“Do you remember that time that you and I drove around looking at green hills, and we hooked up, our bodies entangled in a kaleidoscope of shapes and movements? We had taken my mother’s Jeep Cherokee to the end of the road and then hiked along the Caney Fork. You made me bring a full backpack stuffed with your favorite blanket, and a shit ton of rubbers, I mean, so many that there was no possible way we were going to use them all. You said we would, and you did that smile you always did when you were up to something. Your lip curled in the corner, and your teeth just barely peeked through their coral covers. You forced me to carry the backpack because after all, ‘I was such a big, strong man.’ “I was barely a man at all, more like a boy. I was twenty, and we had only been dating for four months. This is going to sound childish, but, I was so excited that I was able to get laid that those first few months were a complete blur. I remember this moment so clearly though. It’s surprising what sticks with you. Anyways, we had hiked along the Caney Fork and made it to Scott’s Gulf. Remember that waterfall? And how it snuck out of the canyon wall, came out, fell, and when it finally reached the bottom it snuck back into the ground? Goddamn, it was almost as beautiful as you were that night. The water was so clear. "We laid the blanket down, wrapped in each other’s arms, and stared at the waterfall for what felt like ages. There was something hypnotizing about it. You turned away from the water and towards me. You whispered in my ear, ‘Is it going to be like this forever?’ I was staring at the sky, which was melding colors like melting Neapolitan ice cream. I hesitated, thinking about it for a second, you might not have known that, but I was young, and I’m sure you’ve had the same thoughts before too. ‘Yeah, I think so.’ I responded, the words seem so far from me now, like it was a totally different conversation than what I remember. You kissed me on the cheek and said, ‘I hope you’re right.’ I turned and kissed you on the lips, before I knew it we were a sweaty mess of skin, and shapes. "We eventually headed home; you fell asleep in the passenger seat with your feet on the dash, and your hand clutching mine. That day was so passionate, and uncanny, so unlike us now. It’s not the same as when we were younger. Maybe we can rekindle those feelings. I want to make love to you, not just love you. We could go back, maybe, and hike along the Caney Fork. What do you say?” “That wasn’t me.


THE TRAIN Garry Marek sighed as he turned his head to watch raindrops chase each other in frantic loops around the window before being whisked away into the night. Peace reigned at last after a noisy crowd of boarding school boys on their way back to Cornham College had piled off at the last stop. As the train picked up speed on the way down to Riversham, the carriage swayed slightly to the rhythmic sound of the wheels on the rails, and clouds of smoke and steam from the old locomotive billowed past as it was caught by the wind swirling through the cut. Sleet and rain streaked by like tracer bullets, and darkness obscured most of the countryside apart from a few spots of pale yellow from the windows of isolated farmhouses and the occasional flicker of car headlights somewhere in the distance. He could see by the reflection in the glass that there were only three other people in the carriage, an elderly lady who was absorbed in her knitting, and a laughing teenage couple who were beginning to pack up their things, presumably in preparation for leaving at Kington Brideway, the next stop down the line. So it should be quiet for the next part of the journey until the usual crowd of commuters piled on at his destination, Castle Junction, and he just hoped his mind would stay away from the dark places it had been pulling him recently. Once he was in ‘The Royal George’ with the Friday night team things should be better, at least he hoped so. On the lower part of the gradient the driver applied the brakes and to the uncomfortable squeal of metal on metal they pulled in to the old country station of Kington Brideway with its overhang of glass roof and a waiting area that hadn’t changed much in twenty years. The engine hissed and expelled clouds of steam as the young couple exited the carriage to a blast of cold air and the sooty odour of coal smoke. When they closed the door behind them Garry and the old lady with the knitting were left to listen to the ticking of hot metal, the sounds of receding voices and the almost life-like huffing of the huge engine. In the weak yellow of the platform lights the hands on the station clock with its Roman numerals announced that it was four fifty five, and a glance at his watch confirmed that for once they were actually on time, a miraculous occurrence for British rail. With a flurry of door slamming and a few shouts, the guard finally blew his whistle, and with a jolt and a series of huffs and clanks they were off once more. Once clear of the station the window once more resembled a steamy mirror, and Garry rubbed a section clear to find himself looking at his own reflection. The beard made him look a little older than his twenty seven years, and the deepening shadows under his eyes didn’t help. He inwardly cursed. It was lack of sleep due to the nightmares that had been wakening him in the small hours of the morning, leaving him in a pool of sweat with his heart thumping, and the damn things had been so vivid recently it made getting back to sleep again nearly impossible. The most disturbing aspect of each incident was a sense of impending doom, of being dragged ever closer to some dreadful encounter. That and being aware that he was dreaming but not being able to escape, like being caught in a spider’s web, knowing it was just biding its time until he was too weak to struggle. And now weird images had started to intrude into his daytime thoughts and he was seriously worried he was loosing his mind. He shook his head and returned to watching the blur of dark countryside whizzing by outside and tried to think of normal things, but it wasn’t to be. A few weeks ago, just before she'd gone back to Australia, his ex flatmate Laura Kyle had talked him into something he now wished he’d never agreed to, convinced that it was somehow connected to the recent spate of terrifying nightmares that were wearing him down. Staring out into the blackness he began to ponder over it all as he’d done a hundred times before. She’d sprung it on him one evening when they were in the middle of their second bottle of wine. She’d met a medium who said she may be able to help her contact Jenny, a friend who died when she was sixteen years old. She missed Jenny and wanted to give it a try. The woman, who called herself madam Cassandra, had given her a card with a phone number, should she give her a buzz and ask if they could arrange a session? Mellowed by the alcohol he’d agreed, after all, it was just a bit of harmless  fun. He was naturally skeptical but curious at the same time, so why not. Not only was the good lady at home, but if they could get to her place before nine o’clock she would be happy to accommodate them, for a modest fee of course. As the woman lived only a mile or so outside the village, they hopped into Garry’s car and drove on up there. It was just as he’d imagined. Madam Cassandra had prepared a table in a small room of her bungalow that was illuminated only by candle light, the windows covered by heavy drapes. A small uninspiring looking woman, she wore a long dress with a black pearl necklace, and even had the obligatory black cat that purred and rubbed itself around their legs before settling in an armchair, its wide green eyes watching every move. Instructing them to simply address her as Cassandra, she proceeded to ask a few personal questions, advised them to please remain silent when she started to invite spirit guests into the room, and stressed that she not be interrupted once contact had been made. Garry had determined not to let his skepticism show, and just went along with things as Cassandra asked that they all hold hands and close their eyes. She then began incantations inviting any nearby souls to come and join them. She made no reference to Jenny, but after a short while she said, “I know you’re there. Kachina you say, that’s an interesting name. Laura is looking for a friend who has passed, will you stay a while and talk with us, maybe you know her. Who? Speak a little louder.” Cassandra’s grip suddenly tightened, her voice changed, and sounding nervous she said, “who are you?” Then four things happened once. The temperature dropped dramatically, a draft bent the flames of the candles, they all opened their eyes and the cat started spitting furiously as it stared at the ceiling. Cassandra let go of their hands, yelled “no”, and switched on a light. To Garry and Laura’s amazement she then stood up and said, “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave. I really don’t feel very well.” Laura tried to ask what happened, but the madam was having none of it. Pale faced she’d apologized again as she handed back the money, and then ushered them as quickly as possible to the door and out into the night without saying another word. He and Laura had tried to make light of it but it had been disturbing and they both new it. They that night Garry’s dreams had taken him somewhere far back in time where a wolf pack howled in the forest and the cries of tormented beings flooded his senses. Giving himself a mental shake he glanced at his watch, and wasn’t surprised to see that barely ten minutes had passed since they’d left Kington Brideway, because that was the subjective nature of time when the mind is under pressure. As he was frantically trying to conjure up more pleasant thoughts the train entered the first of the long tunnels that carved their way through Dunford gap, and the sudden rush of noise made him jump. Then the lights went out and he felt himself spinning like a leaf in a whirlpool, tumbling deeper and deeper into the vortex until the sensations became too much and he blacked out. As consciousness returned he found himself on a raised piece of ground at the edge of a forest where veils of sodden mist flirted with the trees in a cold embrace. The sensation was dreamlike, as though he was observing from another dimension, and certainly the people closest to him ignored his presence completely even though he was within touching distance. Hot talon like hands or claws gripped his wrists tightly, and an inner sense told him not to turn around because whatever held him should never be seen by mortal eyes. A ghastly cracked voice hissed into his ear. “You will watch everything that unfolds before us, the better to understand the punishment that awaits you.” The whole scene was ghostly, like looking through a gossamer thin veil. Dressed in the fashion of the sixteenth century, a crowd of men women and children stood around in a hollow where a man in black robes was reading aloud to a crowd of poor peasants. Garry couldn’t understand the language, but he guessed it to be eastern European, possibly Hungarian or Romanian. At the side of the man who was reading stood another, a wealthy type judging by his fancy attire, and beside him, a solemn looking priest was clutching a bible to his chest. The gaunt face of an elderly woman in ragged clothes stared out through the bars of a cage on the back of a nearby cart, her grey hair a tangled matted mess and the cruel stripes of a whipping visible on her bony arms. Even from where he stood Garry could see terror and loathing in equal measure in her eyes which had turned in his direction and bored right into him in a sign of recognition. The grip on his wrists tightened. “That is you in the black robes Garry Marek. Petrov Bunda Nicolescu was your name at that time. That is you, the bringer of death, reading from the scroll of lies you concocted in alliance with that other vile being, Count Ackerley Rousseau, the monstrosity by your right side, who is now the man you know as Michael Lamont.” Garry could smell something rotten on the rank wheezing breath, the sound not much more than a rasping whisper. “Strange don’t you think that the two of you should live again at the same time after almost four centuries. But it means the search is finally over, my work is nearly done. I found Rousseau first so his punishment is in the final phase, just as yours will surely follow in the coming days. The die is cast, the wheel of fate is turning.” Some in the crowd jeered and shouted abuse in the direction of the poor wretch in the cage, but most stood in sombre silence as the reading continued. The words ‘Constitutio Criminalis’ and ‘Malleus Maleficarum’ were now uttered louder than the rest to audible murmurs and gasps from the crowd. When the speech was over, two burly looking men went to the accused, opened the cage and dragged the woman across the clearing to where stacks of faggots had been piled against a wooden stake. They manhandled her through a narrow gap in the wood pile, fastened her frail body to the post with chain and looped a small casket on a rope over her head to hang in the middle of her chest. The voice hissed, crackling with venom as the talons dug deeper into his flesh. “How kind of you to show some mercy with the keg of gunpowder around her neck. How easy it was to enrich yourselves simply by seizing a widow's land and holdings. Why wait for her to die when you can just accuse her of witchcraft and take what you want for yourselves.” Feeling the power of the grip on his wrists Garry knew that struggling would be futile, and at each pitiful attempt at protestation of his innocence the words froze in his throat. All he could do was watch in horror while more wood was placed against the tragic figure, and as the priest began further incantations while holding aloft a cross, a torch of burning pitch was inserted into the stack. He tried to avert his gaze from the unfolding horror but he was forced to watch as the flames rose higher. The screams pierced his brain and the sound lifted rooks off their nests in the high trees, scattering them like blackened fragments into the sky. At the same time wolves began to howl in the surrounding woods. Not the usual lupine sounds of communication, but something primeval, more soulful and deeply disturbing, which continued until a muffled explosion and a shower of sparks ended the torment of the poor soul in the fire. Garry felt himself falling and spinning once more as the whispers continued in his head. “Her name was Aurelia. I am her sister. I know who you are and I will find you again each time you sleep. You will know the agonies that you, Petrov Bunda Nicolescu and your like inflicted on others, each visitation more unbearable than the last until your debt is paid. A screeching of metal brought him back to his physical self as the train slowed to a shaky stop. A whistle blew and as the commuters at Castle Junction began to surge towards the carriage he looked up to see the old knitting lady staring at him from the corridor by the door. She smiled and it chilled him to the bone. The eyes were pure malevolence, boring right into him. No spoken words were necessary as the message had already been delivered. She was coming for him. He jumped up and tried to follow, he would beg and plead if necessary, it was all a terrible mistake, he knew nothing of these things. The door opened and Garry had to squeeze past a bustling crowd to step down onto the platform. The old lady was nowhere to be seen. He was shaking as he handed his ticket at the exit barrier, and stepping outside he didn’t even bother to do up his coat against the biting wind and snow flurries that swept around the street lights like moths to a flame. He made the walk from the station down to the High Street entirely on auto-pilot, his mind in turmoil. Trying to take in what had happened on the train was almost impossible. Had it happened at all or was it just another extreme form of nightmare. The sounds of the burning woman’s screams were too fresh in his mind and he knew the answer. He stopped in a doorway opposite the pub to try and gather his thoughts. On the evening buses on the high street the passengers faces looked abstract behind the steamed up windows. Cars honked their horns, and the burger bar at the corner was busy as usual. How could everything be so bloody normal. There was something he urgently had to find out, one person in particular he desperately needed to talk to. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry as he reached the bar, and he had to force himself to push open the door. As he walked in he spotted his friends at a table near the back, but as he approached he immediately noticed a lack of the usual joviality. Everyone seemed oddly subdued, even the normally boisterous Roy Kennedy, the joker in the pack was pensively stroking his chin. Roy was the first to notice him and waved as he approached. Garry managed a smile as he pulled up a stool, and tried to be cheerful in response to the muttered greetings. “We’re all very quiet tonight. What’s up?” Roy’s girlfriend Nancy looked at him and said, “my god Garry, you look terrible, what have you been up to?” He couldn’t hold back any longer. “Has anybody seen Mike, Mike Lamont, he isn’t here is he?” Roy immediately chipped in. “Oh dear, you obviously haven’t heard.” Garry’s heart nearly missed a beat. “Heard what?” “I’m afraid Mike’s gone completely off his rocker. Rambling on and on about demons and witches and the like.” Sheila interrupted. “Apparently It all started a couple of weeks ago. He kept it to himself, but as it got worse Hilda insisted he see a specialist, and the results of the tests when Mike was hooked up to some kind of machine showed brain activity they’d never seen before. That evening he started hallucinating and began screaming so much they had to sedate him. He’s still sedated but the crazy brain activity seems to be getting worse. It doesn’t look good I’m afraid.” Nancy reached out and touched Garry lightly on the arm. “What on earth have you done to yourself, is that a burn on your wrist? Are you OK, you’re really pale and you look exhausted. Maybe you should go home and get some sleep, we don’t want you ending up in the hospital too.” Garry twisted away, trembling with fear as he made for the door. He wrenched it open and stepped out into the night, walking quickly, desperately wanting to get off the hamster wheel of horror that was spinning beneath his feet. Something made him look back. The old lady was standing under a street lamp, and as a faint smell of wood smoke assailed his nostrils a voice in his head echoed Nancy’s words. “Yes Garry, you should go home and get some sleep.” © John-Archie Lynn 2021


