Pamela approached her mother, Sandra, sipping her morning coffee. “I’m thinking of moving out, Mom.” Her mother set the steaming cup onto the saucer. “None too soon. You’re what, twenty-five?” Her mother’s reaction didn’t surprise Pamela. She’d heard such murmurings her whole life. Sandra never forgave the pangs Pamela’s birth gave her. Everything she said to Pamela came wrapped in the burden of her unpaid debt. “Who you moving in with?” “Uhm… actually, Carl asked me to live with him.” “Ohhh no. Seen how that plays out. He gets a live-in maid ‘til you fall preggers. Then you’re stuck looking for new digs with a kid in tow.” “It’s not like that.” “What you say now… You pop a kid out, who’s gonna watch him? Not Cindy. Not me.” “I know, mom. I’m watching Dexter now.” Pamela’s sister’s four-year-old, Dexter, sprawled on the living room floor, drawing. Crayons were strewn everywhere. He looked up. “What’s preggers?” Pamela blinked. “Oh, that’s grown-up talk for P.G… parental guidance. Parents decide if a movie is too scary for kids.” He stared as if she were speaking a foreign language and returned to his picture. Sandra continued. “Guys don’t want kids. Don’t care about marriage. Just want to mess around… shack up... What you have is a situationship.” Pamela didn’t take the bait. She poured a coffee. Sandra tried another tack. “Should go back to school. Get a profession. And a good man. Gonna be a bar maid forever?” “We talked about that, mom. Beauty school didn’t…” “Become a teacher. Steady work watching other people’s kids. You’re great with Dex. Good money. Time off.” Pamela nodded. Sandra continued. “Need a backup plan… Funny about Carl. Wedding photographer, right?” “A good one. Busy all the time.” “So, weddings are how he makes his living. But he won’t commit to a marriage. What a romantic…” Pamela felt her blood pressure spiking. “It’s not the time, mom. He’s booked for months.” “Uh-huh. People find a way to do what they want.” She looked around. “What’s that sound…? Never mind… just a ticking clock...” “Mom… right now, we enjoy our time together. We both have Mondays and Tuesdays off, have fun.” Sandra snorted. “Fun… He’s not interested in a waitress. Need two good incomes, to make do anymore.” Dexter held up his drawing. “Look, Pam!” Welcoming a diversion, Pamela took the drawing. There were two female figures, each wearing red, triangular dresses. Both were smiling. One figure dominated, being either very tall, or very close. She held hands with a little boy. The second figure stood beyond a lake near a sailboat. Pamela pointed to the large figure. “Tell me about your drawing. Is that Cindy? Your mother?” Dexter reacted to her cluelessness. “No, that’s you, Pam. Mommy’s getting on the boat.” “Oh… Want to read a book before I go to work?” ~ Pamela called Carl while driving to work. He picked up. “Hey, babe. Great timing. Just came out of the darkroom. Some amazing shots this weekend.” “I told my mom.” “And?” “She wants me out. But not with you.” “I thought she liked me.” “It’s not that. It’s the situation. We have no plan.” “We’re planning to live together…” “She’s old fashioned, Carl.” The silence felt interminable. “Didn’t say, but think she wants…” “Grandkids?” “Stability… like I said, a plan… It’s complicated.” “So, what do you want?” She looked at the phone in disbelief. “What do you say, we take our time? You know…?” Carl stifled a chuckle. “Time… Whatever you say… All the time in the world.” “I better go. Just got to work.” “Yeah, got proofs to check. Talk later.” Pamela pulled into the lot and killed the engine. She practiced ‘calm breathing’ for several minutes before punching in. Pamela didn’t work in a dive, but at Trevor’s, an upscale watering hole, downtown. The backlit bar highlighted the best liquors, appealing to the suit and tie crowd. Lawyers and executives met there for night caps and debriefing after meetings. Alcoves provided privacy for quiet conversation. Its leather upholstery and designer chandeliers made everyone feel at home. Considering Trevor’s reputation, some regulars hardly fit expectations. Pamela had known Chas for years. Even in this low-lite environment, Chas looked out of place. His goatee begged for a trim. He came in most nights, in jeans and a t-shirt. She doubted he owned a tie. Scruffy hair escaped from under his slouch hat. She saw him once in a borrowed leather jacket.

Her mother would describe Chas as ‘bohemian.’ But never a poor mouth, he always tipped. Pamela thought he worked in the arts. On occasion, he spoke to the suits like one of the guys. But most times, he retreated to a corner table, nursed a bourbon or two and drifted out before closing. He had a playful manner with Pamela. He flirted but she couldn’t take him seriously. Royce though, always looked like he belonged. He dressed well and smiled easily. When he arrived, Pamela always felt like an extra in a movie and he was the star. But Royce brought no drama with him. Only a sense of ease, a springy step, things controlled and going as they should. Royce often brought clients with him. He provided them anything within the confines of his limitless expense account. When not with clients, he’d sit at the bar and pass time talking with Pamela, or Austin, the bartender. Friendly and always real, she never felt talked down to. But it never went further. Was he married? Single? Pamela couldn’t read him. He came to drink, not to hit on her. But why not? She always made him laugh. When with clients, he always sat at one of her tables and tipped generously. Could such a confident guy actually be shy? It made no sense. Chas settled into his favorite corner and waved her over. “Hey, Pam. The usual… Jack Daniels and a water chaser, please.” She signaled to Austin. He nodded. She retrieved the drink and placed it on Chas’ table. He smiled up at her. “Marry me, Pam.” Surprised, she stifled a laugh. “So, I can serve you Jack at home?” “Well, yeah. JD. And other stuff.” “Chas, how would getting hitched change what we have here?” He wasn’t expecting push back. “We get along so well. Why not enjoy it twenty-four-seven?” “I get it. And if I ever needed you for something, I’d find you here?” Chas looked disappointed. “No, really. Let’s go out.” “Where will you take me? The parking lot? Your car’s back seat? You still live at home?” “I have a place. It’s nice.” He sounded defensive. “I wasn’t expecting this, Chas. You shouldn’t joke about such things.” “Pam… I wasn’t joking.” “Then you need to work on presentation. I’m in the middle of my shift.” She turned away and greeted a couple who had just entered. They sat and she took their order. From behind the bar, Austin grinned at Pam and nodded toward Chas. “You handled that well.” “Thanks. Came out of the blue. I mean, really?” “Think you can do better. Meeting guys in bars, even a nice bar, is not a formula for…” “But I met Carl here.” Austin’s look said it all. He set her customer’s drinks on her tray. She left to serve them. Pamela returned and nodded. “Point taken… So, tell me, if not bars, where do you meet women?” “At work.” She laughed. “But you work here.” “Maybe that’s why I’m single.” “You want to be? You’re a nice guy.” He smiled. “You want to get together?” Pamela rolled her eyes. “Wow! I’m on a streak. We could put the nursery in that alcove.” They laughed. Having known each other for years, Pamela and Austin had an easy rapport. But always a work friendship that worked, neither wanted to jeopardize that. At least she didn’t. The sound of laughter preceded Royce’s entrance with three clients. He greeted Pamela and signaled for a bottle of champagne. She knew the label. The laughter continued while they settled at a table. She brought glasses and opened the bottle. Pamela poured a sip for Royce’s approval. When he nodded, she filled each glass and placed the bottle into a chill bucket. Raising his glass for a toast, Royce nodded to Pamela indicating they needed nothing else.

She retreated to her neutral territory near the bar. There, she could survey the room and respond to any customer’s needs. And there she dwelled on the fact that no one seemed to need her. Was it about marriage? Her mother’s rant latched onto her and wouldn’t let go. She decided marriage wasn’t it. Or only it. ‘But why are guys so lame? Don’t they ever want more from life than imitation Formica? Shiny and shallow. Doesn’t anyone but me get lonely?’ She watched her ‘suitors’ with wonder. Content to sleepwalk through life, they spent their time pouring drinks, making deals, or nursing another Jack Daniels. Then there was Carl. Clueless Carl. His thrill was spending hours in a darkroom, alone. Hoo boy and hot damn! Got a live one! She thought, ‘There has to be someone out there I can connect with. One person who sees me. With whom I can share myself. Be the real me.’ She felt she could check ‘none of the above’ on her list of suitable mates. ‘I want to be wanted… Stop fishing in the shallow end of the dating pool.’ Pamela finished her shift without further incident. She came home to a dark house. Locking up, she went straight to bed and lay sleepless until dawn. She had decided marriage was not the issue, yet that word hovered over her all night. It had always been the ideal. With what do you replace it? How? When? ‘Is there an answer to that? Hello? Anyone?’ She must have dozed. Birds singing outside her bright window brought hazy focus. She murmured, “Someone… coffee… please… coffee…” Would those be her last words? Pulling herself from bed, she crawled into her robe and groped her way to the bathroom. Somewhat refreshed, she found her way to the kitchen. Cartoon melodies flowed from the TV in the living room The word that had assaulted her mind for hours would not leave her alone. Marriage. Reaching for the coffee pot, Pamela said, “Doesn’t anyone want to marry me?” Dexter ran in from his cartoon show. He said, “I do…”


