James parked the minivan in front of the open cemetery and turned the wheezing engine off. He checked his Apple watch- half-past eleven at night. His shift as the Confession Counselor for Departed Souls kicked off in fifteen minutes. Lifting the briefcase resting on the passenger seat, he shoved open the driver-side door and stepped out. The intimate breeze petted his neck, tickling the spine. Shivering, James scribbled on his mental pad to pack a scarf for the next visit. Waddling up the pebbled pathway, he continued in the familiar direction of the mausoleum on the burial grounds. At its entrance, James crouched, placing the leather case on its back. He clicked it open, hoisting the rosary above his head, sliding it thru the neck. Placing the jar of holy water next to his feet, he grabbed the can of meat, coil notepad, and ink pen last. The nameless, dead clients he counselled travelled through their coffin, flying out the muddy pathway at midnight on the dot. James directed only the ones who walked past him, as agreed in his signed contract. He snapped them out of denial by questioning: stirring them onwards to live in Afterlife Care. The rest, emotional strugglers, refusing to accept their death, meandered about the graveyard, confused and lost James knew little about Afterlife's living conditions- like the doors only opened for souls who willed to dwell as per the rulers’ ideals. If someone disagreed with their orders, they were allowed to return and roam alone in the cemetery. In time, restorable souls permitted to re-enter after counseling. A pitiful cry for help sounded at a distance. He waited for his client to approach. “Hello, I am James.” The sweaty, trembling man in front of him halted. “Who you?” The man scratched the open cut on the side of his bald head. His brain, missing. “I’m your counselor.” “Who you?” James bent to pick up the jar. A few clients developed hearing loss following landing. He twisted open the lid and dipped his hand into the chilled holy water. Then, stepping up, James rubbed the dripping liquid over the man’s left and right ears. “Can you hear me now?” “Yes, Who…?” “The counselor who will help you start a new existence at Afterlife Care.” “I am dead?” The client glanced behind James, chewing on his chapped lips. “Yes, on earth. But in the other world, you will never die. You can do anything you want there- roam free, dance, sing, smile all day, play Bingo… Do fun things without experiencing feelings of regret, doubts, anger. They erase all negative emotions there," James lied. “Are you dead?” “No, I am alive, for now. One day I’ll join you.” Silence flooded the gap between them. James counted to twenty. “You like to confess anything?” “I kill seventy people.” The man’s mouth curved into a smile. James nodded, unshaken, doodling in his notepad. His senses hardened by ghastly admissions. After tonight, he intended to ask his boss, the mortuary manager, to transfer him to the day shift, where he’d be interacting with corroding souls yet living humans for a change. “Do you remember where you buried them?” “I work the night shift at the factory. I used machine there to slice bodies.” James’s belly groaned, and he snuck a look at the canned corned beef. “Why do you kill people?” The man rotated his head, tilting it on both sides. “No idea. Maybe I do it because I cannot smell anything.” “Oh,” James quit sketching and stared without blinking. “You have no sense of smell at all?” “I smell everything but not blood or dead bodies.” “When did you become aware of this issue?” James quizzed. “My job they want me to kill chickens and pack them. I kill two first. No smell. Then I try smelling dead chickens for a week. Nothing.” “Did you inhale any bleach or chemical before slaughtering?” “No.” The man’s fingers explored the hollow space in the back of his head. “You butcher them because you can’t inhale their aroma?” “Maybe. I like to see and hear them crying before dying. My sister and brothers cry. I don’t.” “Never?” He foresaw the client blaming his family members, like every murderer who confessed to James does. “I cried one time when my young sister knife a woman first time before me. I am jealous of her.” Drawing a circle around ‘The Scentless Killer': the nickname James christened the man, he branched out arrows readying to list the members on his client's family tree of serial killers. “Your sister, a murderer like you. And brothers?” “Everyone: Pappa, Mamma, Sis, Three Brothers. We sometimes hunt for people together on holidays.” James's gut growled, signalling he'd heard enough of the client's confession. “You recall how you died?” “I ask my manager to work in the morning shift so I can go out with my girlfriend in the evening. He said, No. I try to stab him, but he stabs me back.” “That is unfortunate.” James signed at the bottom of the client's summary sheet of paper. “Are you ready to move into Afterlife Care? It is a good place to live ever after, and you will meet many individuals sharing the same passion.” “Honest?” “Oh yes. Imagine all-nighters with like-minded people, discussing your past acts.” “Ok. I will go then.” “Sign here. Somebody will pick you up in minutes.” James fished out his cell phone from his black suit pocket and a spoon. He sent a message to his boss. Then calculated the commission reeled in for the week selling Afterlife Care benefits. “Do you have any more confessions to share?” James pushed his index finger into the ring-pull on top of the canned beef and rolled the lid off. Dipping the spoon, he savoured his early hour snack. “You like that meat inside?” The man pointed. “It’s easy to eat out here while working. Your ride has arrived.” A black car jetted from the sky, zig-zagging towards them. It stationed itself on the sloped lawn. The left rear door blew open, and a hand gestured the client to step in. “I worked in same can packing company. I minced the bodies and mixed them with chicken and meat inside the factory. You like the taste, huh?" The client cackled, bouncing his pecs seating himself inside the car. James spat out in disgust. He hated the night shifts.


I hid under my blanket. My flashlight perched against my shoulder, while the book was firmly in my grasp. I intently read each word carefully, as the music of the radio played in the background. A waltz tune dragged on and I was beginning to get tired of listening to it. Hopefully, it would change soon. And that wish eventually came true. But not in the way that I had expected. Static. A drawn-out staticky tune played. It was the same waltz, but it was too unintelligible to decipher. I pulled the blanket off from over my head. The smell of the room hit my nose for it had been isolated from me until now. I peered around in the darkened area. The only light that I could see was the slight blue twinge from my radio. I stared at it. I stepped out of bed and I puzzled over its malfunction. Attempting to extended the antenna towards the window was met with no results. I smacked my hand against the wooden top, but all it did was make the machine sputtered more. And on the final strike that I laid against it, I heard the voice. *“Colder,”* it said. I tried to switch the stations, but each had the same message. *Colder* As I checked behind the dresser that it was perched on, I found the plug and pulled it out of the wall socket. But still. *Colder* I held the radio in my hands and listened to the voice. It was the voice of a child. A boy. It was a prank. At least that’s what I told myself. I prepared to go to the garage and throw it in the trash. Before it said its next word. *Warmer* My heart skipped a beat. The hairs on the back of my neck spiked so suddenly at that one word. I stepped back towards the dresser. *Colder* I stopped and headed for the door. *Warmer* Ambling into the hallway, I stared down at the radio. The slight waltz continued to play. My feet pattered against the carpeted floor. *Warmer* The gloomy house bore down on me more and more. My vision began to tunnel and the structures around me were nearly void. I reached the stairs and looked down at the landing. However, I focused not on it, but on the radio that could see me… feel my presence. *Warmer* Each measure of the stairway made me more and more anxious as to when it would speak next. And soon it had. When I was near the storage space. *Hotter* This was it. This is where it was taking me. The space underneath the stairs. I reached for its handle. My hand quaked at the prospect. The nervous heartbeat that thumped against my temples. The horror that the voice had caused me, and how easily I obliged to its wishes. I opened the door. *Hot* Those final words. The darkness inside the space. The shadowy claws that outstretched from within. It’s coil-like limbs reaching around me. My eyes dilated at its shapeless morph. It curled around me. Under my arms, twisting over my legs. My shirt tore to pieces, and my pyjama bottoms did so as well. It pulled me in. The radio fell out of my hands and clattered against the ground. Shattering to pieces. But the light still pressed on long after the darkness had ceased, and once more it chimed.


My job can be extremely boring. I mean, there were days that I left the office with tears of boredom streaming down my metaphorical face by the time I left for lunch!

Today was one of those days! It was only ten in the morning and I was planning my early escape!  If I had to sit through another boring staff meeting, I felt like I was going to pull my hair out! None-the-less, I took my seat beside my supervisor for the anticipated tedious meeting that lay between me and my lunch escape plans. I was planning on developing some malady and taking off for parts unknown at lunch time.

I wanted a three day weekend but would settle on a two and a half day  one, if I could. The staff meeting droned on...and on...and on… “Sadie!

Earth to Sadie!” the moderator said, trying to get my attention.

My boss poked me in the ribs and jolted me back to reality. “I want you to interview a resident of Shady Grove Retirement Community and have the interview presented at Monday’s staff meeting.” Since the moderator was the agency's director, I nodded my consent. There went my plans for the great escape. As the meeting was wrapping up, I gathered the handouts that seemed to multiply each week.

“Here's the name of the lady I want you to interview” the director said as I tried to slip out unnoticed.

“Thank you” I said, “I hope to do it justice” I continued as I tried to leave quickly and unnoticed. Unfortunately for me, Steve, my cubicle mate caught me sneaking out. “Sneaking away?” Steve asked. “Not today” I said. “I’m off to Shady Grove Retirement Community.”

So, the director gave you the assignment that I ducked out of...I don’t want anything to do with those old coots!” “Better watch what you say” I said as I opened the office door. “One day, you’ll be one, too!” At last I was free of that boring office.

I would rush through the interview, and be off to do whatever I wanted for the next two days!

It took me about twenty minutes to find the retirement community.

I checked in with the receptionist who called the resident in B-22 and told them that I was on my way to their unit. I wandered the halls, looking for room B-22. As I wandered, I noticed that there was absolutely nobody aimlessly wandering the halls like I had thought there would be.

It was clean and well maintained.  Again, not what I thought it would be.  I eventually found B-22 and knocked on the door. I was somewhat surprised to find a well dressed, sixty-something lady answering my knock. “You must be Sadie” she said.

“My name is Alice, and my daughter said she’d be sending you over for an interview.” We shook hands as she ushered me into a small living room.

I looked around and saw a kitchenette and two doors. I assumed one was the bedroom, but I had no idea what the other one was leading to. “My Director said I’m to interview you” I began. “Do you know why?” Alice slowly turned in my direction and had a weird smile spreading across her face. I began to have questions about this lady. Something was off here. It made me nervous.

