As Vicky towel-dried her hair in the swimming pool changing room, she stole a few surreptitious glances at her neighbour Sally. Suddenly, she felt horribly self-conscious in her high-waisted white pants and shapeless triangle bra, which didn’t even match; when had she stopped caring? Vicky was wearing underwear, but Sally – Sally was wearing lingerie. The hot-pink, fine-mesh thong lay snug against Sally’s tanned skin, the stringy part at the back disappearing between her pert, peachy buttocks. As Vicky rummaged in her locker for her clothes, she couldn’t help stealing another glimpse of Sally in the mirror, watching as she pulled a tight-fitting T-shirt over her naked breasts. Her breasts pointed upwards, like the smooth, raised heads of two proud sea lions looking out over the ocean. Vicky hurriedly pulled a sweater over her own breasts, which seemed to sag below the grey, threadbare fabric of her bra. Sally had moved in across the street six months ago, and Vicky had helped her to settle in. She’d taken her fresh muffins and lasagna, filled her in on who’s who in the neighbourhood, and shown her the ropes at the secondary school where their teenage daughters were now in fifth year. She and Sally had quickly become close, and Sally always had a new activity for them on the agenda. Last month, it had been yoga, this month, water aerobics. “How was shopping with the girls yesterday?” asked Vicky tentatively. Their teenage daughters would never ask her to go shopping. Sally was the cooler Mum. “Good, yeah. They had fun,” answered Sally, flicking a coat of mascara on to her already sweeping lashes and triggering a gnawing feeling in Vicky’s stomach. “I am not in the mood for this parent-teacher meeting tonight,” complained Vicky, changing the subject, and fighting the unsavoury feelings in her gut. “We should try to jump out early and grab a wine on the way home.” She looked hopefully at Sally, who was now fully dressed in her white T-shirt and snug indigo jeans. “About that, hun,” she said, pulling on a pair of tan-coloured suede heels and averting her eyes. “I have to take a rain check.” Her nipples nosed against the stretched fabric of her T-shirt, and Vicky once again thought of sea lions. She watched as her friend sprayed a dash of perfume onto her wrist then rubbed it against the other one. “I have a deadline for an article tomorrow, and I’m nowhere near done. Could you cover for me and fill me in?” Sally batted her eyelids sweetly. Vicky tried to hide her disappointment. She couldn’t very well say no, could she? She never said no to Sally. “Yeah, I guess.” “You are the best. That’s why I love you.” Sally pulled her into a tight hug, and she felt her friend’s firm, warm breasts nuzzle into her chest.

It was already dark and after ten when Vicky finally left the school. The meeting had dragged on, and she’d gotten held up afterwards by her daughter’s teacher who wanted to discuss the details of the upcoming fundraising event. She regretted having offered her help now. If she had known half a year ago that she’d have a new best friend, she wouldn’t have taken on so much for the parent-teacher association. As she pulled her car into her drive, she noticed the lights were out at Sally’s place. Strange, she thought to herself. Sally usually stayed up until the early hours when she had a big deadline; Vicky always saw her reading lamp burning in the window of her downstairs study. Not tonight. As she ducked out of the moonlit drizzle and into the comforting warmth of her hallway, she heard the back door slam. “Johnny,” she called. The house smelled of cooking, and the dulcet tones of soft jazz music drifted down the hall from the kitchen. That was strange; Johnny never cooked for himself when she was out. He either made himself a sandwich or warmed something up in the microwave, but he never cooked, and he certainly never listened to jazz. She glanced at her wristwatch – ten-thirty – her husband was usually in the den with a whisky at this time of the evening, working on his model airplanes and avoiding their teenage daughter. She tossed her damp coat and swimming bag onto the hallway bench and made her way along the expensive parquet floor without even removing her shoes. She opened the kitchen door to find her husband reading the newspaper at the kitchen table. A half-empty bottle of Merlot stood on the table; there were no glasses to be seen, but the dishwasher was clunking and whirring in the background. He looked up at her, cheeks flushed, and pushed his thick-framed reading glasses further up his nose. “Hi, darling. How was the meeting?” Vicky paused in her tracks. Something wasn’t right here. “Did I just hear the door bang?” she asked, ignoring his question. “Eh, yes, I was just taking the bins out.” Johnny never took the bins out. Johnny never drank wine. Vicky studied her husband for a long moment, but he simply smiled and returned to his newspaper. She felt a pang of anxiety rattle her insides. They’d been a little distant lately, and they hadn’t had sex for months, but he’d never lied to her. Never kept anything from her. What was going on here? “Where is Ava?” she asked. Their teenage daughter was rarely home before eleven these days, and when she was, you could usually hear her shrieking about something from halfway down the street. “Out with Claire.” Claire was Sally’s daughter, and her and Ava were joined at the hip. Suddenly overcome with exhaustion, Vicky retreated from the kitchen. As she closed the door behind her, she thought she heard Johnny exhale a low sigh of relief, but with the silky voice of Dee Dee Bridgewater echoing in the background, she couldn’t be sure. She made her way to the living room at the front of the house, pulled off her shoes and sank on to the deep, comforting cushions of her cream sofa in the darkness. Glancing out the front window, she noticed that Sally’s study light was now on. She curled up on her side and reached to pull a cushion under her head. As she slid her hand under the cushion, her fingers brushed against a rough fabric that was in stark contrast to the soft velour of the sofa. She closed her fingers around the fabric and pulled it out from beneath the cushion. Even in the darkness, she could tell that it was somebody else’s lingerie. Bile rose up her esophagus, burning the back of her throat, and her whole body shook as she reached for the lamp on the side table. As the light flicked on, Vicky felt winded, like she’d just taken a solid blow to the gut. Dangling from her fingers was the hot-pink, fine-mesh thong from the pool. Sally’s thong.

It took fifteen minutes; fifteen minutes until her breathing returned to normal and her hands stopped shaking. She still felt sick to the stomach, but she knew what she had to do. She stormed up the stairs to the landing and charged through the door of her daughter’s bedroom. Flicking on the lights, her eyes darted around the silent room. It was in here somewhere. It had to be. On her hands and knees, she dug around under the bed until she located the black rucksack filled with spray paint. She snorted to herself; Ava thought her mum didn’t know that she’d been graffitiing the walls at the bus station with Claire, but Vicky knew everything. She pulled a can of neon-pink paint from the bag. How fitting, she thought bitterly. Not even bothering to close the door or switch off the lights, she flew down the stairs, out the front door, and marched across the street in her bare feet to Sally’s house. When she reached the front door, she didn’t hesitate for a moment. Her fury and despair had given way to a chilling calm, and she was focussed only on the task at hand. Taking aim, she pressed down on the nozzle and let the angry hiss of paint rage from the can. She took a step back to admire her work. The white wooden door on Sally’s front porch was now marred with a seething pink slur. Now everyone in the street would know what Sally really was. Nothing more than a SLUT. Vicky turned and walked calmly back across the street, oblivious to the rain and the cutting gravel beneath her feet as she crossed over her driveway. Back in her living room, she placed the offending pink items side by side on the coffee table before her. She was still staring at them ten minutes later when she heard a tentative knock at the living room door. “Yes,” she barked, her eyes still on the items on the table. “Mum?” came the tentative voice of her daughter from behind the sofa. She turned to see her husband and daughter standing in the doorway. “Vicky,” said her husband gently. “I met with Sally earlier, while you were at the PTA meeting.” Vicky stood from the sofa and turned to face her husband and daughter. What was going on here? This didn’t make sense. Ava looked vulnerable. Terrified. Nothing like her usual strong and rebellious self. “Ava has something to tell you, darling.” “ Ava has something to tell me?” spat Vicky incredulously. “Mum, I’m gay. I’m in love with Claire.” Her daughter’s voice was shrill and laden with emotion. Vicky felt herself begin to fall, hurtling into a dark, bottomless well. She didn’t understand. What were they telling her? “Come, let’s go to your Mum, sweetie,” said Johnny, steering his daughter round to the front of the sofa. Ava’s teary eyes fell on the can of spray paint and the hot-pink, fine-mesh thong on the coffee table. “Mum, what the hell are you doing with my underwear?” she screeched. “And why are your hands pink?” And suddenly, it all began to make sense. Awful, terrible sense.