It’s been a while. Her eyes murky green as we shared a glance through the glistening surface. Everything appeared in a strange hue below water. Not her. Almost like she had a glow about her face. I could see her perfectly from above as she cowered back with that sad look again. Whenever life got too much to bear, I’ve come here to her bay. I’ve come to her, and my troubles all flushed away. My mind dived into her floating coral hair. My worries drifted away like the bubbles locked in her locks here and there. And just like that I couldn’t feel pain anymore. She listened, she cared, and she understood. Always talking to her, she knew the smallest pebbles and entangled mess hiding in my depths. Those so deep that not even the golden light breaking off her skin could reach them. I knew she’s not the key and that there’s no such thing, but next to her I felt lighter, warmer. Her salmon pink smile thawed the sharp fractals in my heart even if just for a while. Soon, I became addicted to her presence. As I’m sure did she. We talked for hours on end some days. Others we just exchanged a few words, but they made a world’s difference. And wherever we could find each other – in her bay or in the wide blue world, it didn’t matter. When I was sailing on sea, she somehow knew where to find me. The swinging waves made my stomach tingle with anticipation of where would she pop up next during my trips. A silly little game of ours. We knew this was love, but no one said it. Our desires were simply never meant to be fulfilled. I from land, she from water, it would never work. One of us would always hurt too much. How could you hurt someone so close to you? However dear we were to each other, sorrow permeated into our visits. Its bitterness left a clinging taste dissolving into the back of our minds. And one day I realized, after I left her on a summer evening, I was even sadder than before I came. The sadness of leaving overshadowed the sadness of being apart. It took me like a flood. Suddenly, I was drowning, asking all these questions. Should I go see her? Is she hurting the same way? Can I help to make it go away? No. And she was helpless, too. I had to stop myself from cursing her fish tail. The tail that changed colour from green to purple with the slightest movement. The tail I fell in love with. I could curse my human legs with the same thought. But targeting her nature was easier than facing the truth. We were from different sides of the membrane, and even though it was easy to break through for a short minute, it bound us to our own realms. You have to live your life, my love. As I have to live mine. That’s what I came to say today, no need to hide behind that reef. Let’s not hold on to the pain, its sweetness is poisoning our souls. I used to think we would find a way. That one of us would give in and make the sacrifice, but that’s not fair in any way you look at it. It’s ok. We still have each other in our own bay, deep in our hearts. That place is going to be only ours. Ours forever. Farewell, my love.


Have you ever wondered how the world would end? Of course you have. Everyone has. Will the Earth be struck by a huge meteor that wipes us all out, or will Global Warming melt the ice caps, raising the sea level above all but the tallest mountains and drowning the entire world’s population? Not even close. It actually all started when I was on my way to work. I’d just set off walking from my house, heading towards the train station on the outskirts of town (Doncaster in England). As I walked down the main road of my little village, I saw 2 lads on the other side of the road. They were probably about the same age as me: Mid-20’s-ish. They were walking side by side. “Probably a couple of mates”, I thought. “Probably just a couple of mates on their way to town”. The weird thing was though that they both had their heads down. They were both just looking at the floor silently. Not like a couple of mates at all. “Maybe they just aren’t used to being up this early”, I thought. “Maybe they’re still just half asleep and don’t feel like talking yet. Or hell, maybe one of them just got broken up with, or a family member just passed away. There are a million different reasons why these 2 lads would be walking in silence at half 8 in the morning with their heads down and their eyes staring at the floor. Anyway, it’s none of my business is it.” And so I continued to just walk. By the way I realise that by normal people’s standards, half past 8 is not early at all, but I oversleep most days. I’ve just accepted it now. I accept that I’ll be last into work and last out. I was even late for my late train this particular morning. I was trying to rush to the station because I’d left my house 10 minutes too late and was running the risk of missing the late train I catch. That would be unacceptable, although it had happened once or twice before. But that was the risk that I often ran. That’s just me. It’s just how it goes. It’s just my lot in li... I glanced back over at these lads and they were still just walking along side by side. Staring at the ground. Silently. “I’ll cross over the road”, I thought. “That’ll do it. I’ll cross over the road and walk in front of them. Then it won’t bother me that they’re acting so strangely. Out of sight, out of mind.” So I did. I looked right, and then left, and then right again. The coast was clear, so I crossed the road and continued walking on the other side. The lads were behind me now. The thing is, as quickly as I was walking to catch my train, the one that I had set off late to catch and was still running the risk of not catching, these lads were a fair bit taller than me. Their legs were a bit longer, and so their strides were a bit longer. Over the next few horrifying seconds they started to catch up with me. They emerged over my right shoulder at first, but then before I knew it, they were both walking alongside me, and I alongside them. We were now a line of 3. My stomach turned as I made the realisation. I was trapped. I couldn’t walk faster than these lads, on account of their longer natural gait. I couldn’t run away because they’d think me mad. If they saw me walking to the station the next day, they’d say “There goes that mad bastard again, let’s spread the word and have the community ostracise him.” I considered slowing right down and letting them pass me, like Luke Skywalker does on the speeder bike in Return of the Jedi, but I couldn’t afford to slow down and miss my train. My already really late train that would already get me into work at half past unacceptable. So I kept on walking. We kept on walking. We kept our heads down and we kept on walking. And that’s when I realised - These weren’t a couple of mates, suffering from an unusually early start or a breakup or a bereavement - These poor bastards were as trapped as I was. By the time we reached the train station, we were a line of 6. We’d recruited another lad, a middle aged woman, and a little old lady on a mobility scooter. And when my turning came up, I realised that I didn’t want to leave. I was a part of something now. A fellowship. I couldn’t throw that away for work. So we kept on walking. We kept our heads down and we kept on walking. By 6 o’clock that evening, we’d recruited the United Kingdom, Western Scandinavia, The Netherlands, Belgium, and parts of Northern France. By midday the next day, the whole world was walking. The whole world was walking in a straight line. We kept walking. We kept our heads down, and we kept on walking. Eventually we all starved to death.


The sun went down some time ago. I can’t remember when. I'm always nervous, but this fire is warm. There were poplar trees beyond the camp before. Now there are shadows in the twilight. The tree limbs creak as they bend to the wind and some reach down to tickle my tent. I hope they’re still tree limbs. There are things out there, snapping twigs and shifting the darkness, but for now they're at bay.

I’ll stay by the fire. I'll be alright. To pass the time I sit on this log and think about home. The white farmhouse with the red barn at the end of the pasture where my dog waits. When I get there I'll scratch him behind the ears. Inside, somewhere upstairs, I'll hear the creak of footsteps on the old floorboards. She'll call out: "Is there a stranger in the house?" and I'll smile and say: "Intruder!" Then I'll see her face: tanned skin and sun bleached hair, slanted smile and bright green eyes. She’ll look down from the banister at the top of the stairs. If I'm still home, then I never left. That's how I pass the time as I stare into the fire. When the morning light arrives and the poplar trees come back I'll move on, keeping the eastern sun on my right ear. Someday I’ll get out of these woods. Someday-- A drop of rain lands on the back of my neck.

Is there a stranger in the house? The shadows sway in the breeze. Then something crashes through the dry underbrush behind me. I look that way, but I don't see-- Another drop, this one on my forearm. Goosebumps line to my shoulder. The rain starts to fall and the fire hisses. That thing in the darkness is quiet, waiting. I'm up, tossing my blanket in my pack. I leave my tent behind me, put on my hat and glance at the drowning fire. Go ! I grab my flashlight and point it toward the tall poplar I used as a marker to set up camp. Away from the sounds in the darkness. Go ! I run into the woods, stumble, stop and listen. Crash, snap from behind, like an echo. It's following me. I try to think about the farmhouse at the end of the pasture. A wagging tail and her face at the banister. There's a stranger in the house. I can make it out. I can get home again. So I run, but my legs are blind. Something thrashes in the woods to my right and feet pound the ground to my left. Something else cries in the night, a lonely howl. Just go . Think about the farmhouse and go . I come to a river and moonlight reflects off its surface. I stop to notice the rain letting up. The clouds have cleared and the moon is full.

This current is too fast to cross. Which river is this? Which way is north? No matter now. Pick a direction and go . I turn to my right, following the current. A tree branch snaps ahead. I try to stop but slip in the mud and drop my flashlight. No ! I shut my eyes, cover my ears and shake my head. If it wants to come and get me, now is the time. An owl hoots to my right. The river roars to my left. And I'm still standing. Take a moment. Breathe. Come up with a plan.

I set down my bag, bend over and feel for the light. When I find it I'll point it in the direction of the farmhouse. I’m fine. As I open my eyes again I see darkness. Clouds have covered the moon. The river is hiding. Something scurries away. Something else approaches from behind and knocks on a tree, crying out like a jackal:

"GO! GO! GO!"

Then it, too, runs away, its cries softening in the distance. " Go ! Go ! Go !" I don’t like these woods. The flashlight was right there . Why did I have to drop it? Why did I have to come here?