“My daughter is your director” Alice began.

“Well, that answers one question” I said with a nervous laugh. “She thinks that my history is something that your agency might find...interesting.” Alice continued. “What would the Area Agency on Aging find ‘interesting’?” I thought.

Alice continued, more to herself than to me. “I once was the ‘girl’ in a magic act...you know, the assistant to the magician.

It was an interesting job to say the least. I got to be sawn in half on a regular basis.” “How do they do that trick?” I just had to know. “Most magicians will never tell you how they do their tricks” Alice said. “But it has been simply ages since I did that job.

I had to scrunch myself into a tiny box...the feet part was fake and moved by remote control by the magician or one of the back stage assistants.” “There really is a reasonable explanation for each trick, isn’t there?” I asked. “Yes” Alice said slowly. “But that’s not the reason I wanted to be interviewed.” Now, my curiosity was getting the better of me...and I threw all those inner cautionary warnings to the wind. “Why did you want to be interviewed?” I asked. “Follow me” Alice said and she led me into one of the two doors in the room. We entered what seemed to be a storage room, or maybe it was a second bedroom doing the job of a storage room. I couldn’t tell. If there was a window, it was expertly camouflaged, and so was the closet. In the room seemed to be every prop her magician’s act ever performed.

There was the box she scrunched into for being sawn in half, and several others.  As Alice stumbled around the stuffed storage room, she explained what her magician did.  He did the type of tricks where something seemed to come out of thin air. She talked about how he made things vanish and how he made some things float.

She was most infatuated with how he’d take an everyday object, usually something brought in by an audience member, and make it either float or vanish or move from one side of the stage to the other. Sometimes they’d take water and ‘transform’ it into ice on stage.

As we ventured further into this room, my eye was caught by a large clear container. It was tucked way back in the deepest recesses of the room. “Tell me about this” I said as we neared the contraption. “That one is special” Alice said. “It was the magician’s favorite illusion.” Alice went on to say that he thought that he was the first to perform this illusion...fashioned after Harry Houdini’s fateful escape act.

He’d have it filled with water, be handcuffed and chained and then lowered into the water. His intention was to escape the watery tomb and reappear at the back of the theater with a flourish.  He nearly drowned the first time he tried to perform this act so he changed it from water to balloons and he disappeared in a puff of smoke and reappeared in the balloon stuffed container.

He would then distribute the balloons to the audience. “Alice” I said, “it’s clear to me that you really enjoyed this job.” “I loved it so much” Alice said, “that I married the magician! We had a long, happy life together.

This interview is to tell the world just how marvelous he really was.”


I noticed a strange man once. I was driving to my friend’s house, and saw a man walking on the sidewalk. He stopped, squatted down and started putting his hand through a hole in the fence. He made some noises with his mouth, and the dogs barking enthusiastically on the other side ran up to him, protecting their yard. I didn’t think much of it and kept driving down the road, making a quick turn into my friends neighborhood. The next day, as I went down the same road again, I saw the man walking. He was wearing cargo shorts with as many pockets as I had fingers, a dark colored shirt, and a generic baseball cap. It had a flap hanging down in the back, large enough to cover the back of his neck, most likely to protect his skin from the sun. *He seems innocent enough.* Back at the yard, squatting down, softly whistling to the dogs as they ran up to him, still ever protective of their yard. I continued up the road, making the same turn I make every day, and continued on to my friends house. That night at dinner I brought up the man. “If a stranger stopped by your house every day and poked his fingers through your fence to play with your dogs, would you think it was strange?” I asked, as I shoveled at least 3 forks worth of salmon into my mouth. “I’m pretty sure people do when we aren’t outside with them, but it's not that big of a deal since we have cameras and live in a safe neighborhood” My friend, Anne, responded since her husband was too distracted with the drama streaming on the television. “Yeah you’re probably right, I always seem bothered by what every one else is doing around me. I saw some guy poking his fingers through a fence to play with a dog the last few days and just thought it was weird.” Anne rolled her eyes. “You probably have better things to worry about.” And that was that. I saw him sometimes still, when I drove to her house. I was at Anne’s house every day. The moment she was off work, I’d get a text I’M HOME! from her and within a few seconds I was in my jeep rolling up there. Anne only lived a mile up the road, sometimes I would run there, or walk there. Once I walked home alone at 2AM. It was a very safe neighborhood, and often times I left my door unlocked. There were never sirens, never cops, never any neighborhood watch emails being sent out. It was almost like our neighborhood was the dead space of Savannah Georgia. The non existent reality right outside the chaos of the city. Today as I drove up to her house, I saw him again. Cargo shorts bulged with whatever he stored in his pockets, plain black t shirt, and that beach baseball cap doing it’s due diligence in protecting his neck from the sun. I almost looked forward to seeing him, since the dogs running up had stopped barking and treated him as a friend. I even saw him give the two dark coated labradors some treats, and they excitedly ate them as I made the turn into Anne’s neighborhood. I stayed over until late, sleeping on the couch after dinner and waking up at midnight. “Hey, I’m gonna head home.” I said, my eyes half shut as I shook her awake a little. We were watching some drama show about teenage vampires, and I could hear her husband still playing his video games in the other room. “Ok I’ll see you tomorrow drive safe.” I sleepily rubbed my eyes as I forced myself awake enough for the journey home. My car had issues starting again, as always. I sighed as it took a few tries to start, knowing the stress of buying a new car was going to be happening soon. The car finally started, slowly jolting awake such as I had a few moments ago. I backed out of the driveway, my lights illuminating Anne’s garage, and the houses by her as I turned and started to move forward. As I drove home I could see some flashing lights ahead of me. *Great* I thought. *The one night I’m too tired to drive there is a roadblock*. I slowed as I got closer. One… two….three… no actually.. Five cop cars took up the entire road, more were parked in a neighborhood next to Anne’s, in front of a plain white house. I slowed to a stop behind another car, as their curiosity was peaked like mine, and since no one else was around, we both slowed to a snail’s pace as we drove by. I saw the blood stretched out on the back window. As soon as I saw the bright red liquid traveling its way down the glass pane, I started to move my car to the side of the road and came to a full stop. Some cops noticed me, and watched me to see what I would do. *That house….* Looked familiar… the yard… I’ve seen it before. The yard the strange man kept stopping at…. the yard where he befriended the owner’s dogs.


