today had been a hard day and I learned a little more about myself. I am strong women who can conquer anything I set my mind to. With that thought I slowly drifted off to sleep, thankful I had survived the day.


My son, Richie, was almost 3 years old with beautifully thick and curly brown hair that seemed to hang in place flawlessly without any serious effort. He was a growing, healthy, and happy child, with a rapidly developing vocabulary, as any parent would hope for. That, however, was before Frank seeped into our lives. Before Frank, the boy loved talking anyone's ear off, running around like a maniac, and putting on super hero masks while pretending to fight bad guys. That’s why when he first started talking about “The Monster,” I never thought much of it as it’s expected for children his age to start developing an overactive imagination. “Daddy do you see the Monster?” Richie said for what must be the 7th time in the past couple weeks. “Yeah Buddy,” I replied, with that encouraging, yet slightly sarcastic voice that parents make when talking to young children, “I can see him.” “What’s his name, daddy?” “Uh.... Frank,” I told him, lazily spouting out the first generic name that popped into my mind. Richie then rambled off to the next subject, and talked about something like Spider-Man or Ninja turtles beating up bad guys. You know, typical little boy stuff. The Frank sightings seemed to escalate from there. Richie would ask me or his mother if we could see Frank over there standing in the corner, or mention that Frank was in his room last night. It was at this point that I started to feel a bit of concern, it didn’t seem to be a huge deal, but it was starting to get a bit, well off putting. Frank was never playing, he was just, there. I decided to ask Richie some questions about what I believed to be his imaginary friend he called Frank, but I’d wait until the next time he brought it up on his own. That opportunity arose one day as I picked him up from daycare and we were driving home. He had mentioned that Frank was at the sandbox that day. “Is Frank your friend?” I asked him. “No,” He responded, “Frank is a monster. “A Monster?” “Yeah, Frank is a monster. He’s a nice monster though. He looks funnnny” Deciding to dig a little deeper I asked, “Does Frank play with you?” “No.” “Well then what does he do?” “Frank watches us.” He said it with a matter of fact demeanor that left me even more unsure of this weird situation. I’m a young first time parent in my mid 20’s, and I had no idea how to handle the Imaginary Friend situation. Should a parent play along, or be more realistic? I really didn’t want to hinder the development of his imagination, but I also wasn’t sure how far I felt comfortable with this going. “Sometimes he talks.” Richie continued after a short pause. “At night when everyone is asleep.” Oh great, he’s dreaming about Frank too. “Well uh, what does Frank like to talk about?” “He said we shouldn’t move to a new house.” What did he just say? That last shocking sentence made me feel unsettled at best. We were getting ready to put our townhouse on the market, as we were ready to upgrade to a larger home. The weird thing is, my wife and I hadn’t spoken to our son about this. We were waiting to tell him until we had found the house that we would purchase, to make the situation easier for a toddler to grasp. Feeling creeped out and somewhat awkward, I immediately changed the subject by asking Richie if he wanted a cookie. It may be a cheap trick, but any child will immediately forget about anything of the moment you bring up the possibility of a cookie. Although the subject had been changed, my mind began to wonder. Was my son speaking with some sort of ghost? I believed that ghosts might exist, but had never seen any sort of significant proof. How did he know that we were moving? Later that night, after Richie was in bed, I explained to my wife the conversation that had taken place in the car. She, however, seemed unfazed and somewhat skeptical. She blew it off by saying, “Oh I’m sure he just overheard us. That kid never goes to bed and is more attentive than you think.” I suddenly realized how insane I must have sounded to think that some sort of ghost was speaking with our child. It almost seemed funny, to look back and realize that I was actually worried. Perhaps my belief in the paranormal had caused me to jump to conclusions too easily without any real rationality. I was a first time parent after all, with almost no previous experience dealing with small developing children. I reminded myself to calm down and stay rational. Things carried along, business as usual, for the next several weeks. Richie's mentions of Frank varied from 1 to 3 times a day. I simply played along with the boy and his stories of his imaginary friend. We packed our things and moved to our new house, which came with a wonderful swing set for which Richie was ecstatic. In this house, I felt certain that it could be our forever home. I believed that we would be happy here. It had been 3 weeks since we had moved in, and we had just celebrated Richie's 3rd Birthday. The boy was flourishing, increasing his outstanding vocabulary and easily identifying all of his shapes and colors. He could even count to 50 now. The best thing was, I hadn’t heard the name, “Frank.” Mentioned since we moved it. Not once. Not once, that is, until a mid-Saturday morning in the early onset of fall. The leaves were starting to rest on our new backyard lawn, and I once again found myself pushing Richie on his swing set. Back and forth, back and forth, with the rhythmic squeak of the swing set. This is when everything took a turn for the worst. “Daddy Look!” Richie exclaimed. “There’s Frank, he’s here now!” Richie pointed to the far back corner of the yard, right next to the shed. As I turned my head to look, I thought I actually saw something, something that appeared to be a large silhouette. Before I had time to fully comprehend what I had seen, I heard the thud of Richie hitting the ground, followed by the cries of pain A few hours later the doctor entered the room with the X-rays in hand, confirming his suspicions of a broken arm. Luckily it was one clean break, no setting of the bones would be needed. Although my son was going to be okay, I was livid with myself for allowing this to happen. How could I have been so stupid as to look away from my child while he was on the swing set, right after he let go of the chain to point at His imaginary friend. This whole situation could have been avoided had I not been so superstitious about this damned imaginary friend. But wait, I HAD seen something, hadn’t I? It was only for a split second, but it was there. A tall, large shadow of a man with deformed head. Ugh, my eyes must really have been playing tricks on me. I brushed it off and eventually managed to fall asleep, pushing the parental guilt off to deal with the following day. Sleep proved to be just as unsettling as the day’s events had been though. My dreams brought me memories of the recent past. The swing set, Richie playing in our old house, having family over for holiday celebrations, even the day we brought baby Richie home for the first time. Except that hideous monstrous silhouette was there, in every single memory. Watching from the corner, standing behind our guests, leaning over the crib. Always there, always watching. I awoke suddenly, bolt upright in my bed. I rarely remembered even having dreams, but this dream was so vivid, so clear, that every detail now haunted my thoughts. Needless to say, falling back asleep was not an option. I had to go do something to set my mind at ease. Disturbed, I went over to check on my little Richie, who was supposed to be asleep. Partially to comfort myself from that horrendous nightmare. To my surprise, I found the boy wide awake. When he saw me peeking through the doorway, he asked, “Daddy, where is Hell?” “What?” I asked in disbelief, sure that I must have misheard. “Hell,” he said, “where is Hell?” I was not prepared to answer these kinds of questions to my child yet, he was so young. I myself have never really been sure what I believe about this heaven and hell stuff, having never been religious. But I gave him the best, simple explanation I could muster “Well, bud, nobody really knows where Hell is, but