Not that I'm going to tell you how old I am, but for the sake of putting this story into a timeline, I'm willing to add that I came of age in the nineties. Nineteen hundred nineties. (Sorry, couldn't help myself.) I only put this in to avoid the miserable and endless whining that I never use a date to place the story. If you ask me, that's just a covert form of control - sigh. Is there a date mentioned with Snow White? Do you guys ask Clarice Starling about the dates she went to see Dr. Lecter? Not me. Anyway, my entry into adulthood was accompanied by the right to die. At least the debates and discourses about it. Not that this is the theme I want to talk about, but indirectly it has something to do with it. If you'll allow me, let me tell you about May here, and if I may be so bold, to keep the question in mind: what does it mean to disappear? And when does this start? Where is the exact moment, when someone starts to vanish? - "Dignity, always dignity." This is a line from one of my grandfathers’ favorite movies: a story about a popular silent movie star, with humble roots. Back to May. I met her in an elderly nursing home where I worked at the time. A job that I accepted because my bills had to be paid "urgently", but where I nevertheless learned so many things that are not part of the curriculum at any university. May was one hundred and four years old when she didn't wake up one morning. I went to her memorial service, where I couldn't suppress the feeling that she could come back at any moment. That she would glamorously jump from behind a standing garland of flowers or something. May told me she ran away from home when she was seventeen, and found a job as a stage assistant, doing Vaudeville shows and magic tricks; glitters, and feathers. She met an older man there, who was the permanent magician of the house. Her performances consisted of, among other things, jumping out of a large trunk, which supposedly once housed a great treasure. During the act, the story of how the magician came into possession of the trunk was told very theatrically. Of course, the trunk was hermetically sealed, and when the audience was convinced that it would be impossible for a mouse to escape, May kicked up one leg first and then the other. The magician then grabbed her by the waist and lowered her to the floor, where she had to perform a dance. The crowd went wild! In another performance, her feet were tied to her neck, and she was chained to a post. A curtain fell to the floor, and voila! May reappeared as a ballerina with wings, fluttering across the stage. She never betrayed the secrets of the stunt to me or anyone else (as far as I know). May harbored a great interest in the paranormal. Halloween was her highlight of the year. She had attended numerous seances during her lifetime, awaiting communication with the departed. She never betrayed me with whom she hoped to connect. Who knows? A long-lost lover. Anyway, he never showed up. Every time I visited May I felt that her end was near. She had always been a petite woman, but I watched her get smaller and smaller. During the service, I imagined her performing one of her acts as a surprise. That she would push open the coffin with her legs, one up, two up, and one last burlesque dance number accompanied by Michael Bublé or Sinatra. That she would somehow break free from the shackles of death. However, there was no coffin at that memorial service. So, this scenario didn't work. Still, one could expect anything with May.  How would it feel to hold the keys of illusion;  to know how to break free and feel the weight of the wisdom of magic? Does one then have the knowledge to disappear in a good way? Before the service, I had been reading some of the funeral cards and overheard some residents of the nursing home gossip that May once auditioned for the great Houdini. As I was eavesdropping, my mind drifted to my grandfather. He was a tap dancer and there was no instrument he didn't master. While his life hadn't been nearly as glamorous as May's, he still lived a remarkable life. He survived the German death camps, but when he came back, he no longer considered a career with Fred Astaire's allure. He kept his passion for music and usually played by the river in the evenings. How can I portray a man whose memory is always evoked by what might seem silly to many: a man in love, dancing the stars from heaven when he´s happy, playing in puddles like a kid, rushing into the street at night in a chilly rain, displaying warmth and happiness. But let me return to my question: how do I do that? Write a portrait of a man who cannot be portrayed. He was a contradiction, made of incoherence and loss. The sort of subject that many people would find no subject at all.  His irreducible self can only be sensed through his residue, for indeed there are those who claim they can still hear the taps of his shoes clicking on the floor. Sometimes subtle and slicing, other times heavy and clear, like a wave crashing on the floor, or a line through the silence carrying children's laughter in the wind. A dancer and a musician; that was who he really was. His crystalline tone often compared to jazz. Plie or hoofer in an upward stance, the world around him would absorb his resonance. He would make them move with him and share in his exhilaration, soaring through the air and lifting hearts. He was both movement and music. He performed nuptials of music to a narrative art, telling inescapable stories with different layers of emotion through his movements, rhythm, and dynamics. The stars shone brighter on the nights he danced, and the moon would cover herself in strawberry pink. That was before it got dark in the world, and he was converted into saleable property. He longed for death under a moon dressed in black, while he was starving. What was left of him after that? After the inedible fairy tale of white supremacy had resulted in a defeated German nation and an equally inedible and discredited gospel of European cultural superiority took over. What was left of him? And what lay ahead for him? A conundrum of racial identity he didn't care for. He became a blithe trespass on hyphenated ground, bodying forth the contending forces that made him broken henceforth. He was no longer able to dance when he came back from "abroad". He still played his harmonica though. Sad and flattened melodies. He engulfed himself in solitariness. He loved Augusts. The earth too dry, sizzling a delayed slow rhythm like dark molasses. A sense of anticipation in the air, a longing for rain and for things forgotten. He was barely visible as he walked through the sunflower fields in the morning, a cap on his head, eternal cigarette bud in his mouth, tanned by the sun. He went fishing in the afternoons, basking in the happiness of a former place in a distant time. Recollecting odors of damp soil in a lush forest and a most remarkable girl in a pretty dress, who knew all the things he dreamed of and sat with him amongst wildflowers and dazzle audiences at night with their flair on the dance floor, expressing love´s moods, courtship, and seduction. Yes, he would linger in the sweetness of a repertoire of a far connection. At sunset he would take his harmonica out of his pocket and passionately tried not to heed the demons in his head that originated from an abusive culture, shattering his soul a little more every day. His music was not sweet anymore: it moaned bitterly and built into a crescendo of heart-wrenching screams. He gradually disappeared; my grandmother told me. When he was not in bed, he was in an old wheelchair and spoke very little. -“ He was gone, long before he exited this earthly sphere.” she sighed. A few weeks after May's memorial service, I attended a workshop on spirituality and dementia and caring for people with dementia. I hoped it would help me understand what contributes to the invisibility of people with dementia. I quickly concluded that there was a ubiquity of malignant social psychology in relation to people with dementia. I made a list of the elements that contributed to the depersonalization of patients with dementia. Betrayal, powerlessness, infantilization, intimidation, invasion, banishment, ignoring, ridicule, and contempt. I had a few more: thirty-seven, I believe in all. If you ask me, the only thing you will achieve by that is promoting a neurological decline in those people. The sad thing is that cultural intolerance to cognitive impairment as well as old age comes off unscathed. And herein lies the frightening prospect of the person with dementia, not just disappearing on their own, but being obliterated by our malfunctioning diseased public mind. I arrived at work one day, still clocking in, when I heard one of the residents screaming and banging her fists on the table. A colleague explained to me that she had been terrible, that she kept yelling dirty and mean things at everyone, that she did not want to eat, and insisted on being served vanilla custard with chocolate sauce after lunchtime. She was hungry, of course, so I went to buy her a cup of pudding from one of the vending machines. She threw it at me, and the pudding splashed everywhere. That was the end of my last clean uniform. She called me all kinds of bad names. She was denied the food of her choice and found herself surrounded by malice. I asked her if she would like a sandwich. She was very happy about that, and while I was making her sandwich, she told me about how she used to make jelly and peanut butter sandwiches for her kids when they went to the beach. Mental abilities determine one's moral status, i.e., reflect the hypercognitive values of our culture: we exclude people while they are still among the living. Or is this a prejudice of mine against the profound forgetfulness of those who can eat pudding when they feel like it? Our culture fears both powerlessness and the power of the body. If a body is unmanageable, it must die. That body which is a constant source of conflict and at the same time our home, from which we cannot escape. Our battlefield where we struggle against its inevitable demise. We wish so much that trunk would pop open and reveal our legs to finally throw off the shackles. The body that becomes the object of contempt as soon as it needs hands-on care because it exposes our collective fear of vulnerability. A few weeks after May's memorial service, I attended a workshop on spirituality, dementia, and caring for people with dementia. I hoped it would help me understand what contributes to the invisibility of people with dementia. I quickly concluded that there was a ubiquity of malignant social psychology in relation to people with dementia. I made a list of the elements that contributed to the depersonalization of patients with dementia. Betrayal, powerlessness, infantilization, intimidation, invasion, banishment, ignoring, ridicule, and contempt. I had a few more: thirty-seven in all, I believe. "The dead don't visit us often anymore," May said to me once when she told me about her participation in séances. Could it be that today we are more interested in the life of the dead than of the living? We've all forgotten more than we remember. The profiling of disappearing is something that must be lived with. But disappearance doesn't necessarily mean destruction. Despite all his losses, my grandfather didn't just disappear. In his way, he persevered and kept playing his harmonica. What else but an affinity with life is behind playing an instrument? What else but to make his will to live known, in subtle tones, known only to those who spent time with him, as the activities he once embodied fell away. What is left behind may be a truer self. Once the path is cleared for the naked self and facilitating a new freedom, where parallel lines converge on the horizon( which is also the point where they disappear). The point of convergence and disappearance. But isn't that vanishing point an illusion? A road does not stop at the horizon, it merely disappears from the view of the observer. And so, it is with people suffering from dementia. They exist beyond our ability to keep them in our line of sight. But they remain a person; a human being - despite our limited sight. So that disappearance is, in a sense, just an illusion.  There are no magic tricks to undo our finality. May briefly managed to disappear into thin air and then reappear in breathtaking fashion during her career as a stage assistant to a handsome illusionist in a tuxedo. Perhaps disappearing well means allowing others to decompose with dignity, while keeping their secrets. I hope that when it is my turn to disappear, I will have a willing assistant who knows the illusion of disappearance well.


March 12th, 1952 I have not kept a journal before.

Journals, diaries, and daily logs are for the preservation of days.

In my lengthy time on this Earth, I have not wanted to preserve my days.

Thousands of days and nights have all blurred together, one as forgettable as the other.

The moments worth remembering are few enough that I can recount them easily enough.