Why did I have to leave? My hands move mud, hoping for the cold touch of metal. The underbrush shakes behind me. The river is loud. It's all so much. It's all too much. I back up a step and my foot slips into a drop off. My other leg fails and I can't catch myself. I grasp at the air as I fall. The moon comes back out. I close my eyes and drop into the river.

This is it. I'll never feel any of it again: the morning sun lifting dew off the pasture. A wet dog returning from his run through the field. Chickens in the barn. A hot coffee brought to me on the porch by the woman I love. No plans for the day but to watch it pass by. Together. As I hit the water, something emerges from the woods. Then I'm under. The cold is piercing. My skin is numb and my blood feels like it’s on fire. The current is strong so I tumble and strike a rock with my hip. I’m blind down here, but I see stars and a white farmhouse as I slip away. The darkness descends like rain, blotting out the farm, blotting out the stars in my eyes until a hand grabs me by the arm and pulls me out of the water. It drags me up the bank, back into the darkness, back into the woods. It stops for a moment, but I can't fight it. I don't want to. I keep my eyes closed and it picks me up, hoisting me over its shoulders. It runs and I hold on. Its skin feels like fiberglass but I don't think about anything now.

After a while it lets me go. I fall to my knees, dry again. I open my eyes and let tears fall to the detritus. There's a light nearby -- a fire next to a big poplar tree. And my tent. My pack leans on a nearby stump and my flashlight sticks out the side pocket. Twigs snap behind me as the creature slinks back into the darkness. I don’t know how to leave this place. The sun went down some time ago. I can’t remember when. I'm always nervous, but this fire is warm.


It was a cold and stormy night. Okay, not like the one in that Edgar Allen Poe dude whatever story, and this isn’t some kind of metaphorical thing either. Alright? It was literally cold and stormy. You know? It was like 50 degrees or something. And outside it was windy and thundering and stuff. Oh, and by the way, it’s Minnesota so it can be any season. And by that, I mean it’s any season you want it to be so you can imagine this short piece, and it’s any season in this piece itself. That’s not specified. But if you want me to specify it, let’s just say it’s fall. Late September. Or early October. The year? 2020. Alright, back to it. It’s a cold and stormy night—we’ll stick with present tense from now on—it’s a cold and stormy night. And this guy- his name is Link- Link is sitting at the library, reading off the screen of his laptop that he bought with his graduation money he received earlier in the summer this year. Which means he’s a freshman. Poor freshy. I remember those days. He’s not partying, which you might expect a freshman to do on a Friday night at 11pm. He’s studying and being a good student, like he should be. Link’s eyes scroll through, word for word, the passage of his digital Biology 112 Textbook. Every word he reads is set into his working memory, and he hopes he can go to sleep before midnight and get enough hours in bed so that working memory is cemented into long term memory. He’s also listening to some music to help whet his mind. Beethoven. A classic. A beautiful classic. Seventh Symphony Allegretto. While the rest of the tables are desperately empty, another young Freshmen by the name of Oscar sits in a chair a few tables behind Link. Oscar twirls a deck of cards, maneuvering several split sections between the thumb and index and middle and ring finger of both his hands. If he was doing this sleight-of-hand trick any faster, he would look like fucking David Copperfield. But he’s not. He’s a fucking nerd. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but that’s what his best friends call him: a straight-up nerd who watches anime and hentai and hasn’t gotten any action because he’s just too damn shy to talk to the girls who might have been interested in him. Oh, and yes there were a few. Oscar never forgets the night he could’ve gotten some from that girl at the bar, when he and his friends all snuck in underaged. That stupid bouncer. What a joke. Oscar looks up from his deck when he quietly slams the deck flat between his palms. He sees Link. But he’s not looking at Link. He’s looking at Link’s laptop. It’s a MacBook Pro, retail price of over two-thousand dollars. He’s always wanted one. He still does. In his backpack is that boring, four-year old hand-me-down HP laptop from his older brother who just graduated college. It’s not even Full-HD and it only boasts 4 Gigs of memory. The damn guy can’t even play a good game of League with his buddies. He glides his poor 12/20, glasses-assisted eyesight over the thin bezel and the sleek touch-bar. The quality of the screen is so clear, almost so clear, that Oscar could read the words on the screen from thirty feet away. Okay maybe not that good, but a hyperbole is needed here. Oscar knows what he must do. He stares at the back of Link’s head, his vision piercing through to the other side and locking onto Link’s eyes. Link takes a sip of his water. Sorry, forgot to mention earlier that he has his water bottle next to him. He presses his chapped lips against the bottle’s crown and lifts it just enough to let the stream of cool, vacuum-sealed water trickle over his tongue. It’s so quiet in the library that even the reference desk attendant can hear the relieved sigh of Link’s quenched thirst. Link sets the bottle down and behind him approaches the enemy. A black sweater and a pair of dark blue jeans sits up from its seat. Oscar takes a brave journey forward, the deck still in his hand, and stops at the opposite side of the desk of Link. He plants his midnight blue shoes into the carpet flooring. He clears his throat. He licks his lips. Link looks up and his resting-bitch face says hello to Oscar. “Wanna, wanna see a trick?” Oscar says, his heart beating through his chest. Link looks at the deck of Bicycle cards, noticing the glaze of light that reflects from the card’s coat. He looks back up at Oscar and says nothing as he returns to his studying. “Uh, o-o-Okay.” Oscar clears his throat again. Loudly. Very Loud? Very Loudly? Which one… Damn. I dunno, I’m not Reed Richards. And Microsoft Word isn’t putting that blue line under any of them. Whatever. Something more important is happening. Oscar fans out the deck with his left hand, sparing equal room for each of the fifty-two cards. Then, with his right, he pulls one straight out from the deck and sharply reveals it. It’s a Jack of Diamonds. “You see this card.” It’s not an interrogative statement; he’s not asking Link if he sees the card. It’s declarative. “Commit this card to memory.” He brings the card in front of Link’s screen and slowly waves it in a circular motion, as if attempting to hypnotize him. It doesn’t work, but it steals his attention. “Commit it,” he repeats. Link looks up at Oscar, his face still unamused. Instinct then draws his eyes to the card, and they bore over the glazing coat. Cool white and hot red. Jack. Diamond. “Okay. I’m gonna make this card reappear somewhere.” Oscar takes a pause and then whispers. “Somewhere you won’t expect.” All of a sudden, and I mean really all of a sudden, Oscar flicks the entire deck of cards into Link’s face. The cloud of white, black and red disappears just as Oscar grabs the MacBook Pro off the desk. He takes off, but not quick enough, as Link jumps up from his seat. He’s right behind him, stride for stride, even as Oscar begins pulling down chairs as obstacles. The pursuing Link leaps over the first chair, and then the second, but stumbles as the momentum of his jump brings him too close to the third. He presses on and locks his eyes on poor Oscar, who has been running in the wrong direction and only now notices the wall and its windows from fifty feet out. Outside, the storm continues to batter the sky with Zeus’ rage. Inside, however, Oscar faces Link’s rage. Link catches up to Oscar just before Oscar can attempt to cut the corner of a table and gives his best Muhamad Ali impression. The towel flies in. Oscar, absolutely rocked, stumbles back and then falls. There’s a crack heard, but it’s not Oscar’s body or Link’s MacBook Pro that is still clutched to his chest. It’s his own laptop. The pathetic HP has met its defeat. There goes twenty-four gigabytes of high-quality porn and an entire summer’s worth of Minecraft mods. Oscar, still conscious but barely, lies on his backpack, his arms unfolding and relinquishing the two-thousand-dollar beauty. Link leans over, his fist shaken but ready to deliver another blow. Instead, he reaches for his MacBook and opens it. The screen is intact, the buttons still in place and the reading still as boring as it was before. Link looks at Oscar in disgust and turns around. “Wait!” Oscar shouts with a groan, barely audible. “Hold on!” His words turn Link around, somehow, and he slowly and dramatically, I might add, lifts a hand up. It’s shaking in pain, but he’s able to extend his index finger to Link’s hips. “Check your pocket. Jeans. Right side.” Link raises an eyebrow. Barely. He reaches a hand into his pocket and feels his iPhone 7 Plus, his old but reliable friend who he let down by dropping several times. But something else is resting against it. Something flat. Something smooth. Link’s eyes squint in confusion. He pulls out the phone and he turns it around to reveal… Oh. It’s just a stupid card from the tech desk. Link looks at Oscar and shakes his head in disgust. He returns to his desk and begins packing his belongings. He looks around to see if anyone might have seen the commotion, but the only other person there is the reference desk lady, who is too far away and too focused on her own homework. Link prepares to leave but glances one last time at Oscar. He’s is still pointing at Link. His eyes are weak and the strength in his hand is brittle, but his glare and index finger is intense. Link turns around and leaves the library. Fast-forward! Link arrives and stops at the door to his four-bedroom apartment, only to hear music coming from inside his living room. And moaning from upstairs. And a bed banging up against the wall to the beat of Queen’s “Another one bites the dust.” He shakes his head, sighs, and relieves the keys from his backpack. He unlocks the door and then opens it, welcoming himself inside to royal red Hue lights and Gavin DeGraw’s “Finest Hour.” Eyes turn to him and as he closes the door. “Yo, let’s get this guy a shot,” David, one of Link’s three roommates, says. Link barely takes a step inside and David approaches him with a shot glass in one hand and a bottle of Hennessey in the other. “What’s all this?” Link asks. “My sister Lisa. You remember her. She got pregnant, and so we’re throwing a party for her. She’s right over there!” David says, pointing to her. “She don’t wanna drink because the baby and all, but yo, it would mean a lot if you take a shot for her.” Link sighs in regret. “Alright.” “Eyy, my man, yo!” David throws a hand over Link’s shoulder and the two walk towards Lisa. “Ey, Lisa!” Lisa turns around and reveals a barely-noticeable baby-belly. “Ey, you remember Link, right?” David says, patting Link’s chest twice. “Oh, hey Link!” Lisa says. “Hey,” Link answers, exhausted of the party already. “Alright, I guess I’m taking a shot for you cause your brother wants me to.” “Oh, no, that’s okay,” Lisa replies. “No, all my other roommates did,” David interrupts. “Link’s gotta take one too.” Link faintly listens to their conversation but is more focused on pouring himself his own shot. He holds the spout steadily over the cup and once it’s filled to the rim, he stops. He lifts the shot-glass up and his eyes meet Lisa’s. “Alright, to you and your kid.” He takes the shot and once the taste of alcohol hits him, so does time. Shot. Shot. Another shot. That’s right: he’s drinking underaged. Admit it, you all did too. And, hey, for an eighteen-year old, he’s strong. I guess that breaks the image of the good boy he is at the library. “Yo, slow down!” “This guy’s so fucking lit!” “Back to back!” “Yo, this my song. Turn the volume up!” “Ay, you good, bro?” “Ohhhhhhh!” “No, we just played that song!” “Nah, he’s good! My boy’s good! He’s good!” “You need help, bro?” “Yo, it’s your ex.” “Link, we need to talk.” And that’s all she wrote. Not really. But that’s the last thing Link remembers hearing: his ex. Nine hours of sleep later and the sun slips through the blinds to kiss him good morning. He’s lying in his bed and atop his sheets. He’s still fully dressed. Surprisingly, there’s not a sign of puke or a bag anywhere in his room. Good job, my man. Good damn job. Link peels his eyelids open. He takes in a deep inhale through his nose and opens his mouth to part ways with his exhale. He turns to his left, right and then back to his left before fighting his hands under his pillow. No phone there. He sits up and looks around himself. While he can’t yet find his phone, an inviting glass of water sits on his desk which extends perpendicularly from the head of his bed. The water’s not cold anymore, but right now it sure looks like Benjamin fucking Franklin on pale blue. That’s a hundred-dollar bill, by the way, for those who don’t get the reference. You know? Because they updated the bill? Anyways, Link sits up from his bed and extends a hand for it. And it sure does taste better than Hennessey. Three large gulps is all it takes to finish the glass and with a satisfying sigh he moves to place the glass back on the desk. But something catches his eye. An orange post-it note sits flat against his desk, which was hiding under the glass just five seconds ago. He looks towards his stack of post-it notes to see that it’s been meddled with. And one of his pens is out of place. He sniffs heavily to clear his nose and then stands up to trade the glass for the note. It’s written in fine print with handwriting that he recognizes from his past, and from his heart. “Hey Link, Rose here. ‘We couldn’t talk last night. ‘I left something for you. ‘Check your pocket. Jeans. Right side.” Link raises an eyebrow. Barely. He reaches a hand into his pocket and feels his iPhone 7 Plus, his old but reliable friend who he let down by dropping several times. But something else is resting against it. Something flat. Something smooth. Link’s eyes squint in confusion. He pulls out the phone and he turns it around to reveal… another post-it note. It’s folded, almost wrinkled. Rose’s recognizable handwriting reads… “You’re gonna be a dad. ‘If it’s a boy, I like the name ‘Jack.


