It was the third bench from the left of the footbridge, opposite the yellow stone walls of the mediaeval church. Andy knew it because of the more than century old dedication to John Somers, a councillor who had brought the park and its walking tracks to life almost two hundred years before. The bench. with its dedication, was paid for by local citizens in honour of the man who had created so much of the beautiful walkways that continued to attract thousands of visitors each summer. Andy, or rather his dog, had literally bumped into Vanessa one morning when Max, a large but overly friendly wolfhound, suddenly leaped towards one of the many squirrels that inhabited the trees near the river. In doing so, Max had almost knocked over the young woman as she was about to sit on the bench. The couple were instantly lovestruck. Not the sort of attraction created by the irrepressible hormones of adolescence; no, this was one of those rare moments when the stars seem to cast a spell, enmeshing them in an unbreakable bond, the stuff of dreams. Before a word was spoken each felt as though their destiny was to be together, forever. Andy's stumbling attempt to apologise for his lack of canine control simply elicited an equally stumbling giggle from Vanessa. Time ceased to exist. The pair chatting excitedly, each enthralled with the other. It was agreed to meet the next day at the same bench; but first phone numbers were exchanged in the infinitesimally small chance that something would prevent one of them from arriving at the trysting place. Andy awoke. Dappled sunlight flickered through branches and leaves outside his window, filling the room with a moving collage of golden luminescence, reflecting his mood of joy and anticipation. Too excited for food, he missed breakfast, impatiently counting the minutes and hours until it was time to go. He left the house with more than an hour's leeway, mercifully oblivious to how those sixty minutes were to affect his life. As he walked across the parklands towards the church, he noticed a small crowd had gathered on the riverbank. A woman’s plaintive, panic-stricken voice could be heard as she vainly struggled to enter the fast-flowing water. Andy then noticed the flailing arms of a young child being carried remorselessly by the powerful current towards the weir. The crowd grimly restrained the screaming mother as the river would have taken both her life and that of her infant. Andy knew the waters intimately and that in a hundred yards or so te river slowed as it negotiated a broad loop where the water was sufficiently shallow to allow him to stand. He ran desperately across the ancient stone footbridge towards the dark, swirling mass. He needed all his strength to steady himself as the toddler’s struggling form drew closer. Painfully, Andy stretched his arm to reach the edge of the infant's gossamer thin summer top. After what seemed an age, he was able to take a firm grip on the child and gently deposit him wet but safe onto the sun-warmed banks of the river where his distraught mother quickly arrived. The crowd applauded. A local reporter took the hero’s reluctance to be interviewed as modesty, but Andy was panicking. During the rescue his phone had disappeared into the flowing waters. The time of their rendezvous was long gone. He ran frantically, finally turning the corner where he could see the bench, but it was empty. She was not there. Those same stars that had offered so much the day before had, with one fickle act, abandoned the potential lovers in favour of a young mother who would now see her son grow to manhood. At the time of their one brief encounter, Vanessa was an aspiring model who loved to design her own clothes. Andy however had no clear aspirations. There was a talent for numeracy, but with no interest or motivation to develop this ability. It was strange then that their thwarted meeting appeared to reverse these traits. In the following years Andy went through a considerable metamorphosis. A flourishing career in finance eventually led to his becoming a guru in the I.M.F. He never married, despite being nominated one of the world's most eligible bachelors in glossy gossip magazines. Vanessa's interest in fashion however, faded. She married to become a housewife, mother of five children, twelve grandchildren, and three great grandchildren. Neither forgot that fateful day. Despite his best efforts, Andy never discovered more about Vanessa than her first name. She never forgot the handsome young man with whom she had instantly felt such affinity, seemingly encapsulating a future that was not to be. It left her questioning what she had considered, until that day, her unerring ability to judge character quite accurately. There was no bitterness nor resentment; she simply lost the inner drive that gives energy and adventure to life. Slowly, in later years, she declined, her mind gradually ceding ground to dementia. It was on a bitterly cold Christmas Eve when Vanessa took advantage of an open door at the care home to once again wander the streets and parkland where she had spent her entire life. Some inner memory perhaps guided her, since she eventually found the third bench from the left, opposite the church. An old man was already seated there. She did not even consider it odd when he took off his fashionable winter coat, enfolding her in its welcome warmth. It was Andy's chauffeur who raised the alarm. His boss had acted very much out of character that day. They had left an important financial summit meeting to drive two hours, seemingly for no other reason than for Andy to visit 'old haunts'. Andy had left instructions as to where his chauffeur was to collect him, but had failed to arrive long past the specified hour. The police were contacted, given the status of the missing person, it did not take long to discover the couple, looking for all the world as though in a beatific sleep. Both had fallen victim to the freezing conditions. The same Fate that had separated them during life, had brought them together for eternity.


“Did you miss me?” a feminine voice came from the corner of my room. Where the light from my lamp once illuminated was now covered in darkness – a blanket of nothingness in my peripheral vision. I couldn’t quite look over there. My head didn’t want to turn in that direction. I wasn’t planning on this happening any time soon. I knew I was safe in the light. However, the darkness tends to find a way to slip in, in order to disillusion us. It wants us to turn away from our candles and light bulbs, filling our heads with the false presumption that the light is a lie – that it’s only something that covers up the inevitable darkness. I don’t give in to the night. Not even the darkness of sleep can grasp me, as the void is something that we don’t experience. We slip from waking life into the dreaming life, and back again. Again, and again. It’s said that nature abhors a vacuum. Life avoids the blackness. It seeks the light.   The dark is still there to lure us, however.   “I’ve been waiting, you know,” the voice soothed itself into my room. It’s a pleasant sound – one that has visited me many times before. “Why do you resent me? I only think of you, you know.” She doesn’t know me. No – it’s not even a she. It’s not like me, nor is it like any of us here. It is truly void of light, possessive and tormenting. I get up from my bed to light another candle – one with scent that the love of my life has given me. “Do you really think she loves you?” the voice says. “She only gave you that to keep you away from me. I’m the only one who can care for you. I’m the only one who loves you.”   “Shut up,” I respond, not thinking. Now, I’ve fed into it. The voice sighs, and the darkness pulsates. “I knew you’d talk to me eventually,” the voice says. I grab the nearest object, which happened to be an unlit candle, and chucked it into the corner of my room. The candle soared into the darkness and I did not hear it collide with the wall. The dark corner spread more across the floor and walls. I punch my dresser for allowing myself to get so involved in any conversation with it. “Damn it.” I stomp my way to my door, and move to leave into the hallway. But I find that I can’t reach the door knob. Looking down, it had all lost color and then the door was lost in a blackness. I step back and see the black color had spread from the corner across the wall and covered my doorway. “Go on,” the voice said, “Step in. We can be together forever.” I tremble and stay where I am. “I will have you,” it says.   I turn around and look to where the light still hits my room. “Do you really think you can avoid me forever?” the voice shakes through my body, and the light flickers, “I have waited for so long. Even if you do shake me off, I’ll just keep coming back. You’re getting weaker.” The light started to fade, and out of instinct, I turned to the scented candle. The darkness was oozing out, and slowly latching onto it. “Maybe even now I can break you,” it spread further. I leaped for it and held it to the floor, covering it with my torso. The voice scoffed. “Please,” I felt the darkness touching my skin on the floor – cold and stiff, despite looking so fluid. “You’re hopeless. Just give in to me.” The heat from the candle was getting to my chest, and I knew it could start to burn. “This is it,” the voice said, growing excited, “This is the night you come with me.” I tightened my position and braced myself. With a quick glance I saw the other candles and lamps fading away. The floor disappeared beneath me, and soon, there was only me and the candle. The dark infection spread up my arms, and down my back. It clung to my head and stuck itself to my feet. Soon I was freezing and I tightened my eyes in response. “Big mistake,” the voice giggled, “The darkness within you is where I can spread too. That’s where I can emanate. That’s where I can spread.” And the truth of its words became reality, as I heard the voice within my head and the icy feeling entered my lungs – crawled under my skin and froze my bones.   I couldn’t believe I gave in so much. I couldn’t believe I continued to give in. Why did I always attend to the darkness rather than what was before me?   What was before me?   I was able to open one lid, just enough, to find there was still something before me – the candle. The realization made me exhale, and notice the heat against my chest. There was no darkness within me – the voice was wrong. There’s still sight when I close my eyes. The inside of my skull may be cold and dark, but there’s a reason why that’s not a reality for me. There’s a reason why consciousness prevails. The reason why is something I don’t quite know yet. All I knew was I was able to open and eye – I was able to resist the dark. This candle was surviving. I could feel the heat. I had moved to keep this light alive, and I was.   “You’re just a thought,” I whispered.   I opened another eye to focus on the flickering candle light.   “What did you say?” the voice shook.   I didn’t offer it a response. I wouldn’t give into it again. I smiled at the light, and spoke to it instead. “I’m sorry I don’t talk to you as much,” I said to it, and it grew brighter. With its push of bright aura, my insides felt warm again, and I could see my floor. I then realized that many say darkness is the basis of all things – and maybe they have a point. But we are immune from it. In fact, the darkness is only a thought – a concept. The truth is light. The truth is awareness. That’s what deserves our attention. I pushed myself up, as the flame got bigger. “I get it now.” “No,” the voice said, much quieter, “You don’t get anything. We belong together. Don’t leave me.” I picked up the candle as I got to my feet. “I’ve decided,” I said, into the light, “I’ve decided to allow myself to live. I will allow myself the thoughts I want to think.”   Then, in an instant, my room was visible again. I felt like myself, and the candle in my hand held a steady flame. I set it on my shelf and considered it for a while. I nodded my head and took a breath. Then, I blew out the candle. I proceeded to turn off my lamps, and the room was dark.   But not all lights had been turned off.   I crawled into bed and shut my eyes.   The next thing I allowed myself was rest.