A clock begun to tick. And I charged into the battlefield. Leaping feet, sword in hand and a silent battle cry filling my mind with blasting rage. I saw her coming from the other side. Shinning white armor, determined stride, face painted death. Overtaken by a terrible ecstasy, my eyes blazed with glorious hatred, my arms transformed into weapons of justice. The command had been given. The enemy was in sight. First blood was about to be drawn. But then, she stopped. Right in the middle of the battlefield, she stopped. Idly staring at me, staring at her own demise. All the better for me, I thought, and tightened the grip on my sword. Adrenaline pumping in my veins and I kept running, but the more I did, it felt more like her unmoving image floated towards me, like I didn't move at all. Or maybe I was stuck on the ground and something else was what pushed me forward. Someone else. I could feel the friction, the resistance, dragging me down more and more as I closed in. So, the moment I reached in front of her I stopped too. Like some godlike force outside of my realm of comprehension abandoned me to the inevitable pull of gravity, back in my earth-bound fate and the stillness of it all. I stood there staring at her, accompanied only by the constant ticking of clocks. Starting and stopping, dictating the war's pace. I was looking at a mirror. That's what it felt like. Her arms touching my things, her hand holding my weapon, her unmoving silhouette matching my own form in every single manner. All but one. Her color was all wrong. She seemed like a negative image of me. Compelled by the invisible wall in front of me, I couldn't take a step further. Frozen in place, I only raised my eyes, until they met hers. And when I peered inside of them, the reflection I saw was of my true self. So different, and yet all the same. It was our role which defined us, not the colors of our banners. We were alike because we shared the purpose our rank and place commanded. That of the foot soldier and the first line of attack. While looking into each others eyes, the realization I knew we both experienced, was the reason why no one would attack. For raising an arm against the other was to threaten oneself. We stayed like this for what felt so long, that the rage and hate all now seemed like a distant memory of a warlike game. Lost in introspection about the vanity of violence and the real purpose of existence. But the battle was not over, and the clocks were ticking still. The sound of horse hooves returned me to the battlefield. The rider galloped closer and stopped right next to me. I didn't turn my gaze from her, but I saw his horse hitting the ground and neighing in the reflection of her narrowing eyes. And we were one no more. Like my reflection in the mirror acting on its own, I was taken by surprise, as she raised her sword and cut down the horse's head. I heard the thud. I knew one of my own was down. Ignoring my presence, she moved out from my sight and stood beside me, above the rider's corpse. I knew she was, but all I could see now, now that the distraction of her was gone, was a vast battlefield stretching away in front of me. A new sense of purpose burned inside of me. Lying in the distance behind the enemy lines, trough a series of unoccupied spaces, a new path led to what was now the sole reason of my existence. There was no other way for me now. Reroute. Reroute to remain relevant. The battle raged on and on, and I kept being pushed forward towards a holy grail most of my kind will never live enough to realize. The crowning achievement. Where I would be exalted among my people. My chance to become something superior. The clocks kept ticking. The slaughter and the pain was fading all around me and I forgot about her, and her fabricated self reflecting illusion, which had enchanted me so. My goal was coming closer and closer by the stride, shedding its white light all around, until it became a radiant platform. The final space. I stepped inside. I was there. Its burning embrace engulfed me and weightless, I was lifted up. I reveled at the glorious moment, as my body stretched and transformed and a black crown was set upon my head. In my new imposing form, I stared down at the battlefield. It was not over yet, but the board had changed. A new queen had come. Far in the distance, I saw her again. She had seen it too. Her own holy grail. I couldn't let that happen. I dashed through the battlefield among towers and knights, bishops and pawns. She could not be granted the same blessing I received. She was the enemy once again and I was set to atone for my missed chance to show that to her. To prove to myself, that she was mislead and stranded from the righteous path. In an instant, I was behind her. She was almost there. Too bad. I sliced her throat. Sorry, we are not the same any more. Maybe, we never were. A hedonic chill crept up my spine as I felt the surge of raw power flooding my veins. The taste of blood. The superiority of my being, dominating and awe-inspiring. With maddened eyes and drooling rage I raised my head, looking for my next target. “Check.” A voice from beyond this world, commanded. So I turned, and I checked. Neither his regal white garments, nor his oversized crown could conceal the crippling fear reflected in his eyes. And I knew, I was the reason. “Your move, King.” I said. And a clock begun to tick.


Paula was furiously vacuuming the living room and shouting at her daughter, Mary, to hurry up and finish the dusting already. Just then, little Tommy rushed in wielding his toy sword. Tommy’s cries mixed with the noise of the vacuum cleaner. Paula sighed. Her parents were arriving in less than an hour and she still had to finish making the dinner.            A deafening “crash” came from the kitchen. Paula rushed over to see Mary surrounded by broken plates she was carrying to the dining room. Tommy was standing agape while Paco whined.            “Ugh, not now!” grunted Paula and turning to Mary, said aloud: “Please get the Undoer and clean this up”.            Mary ran to the closet and pulled out a small tablet. She entered the password, then set the time to five minutes ago. Pointing the tablet toward the mess on the floor, she clicked the “Undo” command. Instantly, the shards of the broken dishes started twirling around and coming back together, exactly how they were five minutes ago: whole and unbroken.            “Thank goodness for the Undoer!” said Paula as she walked toward the stove. “Mary, please help your brother pick up his toys in the living room.”            “Why can’t he do it himself?”, muttered Mary and to Tommy, she said: “C’mon, shorty!” They left the kitchen, bickering.            Paula put on an apron, got a cutting board, and started chopping carrots. “Ouch!” she cried as fresh blood started oozing out from the cut on her finger. She pressed on the cut to stop the blood flow. However, as soon as she let it go, the blood started dripping on the carrots again. Paula reached for the Undoer and set the time to three minutes ago. She pointed it at her finger and clicked on “Undo”. The blood and the scar vanished.            “Nice little gadget”, thought Paula, as she wondered how people lived without it in the past.            At seven o’clock sharp, the doorbell rang, and a disembodied voice announced the arrival of Paula’s parents. Paula pulled off her apron, patted her hair, and rushed to open the door.            “Mom, Dad, how wonderful to see you!” Paula said as her parents walked in. Her mother, Patricia, was a short, slender woman. She looked around the room critically and Paula was pleased the house was clean. Paula’s father, Jim, came in limping and carrying a cane. He was a bit taller than his wife, with a round face and a balding head. Tommy and Mary rushed in to greet them.            The dinner was a pleasant affair where Tommy and Mary told the grandparents all about their school and various sports competitions. After the desert, Mary and Tommy were excused to go to their rooms.            Patricia turned toward Paula: “How are things with Bill?”            Paula dreaded this conversation every time her parents came over. Bill and she divorced over a year ago. Theirs was a turbulent marriage, twelve years full of violent quarrels, usually caused by Bill coming home drunk. The police were called a few times, so the neighbors also knew about their problems. Every time she returned home from work, Paula would rush from her car into the house so no neighbor would get a chance to talk to her. She was ashamed of Bill, and of herself.            “It’s OK now, since we moved”, Paula said. “He hasn’t found us yet”.            The divorce hadn’t stopped Bill from coming to the house, banging at the door in the middle of the night, asking to see the children, and shouting “this is my house, too, dang it!” Two months earlier, Paula’s parents encouraged her to move across town.            After her parents left, Paula went to Tommy’s room. The boy was already asleep. Soft moonlight fell on his face.            “He’s my little angel”, Paula thought as she kissed him and turned off the lamp.            Mary wasn’t asleep yet. “Hi mom” she said. “Are grandma and grandpa gone?”            “Yes, honey”, Paula said sitting at Mary’s bed. “It was good seeing them again.”            Mary was quiet, then she turned to Paula: “Mom, I’m really happy here. I’m glad we moved.” Although left unspoken, Paula knew Mary was relieved that her father wasn’t bothering them anymore. Paula hugged her daughter and kissed her on both cheeks. Mary slid down her pillows and said, “Good night, mom”.            As she was falling asleep that night, Paula thought that she loved her kids so much she couldn’t imagine her life without them.            Paula was dreaming that she and her kids were at a Zoo, watching a gorilla rattling his cage. It was amusing at first. However, as the rattling became louder and more violent, Paula tried to shout, “Stop it!”, but no sound came from her throat. The banging intensified. Paula jerked upright, looking around confused. Then she realized the banging came from the front door. She grabbed her robe and rushed toward the window. The moonlight was bright, and she could see her front door. “Bill!” she gasped “How did he find us?”. Bill was standing at the door, banging his fists on it, and shouting something incoherently. Then he walked toward Paula’s car and lifted up an object that looked like a bat. He then swung it down and the side window shattered.            Her hands trembling, Paula dialed the police department. After providing all the information to the dispatcher, Paula rushed to the kids’ bedrooms. She found both children mercifully asleep. She then went down the stairs and crept toward the front door. She didn’t want to confirm to Bill that she indeed lived there, just in case Bill wasn’t sure. A few minutes later, a police car pulled in and two officers came out. They approached Bill who started shouting at them. “My wife … my kids…I’ll be back, Paula!” Paula could hear him shouting. The officers handcuffed him and locked him in the car. Then, one of the officers came to the door and Paula opened it immediately. She gave the statement to the policeman, saying that she had a restraining order against Bill.            “Well, that doesn’t always stop them, does it?” said the policeman sagely. “We’ll take him in and let him sober up overnight. You can press charges against him.” The policeman turned to leave, then stopped and said:” Ma’am, you may want to get a gun.” Paula stared after him.            The next day was Monday, so Paula dragged herself out of bed. She woke up the kids, made their lunches, and sent them off to school. She then drove her car to town to get an estimate for the car window. After making an appointment for that morning, she left the car and walked to the cafe across the street. In the restroom, she looked at the mirror and gasped. The previous night’s ordeal made her look very tired, with large bags under her eyes. She splashed her face with some water and combed her hair. “Not much better”, she murmured.            In the café, she ordered black coffee. As she sipped it, she looked around. It was pretty early and there were few customers.            “Paula is that you?” said a deep voice behind her. She span around to see a tall, tanned man smiling at her. “James!” she gasped. “Oh, my, fancy seeing you here!” Paula smiled widely.            “I’ve been visiting my parents over the weekend. I was on my way back to Boston, actually. Well, I’m glad I ran into you! May I join you?” “Sure, said Paula and motioned toward the chair opposite.            It turned out that James was a medical doctor. He was happily married to Paula’s childhood friend, and they had three kids. They parted ways about an hour later when Paula got a call from the car shop.            While driving home, Paula thought about James. The two dated for a year before James got accepted to medical school. He asked Paula to come with him. However, she couldn’t leave her parents. Her father was just diagnosed with bone cancer and her mother was devastated. Fortunately, her father recovered, but was left with a limp. Paula always regretted not leaving with James. He was very handsome, but also gentle and considerate. Within a few months, though, Paula met Bill and within a year they were married. She wished she could change her past. Then she thought of something and sped up.            At home, Paula rushed to her computer and started searching the online stores. She had recently read about a new kind of Undoer that was based on a breakthrough technology. Like everyone else, Paula, of course, had an Undoer. However, hers was an older model.            When she reached the page selling the new-age Undoer. She looked at the price. “Well, it’s expensive, but it’s not going to bankrupt me.” She ordered it, and was told it would arrive the next day.            The following morning, Paula paced anxiously checking through the window for a delivery vehicle. Her package came just when the kids came back from school. Paula patiently fed the children, read Tommy a story, and tucked both of them in beds. Then she went downstairs.            She hastily opened the package and pulled out a shiny new tablet. It was wider and longer than her old one, by just as slim. She turned it on. The Welcome Screen asked her to sign the Disclosures, which she hastily did. Then a new screen asked for her permission to sync the new device with the old one. She clicked “yes”. The next screen asked if she’d like to see a tutorial. She again clicked “yes”. For the next twenty minutes, she read in amazement about various features of the device. When the syncing was done, she took a deep breath and clicked on the Calendar file. She remembered vividly she met Bill at a party on Valentine’s Day, thirteen years ago. She found and clicked on that date. The Undoer then asked her to select the Place and Person. She did.            The Undoer blinked several times and said: “Proceed?” She answered “yes”. There was a high pitched whooshing sound that stopped as suddenly as it started. Paula looked around. She was in a different house with fancy furniture. She looked out her front window and saw a different car in the driveway. She called her parents. Her mother answered.            Paula said: “Mom, Bill was here last night”, and held her breath.            There was a silence, and then her mother said: “I’m sorry, dear, but Bill who?”            “Oh, never mind”, answered Paula with a smile. “I’d like to have you and Dad here this weekend. I have some great news.”            “But dear, we can’t just get up and go to Boston in a few days!” her mother answered.            Paula’s heart started beating fast and she said, mom, I need to go.” As she hung up, she heard footsteps.            “Paula, dear, do you know where I left my briefcase?” James deep voice came from his study.            Paula rushed to the study and saw James sitting at his desk. She ran to him and kissed him. He returned her kiss. They slowly walked upstairs to their bedroom.            When Paula woke up, James was in a deep sleep. Paula smiled, then gasped. She got out of bed and rushed toward the bedrooms on the other side of the staircase. She opened all the doors, but there were no children asleep. Paula rushed toward the Undoer and franticly searched for the Redo function. There was none. At the bottom of the opened page, she read: “Warning, Undo actions cannot be reversed.”