It is an innocuous…don’t really know what to call it. It reminds me of having your soul cleaned by a professional. Your sins are pulled from you by the mere mention of the word salvation. Father Maytag and Mother Westinghouse, delve into the spirit of who you are, and spin the inevitable shedding of life’s lessons into the collection basket for easy disposal. But that is not the reason I chose lint as something to collect. My first inclination was to use it to stuff pillows with, like the new version of My Pillow, which in actuality would be closer to personal experience than some guy who appears in your medicine cabinet and suggests you’d sleep better if you were aligned. My mind of course jumped to an add suggesting I may just be out of alignment. Then, I began to obsess about paying for the service. Not having the protection of the new syndicate, “If It Can, It Will.” Of course, they assume you will become eligible for acceptance for their protection, by having a problem that will not occur until after they have changed their name, and moved on, or you have been so often dismissed by a synthetic televangelist voice you simply expect to be abused. But such is… In deciding I needed a hobby, I will call it that, as  it was suggested in this time of self-imposed isolation, and my delicate nature, I needed something to take my thoughts off the incompetence in the world around me. Incompetence seemed a natural progression of choice in the consideration of Lint. Lint has no political or social ambiance that allows bigotry and arrogance to flaunt its dismissive paranoia on the material from which it has originated. Therefore it represents the everyman nostalgia.  Just because the everyman phenomenon never became recognized as a phenomenon, should not prevent it for remaining a possibility. Lint also has its own spiritual following that was founded on the scripture, According to Dust. Or at least that is my interpretation. “Encounters Under the Bed,” a must read.  Dust is also an innocuous element, but it has a distinctive organic panache, that because of its nature radiates a color differential unrivaled by imitation, and therefore a step above lint, which is primarily varying shades of gray or brown, depending upon personal fashion choices. Gray and brown are not the most inspirational of colors, but then they are representative colors of the majority of God-fearing political analysts. It is for these reasons, as well as the fact that one has to do little to acquire the desire of your needs, makes it available to anyone who may or may not, have the funding to partake of this unique and entertaining endeavor, collecting. I have always had an unfulfilled desire to know what lint actually consisted of. Especially after the cost of clothing soared. If I have to pay an exorbitant amount of money for a shirt, because it purveys a modicum of success or social status, I anticipate it will remain a viable example of not only fashion, but necessity, for longer than it takes me to proceed home and place it lovingly on a pillowed hanger in my closet. And then there is the question of becoming involved with a business that encourages 6, 10, and 12 year olds to exploit material to produce a shirt likely to succumb to deteriorating principles, allowing the smiley face of Gump to find its way into the realm of wash pails and auto waxing. So, I began to look at lint in an entirely different light. When something can change from, lets say an iconic example of acceptable design, to an element that will make you sneeze if you are not aware of its ability to distract, I had no choice but to delve into the basics of where it came from, what it actually was, and why. I didn’t know what the exact definition of lint was, but being that it was to become my most recent chance to redeem myself from the intoxicating world of advertising and exaggerated promises, I went to Google for advice. I was shocked. The synonyms for lint are, fur, hair, fluff, and bandage? According to Wikipedia lint is the common name for visible accumulations of textile fibers, usually found, in and around, clothing. Not one word about dryer traps and the need to keep them clean if they are to remain functional.

Now, I’m confused and begin to doubt my original assumption that lint could set me free, while allowing me to maintain my ability to attract and analyze differing opinions. A marvel that can hang out, and yet become an intimate part of my existence; spirituality.  Lint becomes part of one of our most personal of all consumer goods, and it is commandeered, a speck at a time, by an invisible thief that wishes nothing less than, the emperor having to stand naked. This revelation caused me to re-examine my new found passion for all particulates, lint in particular. This entire ordeal is responsible for me remembering an ancient proverbial question of my mothers, “Where have you been, what have you been doing and what were you thinking.” The questions succinct, but to the point. Because I was covered in mud, or there was a policeman at the door, solicited her queries, and my ingrained response, “Joey did it.” Now, there was no Joey, but then I’d discovered there was no Santa Clause or Tooth Fairy either. I learned by example to believe lying was not only acceptable but encouraged. Especially if the intent was admirable, despite its lack of monetary compensation. I have always believed a tooth should been worth more than a dollar, having been to a dentist, and later receiving the bill. I began to collect lint in 2010, the 21 st century after Christ. I have, with the aid of neighbors, family members, and ex-friends, produced a lint lump weighing somewhere in the vicinity of 1500 pounds. I keep it in the laundry room next to the dryer, for efficiency reasons.