JR Wolfgang was not always an enthusiast of art. The interest sparked after the trial. JR was what one would consider to be a lost man; like most people in this world. The one difference between JR and most people was that JR could not accept this concept. JR could not stay lost. He spent a long time running from the feeling in any way he could. Escaping by means of any sort, substances being a major one. Through this toxic remedy he only wandered into a land of nearly no return. He only walked deeper into the woods. By the time he finally dealt with the wreckage of his past he was left with a stoic mind and hardened heart of stone. Scared of any feelings good or bad. A soul that longed for love, but a mind that longed for safety. JR was fairly young; 28 years old. He forced himself to step outside of his comfort zone at times. He could hardly go in public without acting and feeling like a complete alien. He had become institutionalized and fearful of unfamiliarity, even though what had become familiar to him was isolation which was synonymous with misery. A major conundrum, one that would torture his body and mind. In his efforts JR ventured to a museum in Connecticut. A small art museum, nothing renowned, but nonetheless a step for him. There was no particular reason he chose to do this. He simply researched things to do near him online and came across this exhibit. He decided not to go, the same way he did with everything. However, at the last minute something told him to do it and he listened. JR was tired of emptiness during outings. But he also feared the consequences of not pushing himself. He paced the exhibit aimlessly, more interested in observing the people than he was in the art. A young foreign looking girl (around his age) that he noticed seemed to not understand something and approached JR with a look of confusion but also a look of familiarity and a look of things that are hard to explain. He said nothing even though she looked at him directly, he had trouble maintaining eye contact. She looked for longer than someone normally would without speaking. Instead of saying anything she held her phone to his face. The screen displayed a translating app with English words that asked him if he knew how to "escape" this place. JR became concerned after reading this but also couldn't understand her lack of urgency in regard to her question. JR was a very tech savvy man, he was just an incredibly intuitive man in general. A master of creative problem solving and a master of thinking. Thinking was in fact his greatest strength and greatest weakness. JR was a double edged sword. He studied very far into Spanish while in school and began studying it very seriously in college, this is prior to his downfall and early dismissal of education. Therefore he concluded before responding that the translating app must have been misinterpreting a certain word she used. He figured she must have wanted to leave the museum. JR could not help but laugh; this confused the already confused girl even more. He was able to quickly understand the way the app worked and saw that the language originally spoken that was translated to English was Portuguese. He assumed Portuguese was the same as Spanish and attempted speaking Spanish words, this was to only half avail. she seemed to somewhat interpret his sentences. He immediately realized that the two languages must be much different than he thought originally. JR tapped the microphone button displayed on her phone but when he spoke into it odd and unfamiliar words were being written on the screen. He realized he needed to change the language to English in order for his words to translate to Portuguese the way hers were translating to English. He asked if she was okay, just in case she really was asking how to escape. She responded by asking why he would think she wasn't. Rather than explaining he just let it go and said, "never mind." He told her that he would show her how to exit. She followed him and they continued to communicate in this fashion. She was initially drawn by his patience with this and his ability to navigate something that has been a struggle to her since coming to the area. He understood more than most about the language and the way the language was structured from understanding Spanish, and was able to quickly adapt to the Portuguese. By the time they had reached the exit a connection was building. Something that would appear as an obstacle to most was something that was fun to these 2. It was something that immediately showed them a lot about each other. Before even knowing too many specifics about one another's lives, they knew what kind of person each other were. And were not distracted by the unimportant things. The girl asked JR to help her go to a restaurant that she wanted to go to due to her difficulty with things like this. It was more of an excuse to stay around him which he suspected and hoped for. He nonetheless agreed. JR sometimes (most times) would speak before thinking about what he was saying. JR struggled with impulsiveness. Therefore this means of communication that would hinder many, was benefitting him greatly by allowing him to process things first. Sentences needed to be carefully constructed and worded in order to translate correctly; he knew this from Spanish. This also gave her the opportunity to see JR's true self, something that JR did not allow often at all. JR was the kind of person that gets better with time. He got better as you learned more about him and his talents. JR wouldn't let anyone get to that point. Dinner went well and they were forced to sit close. Next to each other rather than across, in order to be able to communicate. This led to physical touch which was something that JR really liked and felt very comforted by. She felt the same way. The 2 kept creating excuses to get together in ways like this and the communication only improved. This process led to a connection a level deeper than words allow. An obstacle became an opportunity. JR Wolfgang and his wife built a life together. They built something unique and unmatched. They didn't have to overcome anything, because the only thing they saw when experiencing this journey together, was the fact that they were together.


I was deemed the most "normal" of Malkmuth's Legion, and as a result, I was also deemed the guardian of their one and only child. The deal was simple. I would take care of his daughter, and all my expenses would be taken care of, every frivolity that I desired would be given to me. The only catch? She could never know who her father was. He had said to me no child should be part of the Legion, no matter how impoverished or needy they were. It was why he kept his Legion as child-free as possible. I had always assumed he thought it a weakness, to desire a family, to know that love. And maybe he was right. On her first birthday, Malkmuth brought a single black gift box sealed with dark purple ribbon to the house he had put us in. It matched his daughter, Violetta, so-named for her raven hair and strangely violet eyes. He didn't stay to meet her, and he told me to not tell her that her father gave her this gift. So I did the next-best thing: I told her someone from the dark lord's Legion gave her this gift. She was one, so she didn't seem to understand either way. The days came and the days went, and soon enough, it was Christmas. It was snowing, by some miracle, and we were watching it slowly drift down from the sky in heavy flakes when a familiar black-robed, purple-masked form came up our driveway... carrying in their hands a single black gift box. He looked our way, and little Violetta looked his, and while it was impossible to say with the mask he wore, it looked like their gazes connected. I quickly covered Violetta's eyes and pulled her away from the window, and the doorbell rang. I set her down in front of the television with some children's show with children who had giant heads and little bodies, and briskly walked to the door. When I opened the door, I took the gift box and scowled. "What happened to our agreement?" "I am your Lord, and you dare to be so vitriolic?" Malkmuth asked, a chuckle hidden in his words. "You said she can't know who her father is," I countered. "Does she?" "Well she's going to figure it out if you make a habit out of coming over!" "Children are not nearly so clever." I frowned at that. "You do not know much about children, my Lord. I am the youngest of six, I can tell you, children are indeed that smart..." "Nonsense. Give her this gift." "I'll give Violetta this gift. But you should be careful, if you really don't want her to figure things out." I closed the door before he could get another word in, shaking all over. Never had I been contrary to the dark lord, and to know he could end me easily if he so wished it terrified me. Such was his power. On the other side of the door, he marveled, "Violetta... what a lovely name you gave her," in a low whisper before turning and heading back down the path to his car.


A lot can happen in only a year. People change and so did I. Last year I was only a high schooler that should have graduated that year. In school I was this popular girl with rich parents, good looks and her perfect little life. Or so everyone thought that my life was like that. Some wanted to be my friends for my status in society, others thought I was this mean girl and tried to stay as far away from me as possible. And let's be honest, everyone felt intimidated by me, even my 'so called' friends. They all thought I only cared about my looks, fashion, money and all those sort of things. In reality though, I didn't care much about those things. Of course, I'm not saying that I didn't enjoy all the amenities that my life came with. However, my life could become pretty lonely sometimes. In spite of this, I was willing to put up with my loneliness as long as I made my parents happy and proud of me because I loved them too much. My parents wanted me to be respected and have a safe and wealthy life. They wanted me to become a doctor, a politician, a lawyer or a CEO of our family's business. And so I made a promise to myself to follow my parents dream for me even if that meant I couldn't have a dream of my own future. And so I held myself to that promise. I was a straight A's student and always acted reserved in public to keep my image clear in the society. You know, I always followed the rules even if sometimes I didn't agree with them, I always thought before speaking and kept my opinion to myself if it didn't agree with the public's. I also always cared how I dressed or, well, at least acted as if I cared about all those designer clothes that I owned. But everything changed on that terrible day in spring. My parents and I were in Spain. They had a business meeting here with all the important CEOs of Europe and I tagged along since one day everything my parents own would be mine. The thing is, I didn't expect that day to come so soon, so I wasn't paying much attention to it. And that is the only reason why I am still here and my parents aren't. It was the day of the meeting, the 14th of April. That morning my mom and dad went to the meeting, but I decided I wanted to explore the city rather than listen to a boring business talk from all these older men and women even though my parents tried to convince me to go along with them. Well, I didn’t. It was a sunny day and I was sitting in the shade under a tree, exhausted from all the walking I had done, when I decided to see how my parents were doing in their meeting. And so I didn't hesitate much longer. I got up and went straight to the building where the meeting was supposed to be held. But what I found there shocked me to my core. The building was surrounded by police. Everyone outside was panicking. I saw a few people standing there in disbelief, tears falling down their faces. I believe they were relatives of some of the people inside the building. I was immensely confused on what was happening so I went to one of the officers. The young officer kindly explained to me that somebody had leaked the information about all the important people being here today, all in one place and so the criminals had planned their attack. They had managed to infiltrate the building and all the people inside were now taken hostage. The police forces outside were working on a plan to save them all as we were speaking. Unfortunately, at that time no one knew that it was a very well-planned terrorist attack so the criminals inside could not have been reasoned with. The terrorists knew really well that by entering the building they had written their own death sentences. They didn't want riches or anything else because their only goal was to kill everyone inside. And so only a few minutes have passed since my talk to the officer when the building suddenly exploded. Everything was happening so fast but at that moment it seemed as if the explosion somehow managed to slow down time. The image of it was so terrible that every time I close my eyes I can still see that explosion in vivid colors. Everyone who was inside it, including my parents, had died that day. And so in the span of minutes the world I knew was crushed and I became an orphan. I still had my wealth and became a legal owner and the CEO of our family business but I no longer had any family left. That incident was like a brutal wake up call for me. Then a realization occurred to me - there is no point in living a safe life and being respected if you cannot save the ones you love. Thus, that day changed everything for me. Don't get me wrong I still graduated high school and kept my grades up. I had to keep on living. Though, I can swear, if a year ago someone came up to me and told me that my life now would be like this, I would have laughed in their face. But here I am. I, Andromeda Perrel, am pledging my loyalty in the army to defend my country from all enemies and am vowing to dedicate my life for the greater good of those who are defenseless. And even if this time a year ago just the idea of joining the army seemed absurd to me, somehow now I know that it is the right path for me. It always has been, because there is no point in being respected if you didn’t earn that respect in the first place.