   It was a quiet fall evening, in which no birds sang, no cars hummed. The frigid air bit Abigail’s cheeks, and she shivered, wrapping her scarf tighter around her.    The bright leaves looked like flames as they fell and piled up under the old oak she used to climb. Abigail let out another breath, warming the air around her. Finally, she stepped off the old creaky porch and headed down the well worn path to the woods.

   It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. Looking around at the trees and giant moss covered boulders, a small smile spread across her face. Ghostly memories danced around the forest. She saw herself pretending to be a ship’s captain on top of the biggest rocks, swinging on the frayed rope swing that still stood there, droopy and worn, but still usable. She glazed her fingers along the frayed edges, and remembered. Remembered a time when she was happy, and there wasn’t a care in the world. She could be whoever she wanted to be back then.

   Her auburn hair whipped in the wind like the tail of the kite. She spread her arms wide, feeling the wind all around her. The leaves flew up and spun around in a dance.    Then, the wind picked up and she hugged her arms, and the moment was gone. She sighed, and continued walking.    Abigail soon came upon a clearing, and a flood of memories came rushing back; picnics in the warm summer breeze and staring up at the stars on the enormous rocks that stood to the right of the clearing. She circled the area, remembering. Behind her, she could hear a trickle of water from the river. She turned around and reminisced of when she’d jump into the cool water and the sun would hit it just right. She thought about the days in the winter when it was below freezing and she’d dance across the ice with her plain and worn boots and pretend to be a world famous ice skater. She’d been saving up all her life for ice skates, but even she knew it would never happen. But somewhere in that tiny girl’s heart, there had been hope. Hope that things would change and she would one day be in the spotlight with a beautiful glittering dress, not sitting behind a desk watching the time go by and waiting for the chance to go home.

    Tears ran down her cheeks, and her eyes became wet. She tried to slow her uneven breaths, and started to walk back out of the forest.

   “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

   Abigail turned around suddenly. She quickly wiped her eyes, and stuck her hands in her pockets. A boy stood in front of her, with brown hair swept to the side and a mischievous smile on his face. He wore a dark brown beanie and a black heavy jacket.

   “Carter, what are you doing here?” Abigail said disapprovingly. He was the last person she wanted to see right now. “Same as you. I wanted to see the old place. Man, those were the days.” Abigail didn’t want to say, but she agreed with Carter. Instead, she frowned. “I don’t remember anything good about this place.”

   “You can’t remember anything? But Abi, you—”    “Don’t call me Abi. We aren’t friends.” She said. Carter’s smile faded, and he looked down. “Are we gonna do this again?”

   “Yes, if you keep talking about it. And this is your fault, you know.”    “I know,” he said, kicking at the leaves. “I just hoped you would—”    “Forgive you? Forget about it? It’s always forgive and forget with you, Carter.”

   “I’m sorry!” He shouted. “I’m sorry! But that was ages ago! You really can hold a grudge, Abigail!” Birds flew off of the trees, squawking and flying away. The woods were silent. Carter picked up a rock and skipped it across the surface of the crystal clear water of the river. “I’m sorry, okay? But we were kids, and—” He paused, his words drifting away. He walked back toward the clearing and leaned against a boulder. Abigail climbed up to the top, and Carter followed.    “All I can remember are the times when I ran here to get away from them.” She said silently. “When they were yelling—my—my parents.” Neither of them tried to say anything. They just lay down, staring up at the sky that was slowly fading away. The oranges and pinks and golds of the sunset slowly became the dark black of the night. Stars shined above them. The sky hung over them like a wide expansion of fabric.    “Sometimes, I wish I could go back in time, when things weren’t so hard.”    “Things were still hard back then,” Abigail whispered.

   “You’re right, but life—” Carter thought for a moment, searching for the right words. “Life is just as hard as it was back then as it is now. I thought it would be better when I got older. I would be away from my parents for a change. But things never got better.”    Now the moon was right above their heads. Besides the moonlight, it was pitch black. The stars looked like grains of salt.

   “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” Abigail said.

   “It’s alright,” Carter said. Then he paused. “Remember when you would come out here and pretend to ice skate, when the river froze?”    “Yeah,” she said wistfully. “This place used to be our own sort of paradise.”    As they stared up at the sky, hearts aching, hands clasped together, Abigail said, “It was a safe haven, these woods. A place to go when we needed to get away from our families. I miss this so much.” She turned and looked toward the path back out of the woods reluctantly.

   “I don’t want to leave. But our life is out there.” She turned and looked back at Carter, asking him the one question she didn’t want to answer.    “Are you ready to go?”    “I don’t think I ever will be.”

   “But we have to.” She wore a melancholy smile when she said it. Her wet eyes shone in the moonlight.

   “I guess this is goodbye.” Carter said, looking around at the place. The wonderful place that had kept him safe through terrible times. They embraced, and Abigail felt warm inside for the first time in so many years. Slowly, she started to walk away. Carter watched as his best friend walked back out of the woods, a bird floating on the wind. Inside, he knew that she had forgiven him.

   The only reason they used to come here was to get away from the wretched world; from the people they had used to look up to, but now looked down on with pain. But these woods had given them friendship, security, faith, and so much more, and that was all that mattered.


The yellow palm-tree-topped swizzle stick rests against the rim of the glass. Taking the nauseatingly cheerful ornament between my fingers, I give the liquid a swirl and curse the excessive number of mint leaves. I ordered a drink, not a salad.

            The bartender, noticing my crinkled muzzle, tries to slip by to evade my foreseeable complaint, but I flag her down before she can escape. “Think you can manage a whiskey on the rocks, sweetheart? Whatever kind’s cheapest.”