“Are you going to be okay?” Melony asked as she gave Amy a parting hug. “I can come over and stay the night if you’d like, we’re all worried about you.” “I’m fine,” Amy replied shrugging out of her sister’s grasp. “I’m just going to stay home tomorrow okay? There’s nothing to worry about.” Melony looked at her dubiously. “Those bags under your eyes tell a different story, I wish you would let us in sis.” It had been the first time Amy could be pinned down for weeks, yet she sat quietly most of the meal. Unable to meet Melony’s gaze Amy turned to leave. “I lost the only person I want to see tomorrow, and I’m not going to replace him,” she said firmly and walked away. The family dinner had actually been quite nice, but since the accident Amy felt a distance between them. An outpouring of love and support welled up on the other side of a wall, waiting to be let in, instead it made her feel even more alone. She arrived at her front door and stood for a shuddering moment, wishing with all her heart he would be there to greet her. Nothing, no call of greeting or welcome home kiss, just a cold empty house. There were still unpacked boxes here and there, the move had been right before the tragedy. With a sigh she took off her shoes and went straight to her room, not daring to gaze the other door in the hall. Two years of marriage and they were finally ready to try, but now that dream was gone as well. After a restless night sleeping in a bed made for two Amy made breakfast. French toast, bacon, extra fluffy scrambled eggs, all his favorites. More than she could eat alone, hardly eating any herself besides, she ate in silence across from an empty chair. She jumped in her seat when her phone rang, then put it on silent. Their day would not be interrupted. It had been planned months in advance, it may have been their last celebration just the two of them and he wanted to make it special. An early morning together, a walk in the park where they first met, coffee from the site of their first date, a full day following the trail of their life together. Amy followed the itinerary, remembering every word, kiss, and caress, the emptiness inside growing with each step. She arrived at the high class establishment where he had proposed wearing a new black dress, the reservation already made. The waiter was perplexed when Amy ordered for two and ate neither, then grew concerned as she began to talk and laugh alone, drinking her second glass of champagne. Tears were in her eyes as she spoke, “You would have loved it! The sky was blue, the birds were singing, even saw some of the of our friends, not that I said hi.” She took another draught from her glass. “It was the perfect day,” she said softly looking down at her glass, ”missing the perfect man to spend it with…” Driving home, slow and unsteady, she decided it was enough. It was time to say goodbye. She started by running a bath of warm water, heading to the kitchen as the water began to fill. Through the haze of alcohol she chose a small cheese knife, the edge kept razor sharp. On the way back she saw the closed door, longing overcame her as she opened it, the crib in the corner silently mocking her. Tears fell quietly as she returned to the tub. She lowered herself in, the fabric of her black dress billowing in the water around her. Cold stainless steel pricked her wrist, drawing slowly down her arm. “I’m tired of waiting for you to come home,” she said quietly with shuddering breath. Then the doorbell rang. Heavy and disoriented she stood from the bath, almost tripping over the edge, wanting to see him one last time. Instead, she found a box. She wrapped her arm in the sleeve of her dress before using the knife on to open it. A framed glass picture, her with Nathan surrounded by her family at their wedding. A note was etched into the back. The day I gained the family I never had. The wall inside her crumbled. Feeling weak, she called Melony. “I’m so sorry, I need help...