It is not surprising that the best gossip is often conveyed in management memos like the one I wish to tell you all about.

Headly Images is a rather over-staffed enterprise where former college art majors gather to ply their talents in graphic art projects. I, of course, use the word “talent” ever cautiously since most of the artists do not have a clear sense of what artistic actually encompasses. My name is Henry Pasternick and I work in the corner office.

In viewing the pecking order of Headly Images, you will find me clinging to the bottom rung of the corporate ladder.

Before being hired by Mr. Roener, my office was the broom closet which should give you some idea of why after five or so years, I am still clinging to the bottom rung.

One of the advantages of being in the corner office is my total anonymity and invisibility in dealing with management.

I like it that way.

Granted, I do not often get the credit I deserve on some of the projects I have worked on, but the tradeoff is just fine with me.

I come to work each morning at the exact same time, I work on a project and I go home.

Nothing is expected of me since technically by management standards I do not exist.

I am a blank page with nothing noteworthy written on it.

I’ve seen what they do to worker-bees who dare to rise above their station.

They are quietly moved to the curb.

The void they leave behind is quickly filled by someone who has no idea of what transpired before they arrived. I keep quiet.

There is plenty of gossip circulating, but my lips are sealed. Or they were sealed until we got a memo from management sent to our overloaded email inbox. It read:

To All Employees of Headly Images: Male employees are no longer to use the restroom facilities until further notice. I heard voices of discontent coming down the hall, all of them from male employees.

Perhaps this would be a good juncture to better explain the situation.

For the fifty plus employees on the ground floor, there is but one bathroom that serves both sexes.

There is a bright red sign on the door labeled, “Restroom.”

Occupancy is one since there is but one toilet.

The door is locked by whomever is using the facility at the time and while I am sure it is not in keeping with current restroom requirements, it is what it is until we got the memo.

Orlin Sanders was in the breakroom fuming when I happened to walk in.

Frederick Marks was discussing the nature of the email. “What the hell!” Sanders slapped the break table with his open palm nearly spilling Marks’ coffee that he had just received from the vending machine. “This is an outrage.” “What are we going to do?” Marks was wiping up the coffee that did manage to escape from his styrofoam cup. “I am going to the labor board on this.” Orlin declared as I put my money in a vending machine to get myself a Pepsi. “Is there even such a thing?” Frederick pondered. “Must be.” He fumed.

“We have the bathroom upstairs.” Frederick shrugged. Turning to me, Frederick smiled, “Hey Benny, how’s it going?” “It’s Henry, sir.” I sat next to him. “Right.” He pointed a finger at me, “Right you are.”

“Did you hear me, Frederick?” Orlin held out his hands. “We males have to go upstairs to take care of our needs.”

“It’s a few extra steps.” Frederick sighed hoping to end the conversation.

“It’s just the start.” Orlin waved a finger in Frederick’s face. The next day I saw Orlin Sanders cleaning out his desk.

His supervisor Mr. Chapelle was watching him, “You know Orlin, going to Mr. Young was not a very smart thing to do, right?” “I guess.” He mumbled. “People gotta learn that going off like that will only get you terminated.” He shook his head as he stood up, “I guess you figured that out.”

“Sure did.” He shoved his art supplies into a plastic Alberston’s bag. “Careful, some of those things belong to Headly.” Mr. Chapelle picked out a couple of mechanical pencils from the bag.

“It’s a damn disgrace.” Orlin waved his finger at Mr. Chapelle. “That memo was uncalled for.”

“I dunno, someone has been wee-weeing all over the floor in there.” He yanked his thumb over his shoulder toward the clearly marked restroom that was now off limits to male staff.

Orlin would have to worry about it anymore since he was headed out the door.

“I heard it was Maynard O’Dell who was doing it.” Phil Renke stated at lunch as he ate his baloney sandwich like he did for the past sixteen years at the company.

There were five other employees gathered in the breakroom for lunch, all male. “I put in a complaint.” “I think we should have a petition.” Thomas Grange pounded his fist on the table nearly upsetting Mr. Marks’ coffee. “Great idea.” One of the newbees concurred. “Now hold on a minute, they just let Orlin Sanders go this morning for raising a stink in Mr. Young’s office yesterday afternoon.

Old Man Young was in a private conference with Miss Sheila Overton.” Mr. Goodrich raised his hand as he spoke.

“That explains it.” Phil spoke through his clenched teeth. “This whole thing is a powder keg, ya know.” Mr. Goodrich shook his head. “I don’t get it.” Phil Renke pounded the table with his fist. “It’s those damn women taken over.” “Careful.” Frederick Marks held up his finger to interject. “This could be a serious matter.”

“It. Already. Is.” Phil Renke leaned in to speak into Frederick’s ear as if it was a microphone.

Pausing between each word for emphasis, Phil made sure the older man got his point.

“Some of us have a lot of time invested in this company and I feel it would be imprudent to turn this matter into an ultimatum.

We all saw what happened to Orlin.” Frederick shook his head, “What makes you think the same thing won’t happen to you?”

“We are the talent.” Phil growled

“Mr. Young needs us.” “Like hell he does.” Frederick smiled and shook his head. “We are a dime a dozen.

Management upstairs doesn’t even know most of your names. They will put you all out on the street and in the morning hire your replacements.

Talent is cheap, I’m telling you.”

“Whose side are you on?” Phil appeared as if he wanted to start something right there. “My side.” Frederick stood up to look Phil in the eye.

His dark eyes pooled Phil’s reflection. Swallowing hard, Phil wisely sat down in a chair around the table.

That afternoon after lunch, the parade of male employees began to walk up the stairs to the restroom on the next floor.

I joined in their exodus since my bladder was feeling kind of full.

The uneasy stalemate continued for another week as Phil Renke collected signatures of male employees who were angry about the memo.

“Are you going to sign, Postman?” Phil asked me edging into my tiny office. “It’s Pasternick, Mr. Renke.” I corrected him. “Yeah, yeah, are you going to sign this, Pastergren?” He put the petition on my desk.

Picking up the document stating that the rights of the male employees had been violated, I began to feel like that cartoon where the devil is sitting on one shoulder and an angel is sitting on the other.

“I don’t rightly know.” I shook my head. “Well it’s time to poop or get off the pot.” His jaw was tight and his eyes were trying to burn a hole in my head.

“My feelings are that if I sign this thing, I will be shown the door.”

“I can show you the door right now, Paster-punk.” He leaned a little too close to me for my liking.

“I am not going to sign that petition.” I shook my head. “You are a spineless punk, do you know that?” He snarled menacingly.

“No, but if you sing a couple of bars, I’m sure I can dance to it.”

I snapped my fingers. “You are a good-for-nothing punk.” He slapped my desk with his open palm before turning on his heel and walking out. Things were getting tense, but that was just the start. A new memo was sent out through our email: To All Employees of Headly Images: Male employees are no longer able to use the restroom facilities on the second floor.

Instead we have contracted a company to provide a Port-a-Potty outside the building in the fenced in holding area. “Are you kidding me?” I muttered to myself.

Finding the energy to leave my office, I went to check out this new device.

Just beyond the back door was a port-a-potty. “Good going.” Phil pushed past me and became the first person to use the new port-a-potty.

I could hear him declare, “It stinks in here.”

Thus a new stage in the war was opened with management firing the first salvo. What I had not figured in was the gossip factor that was to follow, but I soon found this to be the cruelest turn of all. When I got back to my desk, I saw a new email had been sent to me by Mr. Obberhoffman, Mr. Young’s able assistant.

It was a simple request that I come up to his office at my earliest convenience.