            She nods her head without attempting a smile and scoots away to the bar. I watch as she whispers behind a menu with the other blonde who works weeknights.

            Fuckin bitch.

            My blue fingertips patter anxiously against the wooden table, and I notice the dirt crusted beneath my nails. I haven’t had a proper shower today, and though I can’t smell it, I know I’m wearing the odor of the previous night.

            With no watch on my wrist, I estimate the time to be early afternoon, and yet the place is crowded. That’s part of the reason I chose to move down here. Not the only reason, but one of them. The bars serve early and stay open until even earlier, only closing their doors when the sunlight overtakes the shadows.

The repetitive reggaetón collides with the Spanish spoken across the room. Despite the noise, my lack of comprehension allows my mind to drown out the sound. My own thoughts push outward, and I am suddenly aware of my ever-present headache.

A couple of white guys in cargo shorts push through the front entrance. Their too-sharp buzz cuts mark them as military, eliciting memories of my own time in the service.

…             “Texy Baby, you’re gonna win us some money tonight!”             “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” I take a hefty swig of my crown and coke.             “Slow down, will ya? See that guy over there, the real scary looking son-of-a-bitch?”             “Yeah, I see ‘em.”             “I bet him and his whole gang that you’d outdrink him. Shot for shot. A hundred dollars—I said slow down! I already put my money down on you, dammit, Tex, slow down!”

            “Don’t need to.”             “That’s the spirit, now!” He slaps me on the back, and I lower my empty glass to the counter.             “Last time, Bucko. I’m not doin’ this every port call, now. Hell, I’m basically payin’ your bills—”             “Yeah, yeah, I know, Tex. Last time just like last time,” he says and winks at me as he guides me out of my chair by the shoulders. …             The guys used to get the biggest kick out of buying me drinks all night and using the breathalyzer from the boarding kit to check my blood alcohol content.

            “A point three-eight! Unfuckingbelievable, this guy!”

            “Tex, look at the tip of this pen—“             “His pupils aren’t even dilated!”             “He’s not even fuckin’ drunk!”             Superhuman, they’d call me. I haven’t seen Bucko, or any of my old Coast Guard buddies for that matter, in decades. I only did eight years before I got discharged. It wasn’t the alcohol that got me in trouble, believe it or not. I got booted after I decided to solve an argument onboard with my fists, and that was that.

            “Your whiskey on ice.”

            “Another one, please,” I say as I empty the glass in one swallow. The bartender looks at me with astonishment and revulsion and hurries off again.

            I stare at the familiar mural painted on the wall, hoping for a slight blurring of the lines, but the colors remain as sharp as ever. I used to be able to feel tipsy, but I haven’t been able to feel anything for several years. Not since before I moved down here.

            By the time I returned to the civilian world, word had gotten around and videos had been shared online about my extraordinary alcohol tolerance. World Records contacted me and requested to document my record-breaking “skill.” They later called me back to inform me that they couldn’t move forward with the record. They said that they didn’t want to be responsible for condoning alcoholism. At any rate, I had become quite famous, and several liquor brands offered to sponsor me. I made good money doing interviews and appearances.

…             A tourist couple settles at the table next to me, and the woman looks familiar. Those hazel eyes framed by laugh lines and that frizzy brown hair pulled up into a bun remind me of Laura, and I have to look away.

            I stare back at the mural, urging it to swirl, but it refuses. Little moments of Laura start spilling into my skull, and I’m immediately pissed that I don’t yet have a drink in front of me. I snap at the bartender to hurry up, and she ignores me from a safe distance.

            I push past the painful image of meeting Laura, a pretty girl, irritated and covered in tire grime, trying to fix her own flat on the side of the road.

            My too-sober brain recaps our marriage.

…             Our little yellow house was quaint. Even though I had enough money to fund her dream home, she refused to live in anything “too over the top.” It sat at the edge of town, next to the Caravan Woods. From the dining table, I’d tell her fantastical tales of adventurers, psychics, or heroes as she prepared supper. She loved my stories most of all. Laura was the only person on earth who could be captivated by a make-believe magical character, while not being the slightest bit impressed by my real-life superpower.

            But Laura did not celebrate my drinking habit along with the rest of the country. Though it paid the bills, she thought it unnecessary. At first, she hadn’t condemned my work openly, but over time, I watched her frustration grow.

            The final straw came when a group of local teenagers died in a car accident after a bout of underage drinking. The driver, a 17-year-old boy, had been a fan of mine, as it turned out. The parents of the victims called for my arrest. They wanted to see me held responsible. But there is no law against being a bad example for young people, so the local police ignored their petitions.

…             My drink is deposited in front of me. I let the recognizable burn splash down my throat. …             The heat from the flames warmed my entire body like the liquor that had birthed the fire as I watched from the road. The destruction spread to the woods as I waited for help from the Fire Department that never came.

…             Another intoxicated vacationer stumbles away from the bar and staggers over to my table.

            “This seat taken?”             “No.”             “They really pour ‘em strong here, don’t they?” he asks as he leans closer to my face. With his jolly demeanor and red cheeks, he looks like a fucked up Santa Claus.

“Sure.”             “Cheers to getting drunk as lords tonight!” He offers his glass, and I raise mine in return.             “There's no other way.”