some people believe that Hell is a place where bad people go after they die.” “So was your daddy a bad guy?” “Excuse me?” This last question caught me off guard. “Frank told me that your daddy is in Hell because he hurt those kids.” My heart instantly plummeted, providing a sensation as if it had collided with my stomach. After skipping a beat, or three, my heartbeat resurged with the powerful thump worthy of a bass drum. How the HELL could he have known about that? It was true that my father had hurt children. Killed them, actually. When I was young, about 12 years old, my dad had stormed out of the house in a drunken stupor. The police came knocking at about 5:00 AM the next morning to inform us that he had been identified as involved in a multiple fatality car accident, and they needed my mother to identify the body. I remember that morning vividly. My mother was not aware that I had woken, as I hid around the corner listening to the police tell my mother of my father's demise. Needless to say, It was him. As details emerged, it became apparent that my father had drunkenly caused a car accident, slamming into a family's minivan as they were coming home from a fishing trip. My father, along with the two children in the backseat of the other car, were killed instantly. As much as my mother tried to shield me of the events, it was all over the news. I was 12 after all, and I knew how to use the internet. It didn’t take long for me to know what my dad had done. That being said, there is absolutely NO WAY that my son would have known this story. My mother remarried YEARS before Richie was born. My stepfather is the only person my son has ever known as grandpa, and I never discussed the situation, at all. At this point I realized, without a doubt, that Frank was more than just an imaginary friend, and it angered me. Furiously, I told my son, “No more talking to Frank, he’s not welcome here.” “But Frank is nice.” Richie pleaded “No, Frank is not nice, Frank is bad and if you see him again you need to tell him to leave!” “NOOOOO!” Richie roared. Only the voice that came out did not belong to Richie. It was a sound that no toddler could be capable of making. It was a deep, dark, horrendous, malicious, and rocky voice that would be fitting of a ware-wolf, or a monster, or, or, a demon.... What's worse is the fiery, despicable, evil look of pure hatred that was in my sons eyes, although only for a moment, it was there. The expression on his face disappeared, as quickly as it arrived, and Richie was Richie again. It was as if he had no idea what had just happened. He seemed totally fine, but I was terrified. Terrified of my only son, or whatever had just taken ahold of him “Can I watch a movie?” He asked, completely unfazed by the event. It was as if he didn’t even realize what had happened. “Uh.... of course, buddy,” I managed to respond with a shaky voice. I carried him to the living room, and put on Lion King for him. After he fell asleep in the next 30 minutes, I went into the shower, and simply fell apart as I broke into tears. What the hell had just happened? What was this, this monstrous thing who grabbed a hold of my son? As I tried to explain the events to my wife the ensuing morning, she simply didn’t believe me. I can’t even blame her, I realized that it sounded crazy but I KNEW that it had indeed happened. If only she had believed me. However, we had very little time to talk about it, as Richie awoke that morning with a heavy fever. Originally at 101 degrees Fahrenheit, his temperature rapidly rose to 103 within just a couple short hours. As I picked my son up to take him to the ER, I saw him, Frank, out of the corner of my eye. Watching. Richie was admitted immediately. The doctors scrambled to explain his condition of rapid deterioration. I sat by, watching as my son became pale, and his energy was fading. Fast. Yes, my son was fading. He was... Dying. As the doctors ran tests on top of tests, I took matters into my own hands. I had 3 different priests arrive, all of them simply offered my son a simple blessing, but I could tell that they too were skeptical of me. I tried desperately to get my wife and the doctors to listen to me. For 2 days I pleaded with them to understand that I knew what was wrong, that there was a malicious, if not demonic, entity feeding on my boy, sucking away his life energy. Why or how, were questions in which the answer far past my understanding, but it WAS happening. I could even see him regularly now, that evil thing, standing in the shadows. But alas, I was met with skepticism, and my wife along with the doctors ended up bringing in a psychologist to have some sort of intervention for ME. They tried to tell me that I was having some sort of mental break from the stress of a sick, possibly dying, child. I stormed out that room desperately furious. I realized in this moment that trying to explain the truth to people would be of no avail. I had only one last idea of what could be done, what HAD to be done to save my Richie. I stayed awake in the hospital room that night. It had been almost 3 days now since we arrived at the hospital. Richie has been moved to the ICU, with the doctors still baffled. All their tests had only shown what wasn’t wrong with Richie. They didn’t understand, but I knew. I knew what was wrong with my son. I sat there, waiting, for the demon called Frank to appear. I stayed awake until about 2:00 AM, and suddenly there he was. I could see the shadow standing over Richie's bed. He stood Calmly, but with an evil lust for the last little bit of energy that was keeping my son alive. “I’ll make you a deal.” I said with a stern and confident done. The entity slowly turned his head until he was facing me. I could see him now, more clearly than ever. Richie was right, Frank truly was a monster. A large one, standing at some 8 feet tall, with skin the color of ash. He had the same overall shape of a Human, but with hideous, pointy features. His Long, narrow arms hung down to his knees, ending with fingers 6 inches or more in length. And his face, his ungodly face was the most hideous of all. Frank had no mouth in his ashen, peeling face. That's when I noticed his eyes. His eyes were the most terrorizing feature about him. There was no white in his eyes, just darkness. A darkness darker than any black color that one can comprehend. “I’ll make you a deal.” I said again, forcing myself to stay steady in the presence of this creature. “Leave the boy alone, forever, and you can have me.” The Demon tilted his head as if perplexed, contemplating my offer. After a minute that seemed like hours, He straightened up and spoke. Not with his mouth, as he didn’t have one. No, he put the sound directly into my skull. In That deep, evil voice that had previously come from my son just the other night. “It’s a deal.” And In an instant, he was gone. The next morning, Richie's fever had subsided, just like that. The color had returned to his skin and he was eating solid food and laughing like a toddler should for the first time in days. The Doctors admitted that they were baffled, but happily discharged Richie later that day. My wife calls it a miracle, but only I understand the dismal truth. I can feel it starting, the Illness, or whatever you call it. My fever is spiking, and I can’t stop sweating. My energy is leaving me, I barely managed to walk up the stairs into the office. Even now, I feel as if I might pass out. I cannot hide my condition from my wife for too much longer. It is only a matter of time until I am the one in the hospital bed, as the doctors try tirelessly to explain what is happening. Only I won’t make a miraculous recovery as Richie had. No, I’m certain that I will die. That was the deal I had made after all. I gave up my own life to save my son. But, before I do perish, I’m putting this story on every parenting and paranormal form I can find on the web. I KNOW how this sounds, I realize it seems crazy. But I’m reaching out to all parents who might be seeing the signs. I PLEAD with you, please do NOT play along if your child has some sort of imaginary friend. Stop it BEFORE it’s too late. Find someone who can expel that evil from your home and your child. But PLEASE, for the sake of you children, I beg for you to not allow this creature to take ahold of your child.