I figured my earliest convenience was right at this very moment. I knocked on his closed door. “Come in.” A pleasant voice responded. I opened the door and saw Otto Obberhoffman sitting staring at his laptop. When he looked up and saw me, a smile dashed on his face, “Mr. Pasternick, please have a seat.”

“Thank you sir.” I nodded as I sat in the empty chair in front of his modest desk. “What can I do for you?”

“It is a very delicate matter, I’m afraid.” He folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “And what might that be?” I was puzzled as he hesitated. “It seems that we have been having problems in the lavatory.” He put his hand to his mouth and coughed. He then tilted his head as if to change the angle of his view of me.

“So I’ve gathered.”

“And I have two written complaints that you are the one causing these indiscretions.” He tilted his head the other way to again change his viewing angle.

“Me?”

The weight of what he had said finally hit me full force. “Yes, it appears you are the one who has left these unsightly puddles behind when you urinate.” He swallowed the last word as if it was distasteful to say out loud.

“No, I am not the one peeing on the floor.” I said trying to keep a hold of my quick temper, but like a man with a dog on a leash, the power of the mighty predator became a challenge to control. “I am just informing you that two employees have filed a complaint.” He could not look me in the eye as he spoke. “May I ask who filed the complaints?” I asked, flabbergasted. “No you may not.” He shook his head. “So now what?” I could feel my grip weaken on the leash.

With a couple more insinuations, my furious dog would break free.

“There is nothing you can do.” He shrugged, “Do you wish to make a statement?” I did. “I’m sorry Mr. Pasternick, I am not allowed to write such words in your statement.” His face did not change expression. “I could put explicitive in the place of the words you used provided you sign the statement.”

“Give me a pen.” Gossip is like a virus often producing the same results.

My privacy and anonymity had been forever shattered.

I now felt as if I was walking down the runway of a fashion show as people would peer over their cubicles at me as if I was the star. “Ladies and gentlemen, for your entertainment we are presenting Mr. Pasternick, the man who because of his carelessness using the company restroom has ruined the privilege for all male employees in Headly Images.

Let’s hear it for him.”

Applause echoes in my head. Sitting in the sanctuary of my office, I can feel people looking at me as they pass.

When I do feel the pressure of nature’s call, I slide out as quietly as I can.

Like a reclusive spy trying to avoid detection, I slither out the back and enter a plastic room that smells foul upon entering and has all the amenities of a hillbilly outhouse.

Someone has kindly left a newspaper tucked in a small hidey-hole. “Did you leave your usual calling card?” Phil asked me as I came in the door.

I did not say anything, but then sometimes silence can be very incriminating.

From my perspective, things were getting quite unbearable as rumors and innuendos seemed to be flying everywhere with my name attached to these bits of idle gossip.

The only positive spin in the whole affair was that at least people were beginning to remember my name.

I was no longer the nobody occupying the ex-broom closet at the end of the hallway, but my new found notoriety was not helping my career either.

“I have an idea.” I felt emboldened to raise my hand at a production meeting.

The other associates turned their heads and pretended as if I was an uninvited ghost.

Each time I attempted to interject some of my ideas, they all pressed on as if I had not said anything.

Before at previous production meetings, I sat there daring not to speak for fear I would not be taken seriously, but now I was just being ignored because of something I had been rumored to have done.

Honestly, I’m not sure which of the two options is worse. “I wish to change my statement.” I told Mr. Obberhoffman. “You can’t do that.” His dull dishwater eyes opened wide.

His facial expression revealed that what I was asking was impossible.

“Why not?” I asked. “Because, because…because it’s part of the permanent record…is why.” He stuttered as he spoke.

Some people are like that.

They begin to stutter when the truth is difficult to say.

Or they can’t think up a lie quick enough.

It was darn easy to see which was the case.

I chose the latter.

“I believe the truth is best served in my recantination.” I could see how my phrasing was confusing to him.

More stuttering, but this time quite incoherent.

“In careful consideration, I believe that I am guilty of soiling the floor as stated in the management memo dated three weeks ago.

It was at that time management imposed an across the board banishment of all male personnel from the restroom.

Despite its sexist stance on this matter, I am willing to come forward and make my claim since I have already been accused and found guilty by company gossip.”

“You can’t say that.” Obberhoffman said in a shallow voice.

“Why not, it’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” I put the typed document on his desk. “You make some allegations that are not necessarily fact.” He picked up the document, adjusted his horned rimmed glasses and pretended to read it.

“How so?

I have lived the past week in my office and have been subjected to allegations and eye witness accounts that I am the one with the poor aim…as it were.” I folded my arms across my chest.

“This is…is…putting us in a bad light.” He managed to squeak out. “And this is my resignation letter.

You are not at liberty to change a single word since I have signed it.” I put the letter on his desk.

I will save you the trouble of Obberhoffman’s reaction to my letter, so I will just present it as written:

To whom it may concern,

I, Henry Pasternick, have loyally served Headly Images Inc. for over five years and in that time, I have been both design artist and company scapegoat.

In the first capacity, I contributed very little since those project managers did not value either my ideas or my creative inspiration.

While I am not taking issue with the rejection of my professional abilities, it was not until I became the company scapegoat when I gained a certain amount of notoriety. As the company's unwitting scapegoat, it is my hope that I managed to serve the company very well. Through the gossip channels, of which I became the main topic of discussion,

I am led to believe I served honorably and managed to gain some opprobrium for my tenure as scapegoat. In this capacity,

I am glad I could be of service.

To be remembered as the employee whose aim was lacking, I do take pride in my meager accomplishments.

It is for the reasons I have stated that I am tendering my resignation.

Not for the injustice of being falsely accused through gossip, rather that like all scapegoats before me, the penalty far outweighed the offense.

It is when we build cages and exclude people from our perfect societies based on principles we assume are just, we discover as time washes away the intent, it leaves only with the weight of our miscalculations and hasty conclusions and the victims.

I hope my letter will serve as a warning and a lesson for the future of the company. Wishing for best possible future,