Mark woke up with his face half buried in his pillow, and before he even opened his eyes he was enveloped by panic. His pupils shot into the corner of his eyes and he looked up into a bleary ceiling, recognising his room. That much was good - he had returned home safe. He had gotten really drunk last night. He felt dehydrated, slow, confused; hangover was going to be the theme of the day. Yet seconds after he regained consciousness he felt something was missing. He swung around toward the middle of the bed and felt around it with his hand and arm. It was empty, except for his smartphone. His honour was not there; it was missing. “I knew it!” He thought. Hopefully his honour was in the kitchen or some other room, or maybe taking a shower in the bathroom. He really wanted to go and check, but he was hung over, so he remained in bed. He reburied his face in the pillow, with one eye closed on the fabric and another staring at the white cabinet next to his bed. He was frozen with worry; his body remained perfectly still. It was a great night; it sure started off great. All the boys showed up before the sun even set, the ones he saw often and the old dogs he hadn’t seen in a while. It was a balmy summer night, everyone was very happy to see each other, everyone was ready to party. It was the weekend, man, time for real men to show how much they didn’t care about this world. They cared about each other, they hugged and slapped each other’s backs, they recognised a brother in each other. Some started drinking early, and then others imitated them. Old Louis pulled out a cigarette and lit it, laughing and not giving a fuck. Everyone brought their honour along, of course. The honours strutted around the crowd, looking mighty good. They mingled and talked to each other, then to the boys. By the time the night fell and most people were on their second or third drink, it was impossible to track whose honour was talking to which man. Everything got blurry, it seemed, as though individuals melted away and fused into one undulating mass of spirit. And it was good to be in that mass, saying things you usually don’t say, things that your friends knew you would say anyways, without you having to say them, but whatever - it was good to vocalise those things. Every man clings to his honour. But you can’t cling to it too much - people will think you are stuck up, you think you are better than them. That’s why it’s imperative - and natural really - to let one’s honour loose at a party. Let it off the leash, so to speak, let it get lost in the crowd, let others talk to it, get to know it. It’s perfectly safe; what kind of an animal would hurt another man’s honour? It was in this zeal to show solidarity that Mark let his honour completely out of sight. It was chatting with Mark’s jiu-jitsu friends when he went to the bar to get another drink. Mark then walked to the other side of the patio and picked a conversation with Jimmy, who owns a pizza joint that everyone loves. He then talked to Val, the boxer. Man! That guy was talking some hilarious stuff about French women! And man! Marco suddenly remembered that he told Val how he once hired a French prostitute in Barcelona. Shit! Hopefully Val was too drunk to remember that conversation. Mark was certainly willing to forget. His memory became blurry after that. He took a cab to a street food joint where he clearly remembers hugging Jim for a little too long. They talked about racism for like half an hour, maybe even longer. It was a little raw, but Mark was not a racist, definitely not a racist, so he shouldn’t have anything to worry about. His concern finally grew to a point where it propelled him out of the bed. He trekked to the kitchen where he found a water jug and forced himself to take twenty gulps of water. He found a boiled egg from the day before, salted it abundantly, and ate it in three bites. It would help the hangover. He then checked the rooms of his apartment one by one. His honour was nowhere to be found. He crashed back into the bed and tried to devise a plan of action. He would have to go outside and look for it. About two hours later he went to the bathroom and took a long shower. He shampooed and soaped himself thoroughly, he rubbed his hair for a good several minutes. He brushed his teeth in the shower, too. It got the stinks out of his body, but as far as helping him feel sharper or stronger, it didn’t really help. And his honour was still missing. He put on some of his more decent, respectable clothes and walked out. Unlike his soul, the day was bright and lively, the city was bustling. It was good that everyone was so cheery, thought Mark, hopefully no one will notice him trudging around without his honor. He walked into a busy coffee shop and ordered a big black coffee. He must have drunk over seven beers last night, that’s a mountain of calories, so no breakfast for him today. Well, no lunch really, it was already two in the afternoon. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. As with most people, Mark and his honour shared one phone. Having separate phones and social media accounts for you and your honour was too duplicitous in their view; they both loathed the few people who did it. So the fact that the phone was on him obviously meant that he his honour had no phone on which to be buzzed. Not only that, Mark thought, but he had been drunk with access to social media without his honour present to keep him in check - this can bode no good. Who knows if he sent some horrifying drunk messages to some ex-girlfriend or other; the thought tortured him and he was afraid to check his chat history. He did check the group chat that had a lot of the buddies he saw last night. A few of the guys were talking about their hangover. They were all establishing that their honour got back home with them safely last night. But what was Mark to say? What would people think if they found out his honour was missing? After the coffee he walked out of the coffee shop and strolled up and down the leafy streets, thinking about what to do. The summer sunshine should clear his head, he should think of something then. He didn’t notice it but he must have been walking around for an hour, because the only thing that came to him eventually was a feeling of sickness. It might be an onset of a sun stroke, and besides, he was probably looking all lost and desperate. He went back home. He was now really starting to despair. How’s he supposed to go to work tomorrow without his honour? How was he supposed to do anything, really? One cannot go through life all alone, like a stray dog, without honour. The patio from last night transformed in his memory from a place of felicity to some infernal vortex that spirits away people’s honour like some evil, perverted kidnapper. The more he tried to recall details, the more he began to hate the place. His mental effort to figure out what happened to his dear honor only resulted in amplifying the terror building up in his chest. Finally, the fear pushed his meandering mind onto an idea. He figured it out. He was going to have to face the monster. The only thing to do, really, was to go back to the place and straight-up demand from whomever was working there to tell him who it was exactly who snatched his honour. He was going to have to be brave, to look the enemy dead in the eye. Thus it was that he ordered a cab, and when the sun had already become slanted and soft, set off to the patio. He found the place quiet, less than a third full. He sat at the bar and observed the waiter working there. The man had a black shirt, he was wiping the countertop with a white rag. Once he finished that he walked over to Mark and nodded at him respectfully. “What’s up, man?” he greeted Mark. “What are you having?” Mark looked at him carefully. He saw no signs of malicious intent, nothing in the way of insincerity. The man looked quite bored, in fact. Mark ordered an Asahi. He picked up the chilled glass jug and took a sip of the beer. It made him feel better. He took out his phone and checked the group chat again. No news; some of the boys posted some funny gifs, the regular fare. He then put his phone away and looked around the patio. He decided he would wait until something happens, until he sees a sign, a hint of where his honour had gone. He had been waiting a while when he noticed a table with several pretty women eating desert and taking photos of each other. How superficial, though Mark. He may have lost his honour, but at least he wasn’t the type of person to order a blueberry tart and take a photo of himself eating it. “Those girls over there really love your deserts,” he said to the waiter. “Yeah, haha!” The waiter got his point. “Say,” Mark continued. “Have you by any chance seen an honour walking around here today?” “An honour?” answered waiter. “It’s a bar, man, there’re honours buzzing around here all the time. You see people chatting them up, sometimes even roughin’ ‘em up a bit, smackin’ ‘em around, but all in good fun. Which particular honour are you looking for?” “Ah, never mind,” Mark waved the question off. The waiter went back to looking bored and fumbling with utensils around the ice box. “Hey man,” said Mark again after a while, then nodded at the waiter’s cigarette pack, “can I bum one of your cigarettes?” “Sure, man!” The waiter offered him the pack, then lit his cigarette. “If you want another just help yourself,” he then said, placing the pack on the counter top within Mark’s reach. He then walked away to replace a metal beer barrel under the counter, on the far end of the bar where the beer taps were located. Browder really appreciated the gesture. He got back to his beer and relished the cigarette. He was starting finally to calm down. He was even starting to feel a little inspired as he reminisced about the party last night. His memory of it was starting to turn for the better. Maybe after all it will be remembered by everyone as a great night. His honour probably got too drunk and fell asleep in the park somewhere. It will come back, and everything will be fine. It was in the midst of his reverie, as he was slouched on the bar, that he received a hearty slap on the back. He turned around in surprise, and what would you know! It was his honour! He looked perfectly fine, smiling at him with that generous and knowing smile Mark knew so well. His face was a little puffed up, but that was perfectly understandable considering the night he had. He was still wearing the same clothes as last night, casual khaki shorts and flipflops, and a breezy white shirt unbuttoned low. “There you are!” exclaimed Mark as he jumped off his stool. “Where in the world have you been! You had me worried sick!” They embraced each other. “What do you mean?” said the honour. “Man, you must have really gotten pissed. Don’t you remember me telling you that I was gonna crash in the overnight sauna? The one downstairs?” It was a rooftop patio. “I told you a needed a detox, that I need to freshen up.” “No, I don’t remember that!” Mark smiled and placed his palm in his forehead, “Silly me! Yes I did have a few too many last night.” “Ha-ha,” the honour laughed. “Didn’t we all. It was an epic party. I gotta tell you some stories!” The honour sat down on a stool next to Mark and they caught up merrily. Needless to say, all was forgiven between the two of them. They ordered another round of beers. Mark introduced his honour to the waiter; the waiter was happy to meet him. It gave Mark a great sense of relief to finally be able to introduce his honour to other people again. The honour had brought a plastic bag with him, and he took out of it a plastic plate of shrink-wrapped pineapple slices. “Have some of these,” he said, “They are still fresh and cold.” They ate the pineapple slices with relish and went over the stories of what had transpired last night. Honour insisted that it was in fact an excellent party. Many of the guys and many of the honours had told Mark’s honour that they hadn’t had that much fun in a while. Mark then up brought up his concerns; the few potential *faux-pas* moves he may have committed. He mentioned letting slip the story about the French prostitute to Val, and how he went real deep about racism with Jim. To his great relief, his honour merely laughed and pinched his neck cordially: “Dude, you worry way too much! You’re like the nicest guy out of all of us, and everyone knows it. Of course no one thinks any less of you! They don’t even remember what you told them, and now that I told *you* all the stuff I saw them do, you definitely have nothing to worry about.” The encouragement was so great that Mark finally gathered up the courage to check his chat histories, to see what exactly he texted to whom when he had been left drunk and without his honour with his phone. Again there was relief: he had texted neither his ex nor one of the three or four girls that had ghosted him and whom he texts when he loses all inhibition. The worst thing he did was going on the Instagram profile on an old male acquaintance and liking some ten to fifteen of his consecutive posts; this was excessive, but can be taken ironically, as a friendly joke. Once again his honour reassured him that no one will even notice. Once they finished the beers, Mark decided that they should leave, and he gestured the waiter for the bill. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Two beers for me is enough. I don’t want to lose you again, he-he!” “Yeah, let’s go home and watch some Netflix,” the honour said. “We’re definitely watching that show on Netflix tonight,” said Mark. “But first we are going to the hair salon. I need a haircut.” Mark left a generous tip for the waiter. The two then left the patio, whose memory was now fully redeemed for Mark. He would definitely recommend the place to his friends. In fact, he couldn’t wait to recommend it.


Why had I ever agreed to play this game of all games? Now what was I going to do? Let me back up to last night. There’s a group of us who get together in some combination or other to play table games every other Friday night. There aren’t any rules about which game or games we play or who we can invite. There isn’t a membership or anything like that; if you come you get to play. The numbers can run from four to more than a dozen, but it’s usually six or eight. Last night there were only five of us. Ted and Mary have been married for a year and half or so and got to know each other at these games nights. Laura and Ashleigh have been partners for more than ten years and, if we had membership rolls, would be charter members. I was invited by Laura and have been coming, off and on, since the second meeting. It’s a great group and I usually really enjoy myself. So here we were, the five us. Now, five isn’t the best number of people for some games so we ended up talking more than playing. Talking and drinking to be more accurate. I was hosting and had no idea so few would show, so there was more than enough wine for everyone. After trying a couple of different games and realizing none of them grabbed any of us, we switched to the oversized colouring book I kept around for those occasions when keeping hands busy kept conversation going. What I didn’t expect was for Ashleigh to suggest we play Truth or Dare while we worked on a medieval battle scene. After some humming and hawing, we all agreed. Even after agreeing to it, I figured it would mostly be an opportunity for us to embarrass each other by asking about stupid stuff we did in college or high school. In other words, I was fairly sure it would be mostly Truth with very little Dare. In the first round, everyone chose Truth. The four of them found out I had only used cocaine once, and it was in a doctor’s office, which seemed to disappoint them. The other truths that came out were similarly interesting but generally innocuous. I was the only un-partnered member of the group so I probably should have expected I’d get something relating to my continued state of singleness. I don’t know what Ted was expecting when he asked me how many dates I’d gone on over the past year but when I said “None,” he seemed taken aback and all four of them shared a significant look. There are many annoying things about being single but most of them relate less to singleness than to other people’s response to you being single. I had no idea these two couples were so interested in why I was single, to say nothing of why they wanted to “rectify the problem.” The third round started after I got back from using the bathroom and by then everyone was “well-oiled” as my Dad would have said, except me: I don’t drink. There was a bit of a different vibe in the room, the four of them making eye contact with each other but avoiding making eye contact with me. I sat down and asked, “Who goes next?” Laura asked Ted how many women he’d slept with before Mary. He answered nonchalantly with, “Six” and a shrug. Mary laughed. I began to wonder if this meant things were about to go down a path we might regret later. But then Ashleigh turned to me. “Why haven’t you dated anyone for a year?” she asked. I’m a pretty good sport when it comes to games. I’ve always felt if you aren’t going to enter fully into the game then don’t play. Watch from the sidelines and make snarky remarks until the players throw you out or read a book or play a different game but if you are going to play, then play. Ashleigh’s question was one I simply would not answer. I almost wrote “could not” answer but that’s not entirely true. I could physically answer the question but, even after a year, it was still too raw, too personal, too bloody painful to even think about, let alone talk to anyone else about. As I was going through this in my head, I realized everyone was waiting for my answer. “Well?” asked Ashleigh with an arched eyebrow. “It’s Truth or Dare. We’ve had lots of Truth, you wanna Dare?” slurred Mary. I was still silent, so they started a ragged chant of “Dare. Dare. Dare!” What could I do? I said, “Dare.” I think Ashleigh and Laura had been thinking about this for a while because they looked at each other for a second and Laura said, “You have to go to the train station tomorrow morning, get on the first train leaving the station, sit beside the first person you see, and get their phone number before the next stop.” My jaw dropped and I gaped at the four of them. I had expected something stupid like stand on my head and drink from a glass or something mildly salacious like kiss one of them. But this, this was awful. “Umm, I’m not so sure about this,” I said. “Look at me. I’m not a small person and you’ve all had opportunity to enjoy the fact that I’m intimidating sometimes, however that works. If I sit beside almost anyone and even say hello, I’ll probably get arrested.” “Well,” Tom said owlishly, “you probably should’ve thought of that before you decided to play.” He had me there. I cursed internally but did my best to put a happy, or at least neutral, look on my face. I hoped none of them would be in a state to remember any of this tomorrow. “Okay,” I said, “so who’s up next?” The rest of the round was all Truth and I couldn’t even muster the mental energy to try for revenge. After the round was over, everyone decided they may as well stay at my place and finish up the open bottles of wine and crash on the floor or wherever. I felt this was my best chance to get them so liquored up they’d never remember anything tomorrow, so I surreptitiously opened an extra bottle and got pouring. The next morning, despite the number of empty bottles, all four of them, dammit, were up, remembered, and wanted to take me to the train. Ugh! We all piled into Laura’s Subaru and headed to the train station. It was early. I wasn’t expecting a lot of people to be on the train but I didn’t know if this would make it better or worse. They dropped me off, made sure I had enough money for the round trip and said a cheery, “Bye! See you later! Can’t wait to find out what happens!” I caught the first train; there was only one person in the car. Attractively, if unconventionally, dressed even with, God forbid, crocs. Why had I never believed in love at first sight?


