This story is about a cancer patient who is planning his funeral. Prognosis

       by Jonathan Shiller Dr. Ruben took one look at my sunken face and said, “You need a break. Take a week off and get your strength back.” Months of chemo had worn me down, so I took his advice and slept in until 11 before heading to my appointment. I arrived early and sat in the plush reception area waiting for my name to be called. It looked and felt like any upscale Manhattan dentist or dermatologist’s office, beige leather seating and subdued, abstract paintings hanging on the walls, the clicking sound of a laptop and the muffled ringing of a phone creating a serene, hushed atmosphere. A few women, heads covered in handkerchiefs or tilted wigs, sat next to a partner or family member, each sinking into a leather chair, silently scrolling through their phones. I got a bit of a chill and slid my cheap puffer jacket over my shoulders, not sure if I was actually cold from yesterday’s treatment or if I simply had an eerie feeling about today’s appointment at the West Village Funeral Home.  I closed my eyes, and suddenly I was transported back in time 20 years to 2003. I’m sprawled out on my second-hand Crate and Barrel couch watching an episode of Six Feet Under , my favorite show of the moment. It often began with a despondent widow or mother seated across from the sons of the late funeral director. They showed concern and unwavering patience as she arranged her husband’s or child’s funeral. I hung onto every word of one of the sons, David, the tormented gay character whose turmoil was so relevant to my life in those days. One episode in particular stood out for me. I remember the character Amanda Previn who died after choking on a piece of Lean Cuisine chicken and, with no family or friends to miss her, was undiscovered for a week until her gray corpse began to emit a horrific odor. She didn’t get to leave this life on her own terms. I, on the other hand, had been given the gift of borrowed time. Here I was, snuggled under my thick coat, waiting for my arrangement conference, ready to plan how I would be laid to rest. It seemed like an eternity since that day when I sat in a gorgeous burgundy leather chair across from Dr. Ruben who looked at me solemnly, hunched over his large wood desk with tanned, creased hands folded on his desk blotter. He gave me the news that would make my life screech to a halt. It felt so unreal. From a routine blood test to being given a specific number of months left to live. More tests to confirm this, but unlikely that I would survive much longer. The sound of a throat clearing shook me from my dreamy state. I slipped my phone from my pocket and read through unanswered texts. My sister, my mom, my ex, Martin, a request to select “C” to confirm my appointment with the pain specialist. For months, even when I felt like I had already been buried and then exhumed or when I felt good enough to push through that groggy, hangover feeling, I kept everyone in my life updated on my situation. I called them back, responded to texts, even sent memes to let others know I had not lost my sense of humor. But no one knew where I was on this chilly March afternoon so hopefully they wouldn’t worry about my delayed responses. Some things you just need to handle on your own.  	“Bryce Larson? Greg is ready for you.”

I stood slowly and tried my best to casually approach the very polished woman seated at the front desk, her hair tied back in a tight bun. She told me to head through the door to the left and Greg’s office was the second on the right. I felt like I was going to see a financial advisor, not pick out a box for my remains.

His name was Greg Torino and his office was large with a sofa on one end, fluffed up with a series of multi-colored throw pillows, and a large desk with neat but tall piles of manilla folders filled with personalized requests for how funerals would be handled as if people were simply planning one of many vacations.

He asked me to sit on the couch, and he sat on the other end, legs crossed, keeping his distance.

“So Bryce, tell me a bit about yourself and your situation.” At first, I struggled to get the words out. I just stared at Greg’s crisp charcoal gray suit and hair combed into a perfect side part. I crossed my arms and rubbed my hands up and down the upper arms of

my too casual wool sweater. Here I was, a 45-year-old man, wearing a Gap sweater and baggy jeans. I knew I might die soon, but should I have dressed for the occasion? “Well, Bryce. You are very brave for going through this.” “Do I have a choice?” I sniffed, remembering how congested I had been recently.

“Ok well you’re here and you’re facing this. Let’s go through a series of questions and I will take some notes. First, how are you feeling?” That’s when it all poured out of me. The 18 months of treatments. The pain. The smell . That smell inside my nose, the taste in the back of my throat, an incessant reminder of the chemo even when I am feeling more like my energized self. The numbness in my fingers, the chemo brain when I couldn’t remember if I paid the rent on my small studio apartment. The soreness where the port sits inside my chest, like a little hourglass holding my remaining time inside.

I was wailing, sucking in air, saliva dripping down onto my jeans and the microfiber sofa cushion, Greg jumped up to grab a box of tissues and handed me a huge stack. I tried to dab at all the stickiness and then ended up simply rubbing the remnants into my sweatshirt and pants like a child whose parents would throw the clothes in the wash later. Then I put a wad of tissues between my legs to sop up the moist spot that had formed on this lovely couch.

We talked. For what seemed like hours. It never felt like this was simply another one of Greg’s appointments. He put me at ease, and as I spoke and answered his questions, he intermittently tipped his head in one direction, pursing his lips and nodding in what felt like genuine concern. I decided to be buried in a traditional way, following my Jewish heritage, so no cremation. Greg laughed when I said,”It’s just a rental, you know?” And it would be a simple service led by an available cantor or rabbi from the LGBTQ Synagogue, preferably someone who knew me from high-holiday services.

We sat quietly for a few moments, just looking at each other. This conversation made me feel like I had let all the air out of the balloon of tension that up until now had filled my entire body. My shoulders relaxed, and I squished myself into the comfiness of the couch.

Then Greg asked, “Do you ever ask yourself, am I too good looking to die?” We both busted out laughing. From hysterical weeping to light-hearted belly laughing in the span of 90 minutes. And that smile. Greg was growing on me. But of course. Nothing could come of it. I was like a box of cereal left in the cabinet too long. Stale, dry, and approaching my expiration date. “Listen, my next appointment isn’t for another hour, so why don’t we run out and grab a coffee and we can come back and chat some more?” “Well, run is kind of presumptuous, Greg,” I said. “I see, Bryce. Yes, I should have said stroll. We will stroll,” Greg said, rolling his eyes. I laughed and walked slowly out of the office with Greg right behind me. The Think Coffee was only a few blocks away. It wasn’t until we were moving down the sidewalk that I realized just how tall Greg was. Definitely over six feet. Definitely at least five inches taller than me. I felt like his awkward little brother standing next to him. He could easily pat me on the head if I made another sarcastic comment. I looked up at Greg.”So how is the air up there? “Is that the best you can do? I thought you were wittier.” “Well Greg it comes and goes, like my energy levels. I have been feeling a little run down lately, and now I am on a break between treatments, so hopefully I will regain some of the pep in my step.” “Understood,” Greg replied, a little sideways smirk as he looked over at me with his twinkling blues.

We stood across from the barista. There was a pause and silence between the three of us. The momentary surprise and recognition when you see someone you haven’t seen in ages. “Bryce, oh my god. You look..,” said Martin, a look of pity in his eyes.

I grimaced and shook my head. “I know. I know. Cancer is not good for an already pasty boy with the inability to grow facial hair.” “You haven’t responded to my messages. I was going to come by….”

“Thank you…at least I know my cat won’t eat my face if I trip and fall and die in my apartment.” Martin chuckled nervously, but Greg just stared at me, his eyes almost doubling in size.

“Is this your new…,” Martin started to say before Greg interrupted him. Greg lifted his right palm, in an unmoving wave hello. “Hi, I am Greg. We are just having a casual coffee as we work on Bryce’s final wishes.” Martin just stared back at us, unable to speak, sweat appearing on his forehead. He then simply said,”OK, what can I get you guys?” As he handed us our drinks one of them slipped from Martin’s grip, spilling all over the counter, dripping to the floor. Martin just stood there in disbelief and then burst into tears. “I’m so sorry Bryce. For everything.” Greg, a man who was particularly skilled at cleaning up messes, quickly grabbed a massive stack of napkins and began wiping the counter and the short half wall below the register. My hero in this moment.

 When all was clean and Martin composed himself, we said our goodbyes, and I walked happily next to Greg as we made our way back to the funeral home. Greg looked down at me and asked,”So, is that Mr. Right?” “Yes, Greg, the man of my dreams. But we broke up when he found out I was marrying him for his money.” “Wow, Bryce, now I can see how you survived this ordeal. Sense of humor is everything.” Greg

grabbed my shoulder and squeezed. For the first time in almost a year, I felt that electric charge that I thought I could never summon again.

 We walked through the reception area and Greg, both coffees still in his hand, offered to go grab

some sugar packets. I agreed and Greg left me to wait in his office. I just stared around the room and let my thoughts drift, resisting the temptation to pore through all those manilla folders.

Greg returned quickly and handed me my cappuccino. I took the cup, and we resumed our positions on the sofa.

“Tell me more about Martin. The real story,” said Greg with a genuine curiosity in his voice.

“Before I tell you about Martin, I want to just be really honest with you right now. I don’t know where you came from or how you ended up handling my consultation today, but there is a real spark here. And I am feeling good today, but who knows how long this will last. Are you sure you want to keep flirting with me? “Listen Bryce, in my line of work, you learn to appreciate every day as if it was your last. I am healthy and 51, but who knows how much longer I have myself? I am enjoying your company. Can’t we just stay in the moment?” “I mean I am not really an in the moment kinda guy. But I can try to be more spontaneous if that’s what you’re saying. Even though it makes me nervous like a closeted teenager.” I paused and leaned back against one of the stiff pillows, and I tipped the cup to my mouth, taking that first glorious sip of the cappuccino. I noticed something written in black Sharpie on the cardboard sleeve: 646-567-4901 Greg smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Just in case of emergency.”