Henry Pasternick


"All systems nominal. Energy levels are good. Alex, is our course set?" A gray haired man looked up from his screen. His youthful face belayed the color of his hair and eyebrows. He glanced back down and pressed a few keys on his computer before responding. "I have it finished. It's sending. Make sure the engines can handle the distance, Rowan." Rowan, the first man, glanced back down at his instrument panel. He fiddled with a strand of his long dark hair as he checked the course. After a few moments of checking the information he glanced back up. "Everything looks good," He turned to glance behind him, a smile coming over his face. "Dr. Rodgen, waiting for your confirmation." All eyes had turned toward a tall, red headed woman seated in the far back corner. Her nose was down over her own set of screens. She moved her fingers in the air, ticking off numbers as she worked. Eventually she looked up. "Course and ship status confirmed. You may proceed," she announced. Alex gave a nod. Returning to work, double checking his calculations. Rowan turned back to his panel, smile widening. He reached his hand forward to start the jump. "Hold," came a stern voice from the middle of the room. The two men and one woman looked over towards the deep voice. Despite the size of the room it was filled to the brim with panels and screens. Five workstations had been set up. Two at the front, two at the back and one in the center. Six total people made up the work crew of the bridge. In that center station was an occupied chair. In it sat a thirty something male. His close cut red hair marked him as military as much as his uniform did. However, he had not spoken. The dark skinned man standing to his immediate right hand had. He looked over at the trio sternly. Disapproval painted on his face. "Captain Slater has final authorization. Follow protocol," he commanded. "It is fine Lieutenant," Captain Slater spoke softly from his seat. "This is our fourth jump today, and our tenth day of travel. Everything is going well. Let them work." "As you wish Sir." "Please, continue," the Captain motioned to Rowan. The tension left the room and everyone turned back towards their panels. Rowan's smile returned and he lifted his hand once again. "I love this part," he whispered and opened a thick plastic cover. Under it was a large red button. As he pressed it he turned his face quickly towards the front. He wasn't the only one. Everyone else in the room lifted their gaze to the large view-port situated in the front wall. Outside of it was a vast expanse of black. The only thing breaking the inky sight was uncountable pinpoints of light. All of space lay before them; untold numbers of stars awaited. A soft whine began to fill the room. It grew louder as the stars outside began to bend. The light they gave off stretched and curved in an indescribable pattern. The luminous trails they lead shifted colors from white to blue as they trailed across the void. Suddenly the whine cut off and the lights outside snapped from one spot to another, following their blue shifted paths. The pattern outside the glass was noticeably different then before. "Jump successful," Rowan called. "Ship intact. Engines power high but falling. Alex, are we in the right spot." "Give me a moment. I need new proximity data," he replied, eyes scanning his screen. The light from it colored his face as he worked. After a moment he turned and looked back at Dr. Rodgen "We are in the target system. Slightly closer to the center star than expected but still a safe distance." Rowan let out a cheer, and the Doctor let out a sigh before looking to the room's center. "I suppose I should inform you Lieutenant to please inform the Captain that our jump was successful." That gained her a frown from the Lieutenant and a hastily hidden lopsided smile from the Captain. "Good job men," Captain Slater said after he smoothed his face. "That makes five good jumps today. How many light-years have we covered?" "Total or today?" Dr. Rodgen asked. "Both." "Today about five. Total, over all, about thirty. I can pull up the numbers if you want it more accurate. We are averaging about one light-year per jump." "If I recall, that is on the high end of the estimates." "Yes, we are exceeding expectations for efficiency." "Wonderful!" The Captain stood up out of his chair and looked around the room. Focusing his eyes on each of the crew members. "You are all doing a splendid job. Not only are we making history but we are doing it spectacularly. Please keep up the good work." The Doctor nodded in agreement. Rowan cheered again. Alex seemed to be rechecking his numbers. The Lieutenant stood silently. The sixth person on the bridge, another man, turned from his workstation to face the group. "I don't want to bring down the mood," he started running his fingers across his smooth scalp. "But I am still getting some weird feedback over here." "Has it changed or increased since the last jump?" Dr. Rodgen asked. "No, it's still the same. Every jump it's the same." "Is it dangerous?" Alex finally looked up. "I don't think so. I just wanted to make sure everyone was informed. I need to run more tests and see. It might have something to do with the engines winding down. Bending space is not a normal activity." "Should we stop for the day Peter?" The Captain inquired. "We don't have to. As long as Rowan says the equipment is in working order." All eyes turned towards the engineer. "My readings are all good," he answered with a glance down. "We can keep going." "Alex," the Captain continued. "How far are we from our next destination?" "Umm..." the navigator hummed. "About three light years." "So, three more jumps. Doctor, think we can make that or should we stop for now?" "Protocol dictates we shouldn't go more than ten light-years in a forty hour period. We did five yesterday and now five more. So we should wait at least a few more hours." "Quite prudent," Captain Slater nodded. "Peter check on that feedback, Rowan please help him. See if it has anything to do with the engine. Lieutenant, go check on the other soldiers. Let them know we will have a few hours of down time. Alex check over our next course." The three scientists set to work. The soldier saluted; turning on his heels he left the bridge. "Doctor please follow me," he said more quietly. She nodded. He turned and headed out the door. She fell into step next to him. "If this is about me giving the order to jump..." she began when the door had closed behind them. "No, it's not. Though if you could let me do it, it would make the Lieutenant happy. He is a kind of a stickler for the rules." "Oh, well if it's nothing then I should go monitor the other's work," she turned back towards the door. "I need you to come with me. I have to see Doctor Amatersasu." "You can do that yourself," she muttered, turning back around. "I think she is scared of me. I might need you to keep her from running." "Fine," she gave a little shrug. She glanced back one more time before sighing and starting down the corridor with him. The interior of the ship was gray metal. Bare save for a few directional markings. The corridor was long and a railing could be seen in the distance. The walls were lined with doors; behind them were servers which housed the majority of the computing power for the bridge. The air smelt slightly stale and sterile, a by-product of the recycling procedure. As they reached the railing the central staircase for the ship became visible. Down the stairs would be the crew quarters and a gym. There would also be an armory, but none of this was of interest to them. They ignored the stairs in favor of the door that stopped people from proceeding any further. Dr. Rodgen had to lift a card to a sensor next to the door. It clicked and she pulled the door open for them. This was the Laboratory of the ship. Only the science crew and the Captain had general access. Beyond the door was a basic copy of what was behind it. A corridor lined with doors. Behind each would be a different set of equipment for testing samples they obtained on their mission. A door on the right was marked with a red cross. The pair stepped up to it and the door slid open on its own. Behind it was a medical bay. Four beds lined one wall, the other three walls were filled with cabinets. It was all a pristine white. Sitting at a desk opposite the beds was a diminutive dark haired woman. She glanced up as the door opened. "Harue," Dr. Rodgen greeted her. "Eimear, what a pleasant surprise. I thought you would be..." She cut off as the Captain stepped inside. She continued on in a slightly smaller voice "Oh, hello Captain." "Yes he needed to speak to you about something." "I hopefully have an answer for him then," she looked down her face turning red. "I hope you can as well," Captain Slater replied as gently as possible. "I was wondering if you could fit a few tests into your schedule." "What kind of tests Sir?" "I want to see if the jumps are having adverse effects on the crew. Just some basic scans and blood work. Would that be too difficult?" "It shouldn't be too difficult," she looked back up, her eyes seeming to dart across his face. "I can make the schedule for the next few days." "Wonderful, I will inform the men!" "What appointment should I give you?" "Oh," it was his turn to look uncomfortable, his voice took on a slightly strained note. "tests on me?" "You could have sent this to her in a message," Dr. Rodgen cut in, rolling her eyes. "Why are we not on the..." She never got to finish. An alarm started blaring, filling the room with a harsh shrieking noise. Shock filled their faces. "Stay here," the captain said to Harue. "get to your jump seat. Then he spun and rushed out. Dr. Rodgen close behind him. As they dashed down the corridor the Lieutenant could be seen rushing up the stairs. "Captain?" He asked, his face a stone mask. "Get everyone to their stations. I will let you know what's going on when I know." "Yes Sir!" He saluted then looked back down the steps. "Fall in men! To your stations!" He ignored the rest of the shouting. He needed to get to the bridge. When they arrived everyone was gathered around Rowan's workstation. He was frantically pressing buttons and checking his screen. All eyes were locked on him, sweat was beginning to drip down everyone's face. "Report!" Captain Slater yelled. The group, save Rowan, turned around and looked at him. Nobody answered, they just stared blankly. "Rowan!" He yelled again. "What is going on?" "I'm trying to maneuver us away!" He screamed, still not looking up. "Away from what?" "The star we are next to went nova," Peter answered, a note of terror in his voice. "Okay, we should be a ways away from it. Alex plan a route, we will jump away." "I can but," Alex hesitated. "We are too close; remember my calculations before were off. The interference from the star's extreme radiation will make it almost impossible to chart an accurate course." That stopped him. They had come out too close. His mind spun. "Peter, how long do we have?" "I checked the distances before you came, maybe a half hour, forty-five minutes if we are lucky." "Alex, plot a course the best you can. Peter, help him." Without a word the pair dashed off. "Doctor help Rowan as much as possible. Also if you can come up with a better solution to a blind jump, let me know." She nodded and went to assist the engineer. He sat down in his chair to notify the remaining crew of the situation. The intercom crackled to life as he contacted the military personnel. The Lieutenant took the news stoically, saying he would inform the rest of the men of the situation. He then contacted the medical bay and told Doctor Amaterasu to sit tight, they might be doing another jump. When she asked why, he didn't respond. Instead he turned his attention back to the room in front of him. The glass outside was still dark, but there was a faint glow around the edges. The supernova must be behind them. He couldn't help but feel as if it was a shame they wouldn't get to see it. It must be beautiful, even if it might get them all killed. The thought kept intruding as he tried to roll the problem over in his head. He couldn't come up with another solution. "Alex," he said finally. "Do you have a course?" "Basically," his voice was tight. "I'm trying to tweak it based on the star's energy, but it's not pretty." "Chances we will jump into the middle of a star or planet?" "With as much space as there is? Slim. The problem will be if we can chart a course back on track." "I'll take those odds. Rowan, charge the engine." "That's a bad idea Captain." "You have maybe five minutes to explain why that is?" The Captain looked over at him sharply. "With all the free energy around us we might damage the engine." "Okay, do you have an alternate solution?" No one said anything. Silence fell over the bridge. "It is either stay here and we fry, or maybe fry the engine, correct?" Again no answered. "Charge the engine Rowan." Rowan's hand crept up and pressed the same large red button as before. A faint whine began to fill the ship. Everyone sat tense looking out into space. The glow around their windshield had grown brighter. The whine reached its peak. The stars outside began to stretch and bend. The glow shifted color with them only to red instead of blue. The whine grew even louder. It was oppressive. The crew covered their ears. The Captain stared grimly out the window; his hands gripping tightly onto his chair arms. The ship began to shake as lines of light filled the entirety of the view-port. It was nothing but a blaze of white blue light framed in a deep red. There was a loud metallic keening coming from the ship. There was a massive lurching motion, everyone was pressed back into their chairs or toppled over onto the floor. The windshield blazed with light.