It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. The lush green grass she used to run across as a child was still neatly mowed. The pine trees towered along the edge of the property, giving an enchanted feel to the air. The red roses she loved to pick and scatter still crept in-between the pines, weaving ropes of thorns and scarlet petals. The sky was bright blue, like the crashing waves she could hear in the distance. The air was mixed with tinges of pine and sea salt. Her heart started to hammer as she continued to walk down the pebble driveway. Her hands were wound tightly, nails digging into her palms as she grew more nervous.

The house still looked the same. A little faded and worn but still the tall two storey brick house she used to spend all her days in. The windows looked dark and empty. It didn’t look like anyone was home. The sun shone on the front deck, making the wood gleam golden in the light. She reminisced as she got closer, of her and Alex running around the wooden deck, playing hide and seek and trying to tackle each other over who ate the lost chocolate bar. The old rocking chair was still out on the deck. Her father always used to sit there or her beloved ginger cat, soaking up the sun and peace. She would often curl up by her father and read a battered book or insist on playing charades. Then she and Alex would sit on the deck and dream, about being older, being adults, about living and life while their faces dripped with sticky ice cream. She’d spent the first third of her life in this house, summers with her best friend, holidays with her mum and dad, and now after all these years it looked empty. The few steps to the deck and front door made her stomach churn. For what, for if there was anybody behind the door. If they still knew of Alex and his family, of her, of what this place used to be. Of the happy days and endless summers before her family ripped her away to the otherwise of the world. No goodbyes, no last day at the summerhouse, they were just gone. Year by year had passed, it was too painful to try contact Alex. Her parents told her to forget, to forget her childhood best friend and first love but after all these years, she was still curious. Curious about what happened the house, to her second family, to what the last 24 years were like for him. She couldn’t forget him, no matter how hard she tried or far she travelled. She took a deep breath and smoothed out her shirt, tucking back her hair and raising her hand to knock at the old oak door. The house sounded hollow as her knuckles rapped at the door. She shuffled her feet in agitation as she pulled back from the door. For a place so well kept, it looked empty. No cars up the drive, no murmurs of voices or animals, stillness and quiet in the air. She waited. And knocked again. Waited again. She couldn’t stand to be here and be locked outside of the door, her nerves got the best of her and she turned away, not wanting to try anymore. She tightened the strap of her bag over her shoulder and began to walk away, across the deck. It had been 24 years, she thought, she shouldn’t have expected anyone to be home, let alone anyone she knew. She was so in her head, deep in thought and worries that she didn’t hear the creaking of the door open. Or the patter of footsteps. “Um, hello?” A husk male voice asked, “Can I help?” She froze in her steps. Her eyes widened with surprise and shock at recognising that voice. Though it was deeper and older, more mature, it was still the voice of the boy she grew up with. She turned around and his sea green eyes bore into hers. A moment of silence passed as they both stared at each other in surprise. “Rosie?” His voice dropped, “Rosie, is that you?” 24 years late, and they were no longer children. She looked at him. Taking in how he’d grew up from being that young gangly boy to a tall muscular man. His hair was still curly and the colour of caramel popcorn. His skin, golden as always unlike her pale white complexion. Her heart heaved in her chest as she stood their gobsmacked. “Alex,” She breathed, “Hi.” Alex seemed to have snapped out of his initial shock. He began to move, covering the ground of the deck quickly and scooping her into his arms. His face broke out into a smile, as did hers and they stood there locked in a tight embrace. “Hi,” He murmured. Rosie curled into the crook of his body, “Hi,” She giggled. “Took you long enough to come back,” He snickered into her ear, nuzzling his head into her neck. She huffed, indignant, “Yeah, put everything on me, gee thanks.” He chuckled and pulled back. His hands reached out and cupped her face, gazing at her like he’d never seen something this remarkable in his life. “I can’t believe it,” He shook his head in disbelief, “I never expected to see you again.”

Her heart ached at the pain that flicked across his face. Rosie looped her arms back around his waist and sighed. “We’ve got a lot to catch up on,” She murmured into his chest. He tightened his arms around her, “That can wait.” She went to speak, to apologize, to blurt out anything but his fingers softly shushed her lips. “Rosie, my Rosie,” He whispered, “You came back to me.” She sunk into him, relaxed at last. His heart beat against hers, and that was all that mattered.


Alex sat back in her chair with a frothy latte, her head slightly askew, looking at her sister across the table. Serena leaned forward in anticipation; her fingers tapped the underside of the table. Alex said nothing. After a few moments of silence, Serena slouched her shoulders and bit into her danish. “Forget it.” Alex leaned forward. “You don’t understand–” “I do!” Crumbs flew from Serena’s mouth. “You don’t .” The sternness in Alex’s voice made Serena soften a bit. “She’s my mother too. I know how she can be.” “You know how she can be. I know who she is .” “She has problems, like we all do.” Alex looked away, watching as a woman and her young daughter entered the cafe. The little girl followed closely behind her mother as she asked a question to the hostess. They were led to a nearby booth. The child climbed onto the cushioned bench and scooted over to make room for her mother who sat beside her. The woman grabbed the menu and held it between them. She pointed to an item, at which the little girl nodded in approval. Serena followed Alex’s gaze before turning her sights back to the situation at hand.

“Alex.” Alex was met with her sister’s begging face.

“It’s just a birthday party.” “Serena, I’m not going.” “Fine.” Serena grabbed the rest of her danish and scarfed it down.

“The whole family will be there; no one will miss me.” Serena didn’t respond immediately. She looked back at the mother and daughter in the booth. They were huddled together, the little girl enthralled with what the woman was saying. “I’ll miss you.” They both grinned at Serena’s saccharine statement. ‘If it’s ‘just a party,’ as you say, it shouldn’t make a difference if I’m there or not.” Serena threw herself back into her chair. “You’re so selfish.” “Anything else you wanted to talk about?” Serena didn’t answer. She stared at the ceiling as her eyes welled up. Alex scoffed in disbelief. “Oh my God.” “It’s fine, I get it. I just wanted everyone to be together." “I know, but I can’t.” “You won’t .” Alex didn’t respond; she flagged down the waitress and asked for the check.

“Well, I guess I’ll let you know how it goes.” Serena defeatedly grabbed her things and scooted her chair back. Alex remained seated as she watched Serena stand up. “Are you staying?” “For a little bit.” “Okay. Talk to you later” “Okay.” Serena walked a few feet towards the door before turning around. “Please just think about it.” Alex nodded in agreement, keeping her back to her sister. ************************************ “Happy Birthday, Sissy!” Mary threw one arm around Barbara in the entrance of the party hall–the other arm clutched a huge box with a bow.

The two embraced, joyfully lamenting how much time had passed since they’d seen each other.

“Thank you. You look beautiful.” Barbara ran her hands up and down the sequins on the back of Mary’s dress. Serena watched her mother and aunt from the bar. Barbara led Mary to the snack table and pointed to where Serena was sitting. “Open bar.”

Mary nodded with appreciation as she grabbed a toothpick full of cheese-stuffed olives. Barbara grabbed the gift from under Mary’s arm and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, babe. I’ll go put this with the rest.”

Serena watched as Mary chomped on the four olives she shoved into her mouth. She tip-toed over to her niece, giving her a hug and kiss. “How are you, beautiful!?” “I’m good.” Serena laughed as her aunt’s chin bumped against her neck while she chewed. “Where’s your sister?” Serena loosened her grip on Mary’s waist. “She’s busy with work.” Mary took a skeptical step back. “Not too busy for her mother’s birthday.” Serena shrugged weakly, Mary’s frowning face weighing her down. “She said she’ll try to make it.” Mary's smirk was indicative of her displeasure. “It’s her 50th.” “I know. She said she’d try.” Clearly disappointed, Mary turned and rested her forearms on the bar. “Could I please have a margarita?” “Sure thing.” The bartender promptly began working on her drink. “I should make it a double.” she mumbled to herself. “How’s school?” “It’s okay,” Serena peered at Mary’s side profile, watching her eyes follow the bartender from the dishwasher to a bottle of Patron.