"BRRRRRRRRRRRING!" I rushed out with everyone else as soon as that bell rang out. To all of us, that was our freedom call in the afternoon. The bell told us to spend the final 45 minutes of our school day outside on the playground. The playground had been many things for all of us; it had been a castle to fend of the field dwellers which surrounded us, it had been a spaceship that we all managed to gather otherworldly materials to save the earth, and it had even been the massive bank which one group protected & others tried to rob. This particular afternoon, however, the playground became a beautiful place which would last much longer than any of the previous locations we had imagined. It all started with Ms. Lopez teaching our class about the ecosystem, and all about the animals. My friends and I were beyond excited to learn about all the animals, and how it all worked. The constant singing of "Circle Of Life" somehow had not driven Ms. Lopez crazy either, but she did say we had to use "inside singing voices" which made no sense to me; every singing voice should be outside. Oh well, rules are rules. The day eventually came when we had to move onto the ecosystem, and move into learning about the water cycle. Unfortunately, the adventures of a water molecule weren't as interesting to us. No one in the third grade could get the idea of being an animal out of our head. We all wanted to be animals, but due to our human nature, this was not a possibility. We talked about pretending to be animals but growling & chirping at one another didn't fair easily as none of us could understand the other. We sat around our lunch table, brainstorming the best we could on how to keep our love of animals going, when someone, sadly I don't remember who, came up with the idea of being humans with animal powers. From there, it truly was a brainstorm of ideas. After a few days of intense lunch table discussions, several playground tests, and laying the groundwork for our ecosystem, we delivered the rules to our whole grade with anyone who wished to participate: Only one animal per human Each animal has its pros & cons. Respect them all or you won't be allowed to play. Stick to the diet of snacks the teachers provide for all of us during recess. Sure it was only three rules, but they were rules everyone respected. We then began crafting our animals pros and cons, and the day finally arrived where we would choose the animal powers we would take. The sunny weather with a nice cool breeze felt amazing in the Texas climate. No one was too hot or too cold, no one complained about how long it might take. We did have 45 minutes after all, we could take our time. It was time to pick our AP or Animal Power. My friend Madison went up first. She announced she was picking the Horse AP. She then galloped around the playground, showing her fast running abilities & her high jump ability. Next, James went up, choosing the Cheetah AP, which made sense since he was the fastest runner in the 3rd grade & he wanted to keep that up. This did mean he was restricted to the only jerky diet at Recess. After a few more people, it was finally my turn. I thought long & hard about which AP I wanted, but in my heart, I knew what I always wanted. I stood up and proudly proclaimed I would be the Parrot AP. With that, I felt myself getting lighter and I found myself the ability to fly! I couldn't believe it, it was actually happening. I flew on top of our massive monkey bars, now becoming large tree trunks. The wind guided me to the correct path, and I circled my friends, now antsy about getting their APs as well. I flew over to the red section of the now jungle monkey bars, where we agreed the birds would stay. As the parrot, I was more inclined to talk than the others, but could also have better communication with the human APs (who were particularly boring if you ask me.) A few more bird friends came to join me, while some bats & monkeys joined in but we asked them kindly to not invade our territory unless we invited them. They had their own areas anyway. It wasn't long before the teachers set out the snacks for us, and every bird flew to the sunflower seeds & fruit. We wanted the gummy snacks shaped like bugs, but the monkeys got their first. I communicated with Madison as she ate her Frosted Flakes. "How is it out in the horse field?" I asked her. "It's going very well," she said "In fact, they named me the horse leader!" This surprised me. The bird group hadn't discussed leadership yet since flight was much more prevalent on our minds. Apparently the horses have much more pressing matters that required much faster choices for leadership. "How is it for the bird's section of the trees?" she asked me. "Well, just lots of flying. We have to be careful of the bats though, they prefer to be upside down and we could accidentally step on them. They don't like that." "I know what you mean." She replied. "The turtles may be slow, but they sure know how to get in the way." One of our bunny friends came on over & told us the lion group were on their way. We quickly flew back to our section with some of our snacks. The lions were particularly mean to us, and they just loved causing trouble. I sat the rest of the time, talking with the rest of the bird group, loving the wind & the sun on my face. I didn't want this day to end. "BRRRRRRRRRRRING!" The bell rang, signaling the end of the day for us all. I flew away from the playground, but felt my flight leaving me behind with it. I told my friends goodbye for the day, but something in us all knew one thing; what we had created had not been a one-day thing; this would go on for awhile & it would last us a lifetime.


The tree house. Her tree house. There, she could go anywhere, say anything, be anyone. It was her sanctuary against the world outside. She thought of it more as a tree palace when she grasped the weathered wooden ladder to ascend into her private world. The floor gently bent under her weight and the rusted tin roof rattled with the breeze while the oak limbs rustled a polite discussion of the late summer season, accenting its message with the occasional acorn drop. The smell was delicious, like a mildly mildewed forest mixed with the warmth of sunshine and fresh grass. When her father mowed, it just meant extra grass seasoning. There was also a peppery metallic odor from the roof and nails, but only if you concentrated extra hard and didn’t let the birds distract you with their disgruntled chatter. She reviewed her collection of miscellaneous items found around the neighborhood proudly displayed on an unevenly installed, water-logged shelf. She had her chipped, beaded necklace discovered behind the Cottingham’s shed and an old, Zippo lighter decorated with a bald eagle clutching the American flag. She had found that near the shore of Lake Moody but had given up on trying to light it. Her prized possession was a frayed pink cat collar complete with a bell which made the most pleasant sound, like a polite chime announcing that an adorable kitty was coming to play. That one was more personal. More painful. She laid on her old Benji sleeping bag that was handed down to her from Grandma. Grandma was long gone, and she had never even seen “Benji,” but the dog on the bag smiled in a way that only dogs can do. The sunlight shown through the one window, perpetually open, and down into a large, clear, green jug that was filling up with coins, snail shells, and insect exoskeletons. She glanced annoyingly at the newspaper article shoved over a nail. The girl looked like her. Too much like her. She had blacked out the name because it was too similar to her own. She closed her eyes so she could leave and be anywhere else but here, but she did not leave. She was still in the tree house. She shut her eyes again and pictured that imaginary tree palace climbing up into the heavens. She had never been able to see all the rooms inside because they were infinite, always changing. The massive limbs held a bounty of leaves that merged into the clouds. Birds circled and called to her as an army of cats rubbed on her legs lovingly, encouraging her to explore. She reached up to touch the lowest rung of the golden ladder and found herself catapulted back into reality. She was engulfed in nothingness. Empty. A moment of panic gripped her chest before the walls were back in focus. Her jug, her shelf, the newspaper, her lighter. She squirmed into the sleeping bag and zipped it up until just her face was poking out. Her father’s voice was near, calling her name. She was not ready to leave. She shut her eyes tighter until the lids were pressing so hard they began to ache from the strain, but she was finally fully transported. The palace doors were thrown open and she was greeted by her best friend in this world, Penelope. Penelope was strong enough to push those heavy doors. Penelope was smart, and fast, and tall, and beautiful. Everything she would never be. “We’ll ride horses today,” said Penelope. “Which color do you want?” She briefly imagined that scene in “The Wizard of Oz” when the horse changes color and thought to herself, “All of them.” Teams of horses rose out of the floor and Penelope giggled. “Here you go. Have your pick. Today is your day.” Penelope looked up into the sun, but there was no sun here. The light was shining from everywhere and nowhere. She walked through the throngs of manes and tails with each muzzle innocently nuzzling her, inquiring if they would be the one, her choice, but it was the appaloosa standing alone and aloof that grabbed her attention; its spotted coat randomly dappled as if a rogue paint brush splattered its skin like a careless afterthought. She apprehensively approached the mare and the horse appeared disinterested and mildly irritated to be enduring the intense scrutiny of a human child. She knew that horses often have this attitude when they are not being overly affectionate, much like cats behave. It made her love them more. After allowing the mare to assess her, she ran her hand up its forehead and down its crest, delicately entwining her fingers through its mane and onto its withers. The mare shook her head impatiently and snorted as if to say, “Make up your mind, kid. Are we going to ride or not?” Penelope brought a step stool over and set it on the floor so she could safely mount. “You picked Freckles. She’s my favorite.” She threw her leg over the mare’s back and grabbed a handful of mane to steady herself as she pulled to the center. She felt Freckles shift on her feet, every muscle flexing, anxious to move. She squeezed with her knees and the mare ignited like a flame. The power she felt was beyond any tangible emotion she had ever encountered. She was free. Unburdened. Alive. Then her mother screamed. It was not a normal type of scream, the kind that calls you to the table for dinner. This one sounded urgent. Full of emotion. Despair. She was back in reality, but not the one she wanted. She knew where she was. She could smell the antiseptic afterthoughts of the room she refused to view. “PENELOPE!” That was her friend’s name, not hers. That was the name in the newspaper article on the nail in her sanctuary. “LOCAL KID….” Lucky for her, she wasn’t local. She was far away. In her tree palace. She had no name. No place. No time. Her eyes were still closed, but she couldn’t return. The appaloosa mare was gone. The palace was gone. She just wanted to keep riding the horse. Her horse. Her Freckles. In the background, the limbs were busy discussing the summer. They were loud. The tin roof was rattling with the intensity of the wind, and it was more insistent with each breath she took, but it was slowing. Less forceful. Less meaningful. Her mind clouded. She couldn’t think of anything except that girl in the photo on the cover of that paper. Penelope. Everyone felt sorry for Penelope. She had it bad, that girl. Never see her teen years, Penelope. Never graduate. Never get married. Never have kids. Never, never, never, never. At least she had her tree house. And her lighter. And her jug of littered memories. Her mother again. “Is she…..”