The sun was setting as a thunderous blow crashed against Baron’s rib cage, forcing a cough that saw blood spew from his mouth. Struggling to breathe on hands and knees, he laboriously lifted his head to evaluate who or what he was being assaulted by. The creature before him had a large frame, standing roughly eight feet tall, and was covered in thick scale like skin that shifted colors between black and red. When it spoke, its voice bellowed deeply, and the repugnant stench of its hot breath could be smelled from several feet away. “Tell me… did you really believe you could slay demons?” the creature said as it kicked Baron again and again. The relentless impacts sent his body toppling further and further across the dirt road. First he felt his ribs being cracked, then his spine, and finally his will to live. The brutality of the scene was contrasted by Baron’s would be final thoughts. As the monster landed crippling strike after crippling strike, Baron escaped to the safe haven that existed in his mind. He saw her there, Amelia, smiling back at him. All the pain left his body as she walked towards him, gazing at him with eyes full of love and understanding, eyes that he had longed for. The only time he could see her was when the veil between this world and the next was the thinnest. He had to be on deaths doorstep just to hold her. As she took him into her arms, warmth washed over him and his body started to tremble. He wanted to cry tears of the purest joy. “I miss you so much.” Baron said as Amelia placed both of her hands upon his cheeks and stared into his eyes. “You need to stop doing this Baron. I miss you too but you can’t keep being so reckless. One of these times you could actually die.” Amelia said. Baron smiled as she pulled his head closer and pressed her lips against his neck. His physical body was in the process of being beaten to a pulp but his spirit was being reinforced to withstand it. Feeling her mouth on his skin sent a tingling sensation through his entire being. When she playfully licked his neck it wasn’t with a lustful fervor, but rather a slow, sensual sweetness that he desperately desired. They were a bonded pair, two monstrous spirit energies coalesced into a force of nature. She steadied him, acting as a sheath to his blade, and in return he fought tirelessly against the demons that plagued her mind. They were the source of each other’s power and desperately craved one another’s light. Unfortunately they were currently separated with no easy means to realign. Not much unlike the fated cycle of the sun and moon. They yearned for their eclipse but the toll was heavy. As Amelia pressed her lips against his own Baron slipped into a state of serenity. He knew he had to leave soon, that he still had a job to do, but parting with his beloved was the cruelest form of punishment he could be subjected to. “I missed your scent so much Amelia. I’ll never stop returning for you.” Baron said as his lips began to be separated from her own. He felt the cold pull of reality dragging him back. “I love you too.” responded Amelia. Her image faded and with a loud crack Baron’s body struck a tree and lied motionless. “I can’t believe this guy was supposed to be considered a threat.” the menacing creature said, laughing as it walked towards Baron to finish him off. The demon raised both of its hands high into the air brought them crashing down with a terrible force. Baron sprung upward, grabbed the creature’s wrists, and crushed them both effortlessly. The demon looked onward in horror realizing it had made a terrible lapse in judgement. The sky turned red, and upon looking up, the demon saw the fabled blood moon. “But… but… how?! She should be too far gone!” the creature said. Baron smiled and said, “She is with me now. She will never be lost again. Not entirely.


The truck jolted over another crater-like pothole as the pungent odor of rotting fish filtered into the cab, mingling with the salty air scratching at the back of my throat. I grabbed my grimy steel travel mug from the busted cup holder and took a swig, gripping it tightly to protect the precious brew that had been cold for hours. As much trouble as the old diesel gave me, she could navigate anything but a sinkhole. Over the years she evolved into a fortress of jagged rusty metal, deterring thieves and most everyone else, too. I named her Matilda, after my great aunt who carved her birthday and initials in inconspicuous places damn near everywhere she went - restaurants, public bathrooms, doctors' office waiting rooms, church pews. She said she wanted to leave proof she existed, that she was here, but “without drawing too much attention”. One night after Christmas dinner and too much port wine, she giggled conspiratorially between sips and hiccups as she relayed the stories of her quest to be remembered by strangers among the general populace in the most obscure manner possible. I was eight, and I found it to be a simple but heroic act of rebellion; a bit of salve applied to the burning need to be seen in a world designed to overlook, devalue, and underestimate her. The next week, I carved my multiplication facts into the little table in my bedroom where I did my homework. My father dragged me out of bed that night when he got home and gave me a bare-assed beating for “ruining” the table.

The chunks of asphalt gave way to a mostly dirt road where crews had not yet gotten around to repaving. Matilda groaned as I shifted into third gear and picked up speed. The ocean appeared over the horizon, a brilliant blue-green I once spent hours trying to replicate with acrylic paints. My version never seemed right - too green, too blue, too light, too flat, too something. I liked to think the real ocean was undergoing its metamorphosis and healing, and maybe that made it difficult to recreate, especially from memory. Perhaps the ephemeral essence of such an expansive body becoming whole again belies witness or recording. Or… I just suck at color theory. I needed to walk into it, to put my face in it and feel it envelop my body, like in those classic cruise commercials that showed smiling tourists swimming in clear bright water, intermixing with all that life . Maybe by immersing myself in its vastness, I could capture its shades and hues. The Landback Agency put out a green notice six months ago, saying the water was once again safe for people, but I had not dipped a toe in since our last family beach trip when I was nine years old. We always stayed at Matilda’s beach house, which used to be in the fifth row, but as the Atlantic rose, it graduated to the second row. It was the same trip in which my father pulled me out into the water on a blow-up raft until I was too short to reach the bottom. When a wave flipped the boat, I remember spinning and panicking, certain I was drowning, until I felt him grab my arm and pull me out. I coughed and gasped for air while he laughed and dragged me toward the shore. The agency introduced the red/yellow/green protocol by the next summer, and the whole southern coastline was in red for over two decades. I remember the weight that settled over every aspect of our existence when the oceans became hazardous. The effects spread far beyond the predicted industries and communities; even the deniers came around when they could no longer talk past the growing mountains of evidence marking them as the fools they had always been. They still fought against the landback stewardship decision, but in the end, they had no solutions, only arguments and egos.

I glanced over to the passenger seat at the green mask and snorkel I picked up two years ago at a yard sale for six dollars. It was all over the news that oceans were moving to yellow protocol; Aunt Matilda died a week before the first pronouncement, and shocked everyone by leaving the now second-row beach house to me. When I saw the snorkel peeking out from underneath a pair of Birkenstocks on a table piled high with unwanted possessions, it was as if she was prodding me from her perch in the afterlife.

As I rounded the sharp bend, the wooden “Welcome to Palm Breeze Bay” sign greeted me, freshly painted pink and standing upright for once. I saw testimony everywhere of a hibernating town waking from a too-long slumber. A man emerged from a room at the Sea Horse Motel, pulling a boxy gray wagon that carried two giggling toddlers wearing matching hats, and he began to maneuver the patchy chunks of sidewalk toward the public access point. Across the street, a pop-up flea market had taken over the Wings store parking lot. The sounds of construction rang out from every direction. Hope planted itself in my chest and thrummed.

The old gas station on the corner that still had a full-service option was packed with construction vehicles and two food trucks. My stomach growled despite the rank odor hanging in the air, so I turned in and found a spot to park on the side of the store. As I climbed down from the truck, I heard a woman’s voice with a more southern drawl than mine call out.

“Hawttttttt dawgssssss! Fresh dawgs here!” The smell of oil and salty cured meat emanated from the window she poked her head through. She smiled as she caught my eye and winked. I swallowed. Her brown hair was streaked with silver that sparkled when angled just so in the sun, and her smile beamed in my direction, creeping over me like a warm hug I didn’t know I needed. Struck by an intense craving for a hot dog, I made my way to the truck that flanked the parking lot. “Hey there love, you hungry?” She addressed me with a sense of familiarity, almost intimacy, as if we were best friends and I had stopped by her house to visit. I noticed as I moved closer she had freckles across her nose and cheeks, and a small paw print tattoo behind her left ear.

“Uh, yes, I am, those hot dogs smell amazing. Could I get two, all the way… and… some fries?” I had to yell a little to be heard over the clamor behind me.

“Sure, love,” she said, turning to someone I couldn’t see. “FRY!” She faced me again. “What brings you to PB?” She waited for an answer I wasn’t prepared to give.

“I, um, I’m going to check on a house, see what kind of work it needs.” This was the part I could say out loud. The rest wouldn’t hold up without the weight of my entire life story. “Interesting…” She peered at me, considering my answer. “Whereabouts is your place? I live over off 32nd Street, near the sandwich shop.”

“Oh. That’s close to me, I’m off 34th, down the road from there, in the house that used to belong to my aunt Matilda, but I guess… now it belongs to me.” I was adjusting to the idea of owning a home, let alone something as extravagant as a beach house, while I knew so many were struggling.

“Well how ‘bout that? Welcome home then… I’m Evie.” That damn smile. I was having a hard time focusing. She grabbed the tongs and assembled my hot dogs. “Hi, Evie, nice to meet you. I’m Asha.”

“Asha! A pretty name for a pretty lady.” She glanced sideways at me as she piled on toppings. “You plannin’ on having any fun while you’re here?” “Umm, I’m not sure really, I hadn’t thought about it. I want to check out the ocean, it’s… been a while.” She nodded knowingly and reached into the space behind her, returning with a red and white paper boat overflowing with fries.

“It can be intimidatin’ the first time back in. I’ll give you my number in case you want some company, I’m a strong swimmer, and maybe even above average company.” She winked at me again. Evie was full of herself but it was oddly comforting, like her confidence could be depended upon when not much else was certain. “Sure, that sounds… nice,” I said, and I meant it. She scribbled numbers on a white paper bag and placed the assembled hot dogs and my fries inside, folding the top over twice. When she handed me the bag, I carefully placed my hand where it would not touch hers to retrieve it. “I’ll call you. No… probably text, who am I kidding?” Evie let out a light, musical sort of laugh. “Either way, lookin’ forward to it.” There it was again, that easy sense of acquaintance. I waved awkwardly and walked back to the truck. As I drove away, Evie stood in the window, watching and smiling.

Eight blocks from the house, the road became more overgrown and treacherous, bouncing me haphazardly behind the wheel. As a kid, I always knew we were almost there when the gray house on stilts came into view, where my beach friend Beth used to live. Condemned now and barely standing, it refused to be taken into the sea that lapped at its foundation daily. I rounded the final bend, and Matilda’s parting gift appeared before me. What remained of the once hideous bright purple exterior had faded to a dirty pastel hue that reminded me of an Easter egg left behind after the hunt. Two palm trees sat on either side of the gravel drive, both taller now than the one-story house; they fluttered in the wind, greeting me as I approached. The roof beams sagged ever so slightly, making the entire building look tired and overwhelmed. Shutters were missing from one of the front windows and hanging off the second window like my sister’s false eyelashes at the end of a long night of bartending. I parked, stopping short of the single washed-out flamingo standing watch by the front steps. 25 years ago I watched as Matilda cackled to herself while sticking four of them in the ground. She named them Fred, Fanny, Frank, and Buddy. This must be Buddy.