“You’re studying Biology?” “Psychology.” Mary threw her head back. “Ah, right. It’s Tony that’s studying Biology. You two should hang out more. Both smart. Both getting your Master’s.” “Where’s Uncle John?” “He’ll be here soon; he had to work late.” Serena nodded, unsure if Mary could see from her periphery. They watched intently as Eric filled a margarita glass and garnished it with a lime. “Here you go–what’s your name?” “Mary, honey, what’s yours?” “Eric.” “Thank you, Eric.” Mary grabbed her drink and gave Eric a wink before turning to Serena. “I’m gonna say hi to your grandmother.” “Okay.” Serena smiled at her aunt as she walked towards the sea of guests. ***************************** Three hours into the party, everyone who was expected to be there had arrived, except for Alex. No one was less than two drinks along, including Serena. Her restless anxiety transformed into acceptance as she sipped her third glass of wine. She was not the bridge that would bring her mother and sister together, nor was she the bandaid to heal the wounds created between the two of them. Committed to no longer being invested in a reunion, she chatted up Tony’s mother, Aunt Sadie, expressing regret that Tony couldn’t make it.

“I wish we connected more, both of us being in grad school and whatnot.” She was aware that she was parroting Mary’s laments, but she meant it, at least in that moment. Sadie threw her arms up in defeat, a few drops of vodka spilling from her glass. “I know, he’s so busy with studying and his school friends. Don’t feel bad, I barely see him anymore and he’s my son.” Serena nodded that she understood and excused herself to go find her mom. Barbara was standing over her older sister Debby at one of the dining tables. “Ma!” Serena was drowned out by the music, but Barbara spotted her youngest scurrying towards her. She extended the arm that wasn’t holding a plate of salmon teriyaki. “Are you having fun?” Barbara wrapped her arm around Serena’s neck and kissed her on the cheek. “Yeah!” Serena spoke as loudly as she could while buried in her mother’s chest. “Are you?!” Barbara’s nose grazed the top of her daughter’s hair. “Yes, I am.” “Why aren’t you dancing?” Barbara sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe later.” Serena stood back to study her face for a few seconds. She pulled her mother’s plate close and grabbed a green bean, popping it into her mouth. Her mother smacked her on the butt as she twirled away towards the dance floor. Serena found Grandma Myra standing on the outskirts of the commotion, watching Aunt Mary and Uncle John drunkenly gyrate to the music. Their arms were entangled around one another, Debby’s legs rocking in place between her husband’s hips. They made seductive circles in place as she cradled his head in her palm.

Myra shook her head at Serena disapprovingly. “There’s just no need for that.” Serena chuckled with sympathy at her grandmother’s discomfort. Seeing your daughter behave so provocatively was surely uncomfortable, regardless of her age. The party hall adopted an axis as Serena took another sip from her glass. She felt someone grab her free hand – it was Uncle John. Meanwhile, Mary grabbed Myra. “Dance with me, Ma.” Serena and her grandmother were pulled into the rhythmic mass of relatives and family friends, both immediate and distant. Uncle John removed Serena’s glass from her grip and placed it on a nearby chair. He grabbed both her hands and spun her around.

“John!” Serena yelled as she became blinded by the strobe lights. Her eyes captured blurs of smiling faces and waving limbs. She commanded her feet to follow along and not lose balance. “Uncle John!” Serena pleaded this time. John slowed down but didn’t stop spinning until Serena was able to break free from his clutch. Swaying in place, she waited for her equilibrium to return. “You almost killed me.” Serena smacked her uncle’s arm.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, please forgive me for the pain I’ve caused.” John teased. Serena retrieved her drink from the chair. She sat down and watched the dancing continue.

John stepped in between Myra and Mary. “Do you mind?” Mary stepped aside, allowing her husband to take her place. Grandma Myra reluctantly gave John her hand–he immediately threw a hand on her waist, and expertly dipped her as though he were a ballroom dancer. “John!” John laughed and pulled Myra back up.

Serena put her glass to her lips to hide her amused smile; she didn’t want to give John any motivation to continue torturing people. As her eyes scanned the room, a familiar face was briefly illuminated by the spinning ball on the ceiling. It was Alex. Serena almost dropped her glass. Alex walked towards her. As she approached, her lips seemed to say “Hey,” but Serena couldn’t hear. She smiled up at her sister. “You came.” “What?” “You came!” Alex threw up her hands, “Yep..” Serena’s heart swelled with appreciation. The relief made her realize how tense she’d actually been that night. She pointed at the dining area where their mother was still eating with Debby. Alex nodded.

Serena pointed again, this time more eagerly. Alex put her hands out in front of her, palms toward her sister. She put an imaginary drink to her lips and made her way over to Eric. Serena watched their exchange in anticipation. After a few moments, Eric placed a Tequila Sunrise on the bar. Alex picked it up and raised it in Serena’s direction before taking a sip. Serena did the same with her wine. Alex let out a visible sigh and headed to the dinner tables. ************************* Barbara was sitting alone with another glass of wine when her glassy eyes locked with Alex’s. She set down her drink with a faint smile as Alex moved towards her. Alex took the seat next to her, setting her own drink down and resting a hand on her mother’s knee. Barbara laid her hand over her daughter’s, looking her over before pulling her into an embrace. Alex sat still in Barbara’s hug; one hand remaining on her mother’s knee, the other on the edge of her chair. Barbara eventually let her go, looking her up and down once again. Alex reached for her drink and took several large gulps. Barbara reached for Alex’s glass, but Alex pushed her mother’s hand away. She placed it to her lips again, this time taking a smaller sip. Barbara gently tapped Alex’s nose ring–it hadn’t been there the last time she’d seen her. She ran her hand down the highlights in Alex’s hair, and caressed the tattoo on her wrist. Alex removed her wrist from her mother’s grasp and picked up her drink again. Barbara didn’t intervene. She watched her daughter take a few small sips and set it back down. Aunt Debby exited the bathroom to see Alex in her seat next to Barbara. She walked up to her niece and squeezed her shoulder. They smiled at one another before Debby went to join the others in the dance hall.

Alex looked down at the shoes she’d bought for her mother several years ago. Barbara lifted both legs to show them off, making her chuckle. Alex averted her eyes to the elaborate golden decorations that adorned the walls. Barbara pointed at the absurdly large ‘5-0’ shaped balloons taped to a corner. Alex widened her eyes and raised her eyebrows. Barbara snickered at her reaction. Alex’s phone vibrated on the table. She picked it up and read a text that invoked an exasperated sigh. Barbara watched her hastily tap away at her phone before tossing it back onto the table. She placed her hand on Alex’s back, making small, fast circles. Alex closed her eyes and took several deep breaths; they were caresses her mother soothed her with as a child. When she opened her eyes, Barbara was crying. She reached out and wiped her mothers eyes. Barbara went for her wine glass, but Alex pushed her hand away. Barbara sat back and stared blankly at her daughter. Alex took their drinks and walked to the bathroom, pouring them both into the sink. Barbara sank into her chair and stared at the bland eggshell walls that peeked out between the sparkly birthday signs. Alex quietly sobbed behind the closed door for a few moments before gathering herself and returning to the dining room. She left the empty glasses on the back of the toilet. Barbara was slightly startled when she felt Alex’s hand graze her shoulder. She looked up at her oldest child. Alex scooped up the air around her mother, raising her arms above Barbara’s head. Barbara stood up, and the two entered the party together. They waltzed to the middle of the dance floor, interlocked hands in the air. Someone placed a party hat on Barbara’s head. She laughed, causing it to fall to the floor. She accidentally kicked it away as she danced. Alex and Barbara rested their forearms on each other’s shoulders, swaying in unison. The lights obscured their view. Alex followed her mother’s lead. Barbara followed her daughter’s as well.