Edith Palfrey stares at the human wreckage that had once been her father. He is sleeping fitfully; with his gaunt frame, he looks like a skeleton covered in bedsheets. A thin rivulet of spit runs down one cheek, and she reaches out to wipe it with a tissue, tossing it into the trashcan near the bed. She lifts an overhanging bit of sheet to check the collection bag for the catheter and sees that it is only a quarter full. The catheter is the type they call a Texas catheter, which some people also call a condom catheter, which gives you a better idea of how it works. Needless to say, it took her quite a while to get used to putting it on and taking it off of her father--though if she were completely honest, she would tell you she had never really gotten used to it. Edith reaches over and brushes the hair away from her father’s face with her hand; his hair is as white as snow, with thin patches where she can see glimpses of his scalp. It is hard to believe how thick and dark that hair had once been, in another lifetime. She steps out of the room as quietly as she can and goes into the small kitchen, where her tea is finished steeping. She removes the Lipton bag from the cup and tosses it into the trash, then tears the end off of a packet of equal, measuring half the packet out into a spoon. She stirs it in and adds a dash of milk, then drops in a single ice cube to cool it down just a little. Taking a tentative sip, she nods her head in satisfaction before taking her cup of tea to the living room, where the TV is still on with the volume turned down. Edith takes a seat in the chair that has always reminded her of the one Archie Bunker always sat in on All in the Family. She leaves the volume turned down as she watches some crappy sitcom she doesn’t really like play itself out on the screen while taking small, satisfying sips of tea. After a while she starts imagining what is going on in the show, making up a storyline to go with the wordless images she is seeing. A tall, older gentleman steps out from behind a curtain he’s been hiding behind, and Edith decides that this man must be the Blonde’s father, and that he has been hiding because he doesn’t want her to know that he is secretly seeing the Brunette. She can almost hear the reaction from the studio audience, one of those cheesy ooohs that always accompany a scene were something racy is hinted at. Just then a younger man comes bursting onto the screen, and the camera cuts back to the Blonde, the Brunette, and the Dad/Secret Lover. They all look a bit sheepish, and when the camera cuts back to Young Guy, he looks perplexed. As the camera hangs on him, Edith imagines the Brunette saying something off-camera: “This isn’t what it looks like.” And the audience laughs. Finishing the last sip of tea, Edith picks up the remote and hits the power button, and the TV goes blank. She goes to the kitchen and slowly washes and rinses the cup before leaving it upside down in the dish rack to dry. She shuts off the kitchen light and makes her way down the hall to the back bedroom to check on her father. She cracks the door just a bit and peers inside; there’s not enough light to see anything, so she opens the door just a little more to let in some of the light from the hall. A gasp escapes her and she rushes into the room, flipping on the light as she goes. Her father is lying on his side on the floor, wedged between the bed and the bedside table. It takes some time (especially with him fighting her the whole way) but she gets him back up onto the bed. Some noises escape his throat, noises that might have been words if he could still talk. “It’s all right, Daddy. You’re okay; you just had a little accident.” Then the stench hits her, and she realizes just how right she is. She lets out an exasperated sigh, then immediately feels guilty for having done so. She knows that none of this is his fault. He had once been a happy, outgoing, man--a man’s man, her mother had called him. It all started when he began having trouble remembering things, and eventually, the road had led right here, to this room, to this night, and all the nights to come. The dark secret that lay in her heart, the nasty thing that she would never admit to anyone, that she could barely admit to herself, is that she often hopes that there won’t be many more nights to come. “We need to get you changed,” she says. She gets a pad and fresh pair of protective underwear from the linen closet (she can’t think of it as a diaper, never that) and sets it on the bedside table. Then she lifts her father and slips the pad under him to catch any spillage. She then works on getting his soiled protective underwear off of him, mindful of the catheter tube snaking out of one side. The soiled pair gets rolled up and thrown in the trash. She uses some wet wipes to clean him and then gets the fresh pair of underwear on him. She lifts him up on his side again to slip the pad out, rolls that up, and tosses it into the trash. As she works, she pretends that she does not see the tears in his eyes, or see the trembling of his too-moist lips. She can’t bear to see those things, and so she just doesn’t. She covers him with his sheets and gives him a quick kiss on the forehead before taking the bag out of the trashcan and tying it in a knot. She shuts off the light and shuts the door, then takes the bag of soiled things to the kitchen, where she stuffs it into the kitchen trashcan. For a moment she stands in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. Then she walks slowly to the study where her father used to while away the hours once upon a time, reading, writing correspondence, or just napping (though he always denied that last one). She turns on a lamp and soft light bathes the room in a warm glow. She touches a few of the books lined up on the shelf: Gulliver’s Travels, Don Quixote, The Collected Works of Poe. She moves over to the desk in the corner where her father used to sit happily writing letters, and not-so-happily looking over the latest electric or heating bill. Mounted on the wall over the desk is one of the scale model ships he used to build as a hobby. He had built at least a couple dozen of them over the years; the others were carefully packed away God knows where, but this one has always been his favorite, and so it was set on a shelf mounted on the wall of his study. It is a 1/50 scale model of the HMS Bounty. It had been up here on this wall ever since Edith could remember. She had often seen her father take it down and set in on the desk to just look at it, almost as if he were surprised that he had actually made such a thing. A few times she even dared to take it down herself, but never while her father was home. As she looks at it now up there on the wall she can see that time has taken its toll on the ship. A few of the sails sag where they should be taut, a few scuff marks mar the hull, and the mizzenmast is bent slightly out of shape. She thinks that the ship must have taken a tumble from the wall at some time in the past; it must have happened when she was away, living her own life away from the house where she had lived as a child. For just a moment she considers taking it into a hobby shop to see if it can be repaired, put back in its original condition. Then she decides against it; why spend money just to fix something that will just stay hidden here in the study, where nobody will see it, anyway? She moves to the doorway and takes another look at the study, inhaling deeply the smell of the room, still retained, that smell that is so distinctly her father. Then she turns off the light and closes the door, leaving the room and its ghosts in darkness. Edith leaves the house and slowly descends the porch steps. She walks to the street, turns right, and starts walking. At the stop sign she stops and turns back to look at the house that had been her home, then was her parent’s home, and now was her home again since her mother died and left Edith as the only one to take care of her father. There were a few lights on, and she couldn’t help thinking that the house looked like a big ship, lost and adrift on a dark sea. She turns and starts walking again, thinking that she will turn around at the place where Oak intersects Ridge. The big night sky envelops the world like a velvet glove, and a cool breeze blows gently in her face, blowing wisps of hair around her head. When she gets to the intersection of Oak and Ridge, she thinks that she will walk to the next intersection, and then she will turn back. But when she gets to the next intersection, she keeps going, thinking that it will be nice to walk just a little farther.