Each time I tried to end my life failed, but I am hopeful that I have made a breakthrough.

With the understanding that eventually someone will find my corpse and wonder at its presence, I set pen to paper now in an attempt to answer the questions that will surely come.

There are typing machines now that some use for clarity and speed, but I’m afraid my fingers lack the dexterity to use such a device. To say I am more than two hundred years old would imply a life of growth that began with a birth.

This is not my circumstance.

I have existed in my present state for more than two centuries, beginning in the Old World of Europe and arriving in the New World of America nearly fifty years ago.

I have never had a friend or loved one, though there once was a man who I thought knew me well.

I wept when he died, which was a new experience for me.

Until that moment, I didn’t know I could produce tears or feel anguish.

Since that day, I have not cried for another living soul, only for myself, and either I have no soul or my soul is not alive.

I still do not know for sure. March 15th, 1955 Science has made striking advances in the days of my existence.

A German man used an Italian’s battery to refine mankind’s understanding of how electricity moves from one place to another.

Faraday’s work on metals and electricity has been very well received.

Others have discovered ways of transferring energy without wires, a method called radiation, that they are learning often has unintended consequences.

The evolutionist, Darwin, proposes interesting ideas that people seem quick to adopt, but those people are also looking for reasons for life beyond basic vitalist principles: there is a force or an energy that creates life that has not been quantified yet. The study of vitalism made important strides before it was derailed by misguided persons who are now considered madmen by their former peers.

Scientists now refuse to acknowledge an inherent difference between organic, living beings and inorganic materials, asserting instead that the living tissues are made of quantifiable amounts of matter that can be found and compiled with the proper understanding and equipment.

The notion that life has a “vital” component - be it a spirit, a soul, or something else - absent in non-living beings and organisms has been abandoned by most.

The vitalists pursued fields of mesmerism and spiritual energies until the fundamental understanding that formed the foundation of their knowledge lost all credibility.

Some might say that the scientific world has thrown the vitalist baby out with the biological bathwater. I, myself, am proof of vitalism.

Before this existence, I was organic matter alive as six different human men.

They all died prematurely from injuries and wounds, and their salvageable parts were assembled by my creator.

Their inanimate materials were made animate again through the scientific vitalist efforts of that man.

While scientists in their fields have various qualifications for an organism to be considered alive, I do not meet enough of any of those qualifications to meet the definition of life.

My body is ordered, but is selective in its response to stimulus.

I see and hear and I can touch and taste, but I do not perceive changes in temperature such as extreme cold or heat.

I smell aromas when I inhale air into my lungs, but I do not need to breathe as my body does not process air, water, or food.

I do not need to eat or drink, nor do I sleep to rest as other beings do.

Where does my energy to move come from if not from a vital spirit? The wear and stress on my body across the decades seems mitigated by my form’s innate stasis, as wounds and injuries I have endured across the years close and repair, leaving no discernable marks.

The keloid scars, as I have learned they are called, that form the seams of my predecessors’ contributions to my body are the only indication that I have ever been less or other than I am today.

The only change I have managed to enact on my body has been to my hair.

It does not grow, and after trimming it with scissors once or twice, I shaved it off, and I am bald to this day. March 20th, 1955 I have purchased a small industrial building on Cannery Row, in Monterey, California, USA.

Under the name of Adam Mann I buy, sell, and trade for my needs.

While the world is becoming more connected with the use of the telephone, radio, and now television, there are few people who request references or refuse to do business when you offer cash significantly over their asking prices.

I simply say, “I value my privacy,” and give them time to count the bank notes. I kept my creator’s designs.

I have had them reproduced by printers over the years as the paper aged or became damaged in my movements around the world.

My current set of schematics was made for me in San Francisco, shortly after I disembarked from the ship that carried me through the Panama Canal and up the Pacific Coast.

I booked a small room with a porthole from which I could watch my journey.

Aside from the occasionally cresting whale, it was as uneventful as the rest of my days. For the past three months I have contracted out carpenters, electricians, welders, and fabricators to assemble a modern replica of the machine that pulled me from the void and placed me on this planet.

With the collapse of the sardine fishing and canning industry, there are plenty of men in need of work who appreciate cash payment for their services and discretion.

They tend to be gregarious in nature, asking if I’m a biologist like so many others in the area.

“Something like that,” is always sufficient enough an answer. April 20th, 1955 I have taken delivery and installation of my equipment at night to reduce casual observation from the locals.

My workshop is at the end of a pier, and with the local conditions what they are, I have no neighbors.

I hear the laborers assuming I am conducting groundbreaking scientific experiments and fear Dr. Ricketts and others might steal my work.

These are useful fictions, so generous cash tips and knowing winks help solidify the lies they tell one another.

I don’t care what they say.

If all goes well, the rumors and speculation will soon be no concern of mine. May 15, 1955 The assembly is complete.

The original design relied on lightning to generate the electricity needed for the procedure that made me this way.

With modern resources, I have designed and fabricated a capacitor to store energy harnessed from the physical motion of the tides of the Monterey Bay.

They have ebbed and flowed for weeks, and the power level has reached its zenith. I have watched the sun set over this beautiful bay for the last time.

I hear sea lions barking on the shore.

Gulls call to one another, singing their tuneless song.

I witnessed an otter and her baby paddling on their backs by my workshop.

These natural phenomena are idyllic, but after such a time of loneliness as I have endured, they bring me no comfort.

I have never had companionship, friendship, or love.

To whomever finds this journal, I hope you find utility in my designs and can bring some profit from them. Or not.

I was bitter and angry toward mankind for decades, and it has made me numb.

I now want only to sleep, to enter the void once more, and to never dream again.


Lester was bored. He was at a loose end. Nothing interesting to do. He decided to pay a visit to the garage to see if he could find anything to occupy him. Searching through the items in an old wooden box, he found a newspaper. Fllipping through, he stumbled on a column with a caption, 'TIME TRAVEL! TRY THESE''. Curious, he decided to read further. He discovered that the equations and formulas for time travel are in a book hidden in a cave on an island. He ran down to his friend's house excitedly holding the paper. "Eugene! Eugene!! Eugene!!!" "What Lester? What's the matter? Why the excitement?" Eugene asked. "I have something I want to show you. I have something you really need to see." He handed over the paper to him with excitement. "Wow!! You don't mean it. Is this for real?" Eugene asked with eyes wide open. "I believe it's real. That should be the reason my dad kept it in a file tagged 'Confidential'." "What should we do?" Eugene asked. "I have an idea. Let's show the paper to Prof. Culkins. Perhaps he will tell us what to do," Lester replied Prof. Martins Culkins is a lecturer in the department of physics. He is an ardent researcher. He has watched a couple of science fiction and futuristic movies. The one he talks about most often is, 'Back to the Future'. A movie about time travel. He always says he is in search of the formulas and equations needed to build and design a time machine. He is often called, 'the Phantom Prof.' "Prof. Culkins, we have something we want to show you," they both spoke excitedly.

He liftted up his head and adjusted his glasses. "And what is that in mother earth that's making you both so excited?" He asked. "Please take a look at this," Lester handed over the paper to him. "My goodness! What on earth! Is this real?" He exclaimed. "Yes, I believe. I found it in a file tagged, 'Confidential'." "Prof. Culkins, does the island truly exist?" Eugene asked. "Yes, it does. Only that it isn't easy to reach." "So, what do we do?" Lester and Eugene asked unanimously looking at each other and then at him. "I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll go in search of the island and find the book." "Yeah!" Lester shouted looking at Eugene who smiled and nodded.           ******** "Hi! Mum, Hi! Dad. I'm going on an excursion tomorrow and will not be back till three days time." "Why in three days time?" Lester's dad asked. "It's a field trip and we have a lot of places to go. Besides, there are a whole lot of things we've been taught in class that we need to see." "Is it so necessary you go? How about our family get-together tomorrow?" His mum asked. "Yes! Mum I just need to. This trip is important. Marks will be given for it and used as my C.A." "And what's the meaning of C.A.?" She asked. "Mum, it means continuous assessment." "Is Eugene also going on this trip? Also is there anyone I can contact in your school concerning this field trip of yours?" His dad asked. "Yes dad, he is. You both know Prof. Collins well. He is aware of the trip. Besides, he is also on the team.

Lester's dad picked his phone to call. Hello! Prof. Culkins. This is Fred Chantel, Lester's dad." "Yeah! Mr Chantel. It's so nice to talk to you. Your son is such a wonder kid. It's anything the matter?" "No, nothing that really. Just want to know if Lester's class is going on a field trip. He told me that his department is organising a field trip for his class. He said he would be going for three days and that you are also on the team. Besides, he said it's very important because it forms part of his final scores. Please Prof. Collins, is it true?" "Yes, Mr Chantel everything he told you is true. You don't need to worry. Your son is in safe hands. He will be taken good care of. He will come back home safely that I assure you." " Thank you very much," Fred replied and the call ended. "You are free. Only be careful." Ok, dad". "Please be careful my love." "OK, mum I sure will." Eugene also told his mum about the field trip. She had mixed feelings about it. It was an arduous task for him to make her believe. He told her to call Prof. Culkins to confirm. He affirmed it and told her not to worry about her son's safety. She was also more at ease when she realised that Lester will be going on the trip. The following morning, Lester packed his things. He bid his parents farewell and set off for Eugene's residence. "Hello! Mrs Breadsworth." "Hello! Lester," she replied. "And how are you doing?" She asked. "I'm OK. And you?" "Am fine and good," she replied. "Eugene told me you are going on a field trip organised by your department in school," "Yes, ma'm." "And when will you be back?" "In three days time." "Ok. Just wanted to be sure." "No problem, ma'm." Eugene kissed his mum. She embraced him and also Lester. She told them to be careful and stay safe. They met Prof. Culkins at the train station and embarked on their journey. They alighted at the last stop and boarded a bus to a sea port. Arriving there, they made enquiries about the Island of Pathos. Most people they asked told them that they don't know any island by that name. Prof. Culkins was deeply surprised. "Oh! So we're on a fool's journey?" Lester asked. "I think so," Eugene replied. "No. We are not. Definitely not. That am sure of," Prof affirmed. After several enquiries, they met a man with a wry look. He looked like someone from a mixed descent. They summoned courage to approach him and asked if he knew anything about the island. Petranda Zulah told them that he had heard of such a name and was very sure that the island existed. He told them that he had never been there but he and his men were ready to go on the voyage if he be paid. After much negotiations, a price was reached and they embarked on the journey. Lester and Eugene were very excited because they have never gone on a voyage and they loved adventures. It wasn't a smooth sail. It was two days of sea turmoil and rage. Lester and Eugene were afraid and were about losing hope. But for the expertise of Petranda and his men, their boat would have sank into the sea. At the dawn of the third day, Petranda's men could see an island afar off. They beckoned on Prof. Culkins and his boys. They jumped with excitement and embraced one another. At the shore of the island, they saw the skulls and bones of dead animals. The island looked deserted. There were no humans and houses in sight. They could only see birds. "Prof. Culkins, is this the island of Pathos?" Lester asked. "Yes! Am very sure of that," he replied. "Why are there so many skulls and bones all over the shore? Don't you think we are in danger ?" Eugene asked. "Probably there are bones of starved and age long creatures. As for our safety, we have nothing to worry about. We've got Petranda and his men with us." Turning to Petranda and his men, he asked, "Does anyone have an idea about the meaning of all these?. "No! None of us do," Petranda replied. As they moved further into the island, they saw a lot of strange birds and animals. Petranda and his men were at alert with their rifles. They killed some animals that were about attack them. One of the men stepped on a stick and a sharp knife came out from the tree beside him and cut off his head. When that happened, they were all careful with their steps watching the ground until they left that part.