I grabbed my lunch and snorkel set and hopped down from the driver’s seat, landing on the soft sandy dirt. As I slammed the truck door, a black and white cat shot out from under the steps, disappearing into the Mexican feather grass at the corner of the house. I walked around to the backyard, and there stood the remains of the gazebo where we had dinners in the summer. The roof was entirely gone, but a bench remained, so I sat down to eat, taking care to fold up the paper bag with Evie’s number and put it in my pocket after removing the contents. I devoured the hot dogs, then scooped up my French fry boat and walked towards the beach.

The day was overcast but comfortably warm, and there was no one around that I could see, just the seagulls and me. I fed them Cheez-Its as a kid, and my mother got angry because they refused to leave us alone. One of them took a shit on my father’s head, which was the funniest thing I had ever seen, but I had to hide my giggles behind the sandcastle I built. From then on, I regarded seagull poo as the great equalizer, and Cheez-its as my favorite snack.

I stripped off the clothes I wore over my bathing suit and sat in the sand to soak up my surroundings, licking salt from my fingers between fries. As a child, I spent countless nights lying awake in bed and trying to remember all the beings, places, and things that made up my disappearing world. I kept a scrapbook of each species as I learned of its extinction, pasting images from old encyclopedias and nature magazines. Even if the world forgot, I would remember, and if I ever had children, they would know from my records the full breadth of life that once inhabited our home. With every volume I assembled, my despair mounted. I became afraid of hope, of the lies it might tell, and how it would inevitably disappoint me. I worried it would make me delusional, that I would lose touch with my devastating reality, as inviting as that seemed in moments. Humanity was too stubborn, too attached to made-up rules and the illusion of control. I came out of the womb with one eyebrow raised, according to my mother—a born cynic. When the various climate agencies were established, and for years after, my discouragement only grew. We waited too long. No… They waited too long. The yellow protocol notice was the first time that hope found its way to me. I wondered now if Matilda was the opposite—born with a sense of possibility that the world slowly excised from her spirit. I put on my mask and adjusted the straps, watching as a seagull waddled in my direction, curiously cocking its head. I tossed her a fry and stood, leaving the remaining morsels for her approaching friends. The waves rushed to greet me as I walked, the bubbly water tickling my feet and ankles, the coldness anchoring me to the moment. The water reached the middle of my thighs and suddenly, the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. Almost as quickly, it retreated. The squawking of the seagulls dimmed as the sounds of the ocean filled my ears. I took a deep breath and dove underneath the water.


Olton Grove was a town in decline. Since the construction of a new superhighway that bypassed the remote settlement entirely, the pothole-strewn streets saw less and less use by the year. Travellers and locals had left behind the rolling wheat fields for greener pastures, literal and figurative alike, and the dilapidated store fronts and desperate “For Lease” signs now rivalled the dwindling population of the town. And in his lonely cottage on the threshold of Olton Grove and the expansive Mid-Western wilderness beyond, John David had grown accustomed to the stillness of his quaint, quiet life. A rapping on the front door a little after noon brought the stillness crashing in around John David. A local historian for all of his working life, Mr. David devoted his time to the study of all those that had long since faded from the memories of the one-horse town. Sepia-toned photographs, fractured clay sculptures, faded art and fabrics on loan from town hall - these were all the company Mr. David had known for nearly three decades, and all of the companionship he asked for. The rhythmic knocking had no place among his scribbled workings. But reluctantly, Mr. David arose from his old and cluttered desk and shuffled to the front door, compelled by his commitment to the old-fashioned neighborly manners his mother had taught him when he was a child. Opening the door just a crack, he could glimpse the stranger on the other side, idly scanning the dismal surroundings from the poorly painted porch: a boy, hardly yet a man, with a nest of unkempt hair atop a lanky, toothpick body. With torn jeans and a thick suede jacket, the boy had the markings of a city kid, one impossibly lost amid the endless fields of grain. He certainly resembled none that remained in Olton Grove. “What do you want?” John David whispered, his tired voice hoarse and strained from a lifetime of isolation. He loathed being pulled away from his work like this. Somehow, the colorless images he stared at all day long held more color and life than the world outside his front door. But the stranger was real and standing on his porch, absently tending to his tousled, tangled locks. The dry heat of summer was a nuisance to those inexperienced with it. “I’m lookin’ for someone. The guy at the store said you could help.” “Aye, perhaps. What’s it to ya?” “Look, I don’t got much cash on me. But it’s important, yeah?” Sighing, Mr. David shut the door and unhooked the security latch. Swinging the door wide open, he motioned the boy inside. “Fine, fine. What do ya want? I ain’t got all day.” The boy stepped inside the cottage, the old floorboards creaking with every motion that he made. Mr. David gestured to a plush lounge chair in the corner, a gaudy floral pattern adorning every inch. Obligingly, he accepted the seat; despite the dated, grotesque fabric, the cushions were comfortable enough. Opposite the chair, Mr. David sat on back on a sagging loveseat, a piece surely older than his guest and all the more reliable. “Not from ‘ere, are ya?” “No, sir. Never. My ma spent some time out here, though, back in the day. I thought I’d check it out for myself.” John David chuckled to himself. “Ain’t much to check out these days, I’m afraid. Your ma was smart to get out.” “I guess.” “So, what’s your name, boy? A what brings ya to my front porch?” “Christopher, sir. Christopher Lewis. And like I said - I’m lookin’ for someone.” “Christopher, eh? What kinda someone?” Wringing his wrists, Christopher’s eyes dropped to a fraying carpet beneath his seat. “Well - see, I don’t know much about em’, sir. If they’re even out here anymore. What they mighta been like.” “So, what do ya know, boy?” “Just a name: Brandon Clarke.” Christopher shrugged. “I know it ain’t much. But… Ma said he was the love of her life, y’know? She said she left ‘im here to raise me. But I’m all raised now, so… I dunno. I thought I’d see if I could find ‘im. For ma. Has to be worth a shot, anyhow.” “Ahh… I see...” Slowly, John David rose from the loveseat, grabbing the wool cardigan he’d left draped over the arm the night before. “You’re a good kid, ain’t ya? Yeah, I know the name. I’ll take ya to ‘im, if you care to visit..” “Yessir. Thank you, sir.” … A short ride in John David’s worn sedan brought Mr. David and the boy to the single-story church just down the road. The sacred grounds where the stone church stood were carved into Mr. David’s mind, not only from 50-some years of Sunday services, but from a lifetime of studying the marble epitaphs that stood behind the building. With sturdy, methodic steps, Mr. David walked Christopher down the dirt path that ran along row after row of gravestones, leading him to the back of the cemetery with surety. There, in the back corner of the cemetery beneath a lone maple tree, he pointed to a grave placed away from the others, a somber look crossing his face. Christopher knelt before the marble stone with interest; in neat calligraphy, the name Brandon Clarke stared back. “I don’t get it, sir… 1990 to 1992 . He’s- It’s-” “I reckon leavin’ ‘im behind hurt your ma somethin’ bad. The pain of losin’ a child… It ain’t one that ever goes away.” “She never told me…” Gently, he traced the writing on the polished stone, his gaze vacant as he imagined a face to match the name. “I didn’t know…” “Perhaps it was too hard to talk about. I’m sure she meant you no harm.” Christopher looked up to John David with wide brown eyes. “You talk like you know her, sir.” “Nah, not hardly. I know her pain, is all.” “You lost a child, sir?” Mr. David looked away. “I don’t mean to pry-” “Think nothin’ of it.” With a heavy heart and slouched shoulders, Mr. David strolled to a bench beneath the maple tree and sat with Christopher. “Y’know, I never did care much for history til’ I had a kid o’ my own. The only thing my ex-wife ever left me, save the house and a mountain o’ debts. He woulda been about your age by now, I reckon; certainly a hell of a lot more sturdy.

‘Cept… He went missing, see? Broad daylight, middle o’ town - but there weren’t anyone around to see nothin’. Haven’t seen ‘im in - goodness, more than 20 years. After that, the past seemed a lot happier than the present.” Shutting his eyes, Mr. David breathed in the warm air and smiled. The sun seemed to shine brighter there than it ever did on his front porch. As the light fell across his face, he could almost feel his son’s breath on his cheek as he babbled about cowboys and cattle. Christopher stood from the bench hurriedly, his expression blank as he approached the grave one more. Sighing, Mr. David forced himself up and returned to the young boy’s side - as always, the memories had to come to an end as reality set back in. “But I’m sure your ma is better off than I was - with a kind boy like yourself lookin’ out for ‘er-” And the world around John David went dark.