My mother’s hands have always smelled the same from as early as I can remember. I didn’t realize that the odor wasn’t a natural product of her skin until I tried my first cigarette, after which I scrubbed my hands raw in realization. I don’t condemn smoking for the health risks; I’m disgusted by it because it is something that can make me more like my mother. I stay away from therapists and cheap coffee for the same reason. It was the summer after senior year and my curfew was set strictly at midnight, so naturally I came home around one a.m. every morning. I snuck in the back entrance of the complex so mom wouldn’t notice me from her perch on our porch balcony. There are six rooms total in our two bedroom, second-floor apartment, but mom never seemed to inhabit any of them. She was always to be found in the solitary, nicotine-stained plastic lawn chair on the back porch, double diamond black between her index and middle fingers. She had switched to the two-dollar drug store brand when she could no longer afford to buy Marlboros and still put gas in her car. She had given up on putting food on the table a while back– sustaining herself only on a diet of 7-11 coffee, cigarettes, and a cocktail of anti-depressants and mood stabilizers. She stayed on the porch all day regardless of the weather; during the winter months she would just wrap a filthy old quilt around her. She had the vantage point of the second story stoop, yet could not seem to see beyond the lit tip of her favorite vice. She never noticed when I broke curfew. I drove around each night that summer in my 2005, midnight-blue Jeep Liberty. That car made me feel invincible. I got lost on purpose every chance I could just for the rush of finding my way back home. My journey was never fully complete until I found myself at a starry-skied beach. While during the day I would much prefer a quiet lake over crowded shores littered with perfectly tanned and sculpted bodies, at night the beach was my paradise. On a night beach, you can hear the rush of the waves in perfect serene, silent bliss. Along the coast, away from the worries of the city, the stars can finally win their battle against the streetlights. I visited at least ten different beach shores that summer during my nightly Jeep cruises, all without aid of smart phone, GPS, or map. I felt like a primitive explorer, finding my way using only intuition and street signs. The self-satisfaction I got from exploring was its own kind of high. I had just come out of a long-term relationship, and for the first time in my life I was truly free to be alone. I did not yet realize how precious a commodity this independence was, and like a child given a fragile glass trinket at too young an age to appreciate its beauty, I broke it. I gave my new-found freedom to the very next boy to come along. David and I had started dating back in the eighth grade. Throughout the years, as other young romances blossomed and faded around us, we were the couple everyone could count on to stay together. We won the yearbook’s “cutest couple” superlative in a near landslide. What I didn’t know at the time was that I had no frame of reference for what a healthy relationship should look like. I ignored all of his flaws, thinking, “Who else will ever love me?” The façade ended in April of our senior year when he suggested that we stay together through the summer, then go our separate ways in September so he could “play the field” in college. In my first real act of self-respect, I told him to end it there and then because “I would not be involved in a relationship stamped with an expiration date.” I relinquished this self-respect when I begged for him to take me back two days later, and again at a party the next week when I had my drunken friends harass him with midnight prank phone calls. I don’t regret what we had. Dave and I practically grew up together, and the entire relationship was a valuable and much-needed learning experience. But, I do regret how early I put myself into a very adult situation. By the age of 14 I thought I had found the man I would marry and have babies with, and was not shy in the least about telling him this. In actuality, we were both still children. This fact took me longer than I’d like to admit to learn, but Dave had known all along. “Did you really think I was serious about marrying you?” he said. “I don’t even think I know what love is.” While I was exploring on those summer nights in my midnight-blue Jeep Liberty, I tried not to replay every “I love you” in my head, each antidotal evidence of his cruelty. When you date someone for as long as we did, you make an innumerable amount of memories together. After the break-up, every song I heard, street I drove down, person or place I saw – everything and anything – was a painful reminder of Dave. When Jason started chatting with me through Facebook one day, out of the blue, I saw him as a welcomed distraction. “Hey,” he said. “We have a lot of friends in common. You just graduated this year, right?” We exchanged cell phone numbers and started texting. I interviewed him carefully, asking all of the most important questions I could think to ask a person. Mostly, they reflected my newfound “single-for-the-first-time-ever” independence, which could more appropriately be labeled as recklessness. “Do you like the sand between your toes?” and “Would you want to live in Paris just for the romance of it?” At the time, those were the important questions. Shortly after we began talking, he invited me to his birthday dinner. “A lot of our mutual friends will be there and it would mean a lot to me if you would go,” he said. “I’ll smoke you up, too.” Shockingly enough, I had first tried smoking weed just a few weeks before. Dave had always threatened to break-up with me if I talked about wanting to try it. Jason picked me up in a rusty blue Toyota Corolla, the back littered with annoying political bumper stickers; from, “If you’re not a libertarian, you’re not paying attention,” to “Honk if I’m paying your mortgage.” I tried to wipe off my disapproving look before I got into the passenger seat. We made awkward small talk on the ride to the restaurant. When we got to the parking lot, he packed and lit a small, glass, hand-painted bowl. “We’re going to smoke right here in broad daylight?” I asked. “Yeah, I don’t give a fuck about pigs,” he responded casually. Something about his demeanor told me that if a police officer ever questioned him, he’d probably shit his pants. I lit the bowl and took a hit, imagining I was a dragon while exhaling. I didn’t let myself cough to seem more impressive. When I looked over my shoulder, I saw that he was staring at me intently with squinty black eyes. “What?” I said. “Nothing. I just think it’s sexy when a girl can smoke,” he replied. “Oh.” I didn’t feel sexy. I felt hazy, lost, and uncomfortable about being alone in a car with a practical stranger. While I was deep in thought about how the old me would never do something like this, I felt a hand brushing my hair out of my face and behind my ear. As I looked up, a wet pair of lips came into contact with mine, immediately followed by a tongue down my throat. I was too taken aback to stop it. The next thing I knew, we were in the restaurant, and Jason was telling his friends that he and I were dating. We were dating? Who forgot to tell me? I couldn’t find the words to stop it. It was like I was a mute bystander, or perhaps an audience member watching some cliché teenage coming-of-age flick. The character on the screen was a separate entity from me, and I had no say in her life. I made myself snap out of this delusion a few days later. I told Jason we needed to talk, and he came to pick me up in all his bumper-stickered glory. “Jase, I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I’m ready for another relationship just yet,” I said. “Just give me a chance, Em. I know I can make you so happy. We can take it really slow.” It has always been difficult for me to say no to people. I tried, nonetheless, to protest again. “Jason, I really can’t –” He didn’t let me finish. “I am so depressed, Emily. I hate my life and everything about it. I’m not worth jack shit, and none of my so-called ‘friends’ give a fuck about me. I was thinking about killing myself on the day I messaged you on Facebook. I didn’t have anyone to talk to. But you responded. You saved me. Please. Don’t leave me.” His words were a wave that crashed over me, pulling me in and obligating me to stay. He refused my offers to help him find a professional to talk to. My mom knows plenty of therapists, I’d say, but it was a losing battle. I knew I would be guilt-ridden if I left and he followed through with his threat. He was the riptide and I was the lifeboat; as I fought to keep him afloat, he drowned me. I grew to hate him. I hated his deeply misinformed political activism, equipped only with tacky bumper stickers and social media rants. I hated his manners, or lack thereof. He was rude to wait staff at restaurants, who conveniently could not speak-up for themselves without putting their jobs in jeopardy. I hated how he made racist comments about passerby on the street only while locked safely inside his Corolla. I hated his completely see-through “tough guy” attitude. I hated how much he bragged about his job at Chuck-E-Cheese and his grades in community college. Worst of all, I hated how he smelled. I hated how sweat pooled above his upper lip. I hated how he looked at me. I hated how he shoved his tongue down my throat, and I hated how he tasted. I hated that he liked me. I hated how I was stuck with him solely because I did not want to be responsible for him taking his own life. We never went on formal dates. He always picked me up late at night, drove to some vacant parking lot somewhere, packed a bowl, and attacked my lips with his. The cycle was monotonous and exhausting. He made me hate being alive. One night, he asked what I wanted to do. Excited to finally have a choice in the matter, I picked the one thing I loved more than anything. We set off to the beach on a long overdue midnight Jeep cruise. To my dissatisfaction, he insisted upon using an iPhone GPS app. We took highways instead of back roads and arrived much sooner than necessary. “Let’s sit and stargaze,” I said. “Please, Jase? Please just this once?” “Why don’t we put the seats down and lay in the back of the truck?” he responded. “Because I don’t have a sunroof so we won’t be able to see the sky. And I can’t get sand between my toes in here.” The beach parking lot was deserted. “Come on Em. I don’t want to get sandy. Let’s just stay in here.” Shortly after, the back seats were folded down and we were lying beside each other. He kept telling me how I was the only thing that made him happy. I wished my Jeep was a boat that could take me far, far away. Before I knew it, his tongue was back in my mouth. But this time, he was climbing on top of me. He was pulling his clothes off and trying to do the same to mine. “Jason, what are you doing?” “Shhh, just enjoy it. I want to make you feel good.” “But I don’t – ” “Em, relax. Just let the high kick in and you’ll be fine.” Again, I saw it happen like an audience member. Only this time, it was a very different genre of movie. I saw the clothes come off. I saw a condom being retrieved from a wallet. I saw my legs parted, and the distant stare in my starry brown eyes. I saw his satisfaction. I saw myself wishing that Jason had killed himself instead. When it was over I, alone, stepped out of my midnight blue serenity and walked until I felt the sand, soft and cool beneath my toes. It was far past one a.m. I looked to the moon and imagined my mother looking at it from her nicotine-stained, plastic, porch balcony lawn chair.