Martin’s phone chimed with an email notification. He blinked, confused. He had set up the email a couple years back by request, but had never received one email- not even spam. He shuffled the several feet across the yellow linoleum of his tiny Manhattan kitchen and picked up the phone. Opening the email app for the second time ever, he read the subject line: *THE CALM AFTER THE STORM*. He stared numbly for a moment, taking in the message’s meeting. As his thoughts coalesced, he turned on the TV to make certain his fears: the world was ending, and nothing would ever be the same again. The creature that filled the television screen was one that fed on sadness and despair. It incited emotions within the vulnerable, and fed back on those in a vicious cycle, killing its hosts at range within hours. Its mind control powers were lesser known, but used to compel others to inflict atrocities or pain to jump start the cycle for others. And it had landed in one of the largest cities in the country. Martin went to his closet, pushing gently past the faded khakis and sweaters. Hanging in the back of the closet was a simple gray cloak, free of any logo or design. It was a light gray, the kind of departing stormclouds. He donned it over his existing khakis and sweater. No mask. He was told when he was given the cloak that he wouldn’t need it. He locked up his small, dingy apartment, and took to the street. He was the Calm once more. \*\*\* The Romanian neighborhood in Manhattan was normally relatively loud in the morning. The honking of traffic mixed with the day-to-day sounds of millions of New Yorkers going about their business. Today, it was eerily silent. Everyone shuffled along the sidewalks and through the streets, vagrant, confused looks in their eyes. The traffic was unpleasantly polite, and not a single horn or curse could be heard on the streets. It was peaceful, but it was a false pretense of peace. The creature had taken the vibrancy of the city and replaced it with numbing despair. A gentle sound of shoe scuffing on brick caught the Calm’s ear, up and behind him. Glancing up, he saw a young man standing on the lip of an old apartment building, teetering on its edge. A few bottles scattered the sidewalk at his feet. With a nod, the Calm took to the sky, lifting slowly on the breeze, rising calmly toward the man. The man hardly seemed to notice the flying man in a sweater and cape before him. He began to take a step forward. The Calm gently placed a hand on his chest. “I know you’re in pain, but this isn’t your fault. It’s not your fault. This too will pass. Sadness and despair are part of life, but they aren’t all of it. I can’t make the decision for you, and I’ll respect your choice. But you deserve to know there’s more than this, and you deserve the chance to find out. And I can help you, if you’d like.” He released his hand. The man’s eyes became less clouded, and they watered. With a sob, he stepped backwards, away from the ledge. The Calm landed and held him tight, assuring him it was okay. They talked for a moment, until the Calm heard another sound. Smiling, he handed the young man a card, and took off, heading north. \*\*\* Leiber Metro Hospital was plagued by the same eerie quietness as the streets nearby had been. The Calm walked through the sliding doors, surveying the situation. Fortunately, the staff were working. However, they all had the same hopeless look in their eyes- the one you saw from forty years of losing patients. He offered soft smiles on his way to the room where he’d heard the sound. He knocked on a door. After a moment, a small girl answered. Her eyes were red and blotchy, and she looked confused. “Who… who are you?” The Calm knelt. “I’m Martin. Can I help you?” Eyes still welling, the girl nodded, and took him in the room by the hand. An elderly woman was in a hospital bed, not stirring. A monitor by the bed emitted a blaring, continuous sound, rather than its optimistic, periodic blip. The Calm reached over and flicked off the monitor. “I’m Susie. Mom and Dad are talking to the doctors, and Grandma Joan won’t wake up.” The Calm nodded, thoughtfully. “How old are you?” “Six.” “I see. Well Susie, do you know what happens when you get very old?” “You go to sleep and you don’t wake up. My grandpa went to sleep only a few days ago.” “Yes, you go to sleep. Grandma Joan is sleeping now too. But that’s not a reason to be sad.” Susie looked up, confused. “It’s not?” “No, it’s not. Everyone has a time to wake, and a time to sleep. Your Grandma Joan lived a long and happy life, and got to meet you for six whole years. Was she a happy grandma?” Susie nodded, smiling a little. “Then that’s a good, happy life. You get the chance to live a long and happy life too, like Grandma Joan. Keep moving forward, and if it’s time to go, it’s time to go. I’m sure your Grandma Joan is in a better place. I’m sure she’s happy there too.” The room’s door opened, and a middle-aged couple walked in. Mom and Dad, the Calm presumed. They looked confused at the Calm’s presence, but walked past him and gently hugged Susie. The Calm wordlessly left the room. He had many more rooms to visit. That was, until he hear the roar that shook the building. Perhaps there was other work to do first. \*\*\* Times Square was dominated by the creature. It took up a good third of the space, black ichor dripping over its carapace, yellow eyes like headlights. Police officers stood in a semicircle around the creature, firearms drawn and pointed at a captive crowd. The crowd screamed, and the creature roared in ecstasy. The fear and despair here was palpable, and the Calm was forced to ground, landing awkwardly between the crowd and peacekeepers, rolling his ankle. The guns all snapped to him. The Calm began walking forward. “Stop, or we’ll shoot!” He ignored the command, but slowed his steps until he stopped short by five feet. The gun barrels wavered gently. “You’re better than this. You’re better than this fear of your neighbors, your citizens. You protect and serve, and this is in no way that. The creature behind you has its hooks in you. Don’t let it! You are held to a high standard! With great pow-” A gun barked, and the Calm jerked, forced to one knee. Blood trickled through the sweater, near his left elbow. He coughed, and cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose you already knew the rest.” The officers stirred, as if from a daze. A look of shame spread across the squad. One by one, they lowered their guns, and parted. No one stood between him and the creature now. It roared in challenge, and fear and despair lashed out at Martin. He staggered to his feet, and removed the cloak, using it as an impromptu tourniquet. Blearily, he could see a film crew, which had been documenting the standoff, now had their focus on him. “There’s a lot of things to be afraid of these days. War, famine, disease, crime. But not the emotions themselves. Not despair itself, not fear itself, not emptiness itself.” He began to walk forward, limping slightly from this awkward land. The creature lashed out with its tentacles, but they stopped inches from the Calm’s body. “The world doesn’t need the Avengers, or the X-Men, or the Fantastic Four for the little stuff. The Galaxy doesn’t need its Guardians every day. For most of us, there’s no Doctor Doom or Mad Titan coming to ruin our Mondays. It’s the little things every day, and a different kind of hero is needed for those fights.” He touched the creature, and it roared in surprise and confusion. Looking back at the crowd, Martin suddenly smiled brightly. “Be that kind of hero. Another definition of a hero is someone who is concerned about other people's well-being, and will go out of his or her way to help them -- even if there is no chance of a reward. That person who helps others simply because it should or must be done, and because it is the right thing to do, is indeed without a doubt, a real superhero.” He gripped the creature’s mass, focused his will against the well of despair inside of him, the crowd, everyone, and said a single word. “Excelsior.” Martin and the creature took flight, rising slowly, in spite of the creature’s roar of protest. They rose, picking up speed once they cleared the cloud cover. Two minutes later, and they were in space. Another five, and they began nearing the warm light of the nearest star. The creature’s roar turned to squawks, and its motions flailed even more rapidly. Martin had no words for now, at the end. All that mattered was the everyday folk, with their everyday lives, and their everyday problems. They could do with a little less despair, and he would gladly make this sacrifice for them. Everyone needed a little push, a little assistance now and then. His smile widening into a grin, he dove with the creature, taking them both into the bright, shining sun.