Next they were standing in front of a large muddy ground. Prof Culkins told them not to go any further and that it's not just muddy,. He said he had read about something like that. Though it appeared shallow, it was as deep as the height of a skyscraper. He pushed in a long stick to show them and it swallowed it. "Will you stay behind with Petranda while I go?" "No, Prof." they both replied. "But, it's dangerous. I want to take you back home safely." "Prof., you don't have to worry about us. We're well able. Isn't it?" Lester asked turning to Eugene. "Yes!" We are fit and able." "Ok boys! Let's move. To the search!" "To the search!" they shouted.  They took long tree plant ropes and swung across. One of the men's rope cut while he was almost on the other side. He fell into the mud and immediately he was out of sight. Petranda was angry that he had lost two men. He blamed himself for bringing them to the island. He told Prof. Culkins to pay him the money left. He refused. He said that the deal was that balance would be paid after arrival at home. Petranda knew he and his men had no choice but to continue the journey. Going back without Prof's guide might be more dangerous. They passed a long wooden bridge and by the time they were half way the bridge, arrows were flying towards them. They didn't see anyone shooting the arrows. They hurriedly ran to the other side. An arrow met one of Petranda's men on his arm. It was taken out and some medicinal leaves were squeezed together and placed on it. It was dark and they couldn't go any further so they searched for a place to pass the night. "Look! See!! That's the cave on a hill!" Shouted Lester. "Oh! My God!" Eugene shouted with eyes wide open. "Yes! Yes!! Let's move on. We're almost there," Prof. beckoned on everyone. They all climbed the hill to the top. Lester and Eugene were assisted up by Petranda's men. Bats flew out of the cave. Petranda's men killed snakes and scorpions at the entrance of the cave. They shot them. Prof. saw the book inside a casement and a bottle kept beside the book. "Wow!! So this is the book we've been searching for," Lester spoke with eyes wide open. "I guess so," Prof. Culkins replied. "Can we see what's inside?" Eugene asked. "OK." "But why will someone keep such a book here?" Lester asked. "I guess there's something mystical about the book," Prof. answered. The front page says that anyone who finds the book has the right to use what's in the bottle and the person is only granted just three wishes. Prof. flipped through the book and shook his head. "Prof. Culkins what's the matter?" Lester asked. "It's incomplete. The formulas and equations are not all in here." "So, what do we do?" Eugene asked. "It says that anyone reading this should take note that the rest formulas and equations are in another book in a twin island." "And where is the twin island?" Lester asked. "I don't know," Prof. replied. Petranda and his men searched the cave for treasures and all they could find were clothes and scrolls. They were disappointed but still took them. Petranda beckoned on everyone to leave. Prof. Culkins used the portion in the bottle at the bridge so that they could walk across without arrows shooting at them,. He used at the muddy place so that they can walk on the muddy ground and at the sea shore so that they can arrive home safely without any turmoil or wreck. "Mum! Dad! Am home," Lester shouted. "Wow!! We missed you so much," his mum spoke with teary eyes embracing him. "Son, how was your trip?" His dad asked. "Fine. Interesting. Wonderful. I missed you both so much. Thank God am back home," Lester replied. "What happened? We were worried. You stayed more than three days. We were about going to the Police." "Mum, sorry for that. We had few hitches on the way." "Ok. Thank God you're back home." "Yes. I'm happy to be back home." "And how is Eugene and Prof. Culkins?" His dad asked. "They're fine, dad. They've all gone home." The following day at school they rushed to Prof. Culkins' office. They met him reading the book. He embraced both of them and thanked them for accompanying him on the trip. "Prof. Culkins, so what's next?" Lester asked. "Are we yet going for another trip?' Eugene also asked. "I'll be glad to," Lester said. "Oh! My boys, let's just keep our fingers crossed and be expectant," Prof. spoke smiling at both of them.


Mrs Edwards scraped a nail against the mouldy window sill and sighed. She’d scrubbed it only a few weeks ago, but the mottled wood had bucked and bloomed in the heat. The tree was wilting too, a bushy, dark-leaved thing stuck in the corner, placed there after she had received a letter from her sister. “We do not entirely agree with inviting the whole tree into one’s home.” Her sister had written, “But one must trust in Queen Victoria and not fear the peculiar customs of her Germanic relations. I enclose a print of Her Majesty’s Christmas for your instruction.” Her sons had taken the print into the forest and returned with this tree, with all the pride and fanfare of a successful hunt. Adorned with sprigs of red pōhutukawa flowers and candlelight, it had enchanted the children, but now it wept sap onto the walls and shed its leaves onto the floorboards. We are both in silent protest of this custom, Mrs Edwards thought. She swept a few dead sandflies off the sill and brushed the hearth as best she could, avoiding the eyes of Her Majesty, whose portrait hung above the fireplace. They’d decorated the hearth with the linen samplers of her needle class, designed to help the daughters of the Missionary Station learn basic stitch work. Her own daughter, Maria, had done a fine sampler, the stitching was neat and accurately sized, but there were several embellishments to the border which looked strange, swirling patterns that seemed to move in the corner of your eye. Mrs Edwards had never seen the like of it before, and Maria should not have either. She bent down to sweep the dead leaves from behind the grate, cold since October and full of Paua shells from the beach, when she heard a scream come from the kitchen. She stood up as fast as her stiff knees would let her, just as her second youngest charged full pelt into the room, followed closely by James, her second eldest. “Run Piggy!” James bellowed, raising a long stick up to his eye, “Or my musket will get you!” Piggy, nick-named after his upturned nose and round cheeks, dove behind his mother’s skirts. “James!” Mrs Edwards cried. “Stop that at once! I’ve not finished in here-” They were already running out, but before her gangly son’s frame could disappear into the garden, she called him back. “Have you brought out the long table from the barn?” “Yes, ma. We moved it just now.” “And the doorway? Does the Reverend think it will do?” They had been unsure of how to solve the dilemma of the doorway. Traditionally, as the clock struck midnight tonight, the Edwards’ front door would be opened to let out the old year and welcome the new, and they would be visited by friends and neighbours bearing gifts and glad tidings for a felicitous year ahead. It was imperative a man took the first footing over their threshold, preferably with coal for their fire and bread for their bellies, and if he were a good-willed stranger of handsome height and dark hair, so much the better.  But there were no strangers in the Missionary, just three humble families, all of whom were attending tonight’s party. And as for the knocking on their front door, the heat and sour air within the cottage had forced them to host the party in the garden, on a long table made just for the occasion.  Rather than have their guests wait for midnight in the discomfort of the cottage, it was the Reverend who had the idea to make some form of doorway outside which the men could step through, to give candied fruit and toys to their families. “He’s still fixing the archway with the flax, but it looks better now.” James answered, tapping his stick against the flagstones. “It should be rather fun. Will I get to do the first footing this year?”

“Not likely, while your father lives. Now on with you, go see if he needs help. He’s been working like a carthorse all day.” She watched her son as he ducked into the garden, swinging his stick like a dandy in Oxford Circus. All he needed was a gentleman’s hat, Mrs Edwards smiled, and then she remembered Maria. “Oh, James! Have you seen your sister?” “Not since breakfast.” He called over his shoulder. Mrs Edwards put a hand on her belly, feeling some knot there shift and tighten. Beyond their garden fence, in the shimmering heat, she could almost see Maria walk through the long grass to the gate, her hair whipped out its pins by the sea wind. But the mirage melted, and the cicadas laughed her back into the cottage.  * Maria was breathing heavily, with every inhale she felt her damp corset press against her skin. The boy’s finger was hovering over the linen neckline, close enough for him to feel the fibres against his fingerprint. He traced the embroidered flowers, an inch left, an inch right, never fully touching, before descending a slow line towards where her navel lay. He tapped the stiffness of her corset, a frown crumpling his brow. “It’s whale bone.” Maria breathed, “I hear they are from your whales.” “Your dress … it is whale?” Ari asked, feeling the rise and fall of the ridges beneath the cloth. “Yes. From the whalers in the Bay of Islands. My father tries to convince them to come to church on Sundays, but they just laugh.” Ari was staring at her again, how much he understood, she’d never know. “It must be terribly lonely. Father says they often lose their boats and get marooned on the islands for years.” Ari shook his head, rocking the feather in his head band, and sat to face the sea. She followed, pushing herself up from the shingle, and watched the rising waves catch the sinking sun. Like holding amber to the fire, the waves were veined with silhouettes, the shadows of sea creatures, weeds and shell. “We make this, from whale bone.” Ari said, lifting a curling pendant from his neck to show her. “Matau. For fish.” He hooked his finger into his mouth. “May I?” Ari nodded, and she bent closer to inspect the pendant. The maker had carved mesmeric patterns into the bone, capturing the arc of the surf and the whorls of a river eddy.