Zach was a self-identifying bachelor. He liked to find dates online, have some fun, and never speak to them again. Tonight’s date, Ella, was everything he looked for in a woman. Tall, thin, and dumb. The two decided to meet up at a popular restaurant that he insisted on paying for. The two talked over a bottle of wine, but he hadn’t cared to listen to what she had been saying. After a good meal and a few glasses later, Zach proposed they continued back at her place. “Sounds fun, but there’s just one thing,” Ella said hesitantly. “My dog likes to lay in the bed; I hope that’s not a problem.” “Are you kidding?” Zach said with a huge grin. “I love dogs!” The two shared a kiss before driving back to her place. It wasn’t long after walking in that they were all over each other. Ella was the first to pull away, making her way down the hall, leaving a trail of clothes behind her. Following her lead, Zach quickly stripped down to his boxers. Rushing through the bedroom, Zach was almost ready to jump into the bed until he saw what was lying there at least. “What the hell is that!?” He screamed. Laying in the king-sized bed was a large brown bear. Frighted, he failed to notice his half-naked date petting the docile grizzly. “This is Chewy. Isn’t he the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen?” Ella was practically nuzzling her face into its fur. “That’s a freaking bear!” He was now crawling back towards the door, not wanting to agitate the large creature. “What? No, he’s just a big boy,” she laughed. “I think he’s an Akita. Ooh, maybe even a mastiff!” She giggled as she scratched behind the bear’s ear. “This chick is insane!” Zach thought internally. Though he had never seen a bear in person, he knew one when he saw it. Chewy rolled off the bed and made his way towards Zach. “Please don’t kill me!” The bear placed its massive paw onto his leg and its head to his chest. “Aww,” Ella cooed, “he wants you to pet him.” Fearing for his life, Zach did as he was told. The bear made a loud growl that he hoped meant the animal was happy. “He likes you.” “So,” he spoke, “where did you find this... er... dog?” “Funny story, Chewy here was going through my trash. I always wanted a dog, but my mom said I wasn’t smart enough to take care of one, whatever that means.” Ella joined in petting the “dog.” “I give him baths, I clean up his poop, and I bought a huge bag of dog food. I think I’m an awesome pet owner.” Zach couldn’t hold back his laughter. His fear was long forgotten, allowing him to enjoy the odd scenario he was placed in. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine he would be petting a brown bear, especially in nothing but his underwear. Chewy let out a roar causing all that fear to return quickly. “Time to go potty.” Ella rushed to her closet, put on a robe and slippers, and ran to the living room with the bear in tow. Zach, trying to regain his composure, followed them. Ella opened the sliding glass door leading to the open back yard allowing the bear to go about its business. Looking at the two, Zach could tell how much she loved this animal. He’s surprised that she hadn’t posted pictures of it all over her social media. This made him wonder. “Hey, Ella, how long have you had Chewy?” “Hmm,” she thought for a moment. “About three days.” “Three days!?” He looked towards the kitchen at the half-eaten fifty-pound bag of dog food. “I know he eats so much. I don’t know how I’m going to afford all this dog food, not to mention when I have to take him to the vet.” She sighed. “But, I already decided to take care of him, so there’s no turning back now!” He admired her dedication but couldn’t overlook her lack of common sense. Although, he was feeling something he hadn’t felt with the other girls he’d been with. “Sorry, I guess this kinda ruined the mood, didn’t it?” “A little,” he admitted, “but I don’t mind. I actually would love to get to know you more if that’s alright.” The two spent the rest of the night talking, making sure to get to know each other. It turns out that Ella was going to school for fashion, but Chewy gave her a new love for animals. She has an appointment with her counselor on Monday to talk about switching majors. On her off days, she works as a model for a fashion blog. She also volunteers to be a nude model for her school’s art department. It turns out, there was a lot more to her than he had previously assumed. Though she had zero-to-no common sense, she was still a hard-working student trying to make her dreams a reality. He couldn’t help but want to see all that effort pay off in the end. Before they knew it, it was well into the night. Zach collected his belongings and made his way to leave. “It’s pretty late,” Ella spoke up, “how about you stay here for the night?” “Are you sure?” He questioned, “I don’t want to be a bother.” “I insist! Besides, Chewy would be sad if I threw you out.” Zach got ready for bed, feeling a sense of joy. He couldn’t begin to describe how incredible this night had been. Not only did he pet a bear, but he also got to meet the most interesting woman he’s ever seen. He couldn’t think of anything that could top this date. The two cuddled up against each other for the rest of the night. Though, he did wish that the bear hadn’t decided to cuddle up against him too. He figured he better get used to it if he wants that second date.