I want... to forget. The thought repeats itself as I take another swig of hard liquor. It does little to numb my senses; I laugh bitterly. I sit at the far end of a downtrodden bar where not even the blinking neon lights can reach me. I shouldn’t stay in one location much longer; I know what happens when I do. There’s a storm growing inside me, and I can’t control it. I get up to leave, but just before I reach the door, it happens: my eyes flash with a quick burst of lightning contained within the depths of my pupils. Nobody notices; they’re all too busy screaming in panic as they watch one man plunge his knife into another man’s abdomen at the other side of the bar. I may not be holding the knife, but I’m the guilty one to blame here. Even so, I did my best to make the wound non-lethal. However, this doesn’t satisfy the thunder within. I step outside and walk down the back alleyways to try and avoid more people. To my (or rather, their ) misfortune, I cross two strangers walking down the narrow alley towards each other. I rush behind some boxes and try to gain control, but the tornado is howling inside me. My eyes flash again, and suddenly one of the dark figures pulls out a gun and points it at the second shadow. “Give me all you’ve got! Right now!” shouts the gunman. The target shrieks and fumbles for his wallet. The gunman isn’t happy with time-wasting and knocks his victim to the ground with a punch to his temple. He then proceeds to take anything of value and runs away. I sigh in defeat. I already know that I can’t avoid making bad things happen. I pass one more person before I reach my apartment: an old homeless woman who lives on the corner of my street. “Hello, May,” I say gently as she reaches out for my hand with a tired smile. “Hello, dear.” I look at her directly this time. In a daze, she watches the flashes of electricity deep within the depths of my eyes. She can see the pelting rain, hear the thunder roar; she feels the hurricane. With that, her hand falls from mine as she slumps backwards. “I’m sorry, May.” Finally, the tornado dissipates. ***

Days of calm go by, and I attempt to live on as best I can. I try to avoid people mostly. But even if I were to isolate myself in my apartment, I could inadvertently bring down a neighbouring building if I’m not careful. So instead, I decided to go for a walk to a nearby park. I like watching people be happy. I enjoy the sound of laughter as people spend time with their friends and family. They look joyful as they enjoy picnics on the grass or run about with their pets under the sun. I’m envious of the bonds they share. “Watch out!” I quickly focus and catch the tennis ball flying at me before it hits my face. “I’m so sorry about that, haha. Looks like I was a little off aim.” Before me stands a young woman. She wears a sheepish grin as she runs her hand through her short brown hair. She’s athletic and wears clothes to match. Her eyes are hazel green. “You can’t harm me,” I blurt. “Sorry? Haha.” “I mean, no harm done.” She laughs again, and her voice is like a sweet bell chime. My focus is momentarily distracted by a large border collie who suddenly jumps up at me with excitement for their ball. “Ah, and this is my beautiful fur-baby: Miya,” she says, as she pats Miya all over in delight. “My name is Eve, short for Evelyn, and yours?” She looks at me with an expectant smile. I shouldn’t be here. I start to walk backwards as I reply. “My name is Micah.” “Well, stay for a while, Micah,” she says as she pulls me by the arm towards the park’s centre. “Let Miya and I make it up to you by having some fun!” Before I know it, we’re playing fetch and drinking coffee together. She talks a lot, but I like that. I learned that Evelyn is a recently graduated pastry chef with plans of owning her own bakery. She’s lived in the city with Miya for four years now. She’s also known to be a little clumsy. In time, the clouds bring an overcast to the sky and the threat of rain. The rumble of thunder starts, and I walk Evelyn towards the train station. But then it happens: lightning strikes behind my eyes just as we are waiting to cross a busy street. Suddenly Miya’s lead snaps, and she dashes out in front of an oncoming car. Evelyn screams. I rush to Miya’s side and gently pick her up without hesitation. She’s bleeding, and her back leg looks badly broken. But she’s still breathing. “Let’s take her to the emergency vet,” I announce as I lead us towards my nearby apartment, where I keep my car. Evelyn continues to cry, even as we sit and wait outside the operating theatre. “I don’t know what I would do without her, Micah. She’s my whole world. I’ve never felt alone these past four years because Miya's been by my side.” “Your bond is special,” I say, letting her rest her head on my shoulder. “I feel like my love for her could overfill oceans.” “It definitely could,” I reply softly as I gently place my hand over hers. ***

I avoid Evelyn after that. She calls me, but I don’t answer. Weeks pass. I continue to cause misfortune. Every once in a while, I find myself wandering the halls of a different hospital. I make my way through the Oncology Ward and stand outside patients’ hospital rooms like Death himself. I only take those who are old or terminally ill. However, I’m aware that the more ruin I create, the longer I have between the storms. Perhaps now it would be safe to see Evelyn for a short while? The following day I call her, and she insists I come over to her apartment. She doesn’t sound mad at my absence; rather, she seems happy to hear from me. “I can’t leave my place right now. But just come over, okay? I’ll send you my address.” She hangs up before I can protest. I suppose it’s the least I can do. I arrive, and she greets me with a hug. I can smell her hair; it’s a mix of honey and banana. Her apartment is colourful and filled with light. It feels warm and comfortable. A stark difference from my grey concrete walls and sparse furniture. “I’m happy you’re here, Micah. I know things got a little heavy last time, but look.” She nods her head towards the lounge room. There sleeps Miya in an overly large and soft dog bed. “They had to remove one of her back legs, but she’s doing well. She’s still gaining strength to walk on three legs, so I wanted to make sure that I’m here for her.” Evelyn pauses in reflection. “Thank you for saving her, Micah,” she says as she squeezes my hand. “Don’t thank me, please,” I strain, averting my gaze from hers, “but I’m glad she’s okay.” “Why don’t you have a seat on the couch, and I’ll bring us refreshments?” She walks into the kitchen. It’s only now that I notice how sweet the apartment smells. She must have been baking. “Here, I want you to try this new raspberry cream profiterole I’ve been trialling.” I take a bite. It’s sweet and delicate, just like her. She giggles. “By the look on your face, I’d say the recipe was successful. Only... you missed some.” She leans over and licks a tiny bit of cream off the corner of my lips. I feel a different type of electricity within me now. I look at Evelyn’s lips and lean over to kiss her properly. The kiss deepens as we grow more passionate. I run my hand over her shoulder and down her back. She takes my hand and leads me to her bedroom. For once, I can feel my heart beating. Afterwards, as I get dressed, I notice a photo of Evelyn and an older man on her nightstand. “Oh, that’s my grandaddy. Unfortunately, he passed away yesterday after a long fight with cancer.” Evelyn's voice goes sadly quiet. I feel a cold shiver run down my spine. “What hospital was your grandfather staying at?” But I already know the answer. “The one across the river? Why’s that?” “I... I have to go.” “Micah, wait...!” She reaches for my hand, but I back away so fast I knock over a lampshade. I feel sick. “This is never going to work. I made a mistake, Evelyn. I’m sorry. Just forget me.” I turn and all but run out the door. ***

I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore. I get in my car and drive north for hours. I abandon my car at the side of the road and hike to the densest, most remote bushland I can find. I unleash the lightning in my eyes and create an uncontrollable inferno around me - a hurricane of fire. It’s raining debris, trees are exploding in flames, and my clothes are melting. Nevertheless, my body does not burn. One hundred and fifty years, and I still don’t know what I am! Am I a god or a demon? Why can't I age nor die? Why do I only bring death and misfortune? What misery! It was different at the beginning; over 100 years ago, I felt no remorse. I’ve killed thousands under the guise of wars. I’ve stolen babies’ last breaths from their mothers, created diseases, destroyed entire cities, and for what?! The guilt just continues to crush me. “I want to forget!” I close my eyes and concentrate. I hold my fingers to my temples and flash my eyes one more time. I fall to the ground among the wounded animals. I begin to lose consciousness and fade into oblivion.


“You have any idea how this section is organised?” I ask, looking at the shelves lined with slim, emerald-coloured boxes that remind me of DVD cases. I pick one at random and read the label, ‘SER-☘-🐕’ “Hannah, I just work in the cafe here, I'm not a librarian," Lyra says, running pale fingers through her spiky purple hair. “Ladies, this is the Quiet Zone,” says a woman in a fitted grey suit with matching grey hair, pointing a dove-grey fingernail to the sign above our heads. I look up at the sign, then down to her name tag. “Sorry, Agnes. I can’t figure out how this is organised.” Her slate eyes assess me. “Uh, maybe you could help?” “Fine,” Agnes says. “Follow me…quietly.” We reach a large, silver-framed graphic attached to a wall. It’s a matrix with rows and columns, ranging from softer colours on the left that deepen into darker, more vibrant colours on the right. And strange symbols at the head of each column. “This is Melinoe’s periodic table to the unconscious,” Agnes says, standing on the left side of the graphic. “Named after Melinoe Göttin, who catalogued and cross-referenced common motifs, symbols and settings, across millions of dreams to create a Dewey Decimal system of Dreams.” “It’s beautiful,” I whisper. “You’re such a dork.” Lyra says, “You think spreadsheets are sexy.” “Each row represents a motif. This row,” Agnes says, tracing a path from sea-foam green through to emerald, moss, and ending in an inky seaweed green, “represents Serendipity. It includes Chance, Happenstance and Luck.” “Oh, is that why the cases were all emerald green?” I ask, “We must have wandered into the Serendipity section.” “Across the top, the columns catalogue symbols and shapes.” “Why is there a naked dude?” Lyra asks, pointing to a genericised image of a human body.