It started a few weeks ago, and honestly, I thought I was going crazy. Maybe I am, this whole thing is just so twisted and insane, and there It is just staring at me. I hear It at night, moving around in the dark corners of my house, I’m just glad It hasn’t figured out how to get up the stairs yet or things could be a lot worse. The paint is starting to peel and blister off Its surface, and I’m scared to look away in case It moves, or turns on, or if It just disappears entirely. My Henry Hoover is trying to kill me. Look, I know it sounds stupid and kind of like an insignificant issue- but think of the implications… Promise me you’ll think of the implications. I’ve locked myself in the bathroom, I can still hear It knocking against the kitchen door. A whole corridor and two locked doors between us and yet why do I feel so terrified, like if open this one it’ll just be waiting for me, nozzle at the ready. Two hours ago, I heard this agonising crash coming from the lounge, followed by a series of even louder crashes and then the infernal vrummmmmm of It powering up. I had no idea what to do, but I hadn’t seen my cat Merlin in about half a day and I feared the worst. I put on this really thick ski jacket that I remembered was still sitting in my wardrobe, and the goggles of course, the plan wasn’t to go in looking pretty- I was preparing for war. After a few deep breaths I ran down the stairs as fast as I could and didn’t look back, a true hero- except I forgot about the Lego. My corridor has- or should I say had- two shelves on either side, and on each one is- or were- a series of Lego monuments. Hogwarts, The Death Star, an Igloo from Club Penguin, all gone. I’m not sure how It managed to pull it off, but I came downstairs and there was just absolute carnage, Lego everywhere, so many hours of work just gone, and It was sat in the middle of it all grinning at me. I barely had enough time to take it all in- still standing halfway down the stairs- before It let rip, It reverse-vacuumed me. Little Lego bullets ripped into my coat, one hit the back of my hand and grazed my knuckle, I started retreating and realised I only had my socks on then immediately stood on part of the Igloo, pain so much pain. It took a hold of me and before I managed to reach out for the banister, I felt myself fall backwards down the stairs, one hand on my injured foot and the other still flailing in the air for something to hold onto. I was lucky, the coat stand managed to break my fall but I had just enough sense to stay down and pretend that It had taken me out. I watched It with one eye, goggles half steamed up and after watching me for a while It turned away from me to start reloading, I took my chance and quickly mapped out a route that would have me landing in all of the empty spaces- no more Lego piercing into my poor feet. I can’t even remember getting up, or making my way across the room, but I do remember jumping up behind It, hugging It close so the nozzle couldn’t reach out and grab me, then dumping It in the kitchen before turning back and locking the door behind me. All of this couldn’t have taken more than 15 seconds, but in my mind, it played out like one of those epic slow-motion montages you see in war films. I am the modern-day Joan of Arc. That is why I am currently holed up in the bathroom, massaging my left foot and waiting for my best friend Tilly to show up. “Holy sh- what the heck happened; it looks worse than that time we decided to have an indoor snowball fight.” I have never been happier to hear another voice in my life. I get up from my weird perch on the edge of my bathtub and crack open the door, trying as hard as I can to smile without breaking down, “I’m in here, and at least the snowball fight aftermath had a logical explanation.” Tilly just raises her eyebrows and hands me a bottle of Pink Gin, I don’t even need to say anything before, “Yes, I put in a bunch of lemonade because you can’t handle it straight, now put these on and talk to me.” She hands me my trainers and then saunters over to the toilet, sitting on it as if it were a desk chair in a psychiatrists office and then motioning to the bathtub as if it were a couch. “Maybe relax for a bit and have a drink first, you look like you haven’t slept in days.” I take a long swig and set it down, thankful for the company. “I thought I was going crazy Tilly, just feeling It staring at me whenever I walked into the room, it started slowly you know, not turning on when I wanted It to and then hearing It start up in the middle of the night. Its face kept changing, one minute smiling, then frowning, sometimes it had no eyebrows or no face at all. Then It started breaking things, picking things up that I needed and then not letting me get them back, or dumping everything all at once, even chasing Merlin around like It was going to hurt him. Then today It attacked me,” I hold out my hands to her and show her the bruises, and around my ankles where my jeans don’t reach far enough to protect me, “I don’t know how but It just destroyed all of the models we built and started spitting Lego back out at me, I know I sound absolutely bonkers, but I need to get rid of It, I want It out, It’s slowly killing me.” I take another long swig of the Gin, noticing my hand is shaking as I set it back down again, balling it into a fist to keep it steady, then I look up at Tilly who is staring at me intently with a puzzled look on her face, “What did?” I furrow my brow, confused, “Huh?” She taps her long pink fingernails against the shower curtain, “You kept saying ‘It’ but not what it is, what’s doing all of this to you” “Henry is. The Hoover.” She lets her mouth slowly fall open, then smiles, then sees me not smiling and it twists into a frown, “So, uh, your Hoover is hyper intelligent and trying to kill you? Well then let’s just chuck it out.” Now it’s my turn to let my mouth fall open, “We could never get near It Tilly, It’s dangerous, what happened earlier- It could have been a lot worse.” “Well, you can’t hide in here forever, especially now you’ve almost ran out of gin, and honestly the whole Hoover thing sounds absolutely crazy, but if it means you’ll stop hiding in your room, or your bathroom, or your house and actually come outside and see your friends for once,” She looks at me pointedly, “Then I’ll get rid of It myself, heck my Mum could do with a new Hoover, she can take it, I’m not afraid of some out date… thing.” And then she stands up, heading off to the kitchen, I take the now empty bottle of gin with me for protection and hold it up like a weapon, standing behind her and gingerly looking over her shoulder. She opens the door and there It is, tucked away neatly in the corner as if It hadn’t just been pelting me with Lego pellets trying to batter the door down just a few hours ago. I almost believe that I had been imagining it until Tilly turns to look at me and It’s face turns into a snarl, “What did I tell you huh? Just a normal Hoover, but to set your mind at rest.” Then she picks It up, just like that, I back away from her as she comes near the door, not wanting that thing near me. She puts It in the boot of her car and gives me a smug look, “I honestly don’t know what’s up with you, but sort it out, if I come back next week for an evil toaster, I will seriously start to question your sanity.” Just like that. I nod at her, let her take the empty Gin bottle and watch her drive off. After a few seconds of standing there absolutely dumbfounded, I go back inside and start to pick up the Lego, one piece at a time, then my Phone turns on and I hear the voice of Sivi, my online assistant. “Wasn’t that a fun adventure, let’s see what we can play with next.” I hear my electric whisk turn on, then the sound of the toaster pinging, my Bluetooth doorbell, the Microwave starts spinning and I just about catch the maniacal robotic laugh from my phone before I pass out.