If You Can’t Take the Heat….. Marcel was screaming again. He was a great chef, but when it got busy in the restaurant, he sometimes lost his cool. The brow-beaten wait staff and kitchen helpers were terrified of him, and more than a few had quit, unable to tolerate his volatile moods. I was determined to hang in there because, although he was hard to work with at times, Marcel could be quite personable otherwise. When the dinner rush was over and things settled down to a dull roar, he could even be called pleasant. Marcel was a perfectionist. Maybe that explains why he was so demanding. Every plate leaving the kitchen must be perfectly flawless, the garnish appealing, and the food cooked to perfection. I reasoned that if I wanted to become a professional chef, he was the one to learn from. There was also the rather important little detail that I desperately needed the job. Rent and living expenses demanded I be gainfully employed. Marcel must have seen some glimmer of potential in me, because he offered me a better than average wage for an apprentice chef. Or maybe it was to compensate for his temper, of which I’m sure he was well aware. When one of the staff was frustrated enough to mutter about the verbal abuse, Marcel was quick to tell them, ‘If you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen.’ It was indeed a volatile atmosphere at times, but to me it was exciting to see the many superb meals being created to garner the restaurant its reputation of excellence. I was quite proud to be a member of the team. One Monday morning, before the restaurant opened for the dinner crowd, (it closed after lunch was over until five p.m. when it re-opened for dinner,) Marcel came into the kitchen with two cups of coffee, and motioned me to the staff planning desk. He handed me one cup, and sat down in his chair with the other one. He obviously wanted to talk, and I was curious as to what he had in mind. Our menu for the day was always planned a week ahead, and I had already taken the frozen items out of the freezers to thaw and be prepared for dinner. I hoped he hadn’t changed the menu at the last minute, making my preparations for nothing. The morning cook staff looked after the breakfast and lunch hour. I was part of the evening crew, who worked from two till ten pm, when our restaurant was a popular dinner destination. Marcel looked at me for a moment before speaking. He was clicking a pen open and closed, and I was becoming worried that he was going to tell me I wasn’t working out, and that my career and source of income were coming to an abrupt end. Instead, he surprised me with an entirely different offer. “I’ve been impressed with your work, Trudy, especially with your attention to detail.’ He started. ‘Our pastry chef has left us for greener pastures, without giving any notice. I heard that she took off with her boyfriend; Whatever the reason, she has left us in desperate need of an immediate replacement. ‘I’m offering the position to you. It comes with an increase in duties and responsibilities, along with an accompanying raise in wages. ‘I hate to lose you, but I have two new apprentices coming in, starting tonight, to work as sous chefs. They have worked for me before, and are quite competent. Otherwise, I’d never let you go. ‘But I think you’ll excel in desserts, with your keen eye for detail and your good work ethic. It will be another notch on your belt of accomplishments. ‘The restaurant has a set menu of desserts, as well as a Chef’s Choice, which will differ each week. That will give you a chance to create something special of your own choosing. ‘I’ll give you the pastry chef’s recipe book which includes the planned weekly desserts. They include a Black Forest Cake, a white cake with vanilla icing covered in toasted shredded coconut, Crème Carmel, our own home-made ice cream with the customer’s choice of toppings.  ‘Every day, your first job will be to make the dinner rolls. I’ll show you how to roll them; it’s really quite basic; in no time, you’ll be doing it without even thinking. ‘The quantity will fluctuate, depending on the number of reservations we have each day, so you’ll need to check the reservation book first thing every morning. You’ll usually need between two and three hundred dinner rolls per night.’ By my shocked expression, he realized I thought that was an enormous quantity. I couldn’t imagine making three hundred dinner rolls per day.  ‘I expect that sounds like a lot,’ he grinned, looking me right in the eye. ‘But you’ve seen how many plates go out of the kitchen each night. We serve a bread basket on each table with enough rolls for every person to have seconds. ‘Well, girl, are you up to the challenge, or are you going to wimp out on me?’ He must have seen my deer-in-the-headlights look, because leaned back in his chair with a big smile, crossed his arms and waited for me to gather my thoughts. “I’m flattered that you think I can do all that, Marcel,’ I said, ‘but I’ve never made dinner rolls before. I’ve baked pies and cookies at home, but that’s about all. ‘I can make pies with pastry that will melt in your mouth, but I’ve never heard of Crème Carmel; I don’t even know what it is, nor how to make it. Cakes are easy enough; the big challenge will be the dinner rolls. I hope you’ll show me how to do these new things, Marcel. I’m excited about a new challenge, but a wee bit afraid too.’ ‘That’s the kind of attitude I was hoping for. If you’re willing to try something new and challenging, you’ll make a fine pastry chef. It’s not my specialty, but I know enough to help you get started. ‘The Crème Carmel is a custard, with browned sugar in the bottom of each custard cup. When inverted onto the serving plate, the sauce runs down over the custard, making a delicious dessert. It’s relatively easy to make. ‘It’s too bad our manager has decided that, in his own words, “Pies are for Peasants; We will never serve something so pedestrian in our Fine Dining Establishment.” ‘How silly of him, Marcel. Did you know there’s a restaurant out on the strip, that makes only pies. It’s called, “A Slice of Decadence,” and it’s tremendously popular. There’s always a line-up of customers waiting for a table.” ‘I’ve heard about it, but we must adhere to the management’s rules, so you’ll have to think of something other than pies to create for your Chef’s Choice, along with the regular dessert menu. I’m sure you can do it, otherwise I’d never have offered you the job.’ Those words sealed my fate. My hours would now be early mornings, extending long into the afternoons, until I became proficient with the dinner rolls. At first, it took me ages to roll them. A giant mixer made the dough, which was richer and creamier than regular bread. But the rolling required a technique, which it took practice to achieve. As Marcel had predicted, in a week I was doing them automatically, while planning the other desserts. I purchased a book featuring the most popular desserts from prominent Toronto dessert specialty restaurants, and modified some of them to become my ‘Chef’s Choice’ Dessert of the Week. Late that fall, when the place was packed every night with offices holding their Christmas parties in our restaurant, and all five dining rooms filled to capacity, I asked for and was given an assistant. My wages increased regularly until I was making a substantial salary. But I missed the excitement and bustle of the evenings in the main kitchen. I even missed Marcel’s hollering and verbal abuse of the incompetence of the under-staff, imagined or real. On occasion, I slipped into the kitchen in the middle of dinner hour, just to say hi to everyone. I was treated as a friend, not just a fellow employee, and often given a small portion of some of my favorite dishes to sample. Marcel swore he’d made too large a quantity, but I knew for a fact that he never did such a thing, and it was a special treat just for me. The following June, I was surprised one Sunday evening by a knock on my door. To my amazement, it was Marcel. He had never come to my place before. He was dressed in his chef’s whites, and said he’d left his assistant to close the kitchen, since it had been a quiet night. He said he had a very exciting proposition for me. ‘I’ve been working in that restaurant for eleven years now, Trudy. I’m getting tired of the same old routine, the same management and the same menus. It’s time to move out on my own. ‘I’ve found the perfect location, overlooking the lake, with room for a patio to serve meals in summer, and I’m opening up my own restaurant. ‘It will be a supper club, with evening hours only, catering to the after-theatre clientele. It will feature seafood, fresh from the boats each day, and a limited menu of only the best items. ‘I’m offering you the opportunity to come in with me as a partner, to be my pastry chef, to make the desserts you like best. ‘Your dinner rolls, by the way, have been a real favorite. The servers say they’ve never been asked for ‘thirds’ on dinner rolls before. That’s a real compliment, Trudy. ‘You can have your favorite pies on the dessert menu, along with whatever you like to make. I’ll leave the dessert choices entirely up to you. ‘One of my assistant chefs is going to join us as my helper, and the other one has been promoted to take over the restaurant in my place. It’s an exciting opportunity, and I hope you’ll join me. If you have a few dollars to invest, I’ll make you an official partner. ‘I’m thinking of calling it ‘Harbor Lights Supper Club,’ since it is right on the lake shore and the patio will overlook the harbor, with all the boat lights at night. I want you to help me decorate it with a seashore theme. We can string tiny lights on the patio, making it a romantic place for theatre-goers and other evening clientele. ‘How does that sound so far, Trudy?’ Marcel had been so enthusiastic, that he’d talked non-stop. This was the first chance I’d had to speak. I was blown away by the idea; it sounded so exciting that I could almost see it as he was talking. ‘I love the fresh seafood aspect, and I think it could be a real success. It sounds wonderful, Marcel. I’d be delighted to be your pastry chef in a supper club. ‘The chance to bake pies again tempts me. But I don’t have a lot of money to invest. I have some savings, only a few thousand dollars, not near the kind of money it takes to buy a building and turn it into a restaurant.’ ‘That’s more than enough money, Trudy. I’ve saved most of my salary over the years. With always working evenings and wearing only my ‘whites,’ I’ve spent little for clothing and even less for entertainment. I’ve been saving several years for a chance to have my own place. ‘I’ve already bought the building. It’ll need quite a bit of work to make it into a glamorous supper club. I’m chomping at the bit to get at it. I’ll enlist your decorating skills too, if you’re willing. ‘I have one of the under staff in mind to take over your pastry duties, if you decide to come work with me. I know we’ll be a good team, Trudy. You’ll have to work with her for a few days to make a smooth transition. ‘Think it over tonight, and let me know what you decide in the morning. We’re closed tomorrow, so that will give us time to take a look at my new place.’ Marcel was speaking like it was a done deal. I had to make a big decision, whether to stay with a steady salary in a job I’d come to enjoy, or if I should hitch my star to a brand-new opportunity. ‘I’d like to see your place, so I can visualize the end result. It sounds so nice, I’m excited for you already.’ To my surprise, Marcel hugged me as he was leaving. I’d never had any physical contact with him before, and I wasn’t expecting the intimate feeling it gave me. It left me with my mind spinning. I made myself a cup of tea before going to bed, but in the midst of all the exciting thoughts, I totally forgot to drink it. I finally poured it out and headed for bed. Sleep was long in coming. My mind was buzzing with ideas for decorating in a nautical theme and for a new dessert menu. It was so exciting I couldn’t slow my mind. But sleep eventually came, and I awoke to see sunlight streaming in my window. I hurriedly showered and dressed in jeans and my favorite faded old shirt. It felt good to be putting on something other than my chef’s attire. I was still mulling over the safety of a steady paycheck and a known position, and comparing it to the thrill of a new venture. In my heart, I wanted to be a part of Marcel’s supper club. But it felt strange to think of leaving my job, one that I had come to feel competent at. I decided to wait until I’d seen the new building and could visualize the finished product. Maybe it would turn me off, or then again it might feel perfect. While the coffee brewed, I put bacon into the pan and two slices of homemade bread into the toaster, then walked out to my garden and picked a ripe tomato, some dill, celery, parsley, chives and a lettuce leaf. With a little mayo, it would make a lovely toasted bacon and tomato breakfast sandwich. I sat on the swing on my porch to eat, with the coffee pot handy on the little table beside me. One cup was never enough! Marcel arrived just as I finished eating, and I went into the kitchen to get him a cup. He took it gratefully and we drank coffee together in the morning sunshine, not talking at first. Finally, he looked into my eyes. ‘Well, Trudy, have you made a decision yet?’ ‘I want to see the building before deciding. It’s been buzzing around in my mind all night. The concept is very enticing, and I’m torn between staying where I’ve been successful, or stepping out into a new challenge.’ ‘Come on, let’s go and see what you think of my lakeshore place. We worked well together before; I think we would make a spectacular partnership.’ The traffic was light, rush hour being over, and we soon arrived at his building. It was an old warehouse of some kind, located near the docks. I could see it would take some doing to make it into a classy café. But it seemed solid and the location, right overlooking the bay, was perfect. ‘What do you envision for the building itself? Would you keep the rustic wooden walls?’ ‘Yes, but I’d have the first three feet above the ground done in local stone, and then boards above. I want floor-to-ceiling picture windows all along the lake side, and maybe sky lights on the land side to provide extra natural light.’ ‘How about the inside?’ ‘Come in, and look around. I’ll tell you my ideas, and you can give me your thoughts. It’s all one big space now, but I’ll divide it off into a kitchen here, with a storeroom, walk-in fridge and freezer there, with an office space and washrooms. ‘The rest of the space would be tables, each with candles and a floating flower in a rose bowl. ‘There’s a ledge to build a patio with umbrella tables. I’d install safety rails around the edges. Maybe hanging planter boxes full of flowers on the railings.’ ‘Maybe you could install a big fireplace on the land side, to make it cozy in cold weather. It could be of stone to match the base outside.’ ‘Yes, that’s good thinking, Trudy. Let’s go to the quarry and see what kind of stone is available, and maybe they can recommend a stone mason to install it.’ He didn’t ask me again, but all the way out to the quarry, I was thinking of how I’d finish the décor, and planning my dessert menus. It looked like I was embarking on a new adventure.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **** This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e. the colors, the subject, the setting, etc.).   ***   #Last Week I was so excited to see so many stories on the thread this week, and so many unique interpretations on the prompt. It was great to see several of you join in again for our Micro Campfire. While it’s not something I can promise every week for sure at this time, I will host each Monday that I can. If you aren’t on our , come by and grab the Micro Monday role so you can join in on the fun! Okay, onto some spotlights... #Crowd Favorites: - - Submitted by u/\_\_kxtty\_\_ - - Submitted by u/katherine_c #Bay’s Spotlights: - - Submitted by u/pathetic_optimist - - Submitted by u/nobodysgeese   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I accept nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or our discord.** You have until 1pm EST Monday to send them in. Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I never thought I would write a story. I never knew a single story could have such an impact. Would I have written it if I had known I would lose my job over it? That’s not the right question, is it? The story needed to be told. I’m not sorry that I wrote it. In the months that followed me getting fired, one female colleague after the other left the company for another job. One of them left a message on the whiteboard that could hardly be misunderstood: “When the disgusted depart, there remains only the disgusting ones.” The story I wrote was meant for the eyes of the Board of Directors only, but maybe it’s time that I share it with a larger audience. Two years ago, I took a job in a fast-growing technology startup. The founders were young and ambitious, and their ambition was contagious. We all went the extra mile for each other. Soon, our can-do attitude paid off. We received good press and investors were starting to get curious about our business. It didn’t take long before the founders announced that the company succeeded in securing five million dollars in funding. We had a big party to celebrate our success. Our financial troubles were finally a thing of the past. We’d move to a nicer office, open a subsidiary in Europe, hire more people … The future looked bright; the sky was the limit. Little did we know which price we’d have to pay for the investment from the venture capital fund. The new Board of Directors congratulated the founders for what they had achieved but decided to replace them anyway. A new manager was put in charge of our office. He introduced himself as someone who “got things done”. He was double our age and his resume read like an overview of the most successful technology companies of the past couple of decades. Having someone like him working for us —with us— initially gave us a boost. With more people like him joining our team, it felt like we were on the verge of playing in the major league of Tech. That feeling didn’t last long. The last Friday of each month, everyone in the Boston office was invited to a Happy Hour. We’d get together in a bar for some drinks and to talk about our life and our hobbies. Some loved sports, others were more into music, but our big-shot manager had a rather peculiar hobby. “My wife and I are swingers,” he confided. At first, we wanted to believe that he was talking about dancing. He was our boss and we were his subordinates. What else could he be talking about? “I’m not jealous when my wife is with another man,” he added. Still, we convinced ourselves that he was talking about his wife sharing a dance with another man. “Look, I have some pictures on my phone,” he continued. At this point, there could no longer be any doubt about what he meant when he talked about “swinging”. He showed us a picture of his wife, naked in the arms of another man —also naked. “We like having sex with other couples,” he explained. “Foursomes are great!” “I think you’ve had enough drinks, boss,” one of our male colleagues said. Our manager looked him in the eye, and asked: “Are you saying I’m drunk?” Our male colleague shook his head, feeling sorry that he had raised his voice and afraid about what might happen if his boss took offense of his remark. “I’m not drunk,” our manager winked at our colleague. “Do you know how I know?” No one wanted to know, so no one answered his question. We feared he’d tell us anyway. “When I’m sober, I like giving oral sex to a woman; when I’m drunk, I like giving head to a man. I know I’m not drunk because I’d rather eat some pussy right now than to suck your cock. You can keep your penis in your pants, boy ... for now.” Shocked at these scandalous revelations, everyone contrived to escape under the pretext of some urgent business. We didn’t talk much about this incident afterwards, but it was no coincidence that every woman at the office tried to avoid getting into a situation that left her alone in one room with the swinger, as we called him. Even some of the men felt uneasy when being around him. We were all happy to see that he had taken the habit of visiting the European office for a couple of days every month. The days he was out of the office were a happy relief of the stress his behavior caused. Then one day, we received a visit from a colleague from the European office in Brussels. He asked us what we thought of our manager. When we didn’t answer, he started telling us a story that didn’t surprise us. “There's no direct flight from Boston to Brussels. There’s always a short stopover of at most a couple of hours in Amsterdam,” our European colleague explained. “Your manager, however, always makes that stopover a sleepover. He asks the company to book a hotel for the night in Amsterdam, claiming that he gets more work done that way, not having to lose time waiting for his connecting flight at the airport. Everyone at our office knows that he's talking nonsense. He spends those nights in the famous Red-Light District in Amsterdam. Those are the actual reason why he likes to visit our office that much.” “That’s just gossip, isn’t it?” one of our new co-workers laughed. "I mean: how could you prove this to be true?" “As a matter of fact,” our European colleague said, “your manager boasts about the visits he pays to the Dutch hookers. He showed us a picture of himself in between two women. The three of them were naked above the waist.” Indeed, that sounded like something our manager would do, but the story got even worse: “When he shows that picture to the women in the Brussels office, he says: ‘I like the hookers I choose to be young —as young as you are, girls.’” I decided it was high time someone wrote a story about the sexual harassment at our office. I dreaded it deeply, but if no one else was going to do it, I should take up my pen and write it myself. I wasn’t looking for sensation. I didn’t want to make a big fuss about it. I just wanted to put into words how our manager made me feel. He hadn’t physically abused me, I explained, but the things he said created a toxic atmosphere that was bad for business. I didn't share my story with anyone, apart from the members of the Board of Directors. I marked my story as confidential, given the sensitive nature of its contents. I emphasized that I didn’t blame the Board for anything. On the contrary: I was convinced that the Board would appreciate knowing what was happening in the company they were responsible for, and confident that they would make the right decision. I was wrong. I got fired. Again, I’m not sorry I wrote my story. If I had to do it all over again, I would do the exact same thing. We should all tell our stories to remind us that we are not alone. As long as we turn a blind eye and as long as we remain silent, a disgusting minority wins the day. We, the disgusted majority, should no longer allow this. Our voice deserves to be heard.