“That refers to the dreamer’s body, or parts the body. Eyes, teeth, hands.” “There was a shamrock and a dog on the case I picked up.” “That refers to Luck, as the motif, combined with animal symbology, and dogs in particular.” “Alright, so let’s say my friend wanted some, uh, alone time, with Santiago Cabrera…” Lyra begins. “Lyra!” “What? I didn’t say that you were the friend who wanted some sexy time with—" “We don’t stock dreams with specific people, for obvious reasons.” Agnes says. “Hannah, for sure we can get that on the black market. My friend Cyrus has a dark web—” “Though you can select regions, like Spain, or professions, such as Musketeer, painter, or pilot of a space ship.” Agnes says, a hint of a smile flickering. “Okay, well, thanks for explaining that. I think I’ll just go for a book this time,” I stammer, as I lead Lyra into the Bestsellers section. “Right, your turn to pick,” I say. “Surprise me. But nothing too heavy or horror-y.” I sit on a plush yellow chair as Lyra scans the tables stacked with books. We have very different tastes in movies, books, and men, but she knows what I like and I trust her to pick something interesting that I’d never pick for myself. “Jackpot,” she says, tucking two books into a cloth bag and handing it to me. “No looking till you sign them out.” We head to the check-out area, waiting in a single line that’s serviced by two librarians, one man and one woman, each standing behind a desk. “Look,” Lyra whispers, jabbing me in the ribs with a sharp elbow. “Ouch!” I shout. The customers in front turn to look at me. “Sorry,” I mumble. “That’s HIM,” she says, nodding toward the male librarian, a slim man with curly brown hair and blue eyes. “The guy who worked at the used book store. The one you had a huge crush on but were too chickenshit to ask out.” “Yeah,” I croak, my throat suddenly dry, my heart racing. I figure I have a 50-50 chance of not having to talk to him.

“You know, he looks a LOT like Santiago Cabrera. Except for the eye colour, he could be his twin.” “Yeah.” We’re next in line and I’ve got everything crossed, hoping I won't land at the desk of Mr. Cabrera’s American doppelgänger. “Next,” calls out the woman. I nearly collapse with relief as I start towards her. But Lyra pushes me out of the way, turning to wink as she reaches her desk. I’m backtracking a few steps when I hear him say, “Next.” He’s looking at me with a soft smile. I’m not sure my legs are strong enough to walk the five steps over to him. “Did you find everything you wanted?” he asks. “I uh, yeah.” I say, noticing his name tag, Ethan . I place the bag on the desk and reach inside. Our hands brush against each other as we grasp the same book. I withdraw mine, blood rushing to my cheeks, skin tingling. “I remember you.” he says, the scanner making a single beep as he draws it across the bar code. “You came into my book shop last September, asking for A Confederacy of Dunces . You were wearing a white skirt.” I stare mutely back. “The next time you came in, you were wearing a blue sundress, and said you were ‘just browsing.’” “I like old books,” I say, finally getting some control over my mouth and vocal cords. “I love the smell of used book stores.” “Me too. It’s the scent of all those accumulated lives, packed together in one space.” I notice Lyra sitting in a chair near the check-out area, gazing intently at my interactions with Ethan. “Hey, let me know if this is any good,” he says, as he turns the biography of Santiago Cabrera over in his hands. “People have said I look like him, can you believe that?” “Oh, oh no," I say, glancing over at Lyra. She smiles devilishly. “You don’t see a resemblance?” he asks, holding the book up to his face, so that Mr. Cabrera’s visage is next to his. “I, yes. Yes, there’s a striking resemblance. If you ever get a movie made of your life, he should definitely play you,” I laugh, relaxing just a bit. “This is a good book,” Ethan says, as scans the second one. “Your partner is very lucky.” “My, what? I don’t have a partner,” I say, squinting at the title of the book in Ethan’s hand. Sexual Energy Ecstasy: A Practical Guide to Lovemaking Secrets of the East and West . If I could kill Lyra with a stare, she would be a smoking pile of ash now. Instead, she waves and smiles and gives a thumbs up. A third beep interrupts my homicidal thoughts. I whip back to face Ethan. He’s scanning a green case. Lyra must have grabbed it from the Dream section when I wasn’t looking. “What’s that?” I ask, dreading the answer. “It’s a dream,” he says, raising one eyebrow, “about getting lucky with a librarian.” I wish for a chasm to open in the floor and swallow me whole. My humiliation is now complete. He slides the bag back to me. I can’t meet his eyes. I mumble thanks and drag it off the desk, but it snags on something. Ethan is holding onto one of the handles. “If that dream doesn’t work, I’ll be here tomorrow. I finish at five."


Sadie flipped through her fashion magazine while Blake Shelton thumped out of her earbuds. She let the chorus kick her into her practice. She needed to learn the backup part if she was going to sing it with her brother Saturday night at Good Hour Ale House. It was their standard set at the closest thing there was to a country-western bar in their small town.

She fussed with her hair, trying to follow the tutorial in the magazine. Her pitch was a little off, but she had a couple of days to work on it. Blake sang the last few lyrics, the lyrics Gabe, her brother, would do Saturday. Next weekend, she would have to switch to a blues playset. She almost had her tone down for Gin Wigmore songs. In truth, she had more fun at Clancy's, but the Ale House was Gabe's time to shine.

The tapping invaded Carrie Underwood's voice. Sadie heard the sound, but Carrie's wail masked it. The tapping suddenly became a frantic thud against the window. Sadie pulled her earbuds out of her ears. The night's cloak pulled back to reveal a sight she thought she would never see again.

"Michael?" she asked. Her voice shook before she could stop herself.

The tears became a torrent of frustration, confusion, and blinding happiness. Her hands hastily pushed the window open, and Michael's tall form slid into her room.

He stretched out to his full height, and he looked her directly in her eyes.

"You got so tall," he finally said after a tense silence.

"Micheal!" she cried as she threw her body into his arms. He wrapped his arms around her writhing body. Sadie sobbed and sobbed into her brother's bony shoulder. Michael fell onto her bed with the extra weight. After the first wave of shock ebbed away, Sadie felt her anger surface.

Pulling away from the embrace, she began pounding Michael's chest violently.

"Where have you been? We thought you were dead or trapped, or God knows what?! How could you do that to us?! How dare you do that to… to…" Her breathing and mind seemed to be synching back up to each other. She stopped her assault and stood up to gain her composure.

"How dare you do that to Earl," she finally released from her lips.

The name sparked a second wind in her older brother. He tried to stand. For the first time, Sadie noticed he was exhausted and looked frail and wasted. She reached out for him, but he stopped the compassionate motion. "Where is Earlene?" he asked, his voice thick with urgency.

Sadie shook her head. "I don't know. She's been keeping her distance since the Children of Death has become a thing," she answered.

Michael dropped his head in thought, then he lifted his dark brown eyes up. His stoic face was still solid and emotionless. But his eyes had reached a conclusion. "She's one of them, isn't she? She sees the dead?" His voice was strangely calm as if he was just confirming a fact he knew all along.

Sadie felt her head nod, but her voice wouldn't follow.

The footsteps in the hall broke the silence. Sadie didn't bother to turn to see Gabe, she knew he would hear them talking.

"Hey, Sade, who you talking…"

Gabe's question floated away and she could feel his dark brown eyes studying Michael on the bed.

"Hey Mike," he chirped, the relief was audible in his voice.

"Hello Gabriel," Michael answered.

The moment seemed to freeze, ever the great host, Gabe insisted they move to the kitchen for coffee and cookies. The reunited trio sat around the round kitchen table. Gabe filled the mugs and opened the package of cookies. He placed it in the middle of the table and perched himself on the dining room chair.

"So, you gonna tell us where you disappeared to for 6 months?" he asked calmly.

Michael stared down into his coffee.

"I thought I could make a trade. I thought I could barter Earlene's involvement for my own."

Sadie reached for a cookie, "You always had a white knight syndrome," she replied as she bit into the cookie.

"What you mean barter? Her mother is Death, there is no bartering that. You can't trade Earl places. She is what she is." Gabe scoffed.

"You of all people know everything is negotiable," Michael countered.

"Except for death, that comes for everyone," Sadie added, she didn't want to get lost in the conversation.

Michael and Gabe stared at her, as if they had in fact, forgotten her. Michael drank his coffee and rubbed his chin before continuing.

"After the news reports started reporting the increase in paranormal activity and people began developing the marks and signs of Death, I noticed Earlene had withdrawn. She didn't talk much and when she did, she would look around the room as if she had been interrupted. She didn't have that symbol they keep plastering everywhere, but something was wrong." "So tell me, how does one get an audience with Death?" Sadie asked.

"Without dying yourself?" Gabe added.

Micheal unclamped his mug. He stood up and leaned against the sink. He tried to smile, but Michael's face never smiled. His eyes did, however. "I went to a crossroads." "That's to make a deal with the Devil," Gabe corrected.

Michael held up a finger as if to dispute the last statement.

"Yes, the folklore says it's the Devil, if you think about it, crossroads are natural gateways, aren't they? The perfect imagery of life and its choices." "So crossroads are like escape hatches to other places?" Sadie asked.

Michael shook his head, "No. Think of it as a bus stop. The bus runs its schedule. If you are at the stop on time, your bus will come through." "So you essentially stopped Death in the street and asked if a deal could be made?" Gabe asked, the sarcasm was obvious.

Michael was amused, but he could only manage a mouth twitch.

"It was a little more complicated than that," he answered.

He picked up the dishtowel on the sink and began twisting it as he spoke.

"I asked the reaper, shinigami, wraith, whatever you want to call it, to take me to Death so I could have a word." The next part of the story seemed to upset Michael and he wouldn't look either of them in the eyes.

"I agreed to serve the reaper and Death for as long as Earlene lived." Gabe's disapproving gasp caused Michael to look up for a brief minute.

"The entity said it would only agree with it if I agreed to bind my soul to him. I agreed, trying to understand guys, Earlene was losing her mind. She told me that these things kept pleading with her to help them, but all she could do was try to ignore them. She couldn't sleep, she'd be too distracted to eat, and every time she looked at me there was a trace of pain, she would never acknowledge. I told her I'd find out what was happening, and here we are. ” "Aside from the whole binding yourself to a demon, I'm sensing a big plot twist coming here," Sadie tried to hide the discomfort in her voice. Michael grabbed his mug from the table and filled it again.