“It looks how water looks.” She said, feeling foolish, but he smiled. “It is a gift, a Matau. From my hapṻ, we live by the sea.”

Maria nodded, and carefully placed the pendant back against his chest. She had moved nearer, they both knew, and as their eyes met she felt that curious sense of loss, as if she was parting with something she had never known she owned. “A gift!” She jumped, grateful to move away. “I almost forgot, I have one for you.” She began to search her skirts for her pocket. “It is here somewhere-” But a dark-skinned hand stopped her arm. “No gift.” Ari said, frowning once more, “I do not…” He searched for the word, muttering a language that sounded to Maria as clipped and melodious as the birds in the forest. “Win. I do not win a gift.” “Do you mean earned?” She asked. “That’s ok, no one does really. But today is the eve of the new year, this is our tradition, my family, my whānau.” She gently moved her arm out of his grasp, to produce a piece of thick, folded paper from her pocket. “We give each other gifts today to say thank you. It’s fun.” Slowly, she placed the paper in his left palm. A moment passed, until his fingers closed around it. “Tēnā rawa atu koe.” Ari murmured. He unfolded the paper and became still. It was a drawing of a Tui bird, cocking his head with a mischievous eye, his white collar bulbous beneath the beak. “It is the Tui, do you remember? The one I said looked like a Reverend had been caught by your gods and turned into a bird for his Christian ways. Ha!” She shuffled closer, inspecting her work. “He’s an odd thing to draw, I thought I might have got the beak wrong, but I was quite pleased with the wings. I did a Weka for mother too, that’s a joke really because she hates them coming into the kitchen.” Still Ari did not speak, only the Kaka’s startled cry could be heard over the forest hill. Maria bit her lip and began to talk faster. “The new year is fun because we get presents and have a feast, and oh! We do the first footing, that’s silly but I like it because father lets you stay up late to see who will knock on your door first.” The boy at last titled his head to her. “It’s a tradition, after midnight, everyone runs to visit your house, and the first visitor brings gifts with them to bless the family. Mama says a man who is tall with dark hair and carrying riches is the best, but I doubt we will have many of those knocking on our door!” She laughed, hoping for a smile from him, but he looked solemn.

“Do you… do you not like it?”

Ari took one last look at the drawing, before carefully folding the paper and tucking it away into his piu piu. He stared at her, just as the year’s final sun started to slip into the sea. “Maria.” * Piggy had run away. He had run as fast as his legs could carry him, which, compared to his brothers, wasn’t that fast at all. But seeing as they were all so busy, he only had himself to race, and he happily made his way through the forest without fear of being beaten.

Pulling a bun from his pocket, he slowed down as he neared his secret beach, the one between Giant’s Rock and God’s Arc, where he knew the tide would have left all sorts of treasures to discover and covet. He crashed through the bush, frightening a Kaka from its nest, and broke through the grassy cliff overhanging the beach. The sun was just slipping into the sea, and he raised his arm against the blinding light. Below, shrouded in gold sea mist, he saw them. Piggy dropped his bun.  * He drew his lips from hers, taking her soul with him, she thought. Who knew what magic the Maori possessed? Perhaps she had been bewitched, for she had never shared a breath with another, nor one that filled her lungs with such lightness. It was as if she had inhaled the sun itself, and she wondered, is this how God feels? Is this Heaven?

She leant closer again, but a movement up on the hill caught her eye. A round, pale face and what looked like a white ball, bouncing down the rocks. She locked eyes with Piggy. And then he was gone. “PETER!” Maria screamed. *  The light was fading, but Piggy knew his way to the meadow well enough. He ran back through the forest, the cacophony of birdsong spurring him to go faster. Just imagine, Piggy thought as he ran, how clever ma will think me, and how jealous James will be, that I found out why Maria had been so absent these past few months… Piggy stopped to catch his breath at the edge of the field. He could see the thatch of their roof, see the smoke twist from the kitchen chimney, and hear laughter rise into the dusk air. A few paces closer, and he spotted his mother, alone, laying the plates onto the table. He wiped the sweat off his brow and started to run again. * Night had fallen in the Edwards’ garden, and the table was aglow with candlelight and red faces. Handfuls of smoking eucalyptus leaf hung from the posts, warding off insects and releasing a drowsy scent.  A little way from the table, the new year’s doorway had been constructed over the meadow gate that separated the garden and the field beyond. The gate was flung wide open to let out the old year, and the Pratts’ girls had decorated the arch with ferns and white-belled Kaihua flowers. The Reverend and Jimmie had already been the subject of much praise for their handiwork, and even Mrs Pratt had commented it was pretty enough to make do for a May bride.  The port had been uncorked, the Apple Jonathan dish licked clean, and Maria, whose swollen eyes were noticed only by her mother, had been called to the head of the table. “My friends, it is almost midnight.” Reverend Edwards said, checking his pocket watch. “Let our sweetest voice sing us into the new year with Auld Lang Syne, Maria? If you please?” “Perhaps Maria is too tired to sing tonight.” Mrs Edwards muttered to the Reverend, “I hear she has had rather an adventurous day.”

“Nonsense, she by far has the best voice of us all! Would you rather our James sing?”

The table burst into laughter, James shouted mock protests, and the Reverend had laughed so much he’d had a coughing fit. “Come, Maria,” he gasped, waving his kerchief at her, “Sing for us.” Maria swallowed, and stepped forward, out of the bruising gaze of her mother. Her voice carried through the valley, the echo of the hills created a gentle canon to her words, and their guests looked about them in wonder.

We too have paddled in the stream From morning sun to night But the seas between us broad have roared From auld lang syne... She took a breath for the final verse, but stopped, a look of shock on her face as she stared at the archway. Both her mother and father turned, the rest of their table peered around to find the cause of her distress. There Ari stood, bare chest, in his skirted Piu Piu, cupping a cloth bag in his hands. “I have brought you a gift, Maria. For your whānau.” He said, stepping through the gate.

*


“You look like an orb.”

I shift my gaze at the distant horizon taking note of the way the poppies and the buttercups brush the pads of my fingers in gentle sweeps. The bite of the tundra, that kisses the parts of my exposed skin, subsides as a single ray of light escapes the cover of a tiny cloud. This light bathes a patch of reddish-brown hair, intensifying its color to a vibrant red, and highlights the silhouette of a sleeping lump in the vegetation five fox steps away from me. I move to lie on my stomach as I reach out to pet my baby mammoth. My palms disappear in the soft, shaggy expanse of the fur of Massak’s belly.

“A lazy orb.” I laugh.

Massak shifts and squirms as I rub his belly in swift, swiping movements. I move my head just in time to avoid the solid tusk that swings my way as Massak tries to burrow the back of his body into the damp surface of the earth.

“Ayyaa! Watch it!” I breathe.

“Who’s going to fend off the hunters when I’m knocked out cold?” Massak bows his massive head, avoiding direct eye contact. I watch the way the snow curves under his weight, leaving a print of a single tusk when he lifts his head again. I lean forward and press my forehead to the base of his trunk just shy of his gentle eyes the color of bleached bones. He trumpets as I sing softly. The rustle of hooves from a herd of caribou grazing lichen and dried sedges blends with the melody. The air is still. I lift my hand, hovering closely to the jagged nub of where a tusk should be. Our breaths are slow. Faint whimpers escape Massak. Warm tears tumble slowly down the plains of my face like cracks in thin ice. I sing the pain away. Large palms pour droplets of melted snow into my mouth. The water is crisp and refreshing against the heat of the fire.

“Salty.” I giggle into the back of my hand as I wipe away the drops from my chin. Embers sizzle and pop from the flames.

“These hands...” I stare, confused.

“...sorted through dried fish earlier!” my brother, Sitka, teases sucking in his cheeks and plumping out his lips. He splays all ten fingers behind his ears and wiggles them like the fins of a sculpin. I laugh, apparently distracted, because the next thing I know, I’m scooped up in an embrace.

“Ataata!” Sitka shouts.

I yelp, wound tight but safe in a comforting kind of warmth. My mother abandons the qulliq she was tending from inside and runs to join my father’s embrace. Seconds later, Sitka fuses himself with our mass of limbs. We find ourselves toppling over onto the packed snow. Bright smiles adorn the faces of my loved ones.

Sitka and I sit on plush fur as my father recounts tales of his journey back home. My mother sits across from him, patiently warming his feet under her arms.

“I have something to show you.” My father whispers at the end a lively account about how he trekked the same path as a polar bear. He takes out a big bundle, from an open pack, and cradles it in his lap. A tiny, reddish-brown head pops out.

My ancestors live in the sky. On nights like these, I watch as they play games with the skull of a walrus. Vibrant green streaks paint their tracks.

“Take us home.” I pat Massak on the hump of his shoulder. Ice crystals line my lashes and brows. I pull the hood of my parka a little closer to my frost-bitten cheeks. It’s dangerous to be out in the open this late at night. I take note of our surroundings: the path is dark; a distant rumble rips through the air as clusters of ice tumble into the sea. As if in response, a chorus of howling, from a pack of wolves, combat the thundering noises. Massak trembles beneath me. We’ve traveled this route many moons over.

“We’ll make it.” I try to comfort him.

He shakes his head, curling his trunk and blowing air. I gently guide Massak away from a seal hole that is thinly iced over. We travel deep into the night. Sleep threatens to snare my small form the way a starving hunter might to a lemming in the toughest of winters. I listen to its call.

I’m lying next to Sitka in a small patch of dried sedge. A tiny Massak nips at the blades of grass by Sitka’s shoulder. Wind rustles through my brother’s unkempt hair. The rims of his irises are deep amber. Flecks of amethyst dot the space in between. The wind shifts its path, weaving through the bones of a dead whale nearby.

The breath of land is as relentless as a saber-tooth tiger pushed to starvation. I open my eyes. Instead of savage winds, a gentle kind of stillness silences the fear that threatened to overcome me moments ago. My soul and body move, but not in the way I’m used to. It’s as if they exist as separate entities.