I'm a shelf. People coming to the supermarket passing by me would leave a comment: oh, such a well-made shelf, you will be sold so well. Sometimes I felt bad and I talked to other items displayed around me, they would just tell me: you shouldn't have anything to worry about, you are such a nice shelf, you will be sold well, I know that you are so nice and well built, damn, I've never seen a shelf nicer than you. I'd say thank you. But it doesn't help with my sadness. I usually didn't speak out the second sentence. And yes, my sadness continued. Yes, I seemed to be a shelf that should be proud of myself. People passing by would stop by me and stare at me in astonishment: such a well-made shelf. I did appreciate their compliments. But there was no way I could feel proud. Cuz they'd pick the less nice ones and take them home. And my sadness continued. One day came an artist. She saw me and stopped in front of me, and repeated the compliment that I'd heard for a thousand times: such a unique, well-made shelf. And then she took me. But my sadness continued. Instead of bringing me home with her and put me in her bedroom or study room, she brought me and put me there in the Artwork Exhibition Hall, together with all the art works. Now all the art works and people coming to the hell would stare at me and say: damn, such a well-made shelf, you are actually art. I did appreciate their compliments, but my sadness continued. And I stopped talking about it now. Cuz I knew what they would reply: damn, you should be proud, I've never seen a better-made shelf. One night a thief broke into the hall, in the darkness and in a hurry, he tried to take away all the art works as he could, together with me. I was carried out onto a car and and the car's drove away. After the car arrived, he moved us all into his apartment very quickly in the darkness. His apartment was so small and crowded and messy. When he saw me he got furious, yelling: I worked so hard to actually carry a goddamn shelf home. Thought it was a big stuff that'd be worth a lot, fuck you, wasted my time. Then he put me away in a corner and forgot about me and within a week, menaged to sell all the other art works. The thief becomes rich and now is moving to a bigger apartment: when he's packaging his things he looks at me and commenting: oh, such a nice shelf! And he decides to take me with him to his new apartment. His new apartment is really nice. And he's happy. He merrily downloads all his stuff off the truck and carries us all into the house. He puts me in his bedroom, right beside the window. He then starts to put all his little coats on to me. They feel heavy. They feel pretty heavy. My sadness is now all gone.