I was asked the other day by a washing machine repair man, what I planned to do with the…he didn’t really have an adequate description for my fluffy sculpture.   I assumed he meant lint, and me having at some point, to remove it from my home. I had not given it much thought; any really. The idea of course, of making a competitive pillow that a consumer created themselves from particulates they themselves encouraged, was intriguing. But after checking with the patent office, I realized pillow mania was already injected with more possibilities for undisturbed sleep, than there were insomniacs, so I laid my plan to rest. Lint also has an interpretive inference pertaining to not only objects, but people. Being referred to as lint, can have only one pejorative meaning and it suggests a sense of, “Good Riddance,” to anyone it is applied to. After having considered the advantages of collecting lint, and the disadvantages of not doing so, I have decided that perhaps used gum would be more readily adaptable to my life style. Whereas lint has limited recycling possibilities, pre-chewed gum, with the simple addition of moisture, can be used to seal leaks, wreak revenge, stress remediation, and making anyone in the process of creating a future collectible, look like a cool person from the 1950’s. But when considering my health, mental or otherwise, and after examining the potential for euphemistic existentialism, I have decided to resign from the need to self-heal and revert to a more selfish prerogative, the tabloids.  Where I am able to interpret any fact in the light of my own prejudice, and arrogance, thus eliminating my need for external distraction, altogether.


It felt strange to have somebody else in my garden.

It was a rather special and intimate place between only nature and I; but now there was somebody else.

I wasn’t angry nor was I scared that he was in my space, it just felt...different.

It was a warm and beautiful day. The sun shone down brightly onto my growing plants and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The birds shared in the joy, singing sweet melodies that merged and mixed together creating one big masterpiece. It was beautiful. Richard was his name, and I thought that it fit him well. He stood calmly in the centre of my backyard, a comically large straw hat placed on top of his short grey hair and a goofy smile plastered across his face. The sun hit his features at an angle that made his bright blue eyes shine splendidly in the light and his face looked almost youthful. He was beautiful. I sighed at the thought, mentally lecturing myself for having momentarily failed Terry as I fondled the dulling old ring on my finger.

I’d met Richard at the local community centre during a bake sale a few weeks back. He’d seemed to take an immediate interest in my garden of which I told him very little about, but with great enthusiasm. I was glad that he had taken a certain delight in my hobby so, with a sudden impulse, I’d invited him over to check it out.

“Wow, this is gorgeous!” He’d exclaimed upon entering my backyard. His mouth had been slightly agape as he’d stared at the vegetation in awe. I had simply blushed and thanked him, tucking a strand of stray white hair behind my ear. Nobody else had ever set foot in that area since Terry, and it took me a strange amount of courage to let Richard in. However, I was glad that I did.

“Alright, so first thing’s first, here are some gloves.” I said, handing him a pair of gardening gloves imprinted with a charming pattern of blue and white flowers. I also pulled on my own gloves decorated with detailed images of ladybugs and butterflies. Then, I led him to an isolated spot near the back corner of the yard. It was a calm and shadowy area under a tall and beautiful oak tree. The light seeped gracefully through the tree’s long and leafy branches, creating moving patterns and pictures on the floor. I had already prepared the soil and filled the vacant garden box that I had decided we could use, leaving the necessary tools laid out neatly in the grass. Richard had a bit of trouble bending over, his legs being slightly stiff, and he chuckled whole-heartedly when he stumbled down onto the ground in a sudden movement. He had a nice laugh, I thought to myself, trying to push away the growing guilt that had begun to overcome me.

“Okay, so all you have to do is dig a little hole,” I began, using the shovel to pull up a section of soil “and then put the seed in.” I finished, plopping a white pip into the ground and covering it back up. He simply rolled his eyes. “I know how to plant a seed,” he said in a mockingly-sarcastic tone, “I’m not that dumb.” I suddenly felt bad and began to apologize. “Sorry, I didn't mean-” He chuckled again, the warm sound reassuring me. “I didn’t mean it like that, Janet. I was just joking.” He said, lightly nudging my side.

“Oh, ok.” I replied, forcing a smile, but feeling taken aback at the sudden contact. Though it was a friendly gesture, nobody had ever really touched me since Terry, and the moment played back over and over in my head, feeling slightly more intimate every time.

There was a brief moment of silence as he proceeded to bury a few seeds himself. “See? I’m an expert already!” He exclaimed proudly with a toothy grin. I smiled back at him before returning to the seeds that I had begun working on.

We remained in a calm and peaceful silence for a while as we both worked away on our separate tasks, exchanging the occasional comment on the beautiful weather or on some bit of news we’d read in the papers. It was pleasant.

Then, I suddenly dropped my shovel and it scrapped the side of one of my fragile fingers just enough to draw a bit of blood. Richard turned to me immediately. “Are you okay?” He asked with concern.

I felt more embarrassed than in pain at the fact that I had made such a careless mistake after so many decades of practice, but reassured him nonetheless. “Yes, I’m fine.” He didn’t persist any further, but took a band-aid out of his pocket and unpeeled it carefully, asking me silently to make the next move.

So, with slight hesitation, I held out my injured hand to Richard who tenderly wrapped the tape around my finger. I was flattered at his kindness, but was completely taken aback when he placed a delicate kiss on the injured spot. I pulled back my hand immediately in shock and fear, trembling slightly but trying to control my nerves.

“I’m sorry, I-” He began to apologize rapidly.

“No, no, it’s okay.” I assured, though I wasn’t completely certain if I even agreed with my own statement. We sat in an awkward silence for a few seconds before he spoke up again. “You’re beautiful, Janet.” I scoffed, trying to cover up my shock and fear. “How?” I asked curiously, pushing all thoughts of Terry guiltily aside.

I stared tentatively into his bright blue eyes. They reminded me of forget-me-nots . Beautiful.

“I’m old, wrinkly, and frail.” Richard shook his head immediately. “No. You’re beautiful.” He assured, turning back to his work without saying another word. I was unsatisfied with his explanation, but returned to what I was doing nonetheless, deciding that I would not be persistent nor pesky.

Once more, I could feel Terry’s presence re-emerge in my mind and I felt miserable. I was seeking two completely different things that could not unite. Both Terry and Richard could simply not exist in the same universe. It was unsettling. We both continued to drop the seeds into the holes and cover them up with soil in silence, the singing birds filling the awkward air as we both remained deep in thought. The sweat was accumulating on my cheeks and I wiped an arm carelessly across my forehead, accidentally knocking off my glasses. I sighed, looking down at my dirty gloves, but just as I was about to remove them, Richard picked up my glasses from in the grass. He wiped them gently on his shirt and placed them delicately back on my face with a smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear in the process and gently running his hand down my cheekbone. He apologized again, but did not pull his hand away. Instead, he wiped away a stray tear that had somehow made its way down my cheek.

“What’s wrong, Janet?” He asked, worried and concerned. I felt embarrassed--humiliated--crying in front of Richard. I was overreacting.

He placed a hesitant hand across my back, waiting for my response patiently. I only shook my head, holding my hand with the ring up to my heart and saying his name, asking for either forgiveness or for comfort. “Terry.” Richard did not know of Terry, but he spotted the ring on my finger and from his expression, I could tell that he had guessed. “I’m so sorry.” He said, full of empathy. I onl y continued to cry.

Richard wrapped his arms around my frail frame and pulled me close to his chest so that I could hear his beating heart. He was not going to leave me. “It’s okay, Janet.” He assured, rubbing tender circles on my back. There were a few more minutes of silence before I mumbled hesitantly, “I have to let him go.” “Pardon?” “I have to let him go.” I repeated, a bit louder this time and with more conviction. Richard said nothing, but let me proceed. “I’ve been hanging on to him for so long.” I explained “He’s been gone for so long.” “What happened?” Asked Richard prudently. “A heart attack.” I simply replied with a sigh. Richard said nothing more, but squeezed me closer to his chest in comfort. “It’s been almost twenty years,” I explained, desperate to get everything off my chest “twenty year since he’s been gone. Twenty years since I’ve locked up my heart.” Richard hummed in acknowledgment, letting me know that he was listening. “It’s been twenty years of loneliness, guilt and misery.” I finally declared with a frown. There was another brief silence before I continued. “He’d want me to be happy.” I said to myself “He’d want me to be happy, right?” “I’m sure he would.” Replied Richard slowly. With hesitation, I took the ring off of my finger for the first time in years and placed it delicately on a stone under the tree. “I have to let him go.” I repeated as I stared down at the metal. Then, Richard unwrapped his arm from around me and pulled me down beside him so that we were side by side, leaning against the thick wood of the tree trunk, my small hand in his. For the first time in twenty years, I felt a strong weight lifted from my shoulders and a sense of reassuring peace emerge. I looked back at the ring that I had placed on the stone and noticed that it was glimmering for the first time in years under the bright sunny sky. I told myself that it was a sign; a promise for happiness. We sat in a comfortable silence in the cool shade as the birds continued to sing melodically in the trees. “Thank you for letting me into your heart,” smiled Richard “and into your garden.” He whispered, placing a gentle kiss on my fragile forehead. “ Our garden.” I corrected, smiling contently as my eyes fluttered gently shut and an uplifting sense of happiness overtook me.