I watch as my body walks with Massak through a cave that houses an ethereal kind of glow. My soul trails behind. It’s cold, but there’s no parka covering my body.

I close my eyes and dip my toes in the water. Small ripples meet and disperse themselves. Massak and my body keep to the edge of the underground river. My soul attaches itself to the water. As I wade through, a thick scent of brine coats my senses. Strands of long, dark hair follow the wake of my footsteps like veins in an intricate web of flesh, tangling my progress. I walk until I am immobile.

There’s a woman standing next to Massak. They’re so far away now. She’s holding the left side of his face, except he’s no longer a mammoth. He’s standing on two legs covered in smooth skin instead of thick fur. He looks like my kind. I blink and deep strands curl tighter around me. A comb made of bone floats by just beyond my grasp.

Nuliajuk . The cave silently echoes a name.

A cold sensation cradles the back of my head. The energy of something old, something ancient, pulses through my body. My soul struggles to grab hold of the bone to comb myself out of her hair. My body watches my soul. My soul watches my body. It’s an unnatural exchange. Then, the man—the same one down the river—is holding me in an embrace, but instead of skin, it’s fur that meets mine.


I work in pest control. It’s only been a few days but I’m enjoying it so far. Mechanical things come easy to me and I find joy in how much they distract me from my brain. I’m too smart to be stupid and too stupid to be smart so manual problem solving seems to be the perfect fit for me. I work with a guy named Andrew, he reminds me a lot of me but if I was 50 and Hawaiian and had worked in pest control for 30 years. He talks in really quick short bursts, sometimes it feels like he’s dying for someone to listen to him. He speaks as if he’s never talked before. I want to talk too but I don’t always know how to do that. I like his company though. I appreciated the work today, my head was spinning from an argument with my girlfriend last night. We fight a lot and it’s usually stupid. When it’s not my fault I end up feeling like it is my fault. I look back on my life often in these moments, my head feels like a projector trying to play 8 films at once. They keep spinning in and out with thousands of images and sounds and suddenly it explodes snapping me out of it only now I am a man standing in a room surrounded by fire with nothing but a cup of water. Eventually, the fire burns me up and I’m left staring at the ceiling begging God to stop my heart. Then I wake up, and it’s the next day, and I go to work. She was having a bad day yesterday. I think I cause a lot of those but she never says so. I’ve been trying hard to be good to her. I love her so much, it consumes every cell and thought of my body and soul. She had been off work for a couple of minutes and started crying. I held her and tried to comfort her but I don’t know how to do that very well. But I try. After she came out of it we watched TV for a bit and then I had to go to bed, I work early. She started looking sad and when I pried she told me she thinks I don’t like her and I was being short all night. I said I was sorry and I didn’t mean to and went to bed. While in bed I felt like a broken human as I usually do. Even when trying my best I just can’t seem to make people feel good or loved or something, I’m not even sure anymore. I put on the song “Aviator” by Michael Chapman, my favorite song, and started sobbing. I feel so alone sometimes. She came in later and held me from behind, I didn’t say anything but she told me she was getting up to turn off the lights. I was still crying so I think I was just offended. Then I heard her take a bong rip, talk to her cat, and go to the bathroom to brush her teeth. I knew she would come back and we could continue cuddling but for some reason, I just got mad. I wanted her to just say there. I should’ve just said that. Today we did a lot of work in shelters. The majority we go to are come and go style, anyone can show up, and as long as there’s a room they can come in and stay. Andrew told me the official name but I forgot because I can’t hear sometimes. We worked from the fourth floor down checking the rooms and cleaning out fruit flies. He was frustrated because the building doesn’t do anything to help. When I saw the first room I understood what he meant. Most of the rooms were the same. Piles of trash, piles of clothes, burned tinfoil squares from smoking heroin, needles (we yell needle when we find one), and a variety of shit, piss, blood, and vomit. One guy was making moonshine in his bathtub, turns out that’s a good place for fruit flies to grow. We did the best we could, we sprayed, and slapped, and wiped out as much as we could, but the building won’t remove the rotten trash so they’ll always be there. Some rooms were empty and some were full. We walked in on a couple shooting up, another lady was dripping with sweat from being sick and needing another hit. One lady yelled “get out” as soon as we entered and we did. One man couldn’t even open the door because he had too much stuff in his room, he just talked to us through the crack of the door and apologized, that made me sad again. I wondered if he were to die how long it’d take for someone to check? I think about that scenario with my own corpse too. We finished out the day and I felt a little better. The conversation and busyness of the day had finally burned me out so I wasn’t thinking so much. I also didn’t eat so I could focus on being hungry instead. On my drive home, the thoughts came back. I put Queen is Dead by the Smiths on but the deluxe version. I like the demo versions of the songs better. The Smiths are really good, I think Morrisey is full of shit but I like his lyrics a lot. Maybe I’m just full of shit too. As the music played I stopped paying attention because my mind kicked into overdrive again. I thought a lot about Pao and our fight and what I’d do when I saw her. We had texted a bit throughout the day but there was no punctuation so I assumed the worst. I imagined apologizing, maybe I should, or get flowers, or do something, but I just don’t think it’ll matter. I’ll fuck it up again. I started thinking about Brandon, Alex, my mom, my dad, my dog, and all the people and things and places who have left me and hurt me. Maybe I’m the problem. If you’re surrounded by people who have left you maybe it’s time to look inward. Then I figured I’d write this story instead, if it’s a story I can pretend it didn’t happen. I originally wanted to write about how I was poisoned, then I thought about how I didn’t ask for this life and I could use being “burned alive” as a metaphor for being raped and how I didn’t ask for “these scars” but that sounded so pretentious and blah blah blah so I wrote this instead. I texted my sponsor this morning though, I’m not sober anymore and have been blowing him off for a month. I felt bad, and I felt worse today, so I tried to fix it. He was happy to hear from me and we have plans for Saturday. I’ll probably cancel though - piece of shit. After the fight last night I laid awake staring at the popcorn ceiling and praying for my heart to stop. I use to do that as a kid. I’d be lying in pee and hearing my parents fight, or I’d be lying in pee and hearing no one because the house was empty. I think I just want to be dead, not because I’m miserable (my ex said I love being miserable) but because I want to spare the world from dealing with me. I hanged myself once. I think it was the only serious suicide attempt I’ve made. I got home from a day much like today and hung myself with a belt. I chickened out at the end but it was nice to know that I could do it and more importantly that it didn’t hurt. I think that’s my safety net now, I don’t have any friends or family or anything to fall back on, but I do have the option to tap out when I finally fuck my life up beyond repair. I don’t have that belt anymore though so I’d have to get a new one and that’d be a hassle. The one I have now is cheap leather and will probably just break under the weight, oh well, maybe another time then. I pulled into the parking lot and waited for Pao to let me in, I was convinced she would open the door and throw my shit at me and tell me to leave. I started crying at the thought. She came outside and softly said “hi.” We kissed and I made her hug me. We stood in silence holding each other and I tried not to cry again. We didn’t say anything and rode the elevator up. We went into her apartment and she went back to work and I took a piss, I always have to piss. I sat on the couch and started this shitty story. I hope I don’t fuck up tonight. I just want to be good. I do. I want to be happy, help people, build people up, and not lose my shit every time someone doesn’t give me what I need. I don’t want to die and I have hope that I’ll be happy and normal someday. Worst case scenario I hold onto that hope and die someday anyway. We all gotta go and as long as Hell doesn’t turn out to be real I can finally get some sleep.