Connor was old school. His colleagues said he was born in the wrong century, never mind the wrong decade. He preferred old things, “retro-tech”. He owned a mobile, but it was second-hand, an obsolete model. It couldn’t download the latest software or buy the newest apps; it was simply for texting and calling. He didn’t even use it for an alarm. For that, he relied on a ticking clock he’d bought from an antique shop. But unlike his phone, the clock didn’t adjust for daylight savings. If he’d remembered the seasons were changing the night before he would have wound the clock back manually and it would have trilled to wake him up in time for work. Instead, he got in late the night before and passed out the second he hit the mattress. He’d been in the lab till god-knows-when recreating fingerprints. That was the only type of technology he kept up with because it was his job. And it was the only technology he trusted because it was designed for good. So, too tired to make sure his future self was punctual, Connor slept like a baby until his phone started ringing. He grasped for it on the bedside table and answered without looking. ‘He lives!’ It was Jake. Connor could recognise his chirpy voice before he even opened a bleary eye to check caller ID. ‘We’ve got a body.’ Connor stifled a yawn. ‘I don’t start ‘til 8’. ‘It’s nearly 9, buddy.’ Connor bolted upright and checked his clock. It wasn’t just behind; it had stopped completely. Hands stuck at 5.42. ‘Shit, my clock’s stopped,’ he said. ‘That’s what happens when you live in the past, nerd!’ Connor got out of bed; ear pressed to his phone. ‘I’m on my way.’ ‘Meet me at the scene, I’ll text you the details.’ Jake hung up and Connor tossed his phone on the bed as it pinged with said text. Then he said, ‘Shutters,’ and an electronic *beep* preceded a cool female Voice emanating from the walls. ‘Good morning, Connor,’ the Voice said. Connor didn’t reply. He didn’t feel he needed to; the Voice didn’t belong to anyone. It wasn’t human. So instead, he watched his shutters rise and took in the Seattle skyline dominating his window. Like every other morning, it was dotted with dashing objects – hover cars. If Connor had a choice, he wouldn’t fly. But there were fewer and fewer roads on the ground these days. Eventually, the Romans’ invention would be lost under apartments and skyscrapers. Just like his phone, Connor’s car was an older model. He picked it specifically because it had gull-wing doors like the DeLorean in that old time-travel movie*.* Like every other hover car, it was activated by a handprint on the door. When Connor slid onto the leather driver’s seat, he was automatically enclosed in a seatbelt and his door locked on its own. Even driving was out of his control, moderated to meet the speed limit. Sure, there were still traffic accidents, mid-air collisions when a vehicle malfunctioned or a boy racer overrode the controls, but otherwise, driving in the sky was risk-free courtesy of a legal agreement between the government and the country’s car manufacturers. The only thing Connor did have control of in his own car was where he was going and what he listened to on the way. Above where there used to be steering wheels, a dashboard took up the windscreen. Connor tapped the interface and ‘INPUT DESTINATION’ flashed up. ‘Wells Crescent,’ he said. ‘Destination confirmed.’ It was the same Voice from Connor’s room coming through the speakers. ‘Navigating flight path.’ Soundlessly, Connor's car rose off the ground. It was a weird sensation, watching the car do that, feel it soar into the sky. It was unnatural and even after all these years, it still made Connor’s stomach clench with vertigo. He squeezed his eyes shut before he was sick. Needing a distraction, as the car glided over the bustling metropolis, he said, ‘Shuffle Classical playlist,’ and “The Seeker” by The Who filled his eardrums with its twangy bass. As the car accelerated higher, Connor sat back and watched the clouds pass by, beginning to relax, as he blended with the swarm of morning commuters, none of them with tyres or exhausts, all regulated by drones. Half an hour later, Connor’s car descended on Wells Crescent, a middle-class suburban street packed with emergency services vehicles: police, ambulance and one marked 'F.B.I. Cyber Crime Division’. Covering all of this was a yellow forcefield, spreading from the house being investigated, across the street. There, was a parked hover car, its windows smashed, glass everywhere. On the sidewalk, Connor could see someone taking photographs of the side of the car facing away from the road with a silver tablet. They were hidden head to toe in white coveralls, goggles, gloves and a surgical mask. But as the car landed, they looked up and lowered their mask. Jake grinned at him. After Connor landed, he changed into his own uniform in the back of a forensics van and Jake filled him in. ‘So, what happened?’ ‘E.D.B. gone rogue.’ ‘Remind me again.’ Jake sighed – how many times did he have to explain stuff like this? ‘Emergency Defence Bot,’ he explained matter-of-factly. ‘Right. And what did it do?’ ‘Disintegrated an intruder.’ Connor zipped up his uniform slowly in stunned silence. *A robot killed somebody?* ‘Come on,’ Jake said, walking off. ‘I’ll show you.’ Jake led him to the damaged car. What he’d been photographing was a dent, coated in an ash imprint of a person, like a chalk outline. ‘What the fuck.’ Jake indicated to the house behind the car. ‘Neighbour rang 911 this morning. Said she saw someone trying to steal her car – probably the intruder. Couple minutes later, she rings again. Says he's gone and the bot's blown up her car. Looks like it took the intruder with it.’ Connor stared at the ash, bewildered. ‘You can't order a bot to do that. Right? It breaks the Three Laws.’ ‘That’s the best part,’ Jake smirked. ‘No-one ordered it.’ Then he moved on and Connor had to jog to keep up. ‘What do you mean no-one ordered it?’ ‘The owner wasn't in.’ They crossed the street, tracing a trail of spattered blood. Connor ogled it. ‘Have you ID'd the body?’ Jake shook his head. ‘Nothing left to ID.’ ‘What about prints?’ ‘Guy must've been wearing gloves.’ The door to the crime scene was made from heavy metal but had a charred, man-shaped hole at waist-height. When Connor and Jake approached it, two colleagues were scanning its dimensions with hand-held devices. ‘Is that how the intruder got in?’ Connor asked. ‘No, it was shot from the inside.’ ‘By the bot? Then, how did they get in?’ Jake shrugged. ‘We don't know. No other signs of forced entry. Only record of the door opening is after the 911 call. Peephole only has footage of the bot going back in. Mind if we…?’ The investigators shook their heads and stood aside, allowing Jake to step up to the porch. ‘Jake Green and Connor Jones, forensic investigators,’ he said in a flat tone. ‘Access granted. Welcome,’ replied the same female Voice Connor used for his devices. The metal door flashed green and opened jerkily. As Jake and Connor entered, Connor eyed the door’s Peephole. Most houses that could afford them had them – a security camera that only let in people it recognised. It sent a shiver down Connor’s spine. Inside, more investigators were scattered around the scarcely furnished hallway taking photographs and samples. Near Connor’s feet, another blood spatter, congealing on the polished floor. ‘Nice place.’ ‘Look at this.’ Jake tapped a large circular dial on the wall. ‘Anti-Grav. Stand there.’ Frowning slightly, Connor stepped to the spot Jake pointed to. Then, his colleague twisted the dial slightly anti-clockwise and Connor began to levitate. ‘Woah!’ Connor looked down at his legs dangling in the air. It was like being in the car again but without the safety. Yet strangely, he didn’t feel dizzy or nauseous but…exhilarated? ‘One in every room,’ Jake explained. ‘Rich folk use them for parties.’ *Of course,* Connor thought, but he was having too much fun to be disdainful about the wasteful and pointless extravagance of the upper class. Even though it was against the law of physics, Connor couldn’t deny the joy he felt at fulfilling every child, every human’s dream to fly at that moment. And after all, it was the science he loved, that he devoted his life to, that was making it happen. A smile crept on his face but evaporated the second the lounge door sprang open. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Jake almost jumped out of his skin; it was their boss, Sheriff Kathy Roundhouse. A seasoned take-no-shit Texan with a stern expression to match. Jake quickly reset the Dial, grounding Connor. ‘I was just showing Connor-’ he began to babble, but Kathy wagged a finger at him. ‘You've shown him enough.’ Then, she turned to Connor who wobbled upon finding his feet again. ‘You're late.’ ‘Sorry, Chief.’ Over Kathy’s shoulder, Connor glimpsed the backs of men in black suits. ‘Who's in there?’ he whispered. Kathy closed the lounge door. ‘The Feds,’ she replied in a hushed tone. ‘They're interviewing Ed.’ Jake scoffed incredulously. ‘It's called Ed?’ ‘Owner's not the brightest spark,’ Kathy explained. ‘You’re telling me.’ ‘Are they here?’ Connor asked. Kathy shook her head. ‘We've called him, he's on his way. He didn't sound too shocked about the whole thing though.’ ‘Why are the Feds here?’ Jake asked. ‘They're doing the Turing Test.’ ‘What?!’ Kathy put a finger on her lip. ‘Shush! Come in here.’ She ushered them into the kitchen at the end of the hallway. On the counter sat a row of evidence in transparent bags. ‘They think it's A.I.?’ Connor blurted as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘I don't know,’ Kathy snapped. ‘It's not our job to find out.’ ‘But it's our job to find out what happened. A bot's never killed someone before.’ ‘That we know of,’ Jake added. Kathy glared at the pair of them. ‘Ain't nobody saying this was a goddamn murder! It's a robot for Christ Sake.’ ‘Come on-’ Jake began, but Kathy raised her finger to quieten him again. ‘Let’s just do our jobs. Okay?’ Connor and Jake looked at each other. They knew they had no chance of winning this one. ‘Fine,’ Jake conceded. ‘Good.’ Kathy nodded thoroughly. ‘Now, Jake, go outside and get me a match on those remains.’ Jake sighed. ‘Fine.’ Then he trudged out of the room. When he was gone, Kathy turned to Connor. ‘I need your expertise on something.’ Before Connor could ask what, Kathy picked up an evidence bag labelled 'EXHIBIT C' and unsealed it. From it, she withdrew a small brass key and passed it to Connor. He turned it carefully in his gloved hands, mesmerised. ‘I've not seen one of these in years.’ ‘I want you to see where it fits.’ Connor looked up at her. ‘Where did you find it?’ ‘Hallway. Owner denies it's his.’ ‘Could be the intruder's?’ Kathy shrugged. ‘Could be.’ Connor held the key tightly, pressing the jagged edge against his palm. Kathy was right, this was his right up his alley – a good old-fashioned mystery. ‘I’m on it.’ The first place Connor thought to look for the lock to the key was upstairs. As he went up, he took note of his surroundings. There was an indentation on the sloped ceiling. At the top step, a scorched hole in the wall. Near that, another Gravity Dial - this guy really did have too much money. Had the house’s robot really chased the intruder all the way down the stairs and out through the front door? How was that possible? Weren’t they programmed to stay in the house? Weren’t their weapons reserved as a last resort? Artificial Intelligence was the only plausible explanation. Why else would the FBI be doing the Turing Test on an EDB? Connor blamed the owner; it had given it a name. Given *him* a name, he guessed. Given Ed a license to act human. And like the humans that had created him, he had acted out of order. On the landing, Connor found a young, nervous scientist called Declan scouring a track mark on the carpet. ‘Hey, Declan.’ ‘Hey.’ He nodded to the mark. ‘Is that where the bot came out?’ ‘Yeah.’ There was an attic, but it was concealed by a metal panel that looked older than the technology in the rest of the house with a blinking red sensor. ‘What's up there?’ Declan looked up to where Connor was pointing. ‘Attic. We can't get in, body scanner's broken.’ Just to double-check, Connor stepped underneath and suddenly, there was a loud beep and the panel slid across to reveal a secondary hatch. A step ladder uncoiled and planted itself at Connor's feet. The two investigators exchanged looks. ‘Well, that was weird,’ Declan said. Connor didn’t reply and squinted at the hatch. He couldn’t believe it; half the mystery was solved already. There was a keyhole in the door to the attic. He compared it to the key in his hand and sure enough, they shared matching shades of bronze. Now, all he had to do was see what was inside. ‘I'm gonna take a better look.’ Connor climbed the ladder. At the top step, he examined the lock in wonderment. It was rusty, which meant it was old. Meaning, whatever lay within must be old too. Unable to wait any longer to find out, Connor inserted the key. It fitted easily. He turned it and there was a dull click. ‘Connor, wait.’ Declan’s protest was tinged with fear, but Connor didn’t hear it. He proceeded to ease the hatch lid open. Dust spilled out from a black hole. ‘Connor, don’t.’ But he had to get closer. He had to see what was inside, so he pulled himself up. ‘Connor! Too late. Connor's legs disappeared. He’d gone through. But rather than find himself in the attic, Connor came down the ladder the same way he went up. Except, everything had changed. There were no lights on anymore and it was dim as if it were night not day. And the house was silent. ***THUMP.*** Connor jumped; the hatch lid had snapped shut. Catching his breath, Connor pocketed the key and rested on the last step, confused by his surroundings. He was alone. Declan and the track mark were both gone. He peered over the stair bannister. The hallway was empty too. Not only that, but the door was intact. No charred hole, no-one taking pictures of the damage. Connor checked the ceiling – the dent was smoothed over. The scorch on the wall by the Gravity Dial was missing as well. Every sign that the bot had lost control had been erased. As if it hadn’t happened. Connor glanced at his watch: 5:37. ‘Hello?’ In reply, a minor echo and a hum swelled in the walls. Intrigued and intending to investigate, Connor tentatively placed a foot on the carpet, instantly triggering a deafening caterwaul. Connor covered his ears and jumped off the ladder, flinching as it recoiled into the hatch. Then, the attic door slid back into place. No way out. The alarm persisted. Disorientated, Connor wandered to the stairs. Behind him, the sensor on the attic flashed and a section of the carpet – the spot Declan had been inspecting – began to open up. Unheard by Connor, a platform rose out of the gap with a puff of steam. On top was a small robot on wheels with two ports in his chest. The house’s Emergency Defence Bot. Ed. ‘*You are a threat,’* he said. Connor whipped around to face him. What was he doing up here? Why was it dark? What the hell was going on? ‘Turn off the alarm!’ ‘*You are a threat,*’ Ed repeated. ‘No, scan me!’ Connor yelled over the alarm’s wailing. ‘My name's Connor Jones. I'm a forensic investigator. I’m allowed to be here.’ ‘*Initialising threat protocol.*’ ‘No, no, no, you don’t need to that!’ But Ed had already unloaded a miniature laser cannon from one of his ports. ‘Trespasser must be disintegrated.’ ‘Oh shit.’ Instinctively, Connor darted to the Gravity Dial and whirled it anti-clockwise as a red ray flew over his head and punctured a hole in the wall. With the gravity off, Ed and Connor rocketed upwards – Ed bumping the ceiling and leaving a mark. *‘Targeting system offline.’* As Ed rotated and sparked, Connor took the opportunity to pull himself towards the stairs. ‘*Adapting to atmosphere.’* Connor glanced behind him as he swam through the air and down the stairs; Ed had uprighted himself. *‘Adjusting gravity.’* Despite his frantic efforts, Connor moved little before Ed beeped and the Gravity Dial span clockwise. When Newton’s discovery kicked back in, Connor dropped two-thirds of the way down the stairs. And as he tumbled down the remaining steps, the key slipped out of his pocket. Behind him, Ed used jets to steady himself onto the carpet. Then warmed up his next shot. Hearing this, Connor scrambled to his feet and slammed his hand against the door's scanner. But it flashed red. ‘*Access denied’*, said the Voice. Connor couldn’t understand. This was the same door that had just let him in. Was it because his hands were sweaty? Was the security system that temperamental? Well, if the bot hot on his tail was anything to go by... Connor tried the door again. *‘Access denied.’* Connor punched the door in frustration, then stared into the Peephole and yelled, ‘Let me out! I'm Connor Jones!’ *‘No record found,’* the Voice replied. Connor could hear Ed hovering down the stairs. He decided to try the door one more time. *‘Access denied. You are an intruder.’* Before Connor could react, he noticed Ed in his peripheral vision, directly behind him, and ducked, avoiding a blast that struck the metal door. Hair singed, Connor peered over his shoulder as another beam whizzed by his ear and ruptured a hole in the door. *‘Recharging laser,’* said Ed. This was his chance. Dazed, Connor lunged through the sizzling hole in the door. But at the same time, the EDB rolled forwards and extended a claw from his second port. Halfway to freedom, Ed seized one of Connor’s dangling legs. He’d been caught. Screaming and kicking his free leg to no avail, Ed tightened his grip before detaching a buzzsaw from his claw. Hearing it, Connor freaked out and wiggled further out of the hole, but then Ed lowered the buzzsaw onto his leg, shredding through his coveralls with ease and slitting his calf. Connor gritted his teeth and yanked his torso loose but as he wrangled free, he dragged his leg against the saw. Pumped on adrenaline, Connor sprang to his feet and scanned the street wildly. No forcefield. All the vehicles were missing. All except the neighbour's hover car across the street, in perfect condition. He began to limp towards it, blood oozing from his leg when he heard the front door slide open. *‘Access granted,’* the Voice managed weakly. Connor froze and turned around slowly. The front door had let Ed out. Connor scoffed in disbelief. ‘Oh, come on.’ Ed trundled forward. *‘Laser recharging.’* Connor didn’t have long before the bot tried another shot, so he limped the rest of the way to the door. But when he slapped his palm on the door, it flashed red. ‘Worth a shot,’ Connor grumbled. As he turned to limp down the street, another ray whipped by and shattered the car’s windows, flinging Connor into the rear, showered in glass. He snapped his wrist on impact and his watch skidded under the car. *‘Trespassers must be disintegrated,’* Ed was advancing towards the car now. Unable to get up, Connor writhed backwards, using his good hand. ‘I’m not a trespasser!’ he yelled back. *‘Trespassers must be disintegrated*’, Ed repeated. ‘Listen to me! Don’t shoot!’ *‘Trespassers must be disintegrated.’* ‘I order you to stop!’ And as if by a miracle, that’s exactly what Ed did. Connor exhaled, sweat pouring down his face. Save Maybe technology was still under our control- But then- *‘You are not permitted to give orders.’* ‘What?’ Ed directed the laser at Connor's face. *‘I do not take orders.’* The bot’s laser warmed up. Connor raised his bad hand in front of his face. ‘Wait! Don’t shoot!’ But Ed wasn’t listening. He’d made up his mind. He could think for himself and this is what he wanted. Connor closed his eyes in defeat. ‘Please,’ he whispered but it was drowned out by another ***ZAP!*** And he was instantaneously disintegrated into a pile of ash. Ed retracted his laser. *‘Threat neutralised,’* he said, then swivelled 180 degrees anti-clockwise and started to retreat to the house. Four hours later, a gloved hand plucked Connor’s watch from underneath the car and zipped into an evidence bag. He hadn’t found a match on any prints, but at least he had this to present to Kathy. She snatched it from him. ‘Where did you find this?’ He told her and she marched upstairs. Jake followed her. On the landing, they found Declan gawping up. ‘Where’s Connor?’ Kathy asked. Declan pointed to the attic as the door slid back into place with an echoing thud. Kathy looked down at the watch in the evidence bag. The face was cracked, and the hands were stuck at 5:42.