“Murvey, Alexandra. Identification number 4987012,” she called out, identifying herself over transponder. Alex sat back in her seat impatiently and stared out cockpit window across the endless void of stars and galaxies in the far-off distance while she floated in orbit along with the other vessels awaiting clearance. Customs was always awful no matter what planet you were checking into, but Earth was by far the worst. Never mind the sheer volume of thousands of ships arriving per day, easily three times as many as the next busiest world, Earth was also the political and economic capital of the Confederation of Interstellar Worlds, meaning customs inspections were extra thorough in their inspections to prevent unsavory known and unknown items from reaching the planet’s surface. “Greetings!” an overly chipper voice broke the silence. Alex glanced up at the view screen just above the window to see a clean-cut, handsome model of a man in his late twenties smile at her. “My name is Greg and I will be the virtual customs agent assisting you today!” he stated, still chipper. “Please upload your vessel’s manifest and we will process momentarily!” Alex groaned a bit as she opened up her keypad to upload the manifest to the database. It had been too long of a journey and it was too early in the morning to have to deal with this right now. These virtual agents didn’t help improve the process much despite what the lawmakers who pushed it through thirty years ago would say. Sure, it cut down on smuggling and whatnot because who can bribe a computer? But at the same time, it put thousands out of work and the virtual agents were prone to malfunction. Yet, the lawmakers and the lobbyists remain insistent as they refuse due to either denial, greed, or a combination of both. Regardless, she sent the file as requested. “Thank you, Alexandra!” the Greg the Bot replied. “Please wait!” Alex feigned a smile back at it. The fact it was a bot was bad enough, but the company behind the bots, VallenCorp, decided it would help solitary freighter pilots by seeing a friendly face and a happy voice greet them from their long journey, thus making them happy and friendly. She had yet to meet a single pilot who was happy and friendly after interacting with these things. In fact, a year ago, VallenCorp gave them an upgrade to make the voice, appearance, and even the name unique to each pilot based on their preferences, though they never shied away from the clean-cut professional demeanor. Alex found this rather jarring her first run out with the upgraded virtual agents when she looked up at the screen to see the face and voice of her long-dead father welcoming her to Earth with a smile. VallenCorp toned it down after numerous complaints from the Union so now the virtual agents are subtler in their personalized appearance, meaning hers appeared to be a blend of her father along with her last three boyfriends because apparently that was what the algorithm decided to be a pleasant face to her. A flash of light somewhere in the distance caught her eye for a brief moment, drawing attention from her thoughts. She’d been in this business long enough to know the cause: customs failure. In this regard, Earth differed from nearly every other world with how overly serious they take their customs, and it really boiled down to a series of interstellar pandemics having ravaged the world over the past few decades. In total, over a billion have died over the last fifty years and Earth’s government wasn’t taking any chances. They’ve since imposed extremely strict customs inspections on all vessels, personnel, and cargo coming to the planet. Any ship found with an undocumented alien life form onboard risked having their ship, cargo, and crew destroyed in space to avoid it making contact with anyone on the surface. Alex figured it was strict and harsh, but necessary, forcing pilots and shippers to ensure everything was up to snuff while preventing the spread of interstellar pandemics. Another flash, this time to the right and much closer. Alex watched as the debris from a bulk freighter twice her size bounced harmlessly off her hull and cockpit. Careless crews, more than likely. She’d seen enough of it before to know more often than not the crew was to blame anytime their vessel was targeted for disposal. She had little remorse for them since careless crews often resulted in tighter regulations and longer orbital periods waiting to deliver cargo, making it harder for the rest of them that do take the job seriously. “Attention Alexandra,” Greg the Bot chimed in over the intercom. “You have been approved for customs inspection. Please proceed to checkpoint 1-2-5-DELTA at the coordinates we are sending you!” Her dashboard flashed three sets of numbers which she fed into the navigation computer. The ship’s engines roared to life as she broke from orbit and headed closer towards the planet. No need for manual control of the craft. The navigation computer was tied into the planetary Orbital Control Grid, which would guide the ship exactly where it needed to be while avoiding other spacecraft zooming around her. It was rare she would engage in manual controls. Why bother when programs were more efficient and reliable? A few minutes later, she found herself arriving at the checkpoint matching the coordinates. Earth was now in full view of her cockpit window, looking down at what appeared to be Oceana, though it was difficult to see past the polluted gray cloud cover. “Please upload manifest and customs identification!” Greg the Bot instructed. Alex pulled up the requested documents and uploaded as requested. Outside, two drones had positioned themselves on both sides of her ship, holding it in place with two green luminous tractor beams. While she couldn’t see it, she knew by now the OCG had gained access to the ship’s computer, shuffling through every file, every code, every bit of information she had to offer. Within seconds, all ship functionality was firmly in control of the OCG and she was little more than a hitchhiker aboard her own ship. These procedures always lasted a while and involved little input from her, so she took this opportunity to get out of her seat and stretch her arching limbs. With a yawn, she walked out of the cockpit back towards her living quarters, right towards the coffee maker. “Coffee, black,” she grumbled to the computer, prompting the coffee maker to spew a stream of steaming hot liquid into her well-traveled mug. She glanced around the living quarters, waiting for the coffee to fill up. Nothing in particular drew her attention. Surrounding her bed, dining area, and two dresser drawers, little knick-knacks and souvenirs from other worlds were crammed into what little additional space there was available. Nothing much new to look at. Everything was basically the same as it was for the last thirteen days. Slightly unkept, but the same nonetheless. Alex snapped out of her fatigued daze as the coffee maker sputtered its last drop, the fresh aroma of synthetically brewed coffee now filling the cabin. Alarms blared as she reached for the coffee, drawing her attention away from the much-desired hot beverage and back over to the cockpit. “The hell,” she muttered to herself, glancing at the flashing red messages now appearing on every monitor. “Computer, silence alarm.” “Alarm silenced.” “Analyze,” she barked, annoyed. “Analyzing.” Alex sat back annoyed, waiting for the computer to do its analysis. Probably nothing. Slight hiccup in the connection between the ship and the OCG, throwing everything into panic mode. Or, at least, that’s what she thought until Greg appeared on her screen. “Hello, Alexandra,” he greeted. “We have noticed a slight anomaly in your vessel and are unable to complete customs procedures until this is resolved. Foreign biological entity detected. Please run a BioScan.” Probably just some random stray bacteria hitching itself on one of the containers in the cargo hold. “Computer, run a BioScan,” she repeated. “BioScan commencing.” Alex sat back and waited for the results of the BioScan. Wasn’t the first time this happened to her, though it didn’t happen often. Pandemics, especially, prompted cargo companies to increase their sanitizing procedures to avoid shutdowns and destroyed cargo. Perhaps is wasn’t as thorough as she thought. “BioScan complete. No unregistered organisms,” the computer stated. Odd, she thought as she sat up in her chair to pour over the results. The computer was right; the only living organism on this ship was her. “Greg,” she called out over the radio, hating having to use a same for a bot, “uploading results of BioScan now.” She tapped the “enter” button and watched as it was uploaded to the OCG. Hopefully that would be enough. She wasn’t keen on getting into a fight with the Customs Bots today. “Alexandra,” Greg the Bot replied. “BioScan results insufficient. One unidentified biological organism detected on your vessel. Please resolve.” She couldn’t believe it. There was no way any unregistered organism could be on her ship. “BioScan result not insufficient,” Alex replied back to the Customs Bot. “Confirming, there are no unregistered biological organisms on this vessel.” “BioScan results insufficient,” Greg the Bot repeated prompting her to groan with frustration. “Initiating Disinfection Pulse, power level ten percent in three… two… one…” Before she can protest, a bright light flashed inside the cockpit and suddenly every inch of her skin stung like alcohol over an open wound. The pain was intense but fleeting as her emotions quickly transitioned from pain to anger over this sudden overreaction. “What the hell?!” she shouted at the Bot. They were supposed to give her a warning to put on a radiation suit before initiating the Disinfection Pulse, no matter the power intensity. Even at low power levels, it was enough to cause exposed skin to burn, eyes to be blinded, and the potential for far more deadly things to happen later on in life. “Please run a BioScan,” Greg the Bot repeated. “Bot! That was a violation of Interstellar Customs Code 7823 Section A and I am noting it in my logs!” Silence. She waited for the Bot to reply but he remained on the screen staring motionless, cool, and unsympathetic. It had to be a malfunction of some kind. Hopefully the techs were working on it. They couldn’t just- “Disinfection Pulse power level twenty percent activated in three… two… one…” Greg the Bot announced. Alex dove for her living quarters to grab the radiation suit folded in her second drawer but was too late to avoid the Pulse. The flash filled the room and the burning returned, this time more intense. She winced and collapsed to the floor, tears streaming down her cheek as the burning sensation seeped deep into her skin. Not even the skin under her clothes were spared the pain this time around. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. “Please run a BioScan,” Greg the Bot repeated. Alex tore through her dresser, searching for the radiation suit before another Disinfection Pulse was initiated. “Disinfection Pulse power level thirty percent activating in three... two... one…” Alex’s hands traced the outline of the radiation suit but was too late. The flash of light sent her to the floor in an even more intense stinging pain. This one hurt even more, writhing as the burning sensation penetrated deeper into her skin and organs. “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. This time, Alex wasn’t fucking around. Any higher an intensity without protection would surely result in third degree burns or worse. Already, her skin was red and pink like she had a particularly bad day at the beach. Blisters had started to develop over the thinner parts of her skin, stinging like hell, though she counted herself lucky she still had nerves to feel the pain to begin with. “Disinfection Pulse power level forty percent activating in three...” This time, she was ready. She pulled out the radiation suit. “Two…” She unzipped it open. “One…” And slipped into the radiation suit, zipping up a split second before the Pulse activated. This time, she was spared the intense heat and pain from the Pulse. The suit was designed to protect against a reactor leak from the engine’s core, much stronger than radiation emitted from the Disinfection Pulse at its highest setting. They can run all the Pulses they want, she won’t be affected. Now, safely in her protective suit, she collapsed in her seat in the cockpit with a heavy sigh of relief. “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. “Shut the fuck up,” she muttered. “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. Alex sighed. “Computer, contact Devon Allas.” “Connecting.” Devon was one of the senior overseers working on the OCG over Earth and a good friend of hers. Clearly this was some kind of malfunction that would need a manual override. If anyone can fix this, he can. “Connection terminated,” the Computer stated. “What?” Alex shook her head. “Redial.” “Communications off-line.” “Run a diagnostic!” she barked at the Computer. Not much usually rattled her, but the idea of being isolated in space without any contact with a human being, completely at the mercy of computers and machines made her very uncomfortable. “Hello, Alexandra!” the Greg the Bot greeted, coming back on the screen. “We noticed you attempted to make an outgoing call to an unauthorized party. It is against guidelines of the Interstellar Customs Codes to make contact with unauthorized parties during the customs process. If you wish to contact an authorized party, I will be happy to assist.” ‘Unauthorized party’ she thought to herself. Devon oversees these damned bots. She should be able to contact him. “Fine,” she muttered before addressing the Bot directly. “Contact Senior Overseer Devon Allas of the OCG.” Greg’s picture froze for a second, processing this request. “Devon Allas is an unauthorized party. It is against guidelines of the Interstellar Customs Codes to make contact with unauthorized parties during the customs process. If you wish to contact an authorized party, I will be happy to assist,” Greg the Bot repeated. This wasn’t making any sense to her. Maybe Devon doesn’t work there anymore. It has been a few months since they’ve seen each other. Perhaps his boss could help. “Greg, please contact Jai Modi, Director of Operations,” Alex asked. “Jai Modi is an unauthorized party. It is against guidelines of the Interstellar Customs Codes to make contact with unauthorized parties during the customs process. If you wish to contact an authorized party, I will be happy to assist,” Greg the Bot repeated. “Goddamnit, I just want to talk to a human being!” she screamed at the Bot. “Are there any human authorized parties I can speak to?!” Greg the Bot took a moment to process her request. Alex’s hands started shaking from nerves, frustration, or some kind of combination of the two. She was completely at the mercy of this Bot, whom she had to comply with every request it made based on its own data, faulty or not. There was no negotiating with it. No way to contact its supervisor. Just her and the Bot. “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. Alex slammed her fist on the console, spilling her irradiated coffee. She had no choice but to comply. Either her or the Bot had faulty information. She needed to know which was true. “Computer, run a BioScan,” she ordered. “BioScan commencing.” Alex knew it was a waste of time. Now she was wondering how she could get out of this. She could go back and forth all she wants, but eventually the Bot will determine her vessel a threat and target it for disposal and it’s game over for her when that happens. It is possible for her to stall, but that will only delay the inevitable. She knew there was no way any unregistered organisms were on this vessel. “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. “BioScan complete. One unregistered organism onboard.” Alex jumped in her seat and looked at the report. It wasn’t possible. But, sure enough, as she read the report, there was in fact something else on the ship with her. And it was big. 1.5 meters in height. Approximate weight 52kg. Human, by the description. A stowaway. “Computer,” she called out. “Locate unregistered organism.” “Scanning,” the Computer replied. “Organism found. Location: Cargo Hold.” “Lock down access to the Cargo Hold and open a channel,” Alex ordered as the video feed on the console indicated the doors to the Cargo Hold locked down. “Attention unauthorized passenger. You are unlawfully stowing aboard a registered cargo vessel. Identify yourself or we will take drastic action.” “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. “Shut up!” she yelled at the Bot as she waited from a response from the stowaway. Alex waited for the stowaway to respond, staring at the video monitors for the Cargo Hold for the stowaway to identify itself. But there was no movement inside. Everything was still as the moment the cargo was loaded and sealed up. Even the audio monitors weren’t picking anything up. “Organism found,” the Computer repeated. “Location: Living Quarters.” Alex was beside herself. The Cargo Hold was completely shut. How could it have gotten to the living quarters?! She switched the feed to the cameras in the Living Quarters. There was nothing. “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. “Where the hell are they?” she wondered aloud as she stared at the monitor, looking at the room exactly the same as she left it. There wasn’t a soul in sight. “Organism found,” the Computer repeated. “Location: Galley.” Shit, she thought to herself as she quickly sealed shut the door the cockpit. The galley was only ten steps from the cockpit and she wasn’t taking a chance on whoever it was coming into the cockpit. “Greg, please call Customs Authorities!” she screamed at the Bot. Greg the Bot paused for a moment, processing the request. “Customs Authorities are an unauthorized party. It is against guidelines of the Interstellar Customs Codes to make contact with unauthorized parties during the customs process. If you wish to contact an authorized party, I will be happy to assist.” “You fucker!” she screamed back at it. “Computer, initiate Disinfectant Pulse, level fifty percent.” “Acknowledged.” “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. “Disinfectant Pulse level fifty percent activating.” Alex shielded her eyes as the flash of light and radiation permeated throughout the ship. Like the other blasts, this only lasted a second, but the radiation level would be enough to cripple anyone without protection. She waited a moment and watched the video feeds for anything. No movement, no sound. Nothing. “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. “Computer,” she breathed, trying to collect herself. “Run a BioScan.” “Scanning,” the Computer replied. “Organism found. Location: access hallway.” “Computer! Initiate Disinfectant Pulse, level one-hundred percent!” she called out frantically, hoping this would be the end of it. “Disinfectant Pulse level one-hundred percent activating.” With a flash of light and heat, the Pulse once again flooded the inside of the ship. Alex was well insulated from the effects of the radiation, but the level was still intense enough for her to feel the heat penetrate through the protective layers. There was no way any biological creature can survive this. With the Pulse complete, Alex jumped out of her chair and turned to the sealed entrance of the cockpit. She peered through the small porthole on the two-and-a-half-centimeter thick steel door, waiting for something to move past. Her hands shook and her heart raced as she looked through the tiny window, fully expecting to see something, anything, waiting for her out there. But there was nothing. “Please run a BioScan,” the Bot repeated. “This is your final request.” “Computer,” she breathed. “Run diagnostics on BioScan and initiate new scan.” “Initiating.” Alex sighed and leaned back against hull, ready for this nightmare to be over. Hopefully, a successful BioScan will be the end of it and she can complete this job and move on with her life. “BioScan Complete,” the Computer announced. “Organism found. Location: cargo hold.” “Hello, Alexandra,” Greg the Bot said. “You have sixty seconds to submit compliant BioScan results or your vessel will be targeted for disposal. Thank you!” Alex screamed with frustrated anger and ran off for the cargo hold. The BioScans were useless. Something was being picked up but was invisible to the cameras, but maybe not the naked eye. If it were a person, maybe they were wearing a radiation suit like hers. That would be why they could survive the Pulse blasts. There was only one way to be sure. She had to go down to the cargo hold and see for herself. She reached the entrance to the cargo hold and immediately threw the switch to open up the doors. Inside was still as a grave yard. Not one thing out of place. Still, she searched everywhere, covered every centimeter. But there was nothing to be found. “BioScan Complete,” the Computer announced. “Organism found. Location: living quarters.” Alex was out of the cargo hold and in the living quarters in a matter of seconds. She switched open the doors and ran inside, only to find it completely as she left it. She checked under the bed, in the shower, even in the tiny cupboards where no human can fit. There was no one there. “Hello, Alexandra,” Greg the Bot said. “You have thirty seconds to submit compliant BioScan results or your vessel will be targeted for disposal. Thank you!” “BioScan Complete,” the Computer announced. “Organism found. Location: cockpit.” Alex sprung to the cockpit in less than five seconds and stopped cold in her tracks when she finally saw it. There, in the cockpit, at the console, a distorted figure vaguely resembling a human sat in her seat. Her eyes grew wide and her breaths short as she stared in shock at what sat in her seat. The life form, whatever it was, sat in the chair, hands clasped together like it was silently praying. Whatever this life form was, it did not react to her, even as Alex slowly entered the cockpit. Getting closer, she was able to see the being entering commands and pushing buttons on the console, though no commands were entered or buttons pressed. It was like a hologram or an apparition or something not tethered to the laws of this universe. Then, as she was close enough to touch it, the being sprung from the seat and turned to face her. Alex stumbled back and tripped over her own feet as she recognized the face of the being. It was her. She was in agony, screaming, crying, pleading, but she was completely silent. There was no mistaking. This was her. A mirror image of everything up to and including the radiation suit she was currently wearing. And she was in distress. The being then froze. A look of realization came over her. She then turned her gaze, locking eyes with Alex. Alex froze. She didn’t know if this being could see her but it knew she was there. Suddenly, the being flinched with a brief look of shock on her face, before vanishing completely into thin air. Alex stood frozen in shock, unable to process what she just saw. She was completely at a loss for words. Never had she seen something like that before nor has anyone she known. “Hello, Alexandra,” Greg the Bot said. “You have ten seconds to submit compliant BioScan results or your vessel will be targeted for disposal. Thank you!” “Computer, run a BioScan,” she said. “Quickly!” “Scanning.” Alex sat back in her chair, a little apprehensive, but quickly focusing on the task at hand. “BioScan complete. No unregistered organisms,” the computer confirmed. “Great! Submit report to customs.” “Sending.” Alex held her breath as she anxiously waited for the report to be received, hoping they matched. Soon, she found her hands clasped together in front of her, held close to her face as she leaned forward in her seat. Sweat started dripping down her forehead. There was no room for error. If this did not work, she would face a fate similar to those cargo ships she saw destroyed earlier that day. “Hello, Alexandra,” Greg the Bot said. “We are sorry but your BioScan results cannot be accepted at this time, and your vessel has been regrettably targeted for disposal. We truly apologize for this inconvenience. Thank you!” “Self-destruct sequence activated,” the Computer announced. “T-minus thirty seconds to detonation.” “No, no, no, no!” Alex shouted, entering commands and pushing buttons on the console in an attempt to shut off the auto-destruct. It was no use. Customs had overridden all commands and controls. “Goddamnit!” Alex shouted. “There’s no one here! Just me! It’s just me! I’m the only one!” “Self-destruct T-minus fifteen seconds.” Alex pushed back her chair, shouting. Pleading at the computer. Pleading at Greg the Bot. Pleading to anyone to shut off the auto destruct. “Self-destruct T-minus ten seconds. Nine…” It was then a wave of realization washed over her. Alex now knew exactly what that being was. “Eight…” Alex looked straight ahead, where she stood only one minute earlier. “Seven…” She squinted her eyes and could vaguely see the outline of someone staring back at her. “Six…” The outline started to form into a human shape. “Five…” It was undeniable now. “Four…” She knew that being well. “Three…” The outline fully formed into a radiation suit. Her future self, staring back at her past self. “Two…” It was her. It was always her.