Craig Thompson slides out his office chair and sitting down, gets into his Investment form, booting up his multiple systems which display the numerous world stock markets on the multiple monitors which are strategically situated around his desk. Being a twenty eight year old Investment prodigy, Craig has made the firm of Hanson & Hanson Investments millions of dollars in the last several months with eerily accurately calculated trades. Today, arriving at work way before the usual employee crowd arrives, because this time using investors funds, he took a personal risk, without the firms knowledge or authorization. With his index finger hovering slightly above the enter key, sweat begins to form on Craig's brow as his heart pounds loudly in his chest. Watching intensely, Craig slams the enter key and submits the sell transaction as the graph hits the desires price point, wiping his brow nervously as he waits for the response. Within seconds, the red box appears – transaction accepted. In one motion, jumping in the air, knocking over the office chair, Craig almost dances about his office. In less then twenty four hours, he just made the firm over one million dollars in a single trade. He must now explain his action to his boss, as the transaction was not sanctioned. Up-righting his chair, Craig sees Sarah staring at him through the office glass wall. Craig's office dancing has displayed a total out of character action of the completely cold-hearted office bastard he constantly displays. He gives Sarah two middle fingers and yells for her to disappear. Sarah turns and almost runs in fear. Ten hours later Craig shuts down his systems, and, leaning back in his office chair with eyes closed, smiles to himself. “A million dollars for the company, and a ten thousand immediate bonus for me.” Taking three one hundred dollar bills from his wallet, Craig folds them in half and slips them into the small donation like envelope taken from the stack from his top desk drawer. With a marker he jots “Be Safe” on the front and seals the envelope. Glancing about the office to ensure no one is watching, Craig slips the sealed envelope into his breast pocket. Finished for the day, Craig turns out the lights and heads out. Pressing the down button on the elevator, Craig pulls out his Cell Phone and checks the closing stock prices and global stock trends. Sarah, seeing Craig, stops then cautiously approaches the elevator standing nervously beside Craig. A little bit apprehensive, Sarah smiles. “Craig... heading home?” Craig scrolls his Cell Phone, seemingly unaware and continues to scroll his phone. “Sarah, would I be out of my office, standing at the elevator with the down button lit, if I was not going home? Really?” A ding and the elevator arrives, doors opening. Craig does not move his eyes from his Cell Phone. Craig flat and cold says “Sarah, you go ahead... I prefer to travel alone. I will grab the next one.” A slight huff as Sarah stomps into the elevator and turns facing the completely engrossed Craig. “You’re a cold-hearted ass!” The elevator doors close, and Craig presses the down button without removing his attention from his Cell Phone. Martha, sitting on her sleeping bag to protect herself from the cold of the sidewalk concrete, adjusts her homeless sign as she waits for the five o’clock business crowd. The passing donations have been small recently, but Martha still tries to put some of the contributions aside for her dreams. Dreams she is beginning to think will never happen. Martha always dreams of a weekend as a normal person in a comfortable warm bed and a hot shower. A nice dinner, regular conversation and maybe a glass of wine. But now as the business traffic lessens, she fears that this dream too will be as her life, totally shattered. Martha wipes away a tear that flows down her cheek, and as every other afternoon, holds out the battered paper cup to the passerby's As she waits for the office crowd, Martha remembers the day, as she does so many times, where at sixteen, her moms new boyfriend tossed her out of the home she had lived in all her life. She refused his advances while her mom was at work causing a gigantic rift in the fragile home-life. She does not know what happened after, except the locks were changed and her mom would never answer the door. It has now been six years, and the streets have become her home. A quarter here, fifty cents there, a sign the donations... contributions are diminishing. Possibly a sign of the current times, as, the traffic has also thinned. Where Martha could possibly have two meals a day, it has now become one as the norm, but she continues to try and put a little bit aside, even if only a twenty five cent piece, to hopefully have her dream, if only for a single weekend, of a taste of a normal life. Martha watches for the one Friday constant – the tall beautiful man in the expensive suit that every day places a small envelope in her cup. Sometimes a dollar, sometimes two, but always paper and never coins. The one time her gave her a twenty dollar bill allowed Martha to eat for almost two days that weekend. He never takes his eyes from his Cell Phone, but always says the same phrase that is written on the small envelope – Be Safe. Another quarter form a stranger clings against the other coins in the bottom of the paper cup, as Martha softly says thank you, watching, as the stranger, possibly, now feeling better about themselves, continues on their way. In the distance, Martha sees the one constant, the beautiful man that sometimes allows her to continue on, heading toward her, as always, focused on his Cell Phone. As he passes where Martha has sat for over two years, Craig reaches into his breast pocket and removing the envelope places it into Martha’s paper cup again uttering the familiar single phrase – Be Safe. His eyes remain fixed on the Cell Phone, continuing his stride as Martha utters a soft – Thank you. She watches as he vanishes down the stairs into the Subway. Opening the knapsack, Martha views the stack of small envelopes and reaching into her tattered paper cup, removes the most recent one, reading the phrase Be Safe. Lifting the flap Martha gasps seeing the three one hundred dollar bills. She places her hand on her mouth to muffle her excitement, as tears begin to flow down her cheeks. With shaking hands she removes the three one hundred dollar bills and places the envelope in the knapsack with the others. Craig dresses in the clothes he purchased from the Thrift Shop, because, Friday night is the one night he can be himself. He glances about the penthouse condo, the coldness of it which comes with his profession. The millions in his bank account can not compensate for the loneliness he lives in his life every day. Filling his wallet with one dollar bills, he heads out to the other side of town where no one knows who he is, or what he does. To the fun and casual establishment where everyone is no one, yet, still, someone. An adjustment of the second hand leather jacket and Craig heads out for a night of casual non business conversation and interaction. Martha opens the door to the eighty nine dollar Motel room she got for Friday and Saturday nights. It is sparse, but clean. All carpet floor, a double bed, dresser with a mirror, A TV with cable, and best of all a shower. Closing and locking the door, the bags with the clothes from the Thrift Shop and make-up from the Dollar Store dropped to the floor, Martha throws herself onto the bed, wrapping herself in the comforter. She begins crying and shaking like a baby. She now has the one time weekend dream to live as others. She wipes her eyes and begins to get ready. Craig enters the small homey restaurant on the other side of town, far from where he resides, and takes in the simple atmosphere. Small round two person tables, which all seem to be taken, and a small bar with a couple of empty seats. Maybe wanting some chicken wings, maybe pizza and a couple of beers, Craig opts for a seat at the bar, when in the far corner a single young beautiful lady is sitting alone. Martha sees Craig and shyly waves, motioning him over. Craig stares, not knowing who this lady is. He has never seen her here before. Shrugging, he makes his way to the table Martha is sitting at. Craig finds Martha alluring and beautiful with her red flowing hair, large brown eyes and simple silk blouse and pleated skirt. There is something familiar about her, but he cannot place it. Martha, knowing who Craig is, invites him to join her, which he immediately accepts. Ordering a simple draft beer and simple pub snacks, Craig easily enters into conversation with Martha. After several minutes of conversation, feeling unusually comfortable, Craig invites Martha to have dinner with him, and she immediately accepts, gently touching his hand. “Please call me Marty... I prefer the nick name.” Martha rolls over in the large double bed of the hotel room she has for one more night. The dinner and conversation with Craig the night before was playing over in her mind. It was like having a wonderful normal life... if only for a small slice of time in her life. Tears swell as she thinks of how she deceived him by going to the ladies room, only to catch a cab back to the hotel. He would never want to be seen with a girl like her. Tonight she will stay in her hotel room and order in, and not meet Craig for dinner as he asked. Martha clutches the pillow and cries. A week has gone by, and Craig cannot get Marty out of his mind. She never showed up for dinner on Saturday, as he waited for almost two hours. Nothing has been the same in his life since as she is constantly on his mind. Even his trading has been lacking success. Sarah, walking by his office, gives Craig the middle finger and mouths the word – asshole. She turns her back and continues on. On the main screen, a message pops up from the VP. “Craig – in my office now.” With a sigh, Craig knocks on the VP door, enters and sits across from the Harold, one of the senior partners who he calls boss. His solid stern look is very concerning. Craig watches as he leans forward, hands folded on the desk. For the first time in his life, Craig is very nervous. “Craig, do not speak, just listen.” Harold sits back and sighs. “Last week you made the firm over a million dollars. Your performance has been outstanding, but, this week has been... shall I say, concerning. Tuesday you cost the firm one hundred thousand dollars in a questionable transaction, and yesterday another twenty five thousand.” “Sir, Harold, I can explain.” “Craig, please, I understand trader burnout. You have been performing at one hundred and fifty percent for months – Sarah has voiced her concerns. I feel you need a break.” “But sir, I can explain.” “This is going to be non negotiable Craig. Starting right now, you are on six weeks unpaid leave. Rest, relax, get away from the market – you need a break. So shut down and go home, and we will see you after you are rested.” Craig leaves Harold’s office and for the first time, his tail between his legs in defeat and head hung low, but yet, a burden removed from his shoulders. For the first time in his business life, he is not bound, tied to a desk and is relaxed. Raising his head high as he walks through the office, he thinks. “I have over twenty two million dollars in my account, time to be a normal person. I do not need this damn job. The first thing I do when I get home is my resignation letter.” Craig sees Sarah, and with a cold stern face, points a finger at her mouthing. “Got what you wanted bitch – I am outta here.” Proceeding to the lobby, Craig pushes the down button, and waits for the elevator as calmness flows over him and all tension leaves his body. For the first time in a long time, a smile appears on his face. Martha adjusts her sleeping blanket and prepares for the Friday afternoon business crowd. Thinking of last weekend, Friday especially, she wonders if she will ever experience that again. A warm place to sleep, a shower, a glass of wine and dinner with a very beautiful tender man. She did not care he had very little money – he treated her as a very special lady. Holding out her tattered paper cup, Martha receives a quarter here a quarter there as the business, office people pass by. Suddenly, she sees Craig in the distance, and, for the first time he is not on his cell phone. Bowing her head to display only the baseball cap she is wearing, Martha outstretches her arm, holding the cup high. Craig passing, drops the small usual envelope into the cup as he continues toward the subway. Martha looks up and removes her baseball cap, allowing her long red hair to flow down about her shoulders. She softly utters her usual phrase to the patrons, but, this time adds a name. “Thank you... Craig.” The voice sounding familiar, Craig stops in midstride, freezing in place. He turns and glances down the street to focus on the homeless girl he has given so many envelopes to, every Friday, in the passing months. He turns and walks towards her, his stride quickening. Martha stands and faces Craig as he reaches her. Gently grasping Martha by the shoulders, Craig gazes deeply into her eyes, and for a second time a smile graces his face. “Marty? Marty, is this really you?” A tear flows down Martha’s cheek. One of thousands in the last week. She smiles sweetly. “It is actually Martha, Craig. I am Martha, and thank you for you kindness you have given me every Friday afternoon.” Craig cups Martha’s face and gently kisses her then hugs her close. “Martha, this has been my Investment of a Lifetime.” THE END


He had worn out his welcome and made a mess in the living room, so my Christmas house guest had to go. This happens every year. My partner has a roving eye--I don’t mind who she brings home--we’re open like that. It was mid-December when I came home from work and there he was, standing in the living room. It seems that every December without fail she hooks up with some long-limbed six-footer, and next thing you know he makes himself the center of attention. Oh well, whatever makes her happy, right? Every year I beg her not to bring ‘em home and for once maybe keep things simple, but no. She has some sort of need that only this sort can fulfill. I’m not really into these woodsy types but I have to admit he was good looking. He had a particular scent, hard to describe, like the outdoors. Plus he put her in a better mood. I have to admit he did look pretty festive all dressed up in holiday colors. But by New Year’s day I had enough, he was now dropping shit left and right on the carpet. I asked her to get rid of him, but she didn’t want to, she called me a spoil-sport killing the party too soon. So it was up to me to take him out. She went out shopping and left me alone with him: this was my chance. I had thought ahead--an idea I got from Dexter--and put a plastic sheet down first. He never saw it coming. The plastic sheet worked great, so much less mess on the carpet than the previous ones and I was able to wrap him up in it. After the deed was done, I called up my buddy Mike to help me haul him outside. Mike is the kind of friend who would help you bury a body, so this was no big deal to him. We slid the bag down the steps and into the back yard. "Thanks buddy, I owe you one," I said. “You need any more help with this?” he asked, but I said no. “Why don’t you fire up the chipper-shredder, it’ll take no time,” he said. “Nah, too much noise,” I said “I can just bag him and be done with it”. Once behind the house I got to work. I unwrapped him from the plastic and opened up a disposal sack. I looked around but nobody was outside, yet I needed to work quickly and quietly just in case. I started by cutting off the smaller parts. This was harder than I thought, my cutters must need sharpening. After a few minutes I was left with some of the larger pieces. I used a saw to cut those down to size. I considered just putting him the back of my truck and dumping him somewhere, but too much risk of getting caught, it seems like even dumpsters have security cams these days. And so under cover of darkness I filled up the two brown sacks containing our Christmas guest, his name was Douglas something. Douglas Fir. At first I thought he was joking, what sick parents would name someone after a type of Christmas tree? But despite being soaked in blood, the name on his drivers license was still visble: Douglas James Fir. Later today I may need to haul these bags off, already they are starting to smell.