“Is he alive?” “I don’t know. He looks pretty dead to me.” I’m alive. I can hear you! Please help me! “You should check him. Take his pulse.” “No way, man! I don’t want to touch him if he’s dead. You do it.” I’m not dead! Check my pulse, please! “I don’t really know how. I’ve only seen it in the movies. Maybe we should just call an ambulance. They’ll have to come here anyway, whether he’s dead or alive.” “Good point. I’ll call them, you stick your fingers on his neck and see if you can find his pulse. I’m sure you can figure it out if you’ve seen it in the movies. How did you find this guy, anyway?” Yeah, how did you find me? I ended up on this rooftop in the first place because nobody ever comes here. Nobody was supposed to see me. Of course, I wasn’t supposed to end up nearly dead, either. Tell you what, if I survive this, I’ll never trust Stuart again! “He’s just lucky. I got lost trying to find the ferry terminal and climbed up here to try and figure out where I had to go. Found him instead. Guess I’ve missed the ferry now. I’m glad I saw you walking by down there, though. I wouldn’t want to handle this by myself.” “Gee, thanks. Just what I wanted for my Saturday afternoon. Find a dead guy. Or nearly dead, anyway. You know I’m supposed to be meeting Sarah at the movies right about now. We were going to see that new Avengers movie.” Lucky? You call this lucky? And you, you think meeting some girl at the movies is more important than saving my life? I’m in masses of pain here, you think I’m dead, and if you don’t call that ambulance soon, I will be! Stop talking and start acting! Oh good, you finally got around to checking my pulse. Please tell me you found it! “Hey, Chris! I think I found his pulse! Did you call that ambulance yet? Tell them to hurry. I don’t think he’s got too much time left.” “Keep your shirt on, mate. I’m calling them now. Figured it was better for them to know if there was a pulse or not. You should check if he’s breathing too.” “I think so. Hang on. I think I remember something about watching a person breathe by putting your head on their chest.” Ooff! I’m pretty sure if that technique was found in a training manual, it would say something like gently put your head on my chest. You don’t want to make me any worse, do you? I am breathing, aren’t I? Please, tell me I’m still breathing! I’d be gone if I wasn’t, wouldn’t I? “Yeah, hi. We’ve got some guy pretty badly beaten here. Yeah, he’s got a pulse. Wait a second. Is he breathing? The ambos want to know.” “Yeah, I think so. Not much, but he’s breathing. Are they coming? Do they know where we are?” “I have to tell them first. Where are we exactly, anyway? I wasn’t paying attention when I came up here.” “Just tell them the corner of Wildmer and Eddison. We can wave them up from here. Are they far away?” “Yeah, we’re at the corner of Wildmer and Eddison streets in Harrison Park. Do you know how long its going to be? This guy looks like he’s in pretty bad shape. I don’t know if he’ll hold on too much longer.” Please, come quickly! I don’t want to die! It was just a stupid mistake to come here. I thought I could trust Stuart to do the right thing. I had no idea he’d steal my money and try to kill me. Please! It hurts so much but I want to live! “They say they’ll be here in fifteen minutes. You reckon this guy can hang on that long? I really don’t want to have to be around a dead guy. Nearly dead is creepy enough.” “Shh, you idiot. What if this guy can hear you? At least pretend you care, won’t you? I hope he can last that long. You hear me, kid? Hold on. Help is coming.” I hear you. Kid? I know I can’t open my eyes right now, but you don’t sound that much older than me. You’re right though. Nobody wants to be described as creepy. Fifteen minutes sounds like such a long time right now. Am I going to hold on that long? I don’t know… “Come on, come on. Keep breathing, mate. They’ve gotta be almost here by now. Hey Chris, can you see them yet?” “Nah, Josh. Not yet. Oh wait. There’s the ambulance now. Hey! HEY! Up here! Josh, they can’t see me. I’m going down.” “You hear that, mate? The ambos are here. They’ll fix you up. You’ll be good as new in a day or two.” A day or two? You’re an optimist, aren’t you? I’ll be surprised if I’m ever as good as new again. I’m grateful, though. If you hadn’t found me, I would definitely not have survived this. At least you gave me a chance. “Is he going to be okay?” “Hard to tell, kids. Look, here’s my card. I’ll get the hospital to give me updates when they know how he’s doing. Send me a message, and if he pulls through, I’ll try and get him to get in touch with you. Sorry I won’t be able to tell you directly, not without his permission and he’s not exactly talking right now. Now, out of the way. We need to get this guy to hospital.” Thanks. Please, get in contact. If I manage to survive this, I want to thank you properly. Do something for you. I might not have much money, but there’s gotta be something I can do for you, right? “Hey, we got some ID here. Ernest Schrӧdinger. Like the cat, huh? Well, hopefully you’ve got as many lives as one. Let’s get him downstairs.”


The thought of you makes me nervous and excited at the same time. It's like that feeling that you get right before you know something amazing is about to happen. I think about you and I've never even met you, I visualize you and I've never even seen you. In my mind and in my dreams I hold you and I don't even know if you exist. I feel like you're a non obtainable goal, like you may be out there but then again maybe you're not real. Maybe I have put something imaginary onto a pedestal that I can never achieve or maybe you're 10 feet away for me right now. As time goes on I continue to look for you. I question my sanity. I question why I am doing this, why risk it, why risk being destroyed and hurt again. yet I still look. I try to find you in random people. I think maybe that's you or maybe that's you but more and more I am starting to think that you don't exist. So I wont look, wont hope, wont want for what may not exist. This way there wont be a longing for you. Then I can feel safe from what you may bring: happiness, pain, hope, confusion, and an uncertain future. I know you must be beautifully broken, possibly also looking, you should stop too. You aren't looking for me, trust me. Im not good enough and wont ever be. Look if we both stop then no one gets hurt. Then again I'm guessing you cant read this. Simply because you don't exist.