The Wind in the Willow There is a tree, a willow tree in the middle of a field near a small pond. The branches hang low, the slightest breeze will caress them, urge them to dance. When she was a child, the tree was Leena’s refuge. She could hide under the veil of branches. Here she’d read fairy tales, dream of ever after and wish for magic and her very own prince. But like everyone else, when she grew older, she had to come out from under her tree and leave her dreams and wishes behind. At the edge of the field, near the street, is an old-fashioned diner. Formica, chrome and vinyl. Orange and turquoise, generously decorated with duct tape. The diner has been here for as long as Leena can remember. After all she was born there, in booth five. The story is that her mother had brought Mrs. Fishbach her patty melt, sat down across from her, apologized and gave birth. Supposedly she then got up and went back to the kitchen. There was always someone to change her diaper, give a bottle, rock the infant seat. Always someone to admire her crayon art, teach her colors and numbers, read her fairy tales and help with her homework, till they said she was too smart for them. As soon as she could walk, Leena would carefully carry a plate to a customer, maybe sneaking a fry on the way. As soon as she was tall enough to reach she’d fill tumbles with water and ice. As soon as she was old enough she learned to flip burgers, run the cash register, do inventory and order supplies. Calculate the payroll. In the spring of her senior year her mother shoved the tax forms at Leena and two days after Leena graduated from high school, her mother packed a bag, handed over her keys and left. “She’s all yours, kid.” That was forty-seven years ago. ~~~~ Behind the diner in the single wide, Leena is remembering. Though she’s looking out the window, she doesn’t see the shadows dancing, or the lone stray dog chasing the leaves the breeze is blowing around. She should be planning next week’s menu. She glances toward the kitchen where her mother used to sit, pretending it was just iced tea in her glass. Leena can still hear her mother’s voice. “Men can’t be trusted. Take my word for it. They only want one thing and once they got it, you’re worthless. Should have listened to my mother. Don’t let a man touch you without a ring and a priest to back it up. Wish I could do it over.” “ So, you didn’t want me? ” “ Och, you’re all right. But yeah, I could-a done without you. ” Leena closes her eyes. “Yeah, mom. Your live would-a been so much better without me.” She mumbles. About twenty years ago, Leena heard from a lawyer in Las Vegas that her mother had died. She hadn’t bothered mourning her mother’s death. After all, she’d had more than twenty-five years to say goodbye to the idea of a mother. The lesson she had been taught was that she was easy to walk away from. Not worth staying around for. She doesn’t watch the willow, or how the sun and wind play with the long strands of leaves. She doesn’t notice the family return from church. She isn’t looking at the shadows creep across the street. Is not aware of another dog join the stray, the two wandering off together in search of adventure and food. She is letting her thoughts drift back in time. She shakes her head at the memory. ~~~~ “What can I get-cha, sugar?” Leena is leaning against the divider between booths three and four. While she waits for his answer, she shamelessly takes inventory of the man in booth five. Not outdoorsy rugged, but solidly built, nonetheless. An open, boyish face, a small gap between his front teeth. Unruly straw-blond hair. “Do you have a menu?” he asks, smiling. She points back over her shoulder to the chalk board behind the register. “ Tomato soup, almost any sandwich, pork chop, mashed potatoes with apple sauce, --- pie.” “May I have a club and a coke, please? ” Leena has looked her new customer over and approves. She gives him a smile and a wink. “You bet, hon.” And walks to the passthrough window and shouts. “One club.” Not that there is anyone there, but she likes pretending. Ice in a glass, soda from the fountain. “You want your bread toasted?” He nods as he drains half the glass. “I’ll go tell him.” She pushes through the swinging door, fits the bread in the toaster and assembles what she needs for the sandwich. “You new in town or just passin’ through?” She’s semi-casually cleaning an already clean tabletop nearby. “I’m the new history teacher.” He nods. “At the high school?” She tips her chin west toward the next town. He nods around a bite of his sandwich. “I was told that houses were cheaper this way.” ”You bet. Who’d live here, right?” That was Gary. They had a lovely summer. He had been sweet, considerate and, in the end married. His wife had joined him just before school started at the end of August. ~~~~ Now why was she thinking about him? Because he had been her last? She had been forty-five that summer and he had been her last. She sighs. Not her first, by any stretch. What had been the kid’s name. The first one. The one who’d touched her under her skirt. Allan, maybe? And then there had been John, they’d fondle each other, behind the movie house, rarely saying a word and then they’d each go their own way. She had found a good man. A nice man, Bill was his name. Earnest, hard-working. She hadn’t felt worthy of him, though. He was fresh, clean, she was used, dirty. He had stayed with her for five years. Why couldn’t he see that she was trash? Not worth hanging on to. Not worth spending time with. Somehow, he thought she was something. What had he seen? Finally, he had thrown up his hands. “ You keep pushing me away. You’re so convinced I will leave. Okay, I’ll give you room, for now. One day. I hope that one day you see what I see. When you do, I’ll be back.” He had walked out. Like everyone else. Oh, he was still in town. Every now and then, they’d run into each other at Walmart or Costco, He’d always ask how she was. Always had a spark of hope in his eyes. Tried to bank it, but … And she always choked up when she walked away, feeling wistful and empty. Still wondering what he saw. But her bed had been cold after Bill left. So, she put up with Thom, who had cheated on her with his ex. Then Patrick, who just wanted her money so he could gamble. He had moved on when she didn’t give him any. Jason who had to “take a meeting out of town” and never came back. Rob, who had called her a cold bitch. Mark said she was selfish. Graham who had three-timed both his wife and her with his secretary. They all had proven that she wasn’t worth the effort. ~~~~ Since her mother left, Leena had managed the diner. First with a cook and a few part-time waitresses. But by and by she had to let them go. There just hadn’t been enough business. With the new college in the next town had come fancy coffee shops and pizza parlors. Yet, she had kept the diner open. Because there was more of a need now that the mill had closed. The university didn’t hire the people who had been laid off from the mill. Staring out the window at her wishing tree, she thinks of all those people carefully eating one slice of toast and cup after cup of tea, adding hot water to the same worn-out tea bag while making sure their child had a sandwich. Couples sharing one dinner plate. They had worried her; she had wondered what she could do. But she was nothing, wasn’t she? She was just one person. She had nothing. What could she possibly do? Patrick, Tom, Jason and all the others had told her she was cold, cheap, frugal, tight. Well, it had worked for her . She had saved her tips; hadn’t bought anything she didn’t really need. No, she had no flashy jewelry or a fancy car. And hadn’t bought a new winter coat in at least seven or eight years. But she had paid off the diner, the trailer, the worn-out truck and the field with the tree. She knew she had plenty of space behind the diner. She still had the few dollars her mother had left her, and her social security. She dreamed and planned, had looked at her bank books, tax statements, receipts. Researched the costs and benefits of her plans. Could she? Sure, why not? On her own? Yes, she could, but help would come, wouldn’t it? ~~~~ Now she has a greenhouse behind the trailer and a chicken coop. Every day, before sunrise she gathers what she needs. And each day at six am she unlocks the front door to the diner. “Hey, Sam, come on in. Help yourself to coffee while I make pancakes, will you?” Others troop through the door. It is always a steady stream. She sells breakfast and lunch at cost, one choice. Take it or leave it. It will take about an hour to run out of batter. But people wait till the oatmeal is made and later another crowd will fill the place and eat the soup or whatever she’s serving that day. One man starts to walk away without paying. Leena calls to him before he reaches the door. He looks back, she smiles and crooks her finger. “Hey sugar. How ya doin’?” “Good.” He sounds hesitant. “Your breakfast, was it okay, hon?” “I know, I’m sorry, Leena. But I need bus fare to the job place.” He mumbles, holding five quarters in his hand. “Sugar. If ya cain’t pay, you cain’t. But could you please carry your dishes to the kitchen? If I have to hire someone to do the cleaning, I’d have to raise the price of breakfast…” She cocks her head and shrugs, making sure he understands. “Yes, ma’am.” The man turns around and gathers his dishes. In the kitchen he loads the dishwasher and turns it on before he leaves. “Y’all come back naw.” She waves at a young couple with two school-aged boys. Somehow, it is working. After the breakfast rush there is always someone who’ll stay to clear and wipe the tables. Most days someone is willing to chop vegetables for a while. Sam eats free whenever he tends to the greenhouse or cleans the chicken coop. It is working. With her social security, the greens from her backyard and what she charges for a plate, the extras people sometimes leave her. Together they are making it work. No, she still hasn’t bought a new winter coat. And that’s okay. Slowly, she leaves the trailer and walks through the tall grass, parts the pliable branches and settles against the trunk of her dream tree. With a smile, she looks up in the tree. Up there, way up in those branches, are the leftovers of her dreams. Somewhere up there are the wishes she had to leave behind. She used to have such great dreams of escaping town, doing something big, being a good person. She used to believe in magic. And she used to have wishes of being worthy of her prince. Well, she didn’t get out of town, and she knows she hasn’t been a good person. She hasn’t done anything big. She shakes her head and smiles ruefully thinking of her childhood fancies. No, she can’t reach those dreams, but maybe she can make new ones… Did she hear something? Nah, she's just imagining it. Probably just the wind singing through the branches. Nobody comes on Sundays. Everybody knows the diner is closed. Though, people get hungry on Sunday too, don’t they? What if she offers a bowl of soup after church? It wouldn’t be that much work to make extra on Saturday and just heat it up, would it? She wipes away the hair that the wind has blown across her face. Lifts her head and parts some of the branches when she hears someone approach through the tall grass. Sees a familiar silhouette. “Bill?” Her voice catches somewhere halfway between her throat and her lungs. “Hey,” he says as he stops in front of her. “Just wanted to come and tell you that I think what you’re doing here is big, worthwhile. And that I’m still here. Still waiting for you.” He smiles, shyly. “You do? You are?” She blushes and pats the grass next to her.