Tearing asunder concrete jungles like cleavers through plastic, I ride with reckless abandon. I care not about the splattered flesh I leave in my wake - they don't even exist. I refuse to acknowledge them; I can't acknowledge them, literally. Where do they supplement their hubris, these humans, to defy me? I entangle myself through their ancient machinations; I run rampant through their olden civilizations; I give birth to colors among the sea of sandstone and concrete. I taste the blood of a trillion unnoticed cuts, thorns and jagged testaments. My sculptures lay defaced, lay stripped down and mocked. I give life and take it - they steal beauty, these humans. Monsters, the lot of them - a plague. I do what I can to recover, but I heal too slowly. My sundress is in tatters, and my tears dry faster than I produce them. I'm getting so warm. I am the progenitor of my downfall. I see humans tattoo me... scar me. The seek to replace me with them. Them! Them. They seek to replace what I've done. I am a monument of divinity; I am the seed and the egg. And my offspring is the matricide. I hear my oak fingers splinter. I smell the clouds parting overhead. I am no stranger to tragedy, but rarely am I the cause of my own. I see in the distance my wailing brothers and sisters, and our mother. They mourn their dichotomous sister. My adoption, just outside my reach, and which should also be out of reach to these humans, is also tainted. Impaled by brazen vendetta and pride. What have these humans done? My guardians lack the power to defend me. My beneficiaries are slaughtered and farmed. I wished not such torment, it is impossible. The humans will be my downfall, and thus, will be their downfall. They do not speak my language - only I do - but they don't have to. They see me wince and shiver as they poke and prod. I am not a factory. I am sustenance. They will see me roar, mark my silence. Each blink of my eyes lasts lifetimes, each heartbeat eons. Who do they think they are to resent me? My warnings - their warnings, they go unheeded. My retaliations go ignored. I am all but dominated. Soon we will all be barren rock. Dried oceans. Fruitless trees and meatless corpses. But I will live on past my own extinction, as I always have. I will have new, new and wonderous children. But this blight, this human curse, has reaped its harvest of misery. They think me silent, but my weapons are wordless - the devastation speaks for itself. I will be the ultimate champion of this war of attrition, but I will not be the victor. Nobody will be the victor. I am the ageless infinite. The temporary always. I am the seed and the egg. I am the solemn mother of life. I cannot forget, and I cannot forgive. I am the Earth, and I am undefeated.


Placing a small headband littered with a few small blue flowers in my hair, I look at myself in the mirror and wish I had chosen a different hair style. This one makes me look too much like the one person I never want to be. I shrug to myself, knowing there is not much time now before I have to leave, so there is no fixing my hair to a different style. Hopefully, dressing myself with a smile is all I need to not be seen as him. Turning to the door, I make my way down to my car and drive over to my Grandma’s house. I have known her as Mawmaw my entire life, but I have to always explain to people what Mawmaw even means, so I always introduce her as Grandma at first. Now that I have everyone on the same page, let’s get back to the story I wanted to share. I am on her doorstep, oh I forget how I got here so quickly. I must have spaced out on that drive thinking about what I need to get done at her house. I glance at my reflection in the rear view mirror, noticing the smile does help. From the car, I hear Mawmaw’s dog yapping. She has the ugliest mini-chihuahua called Betsy. Betsy hates everyone, even Mawmaw honestly, but they are two peas in a pod. I knock slightly, causing Betsy to crank up the yipping. I stare at the fecal brown door wondering if Mawmaw is in the back of the house or basement, so I knock again. I hear some shuffling, it might be a few more moments but I know she heard me now. Betsy calms down a bit so Mawmaw must have also threatened her with her cane. I continue to stare at the door with it’s grumpy looking mat that says ,” STAY AWAY!!!”. At least it doesn’t have anything that reminds me I look like the worst human in the world. Taking my thoughts back to the door and house, I realize the whole front of this house matches Mawmaw perfectly, cantankerous and unwelcoming. Finally reaching the door, Mawmaw throws it open with a humph. She yells back at Betsy to shut up, though I don’t understand why since that dog never bothers to obey. Betsy has come racing, yipping to the door and Mawmaw whips her cane in the teensy terror’s way and she skids back narrowly avoiding the stick of doom. At this point, I think Betsy has seen the error of her ways and yips quietly from a distance while glaring at me with those black, buggy, alien-like eyes. I think she used to be cute, but it must have been fleeting. My attention going back to Mawmaw, I see the same glare. “Well! Are you coming in or letting my heat out!? I am missing my program cause you are here”, she says shortly, already turning back into her hallway and shuffling down to the living room. “Shut that door and lock the locks”, she calls back to me. Slipping off my black ankle boots, I place them in the shoe rest. Betsy eyeing me the entire time. She knows I bring her bribes. I pull some of the kibbles from my pocket and give them to her as I walk past. I follow Mawmaw to her favorite room of the house aside from the basement, where she teases she has buried the bodies of those who annoy her most. The family thinks it is a joke she tells, but I am sometimes not sure that it is a complete lie. She finished marching, as well as an 82 year old woman who walks with a cane can march over to her seat in the living room. I see she has gained a few dozen more magazines and newspapers. Looking at the covers I notice they are her usual fare of absurd and magical stories that aren’t usually true, but she loves them. She sits down, wiggling her rump into the perfect spot on her chair, grabs her aghan, props her cane against the armrest of the chair, and leans back with a satisfied sigh. You would think she has just finished a hard day’s work in the garden, not walked the 20 feet to and from the door. “Clear yourself a seat girl, and don’t you dare move Betsy’s bed”, She says to me sharply while unmuting her program. Standing there for a few seconds more I find a place I can clear off to sit, it is just a wooden chair off to the right of her. Before clearing myself a spot and settling in, I do what I always do when I first arrive. “Mawmaw, do you need anything before I get comfortable? I think a cup of tea sounds delightful, what about you?” I knew this would upset her, for some reason she doesn't like me in the kitchen. “You stay out of my kitchen!” She snaps at me, this time looking away from her TV show to make sure I am thoroughly afraid of her. I am not. “Don’t be sensitive Mawmaw, I was only offering a warm beverage”, I placate. “It isn’t helpful, you go in there and put things away in all the wrong places thinking you know better and…..” Interrupting her, “ That is because your idea of putting stuff away is to leave it all on the counter Mawmaw.” She almost screams to me “That is so I can reach it!” “Ok ok, I forget you are old and short, you don’t need to get short with me about it” winking at her I hope she gets the joke. She is about to say something back at me in return, but lets out a few humphs and sighs instead. She mutters under her breath, shakes her head at me, then looks back to her tv program. I relinquish my fight at this time to make her tea, and make sure she has enough groceries. She is either going along with the ruse or hasn’t picked up on my true motive of annoying her with the dishes. When I am “rummaging and ruining” her kitchen, I’m actually taking down a grocery list for her. Yes, she still goes out shopping for her groceries herself, but I began to notice she didn’t have a lot in her cupboards. Since she isn’t the tidiest of people, I have found her bank statements and noticed she doesn’t have a lot budgeted towards food. To help her, I go out and buy her the more expensive delicacies that she is unable to afford or maybe just won’t spoil herself with. Truthfully, I am not sure if she just forgets that she didn’t buy them or we have a silent agreement to not speak of it. Looking around the room, I realize how messy it is. She hasn’t been in the mood for cleaning it seems. I move the old magazines from the chair, placing them gently on the table that already seems to be holding more than its fair share of books and papers, and is that a banana skin? I will deal with that later. Sitting down, I look over at Mawmaw to see if she noticed me assessing my cleaning priorities, she is still staring at her program. Betsy now comes in, she stayed away to let me be the sole target for the scolding, and sits on her bed. Her bed are the other two cushions on the couch next to Mawmaw. The couch only has three sections and the dog takes up the majority of it. Betsy is 3 pounds. It is ridiculous that Mawmaw lets her, but that dog seems to be the only thing that keeps making Mawmaw happy, if you can call how she is happy. We watch some daytime television, Mawmaw makes rude comments to everyone on the show, but she seems to enjoy this daily ritual of hers. I do my best to come and see her two to three times a week. Most of the family hate Mawmaw because she is quite cantankerous and can come across as uncaring and ungrateful. She is rude, gruff, and can be generally unpleasant but she hasn’t been nasty to me. She has always been the one to fully support me in all my crazy ways. I don’t mind her for her ways either. She is in her own way a good soul. Unlike the person I see in my reflection. I wish I looked a bit more like MawMaw did at my age, then I wouldn’t hate myself so much. She is a much better person than the son she created. Like I previously mentioned, I’ve seen her budget. Maybe she could afford herself some better treats for her meals, but she gives most of her meager pension to orphans and charities. I was surprised to see this, but she has done a lot of research in her charities and really cared about where she was placing her money. She would rather go without her favorite meal, salmon with asparagus and rice pilaf, than not pay towards some kid in Africa to have a decent meal. That’s where I step in and make sure she has her salmon for her rice pilaf. I admire her, she is a strong fighter. She didn’t have to take care of me when I was a kid and my parents were nowhere to be found, but she did the right thing and made me a bedroom and got me into the right schools. She always provided my meals, a good education, and unwavering support. She was, is, and will always be rough around that edges but this is a woman who did the best she could for me. She isn’t a nurturer, but she loved me through her actions. She also never asked me to be anything but me, not many of my friends growing up had that same freedom. Mawmaw is a grump and likes her space. She may appear annoyed or inconvenienced about my visits, but I know she appreciates them. It makes me happy when she tells me about the meals she found in her fridge, or the “Thank you” text I get a few days later after I cleaned some of the parts of her house. I helped her with her garden a lot last year and then the canning. That was a feat I am not looking forward to helping her with again, but it keeps her so happy and healthy that I will have to help. My favorite thing to do is to put her dishes in the wrong spot, just to irritate her. Please don’t tell her that though. After watching about a half hour's worth of the daytime program where the host of the show brings on celebrities to mock them or shock them, I finally get up and start heading to the kitchen. “Just where do you think you are walking off to young lady?” she calls to me without peeling her eyes from the tv. “It is time for tea”, I quip. “Don’t touch those dishes” “I make no promises” I reply as I move her cane away from her “You trickster! If you even dare think of touching those dishes I will bag up all of Betsy’s poop and hide it in your car the next time you come over!” Already in the kitchen, I grin and examine the kitchen. I have to clean it, she hasn’t touched it since earlier this week. Debating my options, I go ahead and start cleaning the kitchen. Next week I will just have to deal with dog poop in the car. I know I will because this won’t be the first time she has done this. She is the person that does not make empty threats. Treating her well makes me feel less like the person I see most prominently in the mirror that reflects the side of me I wish I didn’t have to see. She may have created him, but he clearly didn’t see the love and care she does give. My reflection will eventually not bring me shame or sadness, but that is a story for another day.