It was a good day, walking alone, only my shadow next to me. I had run away from my home. I'm sick of all the lies my 'role models' tell me. My name is Jonathan Suburbia. My friends at my homeland called me the Jesus of Suburbia. I miss my friends at home. The name of it is pointless now. Here in America, I have nothing. I do blend in well as a regular white suburban teenager, living in a ordinary suburban town called Longview, California, and; blgahagah! I am sick being a normal American Idiot! Then it happened. As I was deep in thought, I crossed the street, then a white Ford SUV came and hit me. My body buckled like I had been shot with a shotgun in the chest. I hit my skull on the hood and then the pavement below me as I fell to the floor in pain. I'm not sure if I blacked out from the pain or got knocked out from me hitting the car and the pavement. When I woke up I was in St. Jimmy's National Hospital. I as I came to I heard this voice in my head, a voice that I have never heard in my life, raging and rebelling against everything that I kept secreted in my mind. It hurt. Then a nurse came over to my cot and spoke to me. I noticed her name tag hung from a lanyard around her neck. Her name was Maria Liberty. She was a sight to behold after what happened to me. She said," Good mourning John!" Her smile probably cured a case of cancer at one point. I know it stopped my headache. After a bit of routine vital signs check, Maria helped me off the cot and into a wheelchair. We made idle conversation as she brought me into a room with a two men and women, sitting at a table together. One man just stared at me. I knew that disappointed face from anywhere. It was Brad. My stepfather. He always seemed to be neglecting me and me being around him made him very angry. He looked disgruntled and unhappy about me still being alive and breathing. My mother's face was red and her eyes were wet with tears. The other man turned out to be a doctor. He was was a bald old man with glasses. He smiled gently at me as he looked up from his clipboard. He turned his glance toward Maria, my parent, and THAT other person, and motioned for them to talk with him. Being the eavesdropper I am, I listened closely. "Mr. and Ms. Suburbia, John has suffered a major blow to his brain after his accident," he said sympathetically. "He now has permanent damage to his prefrontal cortex, deep limbic system and his temporal lobes. These are the parts of the brain that essentially control our emotions," the doctor said sternly. "I'm sorry to say this; but your son now has a multipersonality disorder. We have had cases like this in the past and we call it Saint Jimmy's disorder." The doctor's voice began to crack. "Your son is expected to live for 1 year." The voice in my head begins to take control of me. It tells me this," That's a lie Jesus! They just want your parents money! The government just wants your money!" I didn't know what to think of it so I let out an enormous scream. I shouted to St. Jimmy," GEEEETTTTT OOOOOUUUUUUTTTTTT!!!! My Mom and Brad jumped and so did Maria. I was pale and breathing heavy. Maria came over and sat down on my lap. When she sat down St. Jimmy disappeared. POOF. Out of my mind. I started to relax as she put her hand on my cheek and rubbed her thumb back and forth on it. We shared a moment, alone in the world. Then the doctor cleared his throat and spoke. "It seems John's disorder disappears when Maria is around him," He said with a smile. "I think we will start the therapy with Maria accompanying John." He turned his glance at me and said,"There maybe hope for you yet, John." After that ordeal was over and done with, my parent gave me some money so grab some food at the Cafe. I brought Maria with me. I asked her what she does for a living. She says she interns here, but that's not her real job. I asked her what it was and said," How about you come with me to work tonight, John?", she said with mischievous smile. She saw the worried look on my face and said,"Don't worry it's not like we are going to get caught." I thought to myself, she's a rebel all right. Later that evening she appeared outside my door. She was the definition of an angel. She was wearing a pair of skinny jeans with a men's black button-up shirt with a red tie on it. Her hair was in a pony tail and on her lips was the reddest lip stick I've ever seen. Her top two buttons on her shirt were unbuttoned so I could see a bit of hear cleavage. She teasing me, I thought. Jimmy had something to say too. "It's not going to work John. She's not your kind of girl." I fire back at Jimmy," I will make her mine! Jimmy had enough. He took control and told her to wait a second and guided me inside. He sat me down at the dinner table. He said,"Look Jesus, I know your exited about dating... Ms. Whatsername out there. But your no rebel, you have no guts. I backed off today to see what you would do. AND YOU DID SHIT ALL! Let me show you how to give Whatsername the time of her life." My head started to ache. I am now St. Jimmy. I picked myself up and took some Novacaine and rejoined Whatsername outside. She was about to say something but my lips stopped her and she closed her eyes. We hurry along in a taxi to a club in town. We go inside and she disappears among the crowd. I find her again and shes with a white guy with dreadlocks. She was sitting on the floor getting high on weed. Her top is unbuttoned and her bra is on the floor next to her underwear. She offers the blunt to me and I accept it. Jesus in says in my head, "Don't do it Jimmy! We are going to get in trouble!" I take a big sniff of air and start to feel the effects. I sink to the floor next to Whatsername and lean my head against her shoulder. She tells the white guy to get us a drink. He comes back and we drink until we get wasted to the point where she kicks a stripper off of her place and replaces her. And does better. Then I hear the sounds of sirens outside. Jesus says to me,"SHIT! We are done Jimmy; it's over." I thought of any way out and I saw a the fire door identified by a red EXIT sign. I quickly picked up Whatsername while she was still giggling drunkenly from all the booze we drank tonight. She cussed at me for taking her away from her position as the center of attention to the male patrons at the club. I made a break for the door, when Jesus said something," D-DUDE! That door has an alarm on it!" I disregarded his warning and burst through the door carrying Whatsername in my arms. Then the bell sounded. The sprinklers came on and tried to put out a fire that didn't exist. I could hear the people screaming from the water getting soaked. I laughed to myself as I ran. I ran to my home and never looked back. I layed Whatsername on the couch. She said as her eyes closed,"Best 20 minute date I've ever had." I buttoned her shirt back up and sort of just drooped down to the floor and passed out. I could tell Jesus was impressed. Maybe even jealous. I woke up with the biggest headache ever, probably from Jimmy and... her, going to the club and getting drunk of their asses. Also, Jimmy had gone to sleep for today, he told me in my dreams. I was in control for today. I saw her get up, stretch and let out a big yawn. She rubbed her eyes and then her neck, probably from bunking on the couch all night. She looked really hungover. I said smoothly," Good mourning, sleepyhead." "Mourning Jimmy," She says half asleep. Then she realizes that Jimmy is not here but instead it was the non-rebelous John Suburbia. She smiled kindly at me and then I heard HIM come down the stairs. Brad came down the stairs to see us sitting next to each other in a moment. His face swells up with anger at me. Probably from the sight of ME being with a girl that was AMAZING. "JOHN WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TO HER?!!", he bellowed. "SHE'S YOUR NURSE NOT YOUR GIRLFRIEND!!!!" I called for St. Jimmy in my head to help me but he told me sort it out myself. I took a deep gasp of air and while he was still babbling, I let out at the top of my lungs,"Listen asshole, she is mine and you can't say otherwise! I am TIRED of you neglecting me and you telling me what to do. Hell, your not even my dad. You just married my mom that I love, oh so much, so you could sleep with her!!! You know what we are done here! Maria... let get the hell out of here." I could see him beginning to swell up with anger as me and Maria walked out the door. To my surprise he seized me by the by the collar of my shirt and held me against the wall next to the door. He called for my Mom. As soon as she came down the stairs I curled my fist and hit him square in the nose. I heard the *crack* as his nose bent and broke. He released me and I ran out the door with Maria at my heels. We stopped at after a few blocks to catch our breath. Maria asked,"Jesus is going to be jealous after that Jimmy." I laughed and then said,"That was me, the Jesus of Suburbia.


‘Yes ma’am, this is a courtesy call from ABC self-storage. We will be auctioning off your storage unit on March 8th, so you have till the end of the week to remove whatever belongings you would like to keep.’ The woman professionally informs Emeri. ‘The end of the week? Auction off my belongings? On my birthday? Seriously? What are you talking about? My ex-husband, Johnathan Archer, pays for that unit. It’s in our divorce decree for him to pay!’ Emeri rambles as confusion distorts her face. ‘Yes maam he was but he removed his credit card six months ago.’ She politely explains. ‘Six months! But.. why… when…. Ughhh!’ Emeri exclaims in shock as the hate for her ex pools in her stomach; Tears sting her eyes as the memories of her marriage sear her brain. All of the control and physical abuse; the gaslighting and manipulation. All the memories that lead up to that awful night and now this.

‘How much?’ Emeri grits out through clenched teeth. ‘Excuse me ma’am?’ The lady asks incredulously. ‘How much to get my unit back? How much money to get you off my phone,

ma’am?’  Emeri asks sharply -allowing the venomous disdain to ooze from her voice. ‘The unit was $548 behind but that is a moot point because it’s already been acquired by the storage facility. Your only two option is to collect your belongings or not. Period.’ The lady curtly states. ‘And I don’t appreciate you implying that I can be bought.’ ‘And I don’t appreciate you …’ Emeri starts, ‘Never mind. Just never-mind. Thank you for letting me know about the storage unit.’ She angrily finishes as she ends the call and closes her eyes tightly.