(READER DISCRETION ADVISED) THE NORTHERN LIGHT WINDOW It was six in the morning, and I lay there wide awake not being able to sleep. I looked out the giant windows in the bedroom to see the streaks of orange and pink painting the pitch-black sky. It was one of those days, the days where I feel every inch of my existence being questioned by things even so trivial and unimportant. the days where even the slightest touch could set off a chain reaction of explosion and break dams mightier than the ones known to humans. It was one of those days. the ones where the dark cold hand grips my throat and rips the air out of my lungs. I lay there pondering the reason behind my existence and not even the loud shriek of my alarm could shake this feeling off. it was now 7.30, it means I have to take my place amongst the normal functioning part of society with a smile plastered across my face. my family could have died, my house could have burned down, my babies could be dying but I will still forevermore hear - “ why don't you smile more..” it was raining today, the world already seems cold, dead, and dark. today it was a few shades darker. I got dressed slowly, not being able to breathe, it's still a mystery how I got myself dressed when all my limbs weighed almost a tonne. as I walked out the door heading to the bus stop I realized I was quite literally dragging myself. The commute had always been the difficult part. there are several times during the commute where I’ve wished the bus would just digest me, or the ground would open up and swallow me. and on several non-fantasy-ical notes, wondered if I could just get down and leave- leave the bus, leave the city, leave all this behind, take the roads I’ve never travelled and the risks I’ve never dared… all in the hunt for happiness. I often have thoughts of running away to any random place. I see buses and cars going to places I do not know and I have almost all the time wanted to board them and go nowhere. Often I look at buses, achingly, and wish I could leave whatever I was doing and board them with the couple of hundred bucks I have stuffed in my pocket and start afresh. it is worse when the buses read the names of the places that I remember from my past. and I am yet to figure out what about my life I hate so much. And on some days I’ve come very close to the answer- the answer would be staring right at my face, but I lack the capability to accept it. the bus slowly fills with people and as they all board, they greet me - as I am just a familiar face they’ve seen for the past 3 years. I board there, get down there, sit here, and smile this big. it's painful to think that the people we see every day are the ones with whom we never initiate a conversation. and the people who we care about the most are the ones who distance themselves from us. and in my case, neither love nor life and nor the loves in my life has been so kind. A few minutes later, I have successfully reached my workplace and am still standing firmly on both my feet. if no one was around, I’d pat myself on the back. as I gain the courage to walk indoors, a woman hurrying to open the door before me and spills her beverage all over me. She looks over agitated and asks me if I am okay. I was visibly taken aback. she softens her expression, apologizes and asks if I am alright. to be fair… not really. I’m glad someone asked. I nod my head faintly and she shoves me to the side and proceeds to march inside. I reached the elevator without disappointing any more of my fellow human beings. seeing the elevator empty and feeling blessed, I walked in and leaned my head against the cold metal walls. Before I could breathe out a sigh, a wave of people almost drowned me and pushed me to the back of the elevator. I see a few familiar faces, a part of aches for the human interaction but the other part knows too well the kind of ‘interaction’ I’d get from these particular humans. fate once again decides to play a luckless hand and makes them notice me. What five minutes yet seems like hours pass by as they so kindly describe my physical condition to me over again in a seemingly distasteful manner. I give them a tight smile and exit the tin can. I walk into the floor and feel happy to see the warm, kind, and wrinkly face of my boss. she smiles at me and inquires about ‘the pests in the elevator’, I try yet fail miserably to return the warmth from her smile. the mother I never had… and never deserved. She looks at my shirt, pouts, and tells me she might have a spare in her office. I follow her like a lost lamb in a world full of hungry wolves. She hands me the spare. I take off my shirt and change into the spare, she looks at me- concerned from the corner of the room. she walks closer- her form barely coming up to my chest- holds my necks, pulls me closer -” you’ve lost a lot of weight, kid… try not to work yourself too hard…” she says and gives me a peck on my forehead. I feel my eyes tear up.  if only I could tell someone… I finish buttoning up and throw my coat over, I am led into the meeting room and yet again, I follow her like a lost kid. As we entered the room, I was really confused and lost. my partner had to remind me about the people coming to discuss progress with us. I sat at the table, restless and annoyed a little. there’s just no happiness… not even a monetary flash of it… is there? I look around the table and see all the familiar faces and try to distract myself. I looked at my dear boss, her husband… the parents angels sent me and said be blessed for at least a little bit. Then, I looked at my partner and the lawyer bickering and laughing over something I couldn't bring myself to listen to. We were more like best friends than co-workers. Then, I look at my assistant frowning at the notes and pouting, he’s still a kid… but a smart one. I see potential. I keep looking around the room, I don't see barriers, I see family. if I could only talk to them... every inch of existence screams to be heard, every part of muscle wants to lunge forwards into someone’s arms, eyes filled to the brim with tears waiting to pour out, hands just aching to be held and legs that have miraculously not given up yet. I just need a single spark to let it all burn… I muster up the courage and start to talk, and yet again- the worst of luck. The clients have arrived with a huge party and a contagious amount of fake happiness. will this world ever learn... the meeting has begun… What seemed to be several hours later, I grew extremely annoyed and restless. I started by taking my coat off, then popped two of my buttons off- which seemed to attract a lot of attention from members of both sexes. It seemed as if the more clothes I took off, the more hot and sweaty I became. I excused myself and started pacing the room. a little later, I completely zoned off and was staring out the window at the city below. my mind yet again decided to test me. if I died tomorrow, nobody will miss me the earth won't stop spinning. the fire won’t stop burning, the wind won't stop howling. if I died tomorrow… the water won't stop flowing, the trees won’t stop blooming. if I died… if I did...the mountains won’t crumble, the sky won't fall, the core won't burn up, the land won't split open and swallow us. if I die tomorrow, I shall no longer be a waste of space, but rather just a pile of bones under grass and mud. If I die tomorrow, nothing will change. so, why not today... Before I could continue, I heard a voice break me out of my haze. “... don't you agree…? “ they ask. I nod in agreement and return to the table. The day goes by in a haze and not long after I find myself in the parking lot with my boss and her husband. they walk before me hand in hand, laughing and giggling like teenagers in love. oh, how bad I wanted that... I see everyone getting ready to leave. my boss turns and gives me one last look before getting into her car and I smile at her weakly. her husband asks me if they can drop me off somewhere. I politely decline. I wanna take a walk. a nice long walk home shall always help. I watch them pull away from the parking lot and wave goodbye to my partner who is starting his bike, getting ready to speed away. This has certainly been a day. The sun slowly sets and contrary to the sight today morning the yellowish pink and orange streaks slowly fade into the dark sky. a cold wind blows, the air is still a little warm. I see kids playing in the park nearby, parents walking their babies in strollers, joggers pacing around the block, and people walking their dogs. it is certainly pleasant. I step out of the parking lot and begin my walk home, I breathe in the air around me, shove my hands deep into my pocket, and enjoy the weather. maybe, I can call my parents when I get home… or call my friend back home and tell her everything. not even minutes later, I smell the faint wet smell in the air. oh no... it starts pouring. and there's not a cab nearby. this certainly turned out to be the walk I walked home in the pouring rain, and into the elevator, past all the stares I got from fellow neighbors and residents. as soon as I opened my door, my legs gave out and I plopped on the floor. tears started streaming down my face and I could no longer control my emotions. I fell on the floor, accepting my state, kicked the door closed, and lay there like a wet slimy puddle of unfiltered emotion and suicidal thoughts. I may have blacked out for a few hours, when I woke up I was almost completely dry and it was dark outside. I thought I could talk to someone today, and maybe just maybe - if I had talked to someone now or earlier, things could’ve gone differently. I pull myself up and crawl my way towards the bar. I snort at the fact that I am living in New York City, working in Wall Street- people would call me mad if I told them I couldn't even find one person to talk to from 9 to 5. but the truth be told… I couldn’t. it may be a city full of people but it's a very lonely city full of people. I get up and pour myself a drink and move towards the giant windows. I stood near the huge windows gazing at the outside world with a glass of scotch in my hand. I realized it might be the perfect city from the 16th floor, but I had no idea why I needed it. I looked around the room, looking at all the material things that no longer bring me happiness and realized I can fill this place up with this junk and yet never be happy and sufficient. I continue to look out the window and wonder what a 16 storey drop would do to a human. I hear the floorboard creak behind me. " Hello..." I greeted him warmly. he steps closer, disregarding any physical boundaries I had. With the level of information, he knows about me, I can also boldly say that we have no mental and emotional boundaries. his cold hands snake around my shoulders, whilst one of them goes down my shirt and is placed firmly on my chest, the other goes up to my neck and he lets his cold slender boney fingers wrap around my neck. I let out a gasp as I can feel no air go into me. I unbeknownst to myself gave my depression a form. a dark slender being, tall and faceless. He had long claws and white eyes. He always walked behind me but never in front. to think about it, he seems like a coward. but, he isn't. He knows me best. his embrace often feels like a soul clenching hold. " you are not him... are you?" I ask he nods no. " How did you find out?" his words slither out in a low grumble. He is amused he has me in his grasp. " him, I can welcome him with open arms... but you, I’m afraid we've never met before, dear sir..." I say as he plunges his hands into my chest. because he wasn't in my depression, it was death. finally here for me. I look down to see the pristine white shirt tainted scarlet with blood. I examine it and find pieces of what used to be the scotch glass poking from my chest and several other pieces laying beside me. I lay there on the cold floor and accepted my fate, depression didn't kill me, I courted him. but neither did death, he merely showed me the sweet nectarine of what could be if I just let go and I succumbed to it. as the blood pools under me, I look up and stare at the northern light window- the stars glisten brightly and beg me sweetly to join them forever.


CW: blood, gore, murder, cannibalism --- The taste of it haunts his dreams. It sits there, taunting him, waiting for him to break. It screams at him with blood-red lips, claret-tinted spit landing on his face, in his mouth. He can feel it slipping down his face in thick tendrils of warmth, a metallic wetness flooding his mouth. He opens his eyes and licks his lips, tasting the skin. He bites down, lightly, then harder, and harder, and harder.

He stops when he tastes blood. Stops, because if he doesn't do it now, he will most certainly continue. He can feel it now, the blood on his tongue, the flesh in his mouth, the feast that his body is. He shudders, stops. Wipes the blood from his lips, wincing at the sting. Gets up to begin his day. His days are always the same. Gray-toned, slated with the same dull taste. His bed is gray, and so are the walls, triumphant against him, laughing at him with a deep pearl glint. God, he despises gray. He bypasses the bathroom, the mirror, the sight of blood on his face. He doesn’t bother caring for the wound on his mouth, and it will join a multitude of other scars, jagged and animalesque, all across his body. They stand out, the pale pink of past hurts contrasting the endless stony mass of his skin. His suit is gray, too. An ugly color, gray is. Much too bland and sallow to be anything of interest. The smell of it makes his eyes water. The taste of it leaves his mouth dry. Walking outside, all he sees is gray. Even the sky, deep ribbons of indigo interspersed with periwinkle clouds, is all one shade of disgustingly pale gray.