When I was a kid I had a monster at the end of my bed. It wasn’t like everyone else's monster, all teeth and scary eyes. Mine was different. Every night, when the lights went out, there would be nothing at the end of my bed. A horrible, ominous mass of nothing, looming in the dark. Some nights the nothing would touch me. Those nights were the worst. I would be engulfed by a feeling like coldness. It wasn’t cold though, wasn’t anything really, but it was like cold, like the idea of cold. I know that doesn’t quite make sense, but that’s what it felt like. When the nothing got too near it was overwhelming. I could feel it pressing down on my chest, making it almost impossible to breathe. The nothing would loom over me, an inch away from my face, too close. It didn’t have any recognisable features, wasn’t anything close to human. It was just a mass of nothing at all. A big, gaping absence. I can still remember that exact feeling, being a small child paralysed by fear. An indescribable terror, of nothing. Nothing physical, nothing real, nothing I could explain. But, like all kids and their monsters, I grew out of it. The nothing stopped appearing at the end of my bed, and eventually I thought about it so little I almost forgot about it entirely. Now I had proper adult things to worry about like taxes and climate change. I was about 24 when I noticed it again. It wasn’t the same as before, but still, i recognised it. My nothing. It came back so gradually I didn’t even realise it was there for so long. I was at work, sat at my desk, trying to focus and refocus and focus again on something deeply meaningless. I felt something like coldness. Not cold, but something close. Time shifted, I couldn’t tell if it had sped up or slowed almost to a halt, but it had changed. The wave of nothing slowly abated, but I don’t know if it ever went away entirely. It came back again the next week. I had been walking to the station. The wind hit my cheek, but I didn’t feel it. Or I did? But not as much somehow. It was as if I knew the wind was on my face, but I knew it in a different time, or a different place. My walking became somebody else's. Somebody I was watching. Like playing a game, I was controlling a character, I knew it was mine, but somehow it wasn’t me. Over time the nothing engulfed me. It filled my body, compressing me into the centre of myself. I no longer touched the edges. Everything I saw, felt or did was through a thick membrane of nothing. It began replacing parts of me, displacing them with absence. Like a parasite. It ate parts of my memory, I would lose names, whole people and moments of my own history. It took my joy, and my sadness too. It was totally indiscriminate. I was small, inside myself, and everything was so hard. I fought so hard to even exist. I was fighting nothing, there was nothing there. Nothing oppressive, nothing parasitic. Just me. I’m not a little kid anymore. There are no monsters under my bed. I am scared of nothing.


Greetings avid readers. Allow me to welcome you to another one of my unusual stories. This one is a bit different, which is why I am speaking unto you in this manner. The name was generated by their title generator. I found it quite appropriate considering my interests and the tea I stumbled onto a few days ago. This one is a mixture of fact and fiction. I have based the fact on past evidence. I will even give you a website address to do your own research at the end. Who knows that it may inspire you to become an amateur astrologist. The fiction part may or may not be fiction. It is a prediction based on the past. If it is fiction, well and good. If it is not, then the generation of our current youth will find themselves buried before 70. Oh yes, my darling confederates, if my fiction becomes your fact, the future is dire indeed. Permit me to introduce you to a wayward asteroid called Chiron. Chiron is the wounded healer. When in certain locations, either approaching Aries or in Aries, he tends to have somewhat of a plague influence on our beautiful planet. The plagues I speak of remain contained to the human species. Which, when I reflect, is odd. Astrology should affect everything. This is something for me to ponder another day. Perhaps you, my reader, will leave me a comment illuminating that subject further. Chiron isn't the only interstellar magnetic influence on our fair planet. There are the star signs which involve the interplay of magnetism of the stars on our planet. Fixed stars also affect us, less so than the signs. Countless other numerous asteroids tickle our magnetic field. The biggest influence is the planets. When it comes to global health, Chiron is the key. (I'm serious. Check out his symbol.) Enable us to bring to mind the Black Plague. Wasn't that a doozy? I've looked it up on the chart and Chiron is in Taurus in 1347 which is what we have on when it was. The year could be wrong, considering Taurus is after Aries. When I look at 1338, it makes a bit more sense. Chiron and Pluto (the planet of death) are having an interstellar tango of epic proportions. They say that 5 to 40% of the world's population died during that time. Considering the magnetic fields interacting, I'd hazard a guess at above 50%. Cast your mind back to the Spanish Influenza of the late 1910s. Chiron was not quite yet in Aries, but he was less than a year is approaching. The energy of attraction, his magnetic field influence the stars of Aries, was already in play. Boom. Here comes a nasty plague. A quick aside here. I base my goods on normal Western/Tropical Astrology. Vedic Astrology is more precise. It is something I am looking into studying for my own best interests. Moving along to the season where I was born - the 1970s. Chiron has been especially unkind to me. That feisty asteroid was retrograde near the peak of its Aries season at the time of my birth. All this is in my 6th house of health. I've had accidents, sicknesses that have made attempts on my life more than a dozen times. Yes, I've even had Covid-19. Let me give the story a quick update. I've just looked into the Spanish Influenza. Chiron was in Pisces at that time. Chiron was in Pisces in the 70's (see paragraph beneath). Chiron is in Pisces now. I tried looking on the sidereal astrology chart for the black plague, but alas, the years wouldn't go back that far. Vedic astrology uses adjustments. The fixed stars seem to move backward according to Earth's perspective. They do this at the rate of 1 degree every 72 years. It is possible that Chrion was in Pisces during the Black Plague. All this would make perfect sense, in that case. The 1970s gave us the Swine Flu at Fort Dix. It awarded us with the Russian Flu. The UK got a Smallpox outbreak. Hello, hello, Ebola! Legionnaires disease - another one I've done battle with. There was also a Sverdlovsk Anthrax incident. Let us not forget that the end of the 70s brought us the beginning of HIV/AIDS. If you ask me half of these are manufactured by the one-world government scientists that do not exist. (Do you hear the X-File theme running in the background of your mind? I do.) Moving along now, to now. Welcome Coronavirus. Isn't that a nasty puppy? I was looking at the star charts 6 months before it happened. It is something I do every so often to get a grasp on my life. I am no expert. I do see the energies right. It is translating it that is the problem. Often I do not understand in full until after the event. In one way it is nice to be right. The joy of being correct removes itself because of what I am on the ball about. 2 days ago, I was sitting in Qatar airport, doing nothing but waiting for a flight to Sydney for 12 hours. Well, maybe I wasn't doing anything. I was reading a chapter on astrology in a book. For some odd reason, I found myself inspired to look at an astrology chart. My specific goal was to suss out the next big plague that will be hitting our planet in about 50 odd years. Pulling out my phone, connected to the free Hamad wifi, I went to my go-to website for perusing interstellar and planetary energies. There I went for to the 2070s. Do the words 'Holy Crap' convey the astonishment that I felt? That's the next big nasty. Coronavirus is nothing compared to that. Once again, Pluto and Chiron will be making a deadly love on the backdrop of the cosmos. It is a dance that may take out half the world's current population. When Mars steps in for a threesome, watch out. Death and destruction. Chaos, but the order will be lost, for good. There is a lot more to what I saw than just this, but I will remain silent for now. Now comes something highly controversial which could get me killed. It doesn't matter too much for 2 reasons. Number 1, I've labeled this story as fiction. Number 2, the same people that would love to have me killed have been trying for years in a multitude of ways. As you can tell, they have been successful (and they have, but God is more powerful than them.). I'm going to speak on the vaccine. Yes, I've had my vaccine, both doses. I'm having my third tomorrow. I am well aware of the agent I am dealing with and it does not bother me as it should. If God wants me dead, I'll die. If he doesn't, I won't. The vaccine. Notice how they have made it so that even young children can have the vaccine. Pay attention to the fact that the vaccine doesn't stop the virus. Believe me, I told the virus I am vaccinated. The response was that the virus did not care. Dose after dose the population will be inured with. They started with the adults. A red herring, of course. Now they are doing the children. We must have our ineffective vaccine so that we can retain what few human rights we think we have left. Why? I'll leave that one for you to answer. If you have an answer, feel free to share it at the end of my story. I am always willing to listen to other people's thoughts. What if the depopulation agenda isn't about 2030 but a time 50 years in the future. Who will they be de-populating in the future? The people whose immune systems were compromised at a time in their life when they were still vulnerable. The children of now and the future. This business about 2030 depopulation is nothing but another red herring put out by their paid co-conspirators. It's a 2070 depopulation agenda. Even the numbers add up for their sick, twisted business. Are you following my line of thought? I could be wrong. I hope I'm wrong. What if I'm right? Will I even be around at that time to say 'Hey, I told you all so.' What if they aren't just immunizing us against a virus, but deliberately compromising immune systems for the release of a future virus? Do you think they aren't like that at the top? Be honest. We all know the truth. There you go. That is my story. If you want to find where I have come up with my theories, please head to https://horoscopes.astro-seek.com/ to do your own research. Don't forget you can always google different things. I would love to hear about what you come up with, the information, and your theories. Careful, however, you don't want to find yourself on the bad side of these goons. Never The End