“Well, it is actually quite interesting, I got my audience with Death,” he began.

“Is she pretty?” Gabe interjected.

“In a goth way,” Michael answered hastily, almost as an afterthought.

“Ok, so Death is a goth, BIG shocker, get to the interesting point,” Sadie quipped.

“Talking to Death isn’t interesting?” Gabe teased over the steam in his fresh cup of joe.

Sadie rolled her eyes, “Maybe a few years ago it would have been, but now you can’t check your messages without one of her official statements in your timeline.” It was almost like they remembered that Michael was in the room and in mid-story. They looked at him, he patiently sipped his coffee. “Well, you certainly look like you’ve had an audience with Death, man,” Gabe said.

The face twitch was accompanied by a quiet chuckle.

“I explained what I was doing there and Death laughed at me. Like you said Gabriel, I can’t take Earlene’s place. She informed me of the fact and then she told the reaper that brought me there he could collect whatever I agreed to,” Michael explained.

Sadie adjusted herself in her seat. She tried to prompt Michael to go on, but he seemed to enjoy the tension. A few minutes passed and Gabe broke the silence.

“Well, come on man, Sade is about to come out of her skin over here,” his tone was mocking boredom.

Michael sat the mug on the counter.

“The reaper forced me down to my knees and I’m reciting a prayer, so I am prepared for the cross-over. But he literally puts his hand in my chest and a look of… oh I don’t know confusion, maybe he was surprised, it was hard to tell.” Sadie was surprised that her gasp was not audible when Michael mentioned his chest was dug into. She wanted to ask if he was alright, but it seemed like a stupid question.

“The man finally pulls his hand out of my chest and turns to Death and says, ‘my queen! His soul can not be harvested!’ Death rolls back in laughter and she laughs for almost a full minute. Then she props her chin upon her hand and says, ‘I thought so, you’ve already bound yourself to her, you are already the walking dead.”

Michael paused to allow his siblings to catch up to him. Sadie looked to Gabe to gauge how she should react. Her brother was frantically searching his pockets for his cigarettes.

“I think I started something because after that the whole court went crazy and Death shouted, ‘we must find her, the one true Soul-eater has been found!’ Then all these dark shapes and snake creatures started slithering out of the windows and down into the crevices,” Michael concluded.

Sadie wasn’t sure if she understood Michael, but somehow she managed to find her voice before Gabe.

“So, not only does Earl have to worry about our government finding her, but now the whole supernatural realm is looking for her?” she asked, she tried to keep her voice from shaking, but her hands didn’t seem to get the memo.

“Yes,” Michael answered as he polished off the last of the pot of coffee.

Gabe found his MIA cigarettes and quickly lit one. He took a deep puff and released the smoke.

“I have to say, Mike, you are UNBELIEVABLY calm right now,” he said, he was unable to keep his usual glib manner.

Just as Gabe took another drag off the cigarette, Sadie’s cell phone buzzed on the countertop by the sink. She rushed to check the number, somehow she knew who it was. She was right. Earl’s number glowed on the screen. Sadie pushed the answer button and put Earl on speaker.

“He’s there isn’t he?” Earl asked flatly.

“Yeah,” Sadie answered with her eyes trained squarely on Michael.


“Wow.” There is a lengthy pause as she stares across the table. Her eyes scan every detail of the face before her. “I never thought I’d see you again,” she says. “I never thought I’d see you ever.” She slouches in her chair. “You’re very pretty.” “Uh, no I’m not. I have this huge zit in the middle of my face.” She crosses her arms and looks away. She smiles, remembering those days. “It’s barely noticeable and—” She raises her palms, covering her face and shouts, “Noticeable means you noticed!” “It’s on your chin, hardly the middle of your face.” She pauses, considers, then continues. “You did a really great job with the cover-up. Honestly, if you hadn’t said anything, I wouldn’t have noti– seen it at all.” She drops her hands and sits up taller. “You’re pretty, too. Like, better than I would have thought.” “Uh, thanks?” “You’re welcome.” “I look old.” “You are old.” “I’m tired.” She adjusts her glasses and rubs her eyes. “Not as tired as me.” She also rubs her eyes and adjusts her glasses. “I like what you’ve done with your hair, though. It’s a good color and the style is flattering.” Her shoulders slump once again. “I wish I had nicer hair.” “Are you kidding? I would love to have your hair. It’s so—” “Thick!” “–thick. And the curls–” “Curly! Ugh.” She smooths the fly-aways that end at the base of a ponytail. “Are you playing tennis?” She grows animated for the first time. “I am! Hoping to make Varsity this year.” “Good luck.” “Thanks, I need it.” “You need to believe in yourself. You got this!” “Pfft. How about you? Do you play?” She chuckles. “I do. But, hmmm, how do I say… I am much less competitive now.” Her eyes widen at the idea of not being competitive. “I guess I outgrew the need to win. Plus, you know, I’m not as agile as I used to be.” “Do you exercise regularly? I hear people your age need to exercise regularly.” “Regularly is subjective,” she says. “It’s funny, I hated gym class in high school but as an adult, I kind of wish it was required for life.” “I hate gym class. Jazzercize?” She chuffs, crosses her arms. “So stupid. And the uniforms. Gross. You know half the kids never even wash them? Leslie removed her shirt from the locker the other day and it was stiff from dried sweat. She shook it out and the whole row smelled like B.O.” She gags. “Then, she wore it.” “Sometimes it’s the actions of others that help us find our own way.” She gives her a look of mock and awe. “Fortune cookie says what?” “What? Oh, haha.” “So, what do you do? You know, for like work and stuff?” She sighs. “Definitely not what I always thought I would be doing.” “So, no professional tennis career?” They both laugh. “No, and no marine biology off the Pacific Northwest either.” “That’s okay. Cascadia wasn’t really your dream job. It was just an excuse to get the hell out of dodge.” They share a moment of silence. “Nice clothes, you must be successful.” “Success is relative.” “Got any kids?” “I do! A daughter. She’s wonderful. Smart and funny.” She smirks. 	“Competitive. I think you’d like her.” “Husband?” This is asked with more hesitation and perhaps less interest. She bobs her head. “Just one?” “At a time? Of course!” They laugh. “Seriously, though. Just one. We were married for a very long time.” Her voice dips as she grows wistful. “I’m sorry.” She wipes a tear. “How about you? Are you dating?” She practically howls. “Dating? Sounds so formal.” Then her demeanor settles. “No,” she offers with a shrug. “Who would want to ‘date’ this?” Her hand moves along her body in an all-encompassing gesture. “Stop! You’ve got a lot to offer. Smart, funny, cute.” “Easy for you to say. You’re all put together.” This elicits a groan. “How about school? You like school, right?” “I like being at school. It’s not home.” Another shared moment of silence. “You applying to colleges yet?” She balks. “I’m barely a Junior. That comes next year.” “Ah, okay. What classes do you enjoy?” “I love science. And despite getting straight A’s, I do not love math. They keep making me take next level courses even though I’ve met all the requirements for graduation. I’m only a Junior!” She nods sympathetically although she believes that’s a good thing. “And socially? Who are your friends?” She grows sad. “Donna moved over the summer.” “I remember. I’m sorry.” “And then Kate went to Europe with Beth’s family so now they’re like BFFs.” She’s sinking into the seat again. “Must be nice to have an established circle of friends.” She ponders, then scoffs. “Co-workers. Neighbors. But friends?” “You don’t have the same peer pressures.” “Jesus, don’t get me started on pressures.” “I can’t wait to grow up.” “I wish I was young again.” “You are so lucky,” they recite in unison. No laughter this time as they reach across the table and clasp hands. “I can’t wait to be–” “I wish I was–” “You,” they say together. They rise and walk around the narrow table, meeting in an embrace. “You are amazing,” they both say, words tumbling out in synchronized rhythm. They laugh. “Say it,” she says a beat before the other. “You say it,” she repeats. “Together?” “Can we help it?” They laugh again. She hugs her tighter and whispers, “On three… one.” “Two.” Their voices overlap, “I am amazing.” And for the first time, they believe it. They begin giggling. The giggles erupt into full, robust, genuine laughter. The kind you feel through your whole body. The kind you couldn’t stop even if you tried, not that you’d want to. The sound sparkles, the sparkles grow. They clutch each other as the shower of lights consumes them, breaking off into a cascade of floating stardust. “Farewell, mom,” the daughter says, tipping the ashes into the coastal breeze. “I hope you know how amazing you are.”


January 11th

First time I’ve had the elevator dream since Doc told me to start this journal. Fourth time I’ve had it total, I think, maybe fifth. It’s always the same. In the dream, I’m just getting off work, except it’s later than usual and I’m the only one left in the office. I fill out my timesheet, set my desktop to sleep mode, and head toward the elevator. I’m the only one on it, and instead of starting from the 33rd floor, I’m on the 400th floor. I press the button for the lobby and the elevator begins its slow descent. It beeps as it passes each floor on the way down, never stopping, never opening for more passengers. It seems as if there isn’t another living soul in the entire building. I lose count of the beeps, but it must be at least a hundred before the lights go out and the elevator stops. Suddenly I’m plunged into darkness. Panic starts to well up, and I try to yell for help but my voice is weak, I can’t force the sound out for some reason, like when you try to punch someone in a dream but your arm seems made out of feathers. So instead, I reach out and try to touch the walls. At first there are none, and I nearly fall forward, certain I'm tumbling over a cliff. It seems as if the car has doubled in size, but eventually I fall against the door, and regain my footing. I try to pry open the doors but they won’t budge, I feel for buttons but they do nothing. Then, without warning, I hear a deafening screech the room begins to plummet. My blood vessels swell from the sudden change in pressure, and all of my internal organs try to escape through my throat, choking me. Despite that, my lungs finally begin to work and I scream, I scream louder than I’ve ever screamed in life. When the elevator lands, I am jerked awake by the sound of the crash. Every time I swear to God I hear that crash for real, as if it’s in my bedroom or just outside my window. My heart is pounding and my throat is sore, tired, strained as if I’d actually been screaming into my pillow.