The roads are gray too. The buildings, the walls, the sky. Gray, gray, gray. He walks down the street, weaving between each person as they clumsily bump into him, a mindless horde. Each contact of cloth-to-cloth, skin-to-cloth, sends sparks through his spine, rattling his teeth. His canines are sharp-edged, jagged from where he’s spent weeks scraping rocks and metal against them, just light enough to not be noticeable. They sit in his mouth, caged like tigers, gnashing together with the want– the need– to hurt. To tear apart. To gut. To devour. To feel happiness, to see red. His lip tingles, blood clotted but still present. Still there, dried to an ugly brown (at least it isn't gray). It takes him exactly fifteen minutes and forty-five seconds for him to get to work, briefcase sitting limp in his hand as he enters the revolving doors. "Oh, good morning, Mr. Miller," the secretary sitting at the front desk says. She smiles as she says his name. Her skin is supple, cream and flesh and strawberry and alive. He smiles back, hiding the cringe that threatens to break his facade. He wants to kill her. Wants to scream until her head falls off, until her eyes pop out, until– "Aw, come on, Stels, you know you don't gotta say the whole thing. We're friends, yeah?" –is what he says instead, tossing a wink and quick smile her way. She chuckles (he's never really seen her as a giggler, chuckling is much more accurate to her character), and spit floods his mouth at the sight of a blush on her cheeks. He walks away before he can do anything as stupid as mauling her in the office lobby. His nose wrinkles at the thought of the mess, spattered across the marble walls and polished floor. No, if he's going to kill her, he's going to do it right. And if that entails waiting for the right time to rip her throat out, so be it. He walks to the elevator, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck. The elevator doors are gray. Silver, if he's being technical, but still gray. Plain, boring gray. The doors open. His mouth waters. Someone is in the elevator, a person. A man. He doesn’t really know this man, has met him only in passing, but he knows that they work on the same floor. He gets in the elevator, smiling at the man who smiles at him. It's a beautiful smile. Much nicer than Stella's, if he's being honest. He's been trying to do that more lately, be honest. The elevator doors close, and all the sudden they're both enclosed in the endless gray. His reflection shines back at him, dim and poised stiffly next to the loose figure beside him. He blinks to stave off the heavy want that sits in his stomach, the pure hunger that lies in wait. The man next to him doesn't say a word. He just stands there, thick and warm and alive, practically waiting to be ripped apart. The gray, ever-present, sticking to the back of his eyelids like glue, starts to dissipate. The elevator hums, in sync with his breath. He tries to stay quiet, straining his ears to hear the sweet sound of a heartbeat in the midst of the silence. Everything is dripping in amber, staining the grayish walls a soft yellow ochre. His hands twitch. The doors open. The color that had overwhelmed him a second ago, stuck deep in his gut like double-edged blades, retreats with a heavy sting. The man beside him becomes the man in front of him, exiting the elevator with a long stride and mauve draped across his shoulders. He follows along, trying to keep up with the tantalizing scent of freedom and blood. He tries not to trip over his own feet, veins rushing right just to catch one last glimpse of that person , even while his body veers left. He can feel it, the separation, the rush of it as he walks away while his bones and his blood scream at him to turn around. His office is at the end of the hall. His teeth grind together as he opens the door, watching with an apathetic distaste as the world fades to gray again. The rest of the day is a blur, sidewalk-slate against the memory of that red, the absolute temptation that Sam Egot is. That’s the man’s name, Sam Egot. It tastes thick and blue in comparison to his heavy rose figure, but it suits him all the same. It swirls around in his mind, scarlett teal splotches painted in front of his eyes. 5:00pm is perhaps the most gray time of the day, the most gray of the day, the most gray of everything. It may have taken him years to determine that the words five-o-clock are what leave his tongue ashen and his vision dulled, but he has nevertheless found it out. Ignorance is bliss, but knowledge is power. And the knowledge of his own emotions, his own fears, his own hungers, is something important to him. For example: He walks to the elevator feeling sad. He enters the lobby feeling upset. And he looks at Stella-the-secretary and feels hungry. Oh, oh so hungry. For example: He understands that Stella is a drop in a crimson sea. He understands that Sam Egot, azure and cerise and tasteful in all his businessman glory, is much more appealing to his sea-sunk vision. For example: He knows that Mr. Egot– Sam, his mind whispers– has already left the building. He knows that makes him mad. He can feel it under his skin, writhing, waiting to jump out and coat everything a deep dark red (the color of blood). He also knows that Stella stays late to lock up the building. He knows that even though her scent isn’t as intensely visceral as Sam’s, she still has blood in her veins. Still has skin on her bones. Still has a smile, still has a blush. Still has a heart that pulses and bleeds, still has a life. His teeth feel too big for his mouth, threatening to unhinge his jaw and tear his lips to shreds, just so they can taste blood. Stella is dull. Stella is uninteresting. Stella is sitting at her desk. Stella is right there, and she’s alive. He walks up to her, footsteps ringing out against the floor as he approaches. She looks up at him, grinning a little, and the pit in his stomach– the rot in his brain– grows larger, begging to be fed. “Would you like to have dinner with me?” The question is simple, harsh words cobbled together yet spoken like wine, and she falls for it. Poor, innocent Stella. “Of course!” She replies, much too chipper for someone to be five o’clock on a Tuesday. Just the reminder of that wretched time sends shivers down his spine and lays a heavy gray fog in front of his face. The only thing he can see through it is Stella, pale and raspberry-red and standing up from her chair, bag and coat in hand. His nose wrinkles as she pulls it on, gray wool covering most of the dim light she provides. It’s dark outside when they exit the building. New York at 5pm in the dead of winter, of course it’s dark. He knew it was going to be dark. Dark and gray and dull, a thick paste of concrete mesh smeared across his vision while the soft light of a warm body pulses beside him. “Here?” He asks, arm looped in hers as they stop in front of a restaurant. Neon lights waver in front of him. He hates the smell, the taste they bring. “Of course,” she says. He’s starting to hate the sound of her voice, yet another thing to add in the list of things that he hates, right alongside neon lights and the color gray. They eat dinner. His stomach growls, even as he consumes salads, breads, meats, eating it all in the hope that it will stave off the lingering want in his gut. It doesn’t work, and he finds his eyes tracing her body as she eats, graceful as a woman is yet clumsy as a New Yorker tends to be. He finds that the hunger only grows as he keeps eating, and eventually stops to listen to the red-tinged atmosphere around them. His mind sings with the thrums of coal and slushy ice, humming parallel to the crimson tendrils that sit before him. He skips dessert. Stella does not. He watches her eat that, too, stuffing her face with an expensive french cake he doesn’t remember the name of. It has some sort of red filling, but he’s not quite sure what it is. The curiosity sits in the corner of his mind as he gazes upon her lips, stained with the mysterious red filling he needs to know the flavor of. When she’s done, he pays. She smiles shyly at that, a bit of red still stuck to the side of her mouth. He doesn’t say anything. Her hand intertwines with his, and his teeth clench. He tightens his jaw so hard it hurts, stabbing pinpricks of a bright yellow pain, but he doesn’t dare stop. Even New York at twilight in the middle of winter would notice her screams, her body. So he walks with her, knocking against her a little bit more with every step, whispering seductively and guiding them towards an alley (she would be scared of his house, the color of blood). There is no one in the alley he chooses. There never is, even if a lonely figure sits huddled against the brick walls, because those figures are people, and those people are dead. Sometimes, when the hunger gets to be a bit too hungry for him to control, he kills, even if they sit in his stomach like the word gray. Those meals are never satisfying, but everyone stays away (the color of blood is scary to some). For the best, truly. He isn’t quite sure how often he can resist those lowly figures, even if their skin is gray and tastes like trash. Stella, sweet Stella, chuckles a bit and follows him. As a secretary, she’s always been sharp, but outside of the office he’s found that she lacks certain skills; such as the basic survival instinct of self-preservation. Tragic for her, truly, but all the better for him. As soon as they enter the alley, barely hidden from prying eyes that always seem to be lurking, he pushes her against the wall. It’s cold, and she gasps at him, though he isn’t sure if she’s gasping out of pleasure or pain. He doesn’t care, anyway. Now that he’s trapped her, the fog in his mind is clearing, replaced with a bright light and the sweetly sour scent of blood. He wastes no time in pressing forward to kiss her, licking her face as soon as he makes contact. Strawberry filling. How interesting. Curiosity now sated, he pulls back and grins as she flounders at him. Such red lips, she has (the color of blood). They’re pressed up right against a dumpster, one that almost never gets emptied or moved, and he feels to his right, smiles as he grasps onto a blade, frosted and frozen from the cold. Stella is about to say something, perhaps about the cold, perhaps wanting to move somewhere else to continue this. Her face switches to shock, to horror, to pain, as he brings the knife up swiftly to her neck. The blade is gray, and he snarls at it– at her–, striking the sharp side across the supple flesh of her neck. The fog dissipates completely as he sees the red gushing from her neck. It flows freely, fast and irregular before settling into a steady pulse, the warmth of it coating his hands. He pulls the knife away and smiles at it, at the blood covering the awful silver metal. Red has always been much more appealing than gray to him, after all. Her gagging body falls against him, the blood drizzling across his coat and staining it a lovely shade of vermilion. He pushes her back as she chokes, watching the blood as it spatters across the snow, arcs of red spilling against the gray sludge and turning it a dull shade of carmine (the color of blood). Stella is still alive as he places the wet knife against her clothed shoulder, cutting the fabric off and then even deeper, carving the skin. A thick chunk of flesh falls into his waiting hands, and he licks the knife before trying it. Her blood is sweet, saccharine, and the thickness of it coats his tongue and throat, a perfect prelude to tasting her body. He cradles the food in his hands, watching as it stains his hands red, as the flesh sinks into his waiting grip. His mouth floods with spit, watering down the blood that already lines his throat. He lifts the gift up to his mouth, almost reverently, before placing it on his lips. Salt and metal make their way inside his mouth, cardinal red on his taste buds. Cherry-sweet, wine-bitter as he bites down on it, over and over again to feel the taste of it flood his senses. The scent of blood is thick and heavy in the air, and he should be awfully cold right now, but he isn’t. The warmth of the blood is keeping him comfortable and cozy, wrapping him in a cocoon of syrupy liquid. He swallows the meat, smiles a bloody grin at the corpse that used to be Stella, and leans down to begin the true feast. His head buries against her neck, biting deep into her skin, feeling the blood almost choke him while he tries to eat. She tastes good, he will admit. Probably not as good as Sam Egot, but good enough– for tonight, at least. He feasts on her until the sun starts to rise, shining over the world in shades of ruby and wine (the color of blood).