Keep it together.. don’t lose your composure over a storage unit

she tells herself as she grinds her nails into her palm to keep the tears from escaping her eyes. But it’s not about the storage unit -and Emeri knows that - it’s about the memories in that storage unit. All her belongings that she was

allowed

to take when her horrendous marriage of fifteen years ended. Photos, appliances, clothes, decor, etc; all the things she had collected while trying to pretend she had the perfect family. All the things that Emeri shoved into the unit a year ago because hiding them was easier than shattering all the false memories. And that’s what would happen because each item had a memory that was covered in sugar and pink glitter but shit is still shit, even if it’s covered in sugar and pink glitter. Over the next two days, Emeri’s anxiety over her looming deadline only grew. At first, she tried to tell herself to just let it go. Leave it and let them auction it. Why did she even care? She hasn’t seen, touched, or thought about anything in that unit for a year and she was fine. But she knew there was one thing in that storage unit that she didn’t dare lose; the only thing with enough pull to force her to confront her past- A past that was the reason for Emeri’s functioning anxiety and PTSD; The baby book that contained the ultrasound of her son. The only picture she has of the only pregnancy she was able to momentarily enjoy. Conceiving hadn’t been the problem; the six miscarriages had proven that. No, her problem had been her left fallopian tube which was badly scarred and blocked. It had been a miracle when her doctor told her she was pregnant. ‘Looks like this one knew the right path!’ Dr. Allen announced happily as she proceeded to print out the small ultrasound picture that had

hi mommy  typed in the bottom left corner.

Emeri clenches her eyes tightly and allows her fingernails to cut into her palm to try and control the emotions surging through her body. The tears that want to release so badly; the tremors that quickly take over her body; the ball of anxiety that fills her stomach.

Breathe. Breathe. It’s the past. You are not a victim, you are a survivor

Emery slowly chanted to herself, remembering what her yoga instructor taught her and allowing her body to release the crippling memories of the control that Jonathan had once wielded over her. The memories of the miscarriage she had at twenty-four weeks pregnant. The memories of Jonathan leaving her two weeks later for his girlfriend who was twenty weeks pregnant.

‘ It’s a Boy, Emeri. And we are naming him Jonathan Archer III.’

Jonathan coldly stated. ‘ No! No! You can’t do that! That’s our

son's  name. You CAN NOT take that from me. Please. Please don’t do this.’

Emeri sobbed hysterically as she begged him to be reasonable.

‘ We don’t have a son. Remember? You aren’t woman enough to have a baby.’

He heartlessly spat as he turned and left her in a crumpled heap in the middle of their living room. That had been the last time she saw her monstrous ex-husband. He filed for divorce by the end of the week, was remarried to his new wife sixty days later, and welcomed a healthy baby boy on June 19th. The same day Emeri tried to end her life. It had just been too much and the temptation of peace that the handful of sleeping pills had quietly seduced her with had won. She only survived because her nosey neighbor, Mrs. Anders, had stopped by to check on her after hearing from another gossipy neighbor that Jonathan’s baby had been born. Mrs. Anders had found her collapsed on the living room floor, the empty pill bottle close by, and called 911.

But she survived and voluntarily committed herself to a psychiatric facility for a thirty-day evaluation. In those thirty days, she had learned to control her anxiety through yoga while allowing her wounds to heal; emotional and physical. And if you survived that, you can survive this  Emeri seethes as she squares her shoulder and straightens her back.

Tomorrow

You will go to that storage unit, get baby Jonathan’s ultrasound -fuck everything else- and cut this final tie to your past. You are stronger than this and deserve a happy life. Tomorrow this ends.

The next morning Emeri quickly finishes her morning coffee and shower in record time due to not wanting to lose her nerve but it only momentarily works. As she pulls up to the dingy blue metal building and keys in her code, all the anxiety came slamming into her body and she could feel her airway getting tighter. Her heart begins racing, nausea fills her stomach and the horribly familiar weight on her chest begins getting heavier.

Breathe. Breathe. It’s the past. You are not a victim, you are a survivor

Emeri recites quietly, allowing her breathing to lessen the excruciating weight on her chest that was stealing her air. As the seconds tick by, Emeri’s anxiety loosened its grip on her and she was able to open her eyes.

With a deep inhale, she shoves her key into the padlock and opens the loud rickety metal door that she hadn’t laid eyes on for a year. The stale scent

of mothballs and mildew slam her in the face causing her nausea to surge into her throat. Emeri swallows down the nausea and surveys the dust-ridden items in front of her. ‘What is that?’ She murmurs to herself as she walks toward a glint of metal reflecting under a heavy blue tarp in the very back of the unit. She carefully pulls the tarp causing a cloud of dust to go flying in the air and her to erupt into a sneezing fit. As the dust clears and Emeri’s sneezing finally stops, she beheld the last thing she was expecting to see- her bike. Her mouth fell open and a shock froze her face as the memories surge through her mind. Memories of being fed up with Jonathan’s control after five years so for the first -and last time -she did something for herself; she bought a bike for herself. And not just a normal bike, no this bike was beautiful. The most beautiful thing she had seen in years with its bright pink frame, shiny silver accents, and a perfect white wicker basket hanging on the front. It had taken her three months of siphoning off her grocery allowance to save the three hundred and forty-five dollars that it cost. But the day she reached her goal, her eyes danced with excitement as she gifted it to herself behind Jonathan’s back. This bike was going to give her brief moments of freedom; she could finally go places on her own. Before this she was dependent on Jonathan because he didn’t think she needed a car- it was an added useless expense. She was so excited that Jonathan’s hateful rant hadn’t even discouraged her. ‘ What the fuck do you need a bike for? Your lazy ass isn’t going to ever ride it. And you better not slack on keeping my house clean for some wasteful joy ride around the block. You know how you are when your mind gets in the clouds. Lazy. You get real lazy.’

He sneered as watched the excitement leak from Emeri’s face. ‘ I have to go to work. One of us has to make some money instead of blowing it on dumb shit. That laundry better be done and my dinner ready when I get home.’

Jonathan belittled as he walked out the front door.

But she hadn’t let him steal her joy. This bike was HERS and even he couldn’t take that from her. Or she thought.

She had only been able to enjoy it for two days before it disappeared. The first day was a ride to the grocery store two blocks away and had been as exhilarating as a rollercoaster. The wind blew through her hair and the fresh clean air was lightly seasoned with scents from the little cafe attached to the grocery store. The sweet scent of streusel, cinnamon rolls, and fresh donuts caused Emeri to inhale deeply and smile.

We are definitely getting one of those!  She had thought happily. And she did. And it was delicious. But she knew better than to keep that smile on her face when Jonathan got home. If he had seen how happy her excursion had made her, he would have begun the accusations. He would have berated her about wasting time and how lazy she was to enjoy such a frivolous thing. So she wiped the smile off her face and replaced it with her normal sullen look, playing the role Jonathan wanted till the next day when she went back to the cafe to enjoy an iced coffee and a blueberry streusel while reading her favorite book. She got so distracted she was late fixing dinner and Jonathan was so furious he wouldn’t even speak to her for the remainder of the night. The next morning it was gone; stolen in the night according to Jonathan. Some thugs must have snatched it, he had told her as a tear slipped down her cheek. But she knew better; she knew Jonathan had gotten rid of it to punish her and the rancid taste of captivity had settled in her mouth and stomach once again- replacing the sugary sweetness of the delicious blueberries streusel.

But there it was- the personification of hope and dreams - staring at her. She could hear the whisper as it asks

are you ready to live Emeri? Are you ready to live a life where you get to indulge in a bike ride and blueberry streusel as often as you want? A life that you and only you controls?

‘ Yes, yes I am.’ Emeri smiles as she wheels the dingy bike out of the storage unit and loads it into the back of her beat-up ford ranger. As she returns to the storage to retrieve her ultrasound of baby Jonathan, there wasn’t any more anxiety or sadness. No, there were only hopes and dreams clouding her mind as she clutches her precious ultrasound and left that dingy storage unit, and all the abhorrent memories, in her rearview mirror. Tomorrow is a new day and it will begin with a bike ride, iced coffee, and a blueberry streusel.