A walk in the forest accompanied only by the songs of birds, the crunch of dried leaves and the almost thunderous sound of branches breaking beneath the Walkers feet. The forest does not bother the Walker for it knows that the Walker will not bother it. The Walker has walked through many forests and it will walk through many more, without knowing its purpose or the destination. Alas, the Walker does not care, for it knows that the forest is ever changing even though the Walker must stay the same. The Walker is the only constant in this world, unifying the ever changing with the constant in a battle that is as constant and ever changing as the things that it connects. Chaos and order, exisiting in harmony. A violent waterfall and a frozen lake, existing at the same place and time for that is how it has always been. And that is how it will always be for that is the job of the Walker. The work of many now done by one for that is how it is. The Walker gave up his home and friends to lift this burden but it does not care, it knew its fate, just like the ones before it. The weak ones, ones who could not do what the Walker is accomplishing every second, minute, hour. But it does not relish in pride for it goes hand in hand with arrogance. A walk on the beach, accompanied only by the songs of other birds, threatening crashes of waves and calming grains of sand, thrown in the air by the Walker. The Walker does not bother the beach since it knows that the beach will bother it anyway. The Walker has walked on many beaches and it will walk on many more, it knows its purpose but the destination is unknown to it. The Walker only cares for the path in front of it for it knows that the path bends and twists to trick it. Alas, it can not be tricked for it is not the Walkers purpose. The Walker knows the ever changing truth that it is meant to bringing stillnes and order to. It also knows that it can never succeed for there is no one absolute truth for that would mean there is no chaos. The Walker knows that there are more like him but he can not interact with them for it may spread knowledge that is forbidden to the others. The Walker can not see the future for there are infinite futures as such it focuses only on the next step to take. It is always thinking and no thought is forbidden to it for it knows the path it must always take and may not stray from said path. It is the bridge between smart and wise, the ability to use knowledge, not just accumulate it. There may not be truth without lies so the Walker must lie to itself about the future and what its destination holds, for that is how it must always be. A walk through the ocean, accompanied only by the calming sound of waves forming and crashing into eachother, the violent gusts of wind and the careless sway of seaweed which the Walker tries to mimic. The ocean does not bother the Walker for it knows that the Walker will bother it anyway. The walker has been taken to many oceans and it will be taken to many more, it knows its destination but its purpose is unknown to it. The Walker hums to itself the rhythm of nature for that is the only thing it is allowed to do. The rhythm may not be known by anyone else for that would reveal too much truth. The Walker can never reach its destination since the way to the destination is unknown to it. The Walker goes along with the currents of the ocean, letting the ocean choose its path. The Walker may not make its own decisions for that would reveal its purpose to it. The walker observes the creatures of the ocean, for they may give directions to the walker, which it is too blind to see. The walker does not look down upon creatures because of what they are, that is beneath it. The creatures of the sea give hints to the Walker, it rarely sees those hints but it is eternally grateful to the creatures. Alas, the walker does not dare to love for it goes hand in hand with hate.