The dining room of the restaurant was crowded, despite the fact that it was New Years Eve. At every table there were the usual date night couples along with small parties of friends, and in the corner there was a single table, with a single man, waiting.

  This was the table.

  The table he would meet her.

  The girl.

  He looked again at his watch. They hadn’t said how long it would be before she arrived, they had just been clear on two things, the table, and the girl. A blond. He had always liked blondes, but of course they knew that. The fates knew everything. Either way, it didn’t change anything. Why they chose to reveal their plans to him, a nobody from nowhere, was a mystery.all he knew is that he wouldn’t miss this for the world.   So there he sat, the corner booth, when suddenly a cold wave splashed over him.   He looked down in surprise at his soaked shirt sleeve.

  “I am so sorry!” said the waitress, blond hair spilling over her shoulder and green eyes wide with surprise. Her hands were holding tightly to the glass that just recently had its contents spilled over the tall man sitting on his own.

  The man smiled good natured. “That’s all right.” He took his napkin and dabbed at his shirt, trying to soak up some of the water.

  The girl on front of him blushed and starting fumbling with a rag from her apron. “I tripped, there’s a hole in the carpet, I’ve told them to get it fixed.”

  She bent down and began to pick up ice cubes with her rag.   He took the opportunity to examine her roots.

Brown.

  A dye job.

  Not his blond then.

  “That’s perfectly alright, probably would have made the same mistake myself.”

  She smiled. “Can I get you anything?” She gave him a flirty little smile.

  He appreciated the attention, but he wasn’t interested.

  Not anymore.   She moved on, apologizing again.

  Things were starting to get awkward. He had already had dinner, but she hadn’t showed. The fake blond waitress had given him a glance here and there, checking on him once, but left him alone after that. Another hour and a desert later, he decided to turn in for the night. He would contact the fates and tell them something must have gone wrong. It was close enough to midnight that if he left now, he would make it to the apartment in time to watch the ball drop. Besides, the manager was giving him those searching glances the management gives when they will be needing a table and someone stubbornly refuses to leave.

  He grabbed his jacket when he heard the voice of the young hostess out front. “Sorry miss, I’m afraid the restaurant is full, you will have to wait.”   He looked up across his table, across the room, and across from the hostess, there stood a young, blond woman, glaring at the hostess.

  “Are you sure?” She asked. “I’m sure I made a reservation... check again.”   The hostess’s eyes scanned over the computer screen again.

  “I’m sorry, but all the reservations we have are already here.”   It was clear from the glare in the woman’s face that she was about to make a scene.

  “Ma’am.”

  The hostess turned at the eager voice at her elbow, and recognized the tall man from the corner booth. He was looking at the woman across from her, who all at once looked up at him sharply.   “If you don’t mind the company, I would be honored if you would join me at my table.”

  The blond woman looked him up and down, taking in his lean muscular frame and his cornflower blue eyes. He didn’t look half bad, really. Besides, she was starving. Usually she was a little more cautious around strangers, but one night of adventure wouldn’t kill her, would it?

  “Thanks,” she smiled at him as they slid into his booth. His waiter came by for her order. She didn’t even need to look at a menu. She had been coming to this restaurant for years now, always getting the same order.   “So,” he said, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly, “Can I ask what your name is?”   She smiled at him. “Sandy.”

  Sandy. His pulse quickened at the very sound of the name.   He smiled back at her. “Hi Sandy, I’m Bill.”

  “Nice to meet you Bill. Thank you so much for letting me share your table, I would have hated missing my dinner plans.”

  He shrugged. “That’s alright. Honestly I’m surprised it’s so crowded. You would think that on New Year’s Eve people would be out at parties.”   Sandy shrugged. “I guess not everyone is out celebrating. Some of us,” She hesitated, and then continued on. “Well, I know I didn’t have anyone special to celebrate with this year.”

  The question hung in the air.

  A small glimpse of sadness crossed the tall man’s face, and his smile slipped into a grimace for a moment.

  “Neither did I, and yet, here we are.” After an hour of soup and conversation, Bill had learned a lot about his dinner companion.

  She had grown up in Arizona, moved all over with her family, and was on town on business. She loved yoga, beach houses, and chocolate.

  “I should probably cut back on the chocolate though, I’m watching my figure.” He grinned as she looked down in false modesty. He reached across the table ad took her hand. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you are beautiful. May I have the pleasure of buying you a slice of chocolate cake?”

  She smiled. “You are the sweetest! Thank you so much I’d love one.”   He grinned, leaning back in his seat.

  When the waitress came back, he asked for the two largest slices of cake they had to offer.

  As Sandy finished her dinner, two pieces of cake around the corner. Her eyes went wide with delight.

  Bill almost laughed. Everything was going perfectly.

  After they had had their desert, they were reluctant to let the night end.

  “It’s almost midnight,” Bill said. “If we go now, we might make it to the bridge in time to see some fireworks.”   Sandy agreed and they strolled out into the night air.

  The dyed blond waitress watched disappointedly as the tall handsome man left with the blond woman on his arm. She watched as they tuned the corner. And then turned to walk back to her table, which appeared to be leaving- along with every other table in the restaurant. She stood there, confused, as the bustling restaurant emptied onto the street in less than two minutes. She stopped the last customer as he headed towards the door.   “Excuse me, sir. Is everything alright? Did something happen?”

  With a single word, the gentleman left, closing the door behind him.

  The hostess walked up to her, looking puzzled.

  “What did he say?”

  The waitress frowned, turning to her.

  “Fate.”   They walked in the moonlight, down the sidewalks and onto the bridge. As cars went by, his hands started to shake and his mind went racing.  The moment was coming, and the timing had to be perfect.

“So, what about you?” Sandy laughed, “I feel like I’ve been talking myself all this time, and I don’t know a thing about you.”

  They stopped in the middle of the bridge, and leaned over the edge.   “Well, there’s not much to tell about me really,”   Confidently, he sat on the edge of the bridge rail, letting us legs dangle over the edge.

  Sandy leaned forward, clearly wanting to join him. “Be careful!” She warned.

  He chuckled. “Oh, its safe enough. Besides, we aren’t that high up.” He gave her a hand and helped her swing her leges over to sit beside him.

  They watched the water ripple below, waiting for the fireworks to start.

  “I’m not as exciting as you, Sandra Phelps.”

  Her smiled faltered, and she grabbed onto the rail. Her stomach, which had preach felt a bit queasy after overindulging in that giant slice of cake, had begun to do flips.

  She had never given him her full name.   He continued. “I’ve never embezzled millions of dollars from my family’s company, or killed my assistant after she found out.”

  Something was wrong. Very very wrong. With every word, pain grew and grew inside her stomach. Suddenly she realized she had made a grave mistake.