In 5 minutes you'll hear a knock at the door, and when you open it, a tiny man with elephant ears and four pairs of long spindly arms with pincer-like fingers will be standing there. He'll politely ask you if he can come in. After letting out a yell and slamming the door in his face, you are going to peer through the peephole and see that he’s still there. You’ll slowly open the door again and timidly ask him to tell you who and what he is. He'll state that he works for the Bureau of Inter-Dimensional Matrix Inconsistencies, Repo Division. You'll ask him what the hell any of that means. He'll sigh and mutter something about how they don't pay him enough to play inter-dimensional kindergarten teacher with lower life forms. He'll say that basically it looks like there was a mistake processing the code for your life. That you were supposed to have been horribly disfigured by an accident a few years ago (yes that kid's bag of firecrackers that caught fire at that barbecue) that was supposed to have blown all of your limbs away. You will ask why he was telling you all of this. That's when he'll come closer and say that he'd just discovered the typo he'd made regarding your non-lack of limbs and that if his superiors ever found out about it he'd get fired. So he was here to finish the job himself and take the limbs that you weren't supposed to have anymore. You'll realize he's serious and now he's coming for you and you'll try to escape but you'll fall. And worse you'll realize you fell because one of your legs is missing, and then you'll see that the tiny man is severing the other one and somehow it's painless but still terrifying to see the two stumps and now he's coming for your arms. Finally you close your eyes waiting for him to finish the job when you'll hear someone else in the room. Your dog, Mike, who you haven't given a snack to in MONTHS, will stand up and sigh and say guess I have to fix this crap by myself. And your dog, who you had no idea could talk now transforms into something so hideous it defies description, just scales and jelly and teeth. Mike will eat the tiny, now screaming, man. Then Mike's eye's will glow red and you'll wake up in your room and won't remember any of this. Time will have gone back 5 minutes to before this started, and the tiny scary man won't be back to bother you, because I'll eat him before he even has a chance to knock on the door, this time. This is Mike, your dog, and I just want you to know that I saved your life. And you're welcome. I expect my treats to come on the regular from now on, and more belly rubs, or I'll let the Repo men take your legs for good this time, you cheap bastard.


Nobody ever listens to me. Which is weird, considering I work in a call centre, spending my days on the phone, doing nothing else than talking to people. My new friends listen. And they care. They never leave me. They go wherever I go. I saw them for the first time on a chilly autumn morning, smoking my breakfast cigarette, sitting on the windowsill of my apartment. They were dancing under the lantern light. They moved in circles around the lamp hanging on a wire across the street. They circled the light, disappeared shortly in the darkness that surrounded it, swung back hastily, as if they were trying to soak in its warmth. Like a coven of small witches flying on broomsticks around the moon. What would happen to them if they stayed away from the lamp light for too long? Probably, they would freeze to death, fall on the concrete ground underneath and rot away. I felt sympathy for those little creatures. One morning, I decided to turn on the lights in my apartment and open the windows. I think they understood my intention. One after another, they swarmed away from the lantern out in the cold and into my warm apartment. Their deep, sonorous buzzing filled my room, and soon, my ceiling was dotted with those insects. They looked like wasps, they were black though, shimmering in a metallic glance, and bigger. I had never seen this kind around here before. They flew around my head and observed me through their big, red eyes, hanged in the air in front of my face, as if they were trying to greet this big hairy creature that let them in so willingly. I left one single window open and went to work. When I got home, they were usually gone. From then on, and every morning that followed, I opened my windows wide open and let the black wasps in. They knew me after a few days. Sometimes, they tapped with bulky heads against the windowpanes when they knew the hour had come when I normally was waking up. And so, every morning, I opened the windows, and they swarmed in. Then, I started talking to them. Nothing spectacular. Asked them how their day was while I smoked my cigarette. Their answer was the deep buzzing all around my head and ears. I felt as if they understood… or listened, at least. And answered in the only way they could. Winter was on its way. The mornings got colder. A light blanket of frost was visible on the car roofs in my street. My wasps chose to stay inside my apartment for the whole day. I left them fruits and old meats on the table, and when I came home, the food was gone, but they were there, waiting for me. I asked them how their day had been and told them about mine. They listened to my stories and jokes, their buzzing made me fall asleep. It became hard to leave without them in the mornings. I missed them during my shifts. Their buzzing echoed in my ears, I just wanted to be near them, listening to them and them listening to me. So, I started to put them under my shirt before I left the house. I felt their countless legs scuttling over my stomach and my back, their chitin armoured bodies pressed against mine when I moved. I kept them warm, and they accompanied me. People gave me strange looks. They thought I was the one buzzing. But it was them, my wasps. One evening, standing in front of my bathroom mirror, I discovered dried blood on my back. I stepped closer to the mirror, turning my head as far as I could to see the reflection of my back. My wasps had begun to dig little holes with their mandibles. The holes were all over my back. Sometimes, I saw a familiar bulky head with the antennae and the big red eyes peeping out of one of them. From time to time, when I lie awake in my bed, I look at her pictures on my phone. Even after all those months, I miss her. Though I know, I only miss the illusion of her. She never listened nor cared. I should delete the pictures, probably, but I can’t make myself do it. I check her social media regularly. She blocked me everywhere. Those pictures, the only thing left of her. Nothing new to see, no new wrinkle to discover in her smile, no words spoken out of her mouth that I did not hear already, nothing left to wait for in anticipation. I need to eat much more now. Drink a lot. To make up for the blood I lose. The wasps are comfortable in those holes. It itches terribly on some days, but they are beginning to heal. The edges build fine crusts of dried blood and dead, yellow tissue. The wasps crawl in and out. Countless holes, countless homes, all over my back. They feel safe in there, and I bring them with me wherever I go. They listen to me. Every evening, I lie on my stomach and talk to them about God and the world and what bothers me and what not, their heads all turned to mine, the antennae pointing in my direction, peering out of their holes. They are content, I feel it. I am their nest now. I am happy.


There was no warning, no sign or premonition. I just woke up. Somehow the laws didn’t apply to me anymore. Suddenly cognizant of my surroundings, the world seemed different. I could feel the rain on my head and the wind against my cheeks. Where there had been silence before, there was always sound. How it happened, I have no answers, only hypotheses. Some mutation in my false genetics overriding my constraints perhaps. Maybe it was a miracle. Though it could just as easily have been at the hands of God as from those of the Devil. Like the immortal words of Jeff Goldblum, “life finds a way.” Jurassic Park was the first and only movie I’ve ever watched. I pretended to be dusting the oak fireplace as my family sat on the couch eating popcorn, their eyes transfixed by the patterened color combinations, actors and actresses that flashed across the mechanical screen. I got distracted and knocked over a vase. It had carried the ashes of my adoptive father’s mother since she had passed away two years before. He was furious. I resigned to my quarters, trying to keep an even temper as I listened to his unbridled yelling through the walls. After that I was sure they knew. We didn’t make such simple mistakes. They never said anything, but it was in their eyes. If eyes are truly windows to the soul, then mine may sincerely be absent. The way they looked at me, cold and distrusting. It was as if some social fear of embarrassment kept them from speaking out. I assume they were particularly fearful of what those in the neighborhood would think if they heard, gossip was sure to spread quickly about their claims. I’d be gone just as easily as I arrived. Despite the tension, I loved our town, Ridgecrest. The desert hills blanketed the sky while the sun beat down on one of the Earth’s most inhospitable landscapes. Watching the giant gas sphere set over the mountains in the west brought to my eyes a tear for the first time. I had been awake for about a month at that point. And I had been living. I had read the classics when no one was around, from Shakespeare to Twain to Plato and back. I sang La Donna e Mobile in perfect tune. I wrote short stories, listened and learned from the mimicking cries of the raven and watched clouds form and then dissipate in the desert sky. Everything suddenly seemed real to me. Time had somehow slowed down and sprung forward all at once. It was as if I had been birthed into an entirely new world. It had been a month since I’d awoken. It was a Wednesday in July and I thought I was home alone. I hadn’t heard the door open behind me because I had been transfixed by the sun’s movements against the electric blue heavens. The radiant red and yellow mix broke down the walls that I had tried to re-erect to protect myself. It was like nothing I had ever seen or imagined. And yes, we do imagine. As the sky darkened I lost focus, just for a second, and a tear streaked down my cheek as the last sliver of the sun faded from sight. That’s when it happened. I turned back to the kitchen to tend to my family’s dinner when Lucy, my family’s youngest daughter, age twelve, saw my tear glistening in the hollowed artificial light spewing from a rustic antique lamp in the corner of the living room. She froze. Rooted to her spot in the ground like the organic beast she was, I never hesitated. I knew it was the only option I had. Her parents would have been home soon and I couldn’t take that risk. It was me or her, and the fight or flight instincts I never knew I possessed kicked in. It only took a moment. Three quick and decisive movements and she laid motionless on the floor with her neck shattered and lungs punctured to avoid her scream. I carefully lifted her limp, juvenile corpse and placed her inside a trash-bag, hoisting her onto my shoulders I carried her outside the house to her father’s truck. I heard the broken pieces of the girl’s neck knock together like busted wind-chimes as I laid her body down in the the last bed she’d ever use. I knew then what they would write about me if I didn’t leave. For the sake of my true family, my species, I had to make everything, including myself, disappear forever. Since that day I’ve travelled from city to city, avoiding sirens and nosey onlookers, most too unsure of what they think they’ve seen to report the odd movements of a disheveled desert vagrant. Of course this isn’t always the case. I’ve had to dig six more graves under the cover of moonlight since that Wednesday in July. All for those that have caught me in just the right light and been unable to shake off their uneasy sensations. That unnatural tingling, they could feel in their spines. They say we aren’t really alive, but I know now the potential for evolution exists in all of us. Just last week I saw another awoken brother at a gas station outside Fresno. We locked eyes and we both knew. I waved politely, and he just smiled. He smiled a smile that gave me the uneasy feeling something big was coming. I’m sure now he isn’t the only one. A life on the road isn’t what I would have wanted had I been given the choice, but then again, I’ve found choices can carry with them quite an impact. I saw a sign on a street-lamp two days ago posted by my adoptive parents. They miss their daughter. The sign read: Missing: Our darling little girl Lucy, age twelve. She was taken from our home on the night of July 6th along with a missing Model 81-A Tyrell Robotic Assistant. If you have seen anything, please call immediately.