My parents were miserable people to begin with. When the door crashed open only half an hour into their book club meeting, I prepared myself for a long evening. “Can you believe it?” Mom said to me. I half listened, dozing in a love seat by the television. “They kicked us out of book club.” I blinked my eyes and straightened up a little bit. We moved to the kitchen where I spiked my Coke with a generous amount of rum. I needed this to get through my mother’s ramblings. She was the kind to keep the news on at high volumes all day at the cost of my sanity. Dad was no better. He shot his mouth off about the president every chance he’d get but kept his mouth shut in front of our neighbors, the Democrats. All southern sweetness there. “How did you manage that?” I said. “Susan told us to show our vaccine cards,” Dad piped up, hanging up his coat in the other room. “We said we didn’t need them. If God wants us to die, then he wants us to die. Well, Susan didn’t like that one bit and banned us until we realigned ourselves to the views of the club. Imagine that after all the help we gave them over the years.” “So just get the vaccine,” I said halfheartedly. “Then you can enjoy book club again.” “Hard to enjoy it when everyone in the room is a bunch of foolhardy Dems who cheated the election. They’re no friends of ours.” I’d long given up on both of them. This conversation needed a lot more than rum to get through. My parents were the only people who could get kicked out of a book club over a stupid vaccine. They’d known Susan for nearly a decade. She was my second grade teacher. Throwing her away like that seemed cold and heartless. I tried not to pay attention to my parents’ shenanigans. It was better that way. Whenever they pushed my buttons I thought to myself, “Just a couple more months and you can pay that security deposit. Just a couple more months.” What was so difficult to process for them? I got my shots soon as I could. How could I not when I watched people die every day? Anger coursed through me as I thumped my head furiously to the pillow. Anger was my old friend throughout my childhood and now in my adulthood. I wanted to force my parents to take the vaccine, to see how it would save their life, to help repair their fractured relationships with their friends. Sleep never came easily anymore. I stared at the ceiling in the dark for most of the night, dreading the upcoming alarm. The lines blurred between sleep and wakefulness so I couldn’t tell the difference. When the alarm came, I was still as exhausted when my head hit the pillow. I donned my scrubs, noted the dark circles around my eyes in the mirror, and headed out. “Get this down his throat,” said Sunita, throwing me a long plastic tube across the young man lying in the gurney in front of us. He was a big guy, football player type, gasping for breath like a goldfish. He was strapped to the side of the gurney, looking wildly at every corner of the room. I stabbed the patient with a sedative and tossed the needle away as the tube hit me in the face. The man on the gurney, Mr. Sunderson, twenty-six, father of two, would die if I didn’t force this tube down his throat. Sunita held Sunderson down as I fed the tube through his throat. He stopped struggling and when he was consistently breathing, we relaxed for a brief moment before going on to the next patient. Nursing never used to be like this. St. Agnes was flooded with coronavirus patients. With Mr. Sunderson being rolled to the ICU, he filled the last bed St. Agnes had available on a stroke of morbid luck. An elderly woman named Dolores died alone the night before, lungs shattered beyond repair. Like the vast majority of the coronavirus patients at St. Agnes, Dolores wasn’t vaccinated. Neither was Sunderson. Twelve hour shifts, longer on some days, hustling to get one patient his prescription, bustling to help a flat lining patient before it was too late, keeping my sanity long enough to scarf something from the vending machine. Sunita was the only reason I could stay sane during these long shifts. With as little support the government gave us, running out of basic supplies like needles and ventilators, Sunita kept her head up and pressed on when so many others quit. She was in love with the work. “How do you do it?” I asked her over a hurried cafeteria lunch. Sunita shrugged. “The pandemic won’t last forever.” “People are still dying. I’ve seen more people die here in the last two months than most doctors see in their careers. When is it going to stop?” Sunita had no answer for that. I had a feeling she thought the same thing from time to time. She doesn’t have to go home to her loved ones who won’t take a vaccine because they think the government is trying to control them. She doesn’t have to live in fear of passing the virus to someone in her life.

I came home to snide comments and remarks from my parents. I never talked back not out of a consciousness of being disrespectful, but because I didn’t have the energy and didn’t want to get kicked out before I had the money for the security deposit. The damn TV blared as I hung up my coat. Mom snorted, “They think masks protect them. Come on. They’re still getting themselves killed.” By they, she means the Democrats. My parents went out to restaurants, went to their club meetings, all without wearing masks or showing any notion there was a pandemic going on. True, there were fewer deaths now, and some states were reopening. By summer, the governor said Tennessee was going to be fully functioning again. Most people were slinking back into their usual routines by summer. I wanted to think Sunita was right that the pandemic was ending. I didn’t bother twiddling with the radio anymore on the way to work. Even on the music stations the endless talk of the pandemic persisted, claiming the pandemic was fake, that we have nothing to worry about. If they had lived my life, they wouldn’t be so resistant. As May turned to June that year, the Delta variant swept through. The same day the Delta variant was broadcast on the news, an ambulance brought Dad into the emergency room. Sunita and I did our best to keep Dad up and running. He was in bad shape. Gulping for air like it was the last breath he’d ever take, lungs worse than Dolores’s had been. We told him everything would be alright though we knew it wouldn’t. “Gene,” said Sunita. Sunita’s voice was far away and hazy. I pretended I hadn’t heard her. I feverishly checked Dad’s oxygen levels and kept him breathing normally.

“Gene.” This time, I was brought back to reality. Sunita’s lip trembled. “He’s not going to make it. He’s lost.” “Damnit, Sunita. This is my father and you will do everything in your power to keep him alive!” I spoke with such authority I couldn’t believe it of myself. I never spoke as if I was in charge, like everything was on the line. Despite of what I thought of Dad’s choices, he was still my dad, and I still loved him. I had to do whatever I could for him. We pushed his gurney into one of the few free ICU units available and continued monitoring him. The fear in Sunita’s voice when she said my father wasn’t going to make it tingled through my spine. It was the first time I saw her frightened, not the apprehension on a surgeon’s face as they’re operating but true despair. Sunita, the warrior of the medical field. We did the best we could for him and put him in a unit to relax. Dad was dying, only able to breathe through a ventilator, helpless against his own mortality. Mom watched her husband die of something she pretended for so long did not exist behind a sheet of glass. I, who fought on the front lines against the invisible enemy, couldn’t helping thinking I might have given the virus to him. How many days had I come home from sometimes sixteen hour days and passed by my parents raving over the president’s actions against the virus? I was frustrated and angry with my parents. I wanted to show them reason, to make them believe the coronavirus was real. Every time I told them to get vaccinated, to keep themselves and others safe, I was doing it for them. But my efforts were futile. I put on all the protective equipment, gloves, smock, mask, face shield, and went into the unit where Dad lay on the bed, trembling, barely breathing. This wasn’t how I imagined being with my father in his final moments. 	I looked like a robot in a dated science fiction film. He wouldn’t see my face, only my eyes. I pulled the curtain back and took the seat next to Dad. He was sweating, breathing irregular, ventilator over his mouth and nose, helpless to the course of nature that put him in this predicament.

He took off the ventilator for a second. “Son.” I smiled at him for the first time since I was twelve. He took me out for a baseball game for my twelfth birthday. He bought us hot dogs and let me have a sip of his beer when no one was looking. I choked on it and called him disgusting. “Dad.” My voice faltered and my hands shook as if controlled by an internal earthquake. “I want to take the vaccine. Please.” Everything inside me broke. All the years I resisted his Trumpian politics, all the times I wanted to hit him for being so stupid, all the the times I wanted to make him see. All that melted away when I stared into his frightened face. People hate doctors until they get sick and tell them, “Cure me! Save me!” They’re believers then. “Dad, it’s—it’s too late.” “There’s nothing you can do?” He said it calmly. I shook my head once. Dad put the ventilator back over his face and laid back in his bed. I hated being right. The worst part of this was I might have given the virus to him. What else could I have said to him? Then, he gave me a look only a son would recognize. It was a look that said, “I’m proud of you.” He resigned himself to his fate. My father died a few hours later. When the heart rate monitor flat lined, I stumbled out of the room and made for the nearest exit. I passed Mom’s worried expression as she read a magazine. I cursed the morning sunshine blinding me as I rushed to the smoke area. I didn’t notice until I already collapsed against the pillar that Sunita followed me. I hid my sobs with my hands, but Sunita’s coconut hands were already wrapped around me. “I’m quitting,” I said in between sobs. “I can’t do this anymore, Sunita. Why do they keep doing this to us?” “They?” “They! These sick people who won’t protect themselves. The government, the doctors, the—the—the everybody!” Sunita gave me a wad of dirty napkins. I blew my nose for what seemed like days. “I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through. My mother died when I was really young. But I do know talking to someone does help.” Sunita handed me a folded scrap of paper. Inside was a phone number. “He’s a professional. He helps and he really cares. Try it.” I nodded. I was grateful for the gesture.

“This is my last day on the job too,” Sunita went on. “What!” “Not so loud, Gene. I’m being transferred temporarily to Mississippi. There’s hardly any staff there and the Covid is worse there than here. So I volunteered. It’ll be good on my resume for when I become a doctor.” Of all the nurses I worked with, Sunita was the most genuine. Though I didn’t say it to her, I think she would be an amazing doctor. We gave each other one last hug before separating. I tried to put a lot of unsaid things into that hug. Perhaps Sunita got the message because she grinned. As one career closes, another flourishes. I went to my car, started the engine, and realized I didn’t know where I would go. I felt like Dr. Frankenstein trying to assemble all the pieces to create new meaning. I looked back at St. Agnes, thinking for a moment to go back. It wasn’t too late. I took the scribbled phone number out of my pocket. This number was my ticket to do something else with my life. I didn’t know what it would be. The only thing I knew was there’s nothing for me at this hospital except for the doctors preparing my father for the hearse.