  “Missy. That’s what her name was, your assistant. At least, that’s what i called her.” He looked at her then, all kindness leaving his face, his cornflower blue eyes now seemed more like ice. “She was my wife.”

  It was in that moment that the poison took its full affect. Sandra’s body went limp.

  A car drove by, and their headlights caught her blond hair as she fell into the water.

  The man on the bridge yelled after her.

  The couple in the car pulled over, running to help the distraught man.

  “That woman, she, she jumped into the river!” He began to take off his jacket, leaning forward.

  The couple pulled him back.

  “Go call 911,” They said, but they knew it was already too late. The woman was floating in the water, lifeless.

  The distraught man walked away hurriedly, pulling out a phone. A burner phone, with a single number in it’s contacts, that was not 911.   The phone rang once, and a voice on the other end answered.

  “Fate.”   “The target has been terminated.”

  “Body?”   “River. Probably a suicide.” The man smiled a grim smile.   The voice on the other side did not smile. “Probably. And the poison?”   “Untraceable.”   “In the water?”

  The man hesitated. “No. In the soup. She would have suspected the water. I had to flatter her just to distract her long enough.”

  There was a pause on the other end.   “That may be a problem.”

  The tall man frowned. “How big of a problem?”   The voice on the other end of the line sighed. “We will be in touch. Until then lie low.”   There was a click, and the call ended. The man put his phone back in his pocket. After waiting five years to avenge his wife, he could lie low for a while. Until then, he would wait. Wait, for the call of Fate.


My great uncle peed on a cat whose tail was on fire.

In this town, that’s what having the last name Holland reminds people of. I see it in the new bank teller’s face when I swipe my card to make a deposit.

“Ava Holland? You wouldn’t perchance be related to-” I cut off the chipper box dyed blonde with the Maybelline Scarlet Flame lipstick smudged on her front teeth.

“Henry Holland. HH. Yep, he was a great uncle.” I wait for the onslaught of weird secondhand hero worship to engulf me, and I’m not disappointed. Or, I mean, I am kind of disappointed. Just once, I’d love to not have to hear about this story while I’m just trying to run errands. Thinking about my great uncle HH peeing in general, when I’m trying to check out at the Pig is just a little unsettling, you know?

You see, HH didn’t just pee on any cat’s tail. This cat was Ollie, basically the town of Magnolia Ridge, Alabama’s mascot. Ollie was beloved by all, even dog lovers. The hero worship that the people of this town have for my great uncle is nothing compared to the undying love they have for Ollie. And, of course, he’s long gone now; but people still remember him fondly. Almost every home in Magnolia Ridge has a photo somewhere of their great great grandmother or great second cousin twice removed, posing with Ollie back in the day.

Ollie was cute, I’ll give him that. He was huge, but still lithe on his feet, or so I’m told. He was black all over with a little white patch over his left eye and ear, and he had huge, bright green eyes.

Ollie didn’t have a home, unless you counted all of Magnolia Ridge. He stalked the nights from front porch to front porch, chowing down on the canned tuna and milk left out for him.

Why was a fat cat named Ollie so famous in our town, you ask? Well, depends on who you ask. If you ask me, I think people in this town are just a little bit bored. But, I’d get boos and hisses if I ever said that to a resident here.

If you ask just about anyone else, they’d immediately start out, “this one time…” “This one time, I was sleepin’ in my crib, and ol’ Ollie came stalking up to my screened in window,” Gertie Johnson would say conspiratorially. “Somethin’ wasn’t right, and that cat knew it. He went around to the side of the house to my parents’ window screen and started yowling something fierce. And scratchin the screen. At first, they thought Ollie was the one who was hurt. My daddy went outside to go check on ‘im and Ollie went back to my window, quick as lightning, yowling all the way. That’s when my daddy saw it - my blanket was suffocatin’ me! I owe that cat my life,” and then Gertie would get misty-eyed.

Jason Plick had a similar story that he’d always tell his fishing buddies. He was little Jacey when he was a kid. And little Jacey happened to wander off into the woods behind his house one day when he was four years old. He sent the entire town into a panic. His mother, wringing her hands over and over saying, “I just looked away for one second while he was playing in the backyard! I looked away for one doggone second to answer the phone,” with a wail.

Of course, a volunteer search party was immediately drawn up. Everyone and their brother joined in, determined to bring Jacey home.

Jason had fallen asleep in a big, hollowed out rock in the woods not too far from his house. His little outfit blended in with the browns of the October leaves, but Ollie the cat sniffed him out just fine. He started pacing back and forth in front of the rock and little Jacey, yowling his peculiar loud meow, over and over until some from the search party found them.

“If it wasn't for that cat, who knows,” Jason Plick would say ominously during the 100th retelling of the tale. And when one of his buddies would point out that they had almost the entire town looking for him, and that he was only about a little ways from his backyard, he’d whack them across the back of the head.

Carol Musgrove had a less daunting tale to tell, but if you asked her, the fate that Ollie saved her from was the most vicious of all.

When Carol was in high school, freshman year at Magnolia Ridge public high school (go Magpies!) she wanted more than anything to date Wyatt Michaels. Every girl in school wanted Wyatt, even the seniors - when he was a junior. His mama was the best baker in town, his daddy worked in the steel mills, and Wyatt was quarterback for the football team.

Carol became a cheerleader just to be closer to him during football games. Most of the cheerleaders did. During one of those games, Carol decided to be sweet and take Wyatt a paper cup of water at halftime. And she decided she was going to kiss Wyatt Michaels, right there for everyone to see.

She got up real close to him, tapped him on his beefy shoulder and when he turned around and accepted the water with a goofy grin, Carol made her move.

Or, she tried.

Once she was an inch from his face, Ollie sprang up out of nowhere and jumped right in between the two would-be lovers. He knocked the water out of Wyatt’s hand as he bounded off, not a backward glance toward his bottlebrush tail.

Well by then, halftime was over. Everyone had seen Carol Musgrove attempt to plant one on Wyatt Michaels, and fail because of a cat.

A week later, Wyatt and Hattie Somers started publicly going steady.

How is this a story of how Ollie saved yet another Magnolia Ridge resident? Because Wyatt and Hattie got married right out of highschool and started having kids right away. Wyatt lost his looks, his hair, his job (which he never tried to get back) and most of his hearing at a really young age, and Hattie was always in a constant state of harried frenzy, trying to care for their five kids and clean houses to provide for their family somehow.

“It coulda been me,” Carol would say somberly.

Nobody knows how ol’ Ollie’s tail caught fire that night. Most say that he was likely out doing some good deed, saving a child from a fire in a neighboring town or something.

Between you and me, ol’ Uncle HH was blitzed out of his mind when he peed on that cat. He didn’t realize he was saving a life by relieving himself while walking home from O’Toole’s Tavern that night. He just really, really had to go.