Every few days this happens, exactly the same way. Doc thinks writing about it will help me sort out my emotions, get my brain under control, and improve my sleep. Writing this entry feels a bit like laying the first brick of the Great Wall of China but I guess we will see what happens.

January 19th Had the dream again. Doc said I should try something called “lucid dreaming.” Apparently, some folks can become conscious during their dreams, and take control of what’s happening, maybe stop it from becoming a nightmare. Sounds kinda nuts to me, but it’s worth a shot. She said the simplest way to do it is through “reality testing.” Basically, it means constantly checking your surroundings to make sure you’re awake, getting to know things inside and out, how they feel, how they sound, what they look like, so that when you’re dreaming, you notice right away when something’s changed and you “come online” in a manner of speaking.

*** I spent the entire day rubbing the surface of my desk, feeling the wood, trying to break the laws of physics by pushing my hand through it. On my breaks I stared at the grain, trying to memorize the patterns. When I went to the bathroom, I gawked at myself in the mirror, making sure my nose, eyes, and ears were all still in the correct places. Everything was accounted for, including the bags under my eyes. Maybe I’m thinking about this a little too hard.

At the end of the day, I focused really hard on the elevator. Biggest difference, right off the bat, was people. The office was never deserted at my normal end time. There were usually four or five, sometimes as many as ten people in there with me. And it smelled. I’d never noticed the smell before. Like a high school locker room. How can people who sit at a desk all day smell that bad? I guess mental stress can make you work up a sweat too. Then of course, there’s the floors. The building only goes up to the mid forties, starting at 400 should be a dead giveaway.

January 23rd Had the dream again. Didn’t notice any heightened awareness. Everything just seems normal in the dream. The changes don’t strike you as weird, the late hour, the lack of people, the impossible height, you just accept them in the moment. How is this supposed to work? Maybe it takes more time. And more minute details. Doc says it’s like reprogramming your brain. It takes a lot of inputs to get it to behave how you want.

*** I concentrated on the really small details today. I stood at the back of the elevator car and pressed my fingers against the wall. Felt the coolness and smoothness of the metal. I listened to the music, some new-age drivel, meant to calm the employees, make them more docile I suppose. I listened to the beeps as it passed each level, tried to log the pitch and timbre in my memory, as if I’d actually be able to recall such things. It’s actually kind of a calming ritual, in a strange way. Pretty soon I’m going to be counting the streetlights on the drive home and humming along to tires on asphalt. Whatever works I guess.

January 28th Finally noticed some progress. The dream started just like normal. I got in the elevator and pushed the button for the lobby but something was different. It took a few floors for me to figure out what it was. Then I realized, the ding was wrong. Not just wrong it was … incomplete. It sort of crackled, as if coming from an old analog radio stuck between frequencies. Like it were trying to come through the speakers from across dimensions, an ambassador from the waking world failing to fully surface in the dream world. It made me wonder why the music didn’t sound the same way and then I realized, there was no music…

I woke up prematurely. For the first time, the dream didn’t follow through to conclusion. It was as if the dream were a burglar, aborting the mission as soon as it was found out. I was confused at first, disoriented, but not panicked like normal. As I came out of my grogginess, I thought that was it, I won, I got out of the dream. Then I grabbed my phone from the night stand and checked the time. 2:53AM. Great. I swapped terrifying sleep for no sleep. Now no matter how hard I try, I can’t drift off again. Work is going to be miserable today. This clearly isn’t going to work. I need to learn to steer the dream in another direction, instead of just bailing on it.

February 4th I did it again. This time, I noticed the dings and the missing music much sooner. But it wasn’t enough. I needed one more thing to anchor myself. So I stepped back and felt the wall, just as I’d been doing every day on the real ride down to the lobby. It felt wrong immediately. Softer, rougher, less cool to the touch. I turned around and saw wood instead of metal. It looked just like the surface of my office desk. Don’t wake up was my next immediate thought. And then everything changed. Time seemed to slow down. The air decompressed … or did it compress? I’m not sure, but the room seemed to flex. I stepped back toward the middle of the car and every motion seemed to shake the very fabric of reality. I got the feeling that the entire would could shatter at any moment, that I was fighting to hold it together.

Open the door I thought. I tried to say it out loud but I still could barely speak. It was the same sensation as when you’re trying to carry on a conversation even though you can feel yourself drifting off. Made me wonder if I was talking aloud in my sleep. So I stuck to internal thoughts. Open the door . But I had to stop the elevator first. Of course the elevator did stop, and the lights went out, just like always. I thought no, don’t let it drop . Then it released with that ear-splitting screech, only it didn’t drop all the way. It fell what I would guess was about twenty feet, then stopped. I fought to stay standing and it felt like the floor was drifting back and forth, like a raft on water, and I realized that somehow I was holding the car in place. But it was difficult, taxing, and I was losing focus. Finally I let go and woke with another violent start, exhausted and drenched in sweat. I’m going to be tired again today, but I’m starting to think this lucid dreaming thing actually works.

February 12th

The dream got weird this time. I went through all the same beats as before, the crackly dings, the lack of music, the wooden instead of metal walls. Open the door I began to think again, and this time, when the elevator came to a halt, the lights stayed on, and the door did open … and a stunning woman in a red dress stepped through into the elevator. She didn’t look like anyone I knew, or anyone who worked in my building. She seemed to be coming from some sort of lavish holiday party. The dress hugged all of her curves and exposed her shoulders and cleavage. Her lips were a deep red to match the dress and her hair was a cascade of curls tumbling down her back. She didn’t say a word, she simply stepped forward, wrapped her arms around my neck, and began to kiss me passionately. I knew she wasn’t real, I knew I had to stay focused on the dream sequence, but I surrendered. It seemed as if I was falling back asleep as I placed my hands on her hips, enjoying her lips and imagining what we could get done with the remaining three hundred floors.

The lights went out and the elevator fell all at once. The sound that woke me up was not the crash of the car, but a blood-curdling scream. A woman’s scream, the same woman who seconds before was draped over me like a curtain. It was high-pitched and shrill, like a banshee, and I swear as I write this that my ears are still ringing from it. Where did she come from? Is my own brain fighting back against me? Did it make her up to disarm me, to lull me back into a passive state so it could finish terrorizing me? I don’t know, but it worked. I need to not let her in next time.

February 17th I was determined to beat the dream this time. I checked the dings, the music, the walls, and then abruptly reminded myself: don’t let the woman in . The elevator slowed to a halt and as the doors began to slide open, I thought: No . Just as a flash of red fabric came into my field of vision, the doors snapped shut like a pair of hands smashing a fly. Okay good, now go down . The elevator began to move again, almost reluctantly, as if it didn’t like following my orders. As it descended, I focused, pretended I was laying a trap, a net to catch it before the inevitable fall. When the lights went out, I thought now! The entire elevator shaft seemed to shake violently as the car ground to a halt. I sprinted forward, knowing the room had grown, and braced myself against the doors before I could fall. Stop! I commanded the room as it inched downward, attempting to enter free-fall. Stop now! The world seemed on the brink of collapse as the elevator tried to wrench itself free of my invisible net, but after about thirty seconds it seemed to concede defeat.

As the room settled, I straightened up and commanded the doors: Okay, now open . The sound they made was not like metal nor like wood. It sounded like stone, a deep, earthy rumble, like the tomb of an ancient pyramid. A brilliant light flooded into the room, forcing me to shield my eyes. As my pupils adjusted and I was able to see out, I realized I was no longer in an office building, but floating in space. I stepped out onto a seemingly invisible surface, floating above the milky way galaxy, but feeling totally balanced and safe. To my left I saw the Horsehead Nebula, to my right a black hole. Everything was an explosion of stars, gas, and colors. And suddenly, I was overwhelmed with a profound feeling of freedom. I had become the master of my own dreams, and with that came endless possibilities. The universe itself was at my disposal. I’d escaped certain death and could now travel anywhere I pleased.

I sat down on my invisible platform, and merely basked in the sea of stars. After what felt like hours, I decided that where I wanted to go was home. I opened my eyes, feeling peaceful and well-rested for the first time in months.