Everything became a waiting game. I sat silently, biting my lips to keep my breathing quieter, trying to keep every centimetre of my body still. I could hear one of the guards getting closer. Their footsteps were slow. Methodical. Every few paces they paused and swiveled, looking for movements in the forest. They must have been only a few metres awaye, standing on the edge of the bank behind me. I could sense his feet above my head, his presence closing in. I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the moment. “Anything?” another guard in the distance called out. I prayed for a negative answer. “Nothing,” the guard behind me replied. I let a small exhale of air leave my lungs. The guard continued past me. But their progress was slow, and it took many minutes for the sound of their footsteps to disappear into the darkness. Eventually, it seemed like my part of the woods was empty again. I guessed by the positioning of the moon that it was around two or three in the morning. I had maybe six or so hours before daylight came and I no longer had the protection of darkness. It was enough, but time would disappear. I made my way back through the woods towards the Citadel. I crouched low and tried to keep my footsteps quiet. I couldn’t hear any guards nearby, but I could never be certain how far the sound traveled. It had taken me five minutes of running to find my hiding spot, but it took a good hour of patient steps, moving from tree to tree, to get back to the Citadel. At the perimeter wall, I snaked to the back of the settlement, away from the populated parts, towards the empty houses, and more importantly, to the storage areas. I managed to guess my spot with perfection, and as I heaved myself over the wall, I landed right next to the propane tanks and petrol canisters. Strange as it was, this was probably one of the safest places to be right now. Almost every guard would be out looking for me, no one would have expected me to come back. I lifted one of the propane tanks and dragged it over to a nearby home. With the butt of the gun, I smashed the corner of the window. Large cracks split across the glass, and with a small push, a large section of the pane came loose and fell inside the building, smashing against the ground below. I picked up the tank, and with care placed it inside the building before returning to the storage area. I bought two more cans, placing each one inside the home. Finally, I returned with one of the ordinary petrol canisters. Inside the hollow lie were three large propane tanks, sitting quietly, waiting. I lifted up the petrol cannister over the cracked window and opened the cap. The clear, strong-smelling liquid, gushed out from the tank, and spread across the floor of the home, pooling around the tanks. I held the can in place till the noise of liquid splashing against the concrete stopped. With every last drop emptied I discarded the cannister inside. A strong acrid smell poured from the building, burning the inside of my nose. The whole process had taken an hour, and I could already begin to make out the slightest hints of the sun rising in the east. I hurriedly pulled out the lighter from my pocket. I flicked the ignition hard. However, the old artifact had rusted, and it was hard to get it to come to life. I flicked the ignition maybe four or five times before the briefest of flames, and the smallest of sparks jumped from the lighter. It was all that was needed. The smallest of embers fell to the ground, landing among the fumes rising from the liquid, immediately igniting. Fire spread out from the window ledge and ran into the home. Flames leaped from the floor, painting the walls in oranges, reds, and yellows. I could feel the roasting heat rise from inside and I know it wouldn’t take long for the pressure in the tanks to overflow. I quickly ran back to the perimeter wall and climbed back over, retreating to the forest. From there, I trekked along the wall until I was level with where the prisoners were kept. I could do nothing now but wait and hope that the fire took hold. The minutes that followed were torture. The sky to the East was getting brighter by the moment, and I was beginning to mutter to myself from the sheer anxiety, bargaining with some universal force to let my plan go as I hoped. Then, it happened. There was a boom, a mighty roar that pushed the leaves of the trees back in fright. From behind the wall, I watched as the sky was filled with a huge fireball, a bright orb that made it seem like the sun had already risen. It gave way to a magnificent fire that stretched up like a beacon, calling all to its presence. The citadel, or at least some part of it, was aflame. I climbed back over the wall and ran towards the building where the prisoners were kept. As I hoped, the event was big enough to have distracted the guard outside, and they had already abandoned their post to deal with the larger crisis. I walked up to the door and shouted as loud as I could. “Stand back, away from the door, quick.” I counted to three before firing two gunshots at the lock of the door. Wood splintered and metal snapped, and with one final kick, the door was open. “Get out. Tell everyone you can.” The prisoners ran out onto the grass, running in whichever direction felt safest. Last to reach the door was Jacob. “Thank you,” I said. “It was worth it.” I paused for a moment. “Do you want to come too? We could escape together.” He hobbled out the door. “You think that fall was all fake? Nah, I’m not getting out of here quickly enough.” “You’ve got to escape,” I insisted. He looked to the fire. “Half the island will have seen what you just did, and they’re all about to rush up here to help. There’s nothing I need to escape anymore.” He smiled at the pillows of smoke spreading over the Citadel. “You go. There will still be plenty of people who would gladly shoot you dead. It’s too late to save the Citadel, but not too late for their revenge.” I patted him on the arm. He patted mine back. And we parted. \ It was time to escape from the island. But if I were to survive out on the seas, visiting different islands, I would need to eat and pay for transport and shelter. I needed money. I headed to the front of the Citadel, and barged into one of the council member’s homes. I walked to the front of the house where I found a small canvas bag. I picked it up and began grabbing anything small enough to carry. Delicate gold jewelry, subtly carved trinkets, and of course artifacts; numerous small plastic boxes to which I had no idea of the purpose and a couple of handfulls of the lighters piled in that glass cabinet. I filled the bag with as much as I could, and then headed outside. I opened the door, stepping out into the dawn. It took maybe a couple of seconds for my eyes to adjust to the light. When they did, I saw the glint of the gun pointed at me. “Stop,” the guard said. His voice was strained, his hands trembling. His eyes darted around him searching. “Put down the bag.” I lowered the bag, and raised my hands. “It’s okay. I’m not going to cause any trouble.” “You already have,” the guard replied. His fingers twitched on the trigger. I thought of the gun still tucked in my waistband hidden by my shirt. Did I have time to pull it? Could I beat his reactions? More importantly, was I prepared to shoot it? My thoughts were broken by voices rising from the Citadel entrance. I looked left, as around the corner came a dozen or so citizens arriving to help. Some carried blankets; others labored with tubs of water carried between many people. The guard lowered the gun and turned to them. “You’re not allowed here.” “We’ve come to help,” responded a woman carrying a bucket. “We can help.” “Turn back,” the guard shouted. “Turn back, or…” I could see his arm twitch, as he thought about raising the gun on them. “Don’t,” I warned him. “They can’t be here.” “But they are. It’s over. You can’t protect the Citadel anymore.” The citizens continued their march up the path, helping each other carry the buckets and supplies through the entranceway. “You’ve ruined everything. You don’t understand.” The guard was shaking. “Do you know what they are going to do to us when they find out? Do you know what will happen? They’re going to kill me, my family…” “You aren’t the enemy. Not anymore,” I said. The guard shook his head. He looked to the crowd of people walking past him, paying him no mind as they headed to save the Citadel. He turned the pistol it in his hand, inspecting it. His shoulders slumped, and he threw his gun away from him as far as he could. The guard fell back, landing in a seated position, before turning to watch the citizens walk up the path. “Just go,” he said. I didn’t say another word. I simply grabbed my bag and ran for the entrance. There were a number of bikes by the entrance, propped up against the wall by those coming to rescue the Citadel. I grabbed the first one I saw, and began my ride back home. With the Citadel on fire, and myself heading towards the sea, I began to relax. Sunrise had arrived, and the cool Winter air felt invigorating rather than bitter. At the Citadel people would be panicking, but out here was peace. I parked the bike back at my old house. I stepped inside and grabbed a few essentials - a few changes of clothes, what money I had, and of course most importantly paper and pencils. When I stepped outside again, the sun was casting long thin shadows across the ground, and people were busy starting their day. I began walking down the road outside my house, hanging my head low, trying not to draw attention to my disheveled appearance. My eyes were fixed on the small square meter of ground in front of me, and in my restricted vision, I failed to realize who I was walking towards. “Ferdinand? Is that you?” I looked up. There, staring at me, trying to reach my eyes was Thomas. “How are you? I haven’t seen you in weeks.” He went to walk up to me, but after a couple of paces, he seemed to take in my appearance - the ill-fitting clothes, the weak muscles, the loose pale skin. Seeing it seemed to instinctively repulse him, and he stopped where he was. “What happened to you?” he asked. “They told me you were promoted and moved to the Citadel. I tried to reach out, but didn’t hear anything.” I opened my mouth to speak. But I wasn’t quite sure what to say. How could I summarize everything that had happened? The Citadel was a lie, the dream we had been working for was a farce. I had been imprisoned for discovering the lie, and I had near-killed myself escaping. Right now, words weren’t a priority. My silence was interrupted by a large thunderous roar from the citadel. The fire must have spread and caught another propane tank, maybe even the storage area. I looked over Thomas’s shoulder to the sky. Thick black smoke was billowing out from the direction of the Citadel, the fringes of the fire visible as pale light reaching above the trees. People turned to look. Many held their hands to their mouths or gasped as they realized the smoke’s origin. A few people even began to walk in the direction of the Citadel, feeling the call to help. Thomas caught my gaze and turned too, and like others was entranced by the blanket of black covering the blue sky. I took my chance at his distraction and fled, running down a small gap between two buildings. I weaved my way between the homes until I came across a thin pebbly beach, and an old rowing boat lying on the sand. I grabbed the boat and dragged it into the sea until I could feel it begin to float on the surface. The icy waters grabbed at my ankles, as I lifted myself and my bag into the boat. As I rowed out to sea, my back facing the horizon, I looked in front of me at the Kadear Coalfields. I had never seen the island from here before. Seeing the island as its full width, it suddenly seemed so small, so insignificant. At the centre of the island the flames were still burning and creeping over the tops of the trees. That thick tube of burning gas and wood continued to ring out like a bell, beckoning people to come its way and find out the truth. Whatever was to become of the Kadear Coalfieilds was for other people to decide. My island may have gone, but there were a hundred others like it to explore. I didn’t have a house anymore, no place to live. Yet, now that everything had passed I was out on the sea, living my long-hoped-for dream. Whatever happened, I was closer to home than I had ever been.