This is the story of a boy named Jeffery Jefferson, but before you hear the story of the boy you really must hear the story of the man. And what could be said of Jeff The Man? Volumes of books could be written about Jeff The Boy and his exploits. But Jeff The Man? Well, he was a different story altogether.  Jeff The Man called people on the telephone for their money. He was all the world thought a man of his age should be. He reached expectations well.  From time to time his friends or his girlfriend would ask him, “Do you enjoy what you do?”  When asked this question he would laugh as if the answer couldn’t have mattered. Jeff The Man was not prone to such trivial ideas as “enjoying yourself” or “having fun”. Jeff The Man knew nothing of adventure, of Giants and Vampires or even love. But I am getting ahead of myself at the moment.  After done laughing at this question he would say, “To enjoy my life I must conquer it first.” His friends didn’t know what he meant by that and consequently most made the assumption that because the statement was not understood it must also be profound and deep. Not wanting to appear dim, his friends usually chose to nod knowingly or smile sensibly. They took his answer as a hint to change the subject. So subjects changed, and those around him remembered not to ask him these questions again.  After a hard day's work of making money Jeffery Jefferson loosened his tie and slid into his “not yet paid for” car. As he got in he saw a penny on the ground. It wasn't just any penny, it was a lucky penny. A Lucky Penny can change things. They have been known to set important events into motion. In 1842 Alexander Mackenzie, gave up the drink, and promised to follow God wherever he led. In a farmers field just outside of Ayrshire, Scotland he found a Lucky penny. He had the ability to recognize it. Only certain people can distinguish a lucky penny from a regular one. It has nothing to do with the shade of copper or what side it lands on when it escapes pockets and purses. Those who have the gift could recognize one with their eyes shut. When Mackenzie bent over to pick the penny up, he noticed it was next to a printed advertisement speaking about the new land of Canada. At that moment he made the decision to go to there. Helen, the secret love of his life also happened to move to Canada and within thirty one years he was Prime Minister of this new land and married to Helen, the only woman he ever loved.  Lucky pennies can change things.  Now, Jeff The Man was not the sort to believe in lucky pennies or anything like that, but as soon as his body hit the smooth vinyl seats of his bank-owned car he felt as though that penny had the answer for a question he had forgotten to ask.  “That’s stupid,” he thought out loud to himself. The burst of speech embarrassed his lips, and yet the feeling still nagged him.  When he made a decision to write it off and shut the door, he did just the opposite. He opened his door, looked around, slipped the dirty penny, into his clean pocket, and drove away as fast as he could, as though he had lost himself for a moment, and needed to go home to get himself back.  When he got home he placed the penny on the coffee table that he had named “the coffee table where nothing must ever be put, not even coffee”. Jeff’s little house was a lot like a museum. Even ordinary thing looked important, shiny appliances sat on the black and white tile of his spotless counter. His walls were filled with framed pictures of places that Jeffery had never been. His bookcase was filled with books he had never read. He never let more than two people in his house at a time, so the atmosphere was that of a museum in the winter.  Jeffery Jefferson was defined and precise; everything had its place. He tried to forget about the penny but it taunted him. Sitting boldly in that place of honor on "the coffee table where nothing must ever be put not even coffee" it could have been speaking.  “Why did you put me here if I wasn’t important?”  His sensibilities forced him to ignore the penny at first, but at exactly 7:37pm Jeffrey examined it for the first time. It looked so typical he was half angry. He half expected it to have some private message just for him. All it emblemed was a twiggy maple leaf on the front, and the queen Regina on the back.  “What a perfectly normal penny. Clearly I’m going insane,” Jeffery thought, "I must do something perfectly normal. I must do laundry or clean my study."  But The study was always in order and the laundry had already been done.  “Curse the laundry.” He thought to himself.  In the middle of his anger towards previously done chores he noticed something. The year on the coin was 1981. Jeff The Man tried to remember significant events of that year. Historical references occurred to him like the death of Terry Fox and Bob Marley, and the Pope being shot in the head. But for the life of him Jeff The Man could not remember a solitary personal memory from 1981. He would have been ten years old at the time. He could remember what he was told and what he had read about, but not one memory that he could call his own from that year.  Jeff found himself at his parent’s house. It was a three hour drive. It took him two hours to decide to go. In all this time he still had not come up with one personal memory from that year. His mother was on her knees weeding in the garden. Her cheeks were red from the sun.  “What are you doing here, Jeff?” his mom asked.  Jeff's mother was just like Jeff. She was busy, and when she wasn't busy, she was busy thinking of things that may busy her. Even in the few minutes that her son was home she had been calculating the errands that would suffer from his visit, and when she may do them later. They loved each other, but they were too used to each other, and hadn't shared a laugh or smile in years. Jeff’s mom blamed it on the lack of grandchildren, for as she would think to herself.  “Children are the ushers of joy.”  Jeff hadn't noticed at all.  “Why? Can’t I visit my parents whom I love every once in a while?”  Jeff felt that his parents hated him coming over to get something that wasn't their quality time. So he always gushed in the first few minutes of interaction, before he dropped his real reasons  "Jeff, I have never known you to drive three hours to see the parents you love in the middle of the week, without a holiday to celebrate.”  “How's Dad?”  “He's been working longer hours since he got his new job, he's always tired.”  She said it more to herself, not putting her hope in Jeff actually listening. Jeff gave both verbal and visual feedback as he nodded.  “Oh yeah.”  “So what are you here for Jeff?”  Her tone suggested that she was ok with him coming over for reasons that did not involve her quality time, and that maybe she had things to do anyway.  “Do you still have those boxes of my old grade-school stuff?”  “Yeah, they're in the basement in the storage room. Why?”  “I just need something. That’s all."  The most helpful thing that Jeff found was a stack of scrapbooks that were full of objects he’d collected and stories he had written from every year. Journal entries, drawings, pictures and report cards were also found in the mix from every year from age five to thirteen. The 1981 scrapbook did not have as much as the other years, but what was found in its pages was interesting. Jeff looked over his report card from that year and found that he had gotten A’s in social studies. Jeff remembered being horrible at social studies. There was also a picture of him and his family on a vacation at Drumheller next to a T-Rex statue. Jeff didn't even remember ever going to that town as a child.  The most interesting find was what was not there. He hadn't written any stories the whole year. Stories had been Jeff's trademark as a child. Jeff used to write a story for every person he met. He would write stories for people as birthday presents. On Christmas of 1978 he left a novel about circus bears under the tree for his mother. He was shocked to find he had not written one story in an entire year.  The one other thing in his scrapbook was a journal entry. He skimmed the page it was about his sledding accident that he had gotten into. He remembered that. In fact, he remembered making that very journal entry. It was vague but definitely a viable memory and Jeff was surprised to find he felt relieved by this discovery.  He thought about the details of what he could remember from the accident. He remembered lying down in the December snow, people gathering around him saying that everything was going to be ok. The next thing he remembered was being in a hospital room, and people trying to explain to him in dumbed-down child speech that he was paralyzed from the neck down and that he would never walk again. They explained to him how he had been in a sledding accident on Suicide Hill.  “Wait,” he thought, “I don’t remember the accident.”  Memories are tricky things because the stories that we hear, the photographs we find become a part of our reality. They become the memories we don’t really remember. And the accident was something Jeffery Jefferson never truly remembered.  They put a fence around the hill after the accident because it was deemed unsafe for children. Jeffrey himself became a cautionary tale told by anxious mothers. Some of the kids around town were mad at Jeff for getting the best hill in town closed down, but of course no one said anything because they all knew that being paralyzed from the neck down was enough punishment.  The doctors who told him that he would never walk again were the same doctors who marvelled and subtly found ways to claim the credit when each day Jeff could move a little more of his body. After just two months he was walking fine.  Jeff The Man read the journal entry, written in his mother’s tight cursive since he’d had no use of limbs at the time. The last line disturbed him. It said  “There’s something on the tip of my mind I’m trying to stretch to remember. Something, someone, some place maybe? But it scares me and I’d rather not think about it. I’d rather forget.”  “Odd. Very odd.” Jeff thought to himself. “Mom!” Jeff yelled looking for his mother throughout the house.  She threw down her laundry pile, “Yes Jeff What is it?”  “When did we ever go to Drumheller?”   Jeff was intrigued up to his knees. The boring life he built took a back seat to the endless possibilities of his no longer dormant imagination. He needed to know more. After he told his mother the story so far, she suggested what was his most solitary, pervasive thought; to talk to Britt. She was his best friend when they were younger. If anyone knew what had happened that year, that day on Suicide Hill it would be her. The last he heard of her was that she was teaching at a small prairie Bible College that would only be a little out of the way to visit.  When he got to her college he parked in an already full parking lot. Gaggles of small groups were making their way toward an auditorium building so Jeff followed suit.  He asked a couple walking, “Do you know who Brittany Dawn is?”  "Professor Dawn? Yeah, she’ll be at The Tab tonight,” the stranger said, pointing to the large auditorium. “Just follow the crowd.”  The college was first instated during the depression. The dilapidated buildings and 70's rugs in every building spoke of another rural prairie college trying to make it in an urbanized-education world. Inside The Tab there was a Missionary Conference going on. The speakers had not yet begun to speak and small groups of students crowded around different mission group’s tables. The pictures on their banners showed the often toothless people groups of the world. Some banners showed pictures of bearded men half smiling for the camera. The words “Reaching Muslims For Jesus” emblazoned underneath it.  He saw Brit in the crowd talking to a group of students. They were laughing, as she told some story that the listeners seemed to appreciate. When you’re close to someone for a long time, especially in childhood and teenage years, there are certain parts of their face that can only be seen by those closest to them. Even when they’re old and wrinkled and their appearance only seems a shadow of their younger self. The secrets of the face are always ready to be revealed to the dearest of friends. Those secrets never get old, they never leave you, they stay until the day you die. Brit’s secret was in her smile.  Jeffrey walked up to her and tried to introduce the new him to the new her. Jeff hated seeing old friends. Sometimes he would change sidewalks or duck into stores at the mall when he was home just to avoid the inevitable catch-up conversation. He was at a loss of words for what to say. For this conversation with Britt he decided to start things off with a smile and a chuckle. He approached her from behind.  “Hello, Professor Dawn.”  She stared at him blankly and let his name slowly leave her mouth, as she tried not to show that she knew who he was before his first word was fully enunciated.  “Jeffery Jefferson.”  “Hey.”  By this time the students Brittany was talking to were making new conversations and had gone off in different directions. It was just the two of them. There was a moment of visual readjustment that seemed to extend much longer than it was. They stared, looking at the difference between their memories and reality. Some old friends take time to digest and she was still mad at him for not coming to her wedding.  She finally spoke. “So, what are you doing here, Jeff? I didn't know you were the missionary type.”  “No, I'm not... not yet. I was in the area and thought you might want to talk, catch up on things”  “Oh, well then... when you put it like that let’s talk. Job?”  “Business.”  “Wife?”  “Girlfriend.”  "Kids?”  "Fish.”  “Hobbies?”  “Tennis and I just started boxing.”  “Well, that just about covers everything,” she patted his shoulder, “I’m glad we could catch up.”  She brought her mouth closer to Jeff’s ear and in a hushed voice said, “Listen, Jeff. I’m married now and I have two beautiful children and I’m really, really not interested in past boyfriends who’ve suddenly realized what they’ve missed, coming back to see me under the false curtain of sentimentality.”  Jeff and Brittany Dawn had dated in high school. They had been best friends for so long that dating seemed like a good idea. It ended badly on the night of their grade twelve graduation. The next day Britt went off to work at a camp for the summer and Jeff was off to college before she came back home. Besides some Christmas and Thanksgiving run-ins, they never saw each other again; until this moment. And after a minute and a half she was already walking away.  “I came here to ask about that day at Suicide Hill.”  Brittany turned around white as a ghost, piercing Jeff with her eyes.  “I knew it. I KNEW IT!” She took her first steps towards Jeff. “There’s a coffeehouse called The Oasis on campus. When this is over, be there.”  Jeff sat at his small coffeehouse table going over all the possible conversation scenarios. His hands clenched his knees like a scared kid at the carnival. He was nervous to hear what Professor Dawn might tell him, and nervous at what she had already said.  Brittany came in, direct and purposeful. She was in his face before her bottom hit her puffy vinyl seat and both purposely and directly asked her first question.  “What do you remember?”  “Nothing. I remember going to the hill and waking up paralyzed. People told me I fell. I guess I fell down the hill, off my sled, on the rocks.”  “I’m going to tell you what happened, Jeff. I'm going to tell you because it doesn't matter anymore. I'm going to tell you because I should have told you then.”  She cleared her throat and threw her eyes to the top left side of her head, like she always did when she was trying to think of how to say something. She finally put her hands on her seat, sadly pouted and blurted it out.  “A year before the accident, you took me to the hill raving about earthquakes and voices. I didn’t know whether to take you seriously or not because you loved to tell stories. When we had given up looking for any signs of your story being true the earth shook and we ran. I was always a better runner than you.”  This excited Jeff The Man that he lost track of the saliva in his mouth and spit as he spoke. “The earthquake. Yes... I remember the first one but it seemed so unreal. I think I told myself it was a dream.”  "It was no dream. I was ahead of you, running to get away. When the shaking and the noise stopped I turned around and you were gone. The ground looked undisturbed, even our footprints were gone. I thrashed through the snow looking for you. I ran myself rasp yelling your name and you didn’t answer. When I couldn’t find you I ran to your house and told your parents. We ran out to look for you and there you were on the road, unobjectionably unaffected, walking home. I asked you what happened; about the earthquake; if you were hurt. You told us there was no earthquake and acted like I didn’t know what I was talking about. You made me look dumb and sound like a liar. I hated you in that moment, ”  “I’m sorry, I don’t even remember that.”  “You were so different after that day. I could never put my finger on what it was exactly. You did and said everything you were expected to do and say, but there were little things.” She stopped to think for a moment, “Like for instance do you remember our version of blood brothers?”  Jeff’s face lit up, “Yeah, fart family.”  “When we would hold in our farts to release at the same time.” “We would put our bums together and...”  “FART ON EACH OTHER!” they chimed together.  The coffee shop patrons within earshot who were now lapsed in their own conversation looked at the two thirty-something’s that found old fart stories fascinating.  “That was so gross.” Brittany commented, her face betraying her secret self as she allowed her stern demeanor to melt into a momentary smile.  “Yeah, I know,” Jeff added, “so gross.”  The smile faded and Brittany’s face resumed its recent solemnity. She continued, “Well, you stopped doing fart family with me. It was like your humorous side was extracted from you and replaced by someone with no personality. I had theories that you were kidnapped by aliens or possessed or somehow got all the fun knocked out of you. I examined you, tried to exorcise you, and read every book I could find on unexplained events. But after a while I just chalked it up to losing a friend.”  “Wow.”  “Jeff, you did not make me laugh for one whole year. I waited; I yearned for you to say something to me that wasn’t domestic, tame, and predictable.”  “For a year? Then what happened?” “The day of the accident when we took you to the hospital, you woke up and the doctor told you that you were paralyzed. I walked up to you to hug you, mourning over your loss with tears running down my face. You said, ‘High five,’ and stared at your arm and added jokingly, ‘Oh yeah. I’m paralyzed.’ When your hand wouldn’t move, you said you would move it with the force. I couldn’t stop laughing and you were laughing too and it was really funny to watch you laugh because you only had motion in your neck and your head would bob up and down. I cried and cried but I couldn’t stop laughing either. I was all tears and laughter. I knew I had you back. The sparkle was back in your eyes. That’s actually the day I fell in love with you.”  “Oh, I, it’s just... I don’t remember that year at all Britt. It’s completely erased from my mind.”  “No one’s called me Britt in years. Hey eyes welled up with tears. She blinked away their escape, and quickly changed the subject. “After you got out of the hospital and were back in school, you kept writing 1981 on all your assignments. Miss Cruthers would correct it at the top of your sheet to 1982 because it was February, and everyone was still making date mistakes. But you did it until the end of March. When Miss Cruthers corrected you out loud you argued with her until you got detention. After that you just wrote 1982. I knew something was up, but I was just so happy to have my best friend back. I didn’t want to ruin it. I never said a word. I was so afraid to lose you again and I did anyways. I held on too tight.”  “Brittany, why can’t I remember 1981?”  “I can’t answer that for you.”  “Why was I acting so out of place? What happened to me? What happened to my memory?”  “I can only show you one piece of the puzzle Jeff. I have a piece; your parents may have another. I have the sneaking suspicion that some people we don’t know, or don’t remember have bigger pieces, but this puzzle is bigger than me or you. Don’t expect to find all your answers here.”  Jeff The Man had a long drive to think about everything that had happened and all that he had learned, but he still felt like he was at the beginning of a race.  When he got into the city he went to his favourite Thai restaurant. He ordered the chicken and black bean sauce. Jeff The Man was a man of order. The chicken and black bean sauce was the only thing he would order. His friends would ask him to try something different when they went out but he would always respond, “If I find something I like, why would I change it?”  As Jeff The Man ate his chicken with black bean sauce a man came into the restaurant. When Jeff’s gaze met the stranger’s, their eye’s locked. The stranger had a great big smile and Jeff thought he recognized something in his eyes. The strange man was mumbling things under his breath as he walked towards Jeff The Man. He was excited, as if to see a long lost friend. Jeff tried to ignore this stranger, but the stranger became increasingly unabashed in his exuberance. Smiling and chuckling to himself.  Jeff was feeling, annoyed and delayed, even with nothing to do and nowhere to go. The man’s certainty in his eyes, his obvious kindness, and the honest and sincere faith that he knew the man he was staring down was the only thing that saved the poor stranger from a harshly spoken demand for a detached gaze.  Instead the man received the timid question, “Do I know you?”  The man smiled, “Jeffery, son of Jefferson. It’s me, Wiel, son of Mavid. I am in a bit of a disguise at the moment. I thought that you might not recognize me. It is so good to see you, I have not forgotten the vow of blood, and your promise to me the last time that we spoke."  Jeff was lost for words. He couldn’t think of one thing to say to this strange man staring at him with a wave of simpers, still spouting off great things; strange things under his breath.  “Why do you look at me like a stranger?” Wiel asked.  Today was a day that had pushed Jeff’s normally shallow pool of patience to its limit. This particular moment had breached the dam and he gripped the metal edges of the table as though bracing himself for his words.  “Whoever you are, Mr. Wiel, I do not know you and I have never known you, and you don’t know me. I don’t want to embarrass you, but I think you are looking for someone else.”  “Don’t know me? How could this be? Is your name Jeffery, son of Jefferson?”  "My name is Jeffery Jefferson, yes. But my Dads name is Tom. I don’t know how you know my name but…"  Wiel interrupted him, his polite voice now taking on an urgent tone. “Listen now, I am going to say a word, you tell me if it makes you think of anything or reminds you of a memory.”  Jeff felt overworked and short changed on this information exchange. His head was filling with grown-up thoughts like, “I have the right to eat a meal in peace” “Look at the time I’m wasting talking to this old man,” and “There’s no point to this conversation so I should end it.”  But Jeff inhaled stiffly through his nose and decided to play along, just to get the old stranger off his back. Also he hated confrontation.  “Ok, we'll do this quickly but then I have to finish my meal and go.”  “Bosreal?” “Doesn’t ring a bell.”  “The Avenue of Giants?”  “No, sorry.”  “The Hag?” Wiel raised his voice with each question childishly hoping that this action might help Jeff's memory.  “Hmmm, I’m going to give that a…no. I really think you should..."  “Princess Darwood?”  There. Jeff could not put his finger on it but he knew that name. It was like hearing a song that you swear you’ve heard before, but can’t sing along to any of the words. Wiel found his answer in Jeff’s’ eyes.  “My goodness, Son. You don’t even know who you are.”  “Princess..? Who is she?”  “You don’t even know who you are!”  “I know who I am; my name is Jeffery David Jefferson. I live on St. Sinclair Street West. I have a great job, a good girlfriend, a nice life. But tell me now... who is that girl, that Pincess you were talking about?”  Wiel showed his first signs of hostility and grabbed Jeff by the shoulders and whisper-yelled under his pressed breath.  “Listen, you….. don’t…. know…who…you…are.”  Then the kindness returned to his eyes and he let Jeff The Man go.  “But I knew you wouldn’t forget her completely. You couldn’t.”  "You don't know me." Jeff found he felt ashamed to look at Wiel when he said this.  “I don’t know who you are? The problem does not lay with me but in yourself, Son of Jefferson. Can you tell me why freckles make the shape of the Big Dipper on your left arm, why you have dreams of places you’ve never seen, and why hearing the name of The Princess Darwood again tears you up on the inside? No. You cannot. But I can tell you. You have forgotten who you are, Son of Jefferson,” Wiel spoke softly now, “I apologize for your confusion. All will be explained to you, of course.”  “What will be explained to me?”  “Where you were twenty nine years ago.