Something's different. I am different, more than usual. What happened? "Mr Toulouse, would you be kind to stop dreaming? We're in the middle of a crisis. And it's time for your presentation." Fatty growled in his direction. A man ignored him and walked to the laptop area. "What seems to be a problem, Mr Toulouse? Did you forget how to press start?" Fatty obviously picked on him today. Sevan Copolous, the man's colleague, sighed and helped the struggling man. He ignored Fatty's unprofessional behaviour and seated himself. "First of all, the crisis our boss is talking about could be avoided by cutting the benefits for CEO's and their emergency packages. 67% of whole earnings are going there. This money could be more effectively invested and doubled. Second, the firm's hierarchy doesn't make any sense. We, analysts, are at the bottom, though we are key players. Without our assessment of your financial abilities, you'll be damned. So, you wanted to hear my opinion? It's based purely on facts that we collected during a crucial period, as you can see in the following graphics..." He was speaking, and they listen. They were not only listening but they were also mesmerized. For the first time in his life, he was feeling powerful. Important. He blocked out all taunting comments from his boss, concentrating only to deliver the message. "It's already past midnight. Why are you still here, Mr Toulouse?" A screeching voice of cleaner penetrated man's ears and awakened him fully. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize it's this late. Today you'll have not much of a job here, we got a huge meeting in the conference room. I came here just to make some coffee." The cleaner smiled. "I'm happy to hear that. My wife is about to deliver our firstborn. I hoped I could finish earlier to be with her." An analyst grinned. "You know what? Go, I'll clean my office and Mr Copolous' office for you. I'm not rushing home anyway, and you can enjoy your good news without focus on dusting my messy worktable." The cleaner nearly hugged him but then recomposed himself, thanking him instead. After the cleaner left for the hospital, Mr Toulouse started to clean his office. The building was now empty, but he wasn't afraid. The silence was welcoming as his headache was reaching its peak. Absentmindedly, he hit a colleague's desk and realized some papers fell out. Sighing, he was about to put them back when something there caught his attention. It was a slim working file with his initials on it. He didn't remember being assessed by anyone recently, and his curiosity won over his morals. Project name: Wordie, aka Henri Toulouse Project main goal: Test and discover the source of Mr Toulouse's unique ability Expected complications: NO THREAT Mr Toulouse opened the file and started to read. As he was focused on the text, he didn't realize what happened. He wasn't in the office anymore. He was back in place so familiar it was nearly painful. He was home. A real home. After two unsuccessful attempts to put papers on the table, he realized the table is no longer there. He looked around and nearly screamed. "How in the damn of damned I get back there without moving my ass..." he growled, uncomfortable in his current position. As usual, when in an unknown or threatening situation, he stopped thinking and breathed in and out to regain control of it. Afterwards, he sipped an ounce of his whiskey flask, always carefully tucked underneath his working jacket. This small ritual calmed him down to the point he was fully operational. Ready to deal with whatever is thrown in his way. How? By the power of the words. Or how they call it- by daydreaming. Because that's me. I'm not dreaming in pictures. I'm dreaming in words. The right words need to be spoken, written, felt. Walking forward through the myriad of words, he was looking for the right ones. The ones with the answers he longed for. "Where's the Information?" He heard someone's question though no one should be present. It was his mind, after all. "Where's the Information?" The voice sounded eerily familiar, but he couldn't recognize it. Suddenly, he bumped into someone else. Both screamed and quickly took a step back, shaking. Henri was looking at the person in front of him. "Evan? Evan Merrel? What are you doing here? And what's the Information?" Evan, a boy around the age of 6, giggled. "You're not dead. Neither I. But still, I am here, and I was looking for a way out. I don't like silence, you know." Of course, you're deaf. And you seem so real. That's not just my memory. This is not how I remember my brother by blood. My best friend before- Evan grinned viciously, and Henri trembled. It didn't happen before. "You can read my mind, right?" Evan shook his head, laughing: "No, silly. Your face is more readable, believe me. I can see what's happening inside your supercharged brainie. No need to hiding it." Henri did have a plan, but this little piece of his, possibly dead subconsciousness, was in a way. "Wordie. Interesting nickname. Kinda cute. Like you. Innocent. Harmless. Picked on by everyone more muscular, masculine-" All of a sudden, he lost his voice and looked at Henri, surprised. "I need to think how to get out of there. As the usual way is not- appropriate." "Now I am interested. What is it? Why you are ashamed of it? It's some kind of 18+?" Henri gagged but recomposed himself enough to answer. "If you are my subconsciousness, you should know." Evan went quiet. This time from his own actions. "I'm sorry, Henri. I shouldn't bring that up. I know you're struggling. But go home and sleep it off." I should go. But, what is Evan doing here? Let's take him home. Henri grabbed the boy's radiating shoulder and pushed him forward slightly. In mind, he opened all barriers that blocked the exit.  At the last "gate", he stopped, looking at the boy. "I never let you go. Did I?" Evan smiled, this time genuinely. "You kept your promise. Now it's time to let the pain heal. It's time to say goodbye, Wordie." "Don't call me that," he grumbled, and before he could finish his sentence, the brightness of his office's light blinded him for a moment. With a file spread on his knees, he slowly regained his sight and looked around carefully. He was back in the office, unchanged. Sighing, he put the file back, leaving it unfinished. Maybe something it's better not to know; for your own sanity. It was around 3am when Henri Toulouse left the building. He checked the time twice to be sure he is not dreaming. He wasn't. He spent three hours reading three pages of the document about himself. Project Wordie. For a long time, no one knew what's lies between its lines. Upon arrival at his place of living, he noticed a slight change. Words, usually circulating around him, now rested peacefully on their respective pages of his own memoir, named Life and Death of Evan Merrel. He was the source of the whole of his magic. A small boy, bullied and unimportant, who became the powerful magician of the word. He dedicated his efforts to find a cure for his stutter. In the end, he won. Evan Merrel died to give birth to Henri Toulouse.


What are you doing here? So alone, so far away from home. Let’s take a look at you. **Hands off! I’m not dead yet.** Oh, I see. No, you’re not dead. But you’re not far from it either. So if you’ll allow me… **Can you at least let me die first?** You got the entire rest of your life to die. Me at the other hand... I would like to walk a few more miles before the sunset. **I’m not in the mood for this. Don’t touch me or I’ll cut you.** Well, let me get straight to the point then: Could I please “borrow” your things for an undefined amount of time? It doesn’t look like you’ll be needing them any time soon. **Can’t you… can’t you just wait until I’m dead? You can steal from my corpse all you want, but don’t fucking touch me.** But that’s exactly what it’s all about. You see, I’m no thief. I’m just an opportunist. What I’m trying to say is that if I had your permission it would be much easier to walk away from here in your shoes. **In my shoes? Have you seen my shoes? They’re torn, they have holes in them, they barely hold together…** It’s still better than no shoes. **You have… Did you walk all the way here barefoot? I can’t really move. Could you move over here so I could look at you?** I’m afraid I can’t do that. **If you’re about to rob my corpse you could at least look me in my eyes before that.** I’m really sorry but I just can’t. **Coward. You’re just a fucking coward. Curse you and curse my shoes you’re about to walk away with.** Now, that’s not very nice. You have to realize that I’m pretty much just like you. We have exactly the same goal and both of us are currently in the middle of nowhere trying to reach a better life. The difference is, you ran out of luck, friend. You failed. Noone will get to see you again with your skeleton not exposed. But me? I’m still holding on. I still got a chance. So why not help me when you know you’ve already finished your own journey? You might even be the reason I survive. **Bullshit. You’re dying here too. We share the same fate. Nobody is making it through here. It can’t be done.** The way I see it, you have a choice. Either you’re going to be stubborn and die thinking noone can make it to the other side of this wasteland, which would mean you literally threw your life away trying to cross it in the first place... Or you could help me and you could die knowing there’s a chance for me to reach the other side and that it would be your death and me finding your soon-to-be corpse that helped me on my way there. **Either way I’m dead.** Yes, but either you die in vain or you die for the greater good. **Stay with me until I stop breathing. Then you can take whatever you want.** So you want me to just sit here until you die? **Yeah.** And what will that be good for? Will it make you happy that you had your way? That you made me lose time and potentially even caused my death as a result of that? **No. I just don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to die alone out here…** Ok, I get that. But I really just don’t have time for this. I’d rather probably leave you here with your shoes. I wouldn't be a good company anyways. I'm used to dealing with dead people out here. **No, wait! I have an idea… Kill me. Kill me right now. You have my permission to take whatever you want and you don’t have to wait for it at all.** … **So what do you say?** I can’t… I just can’t. **Do you wanna make it through to the other side or no? What are you willing to do to get there? I was willing to give my own life for it and I still couldn’t make it. How do you think you will end up if you can’t even kill a man out of mercy... let alone in self-defense.** It’s just… I really can’t do that. **Look at me! My bones are broken, my blood is leaking. Everything hurts. Every breath hurts. There’s a knife in my pocket. You don’t even have to use your hands. And you can take the knife with you too when you’re done.** But I never hurt anyone in my life. I just can’t hurt people. I can't do it. **I’ll tell you how to do it. I won’t feel a thing. You will cause me more pain if you just leave me here to die. And then you can take my things and leave knowing you helped an old man along the way. Sounds good?** I just don’t know. **I’ll die before you can decide.** Ok, ok. Shit… shit… where’s the knife? \ H.


   As the sun streams through the window, I struggle to stay within the comfortable confines of my dream. I fight to stay; gripping at any last fragments of closure. But, despite my efforts, my eyes are forced open. I heave my body out of bed.    I find myself on autopilot meandering to grab some coffee out of the kitchen. The steaming mug reminds me of winter at my family’s cabin. When I was young, my mom bought these matching mugs for me and my siblings. I would bring it to the cabin every year. We had to skip this year though. My eyes drift to the grey skies and water droplets falling outside. This month marks the anniversary. The anniversary of endless repetition.

   Now that I think about it, what day is it? My brain struggles to remember the last day I went to work, but I’m blank. I rush to my phone, it’s dead. My calendar, a year old and completely useless anyway. Am I going crazy? Finally, it hits me, the news. I flick on the tv. Saturday. Can it really be Saturday?

   All I can do is sit. Staring at the wall, dumbfounded. The light drizzle outside turns into an angry downpour soaking the world around me, turning it into one grey blob. I need to get out of the house. My teal rain coat hugs me snuggly. My boots, a little too big, slip on easily. As I reach for the doorknob I hesitate, pause, and shove off the uncertainty. I need to get out of this prison.

   The earthy air surprisingly smells better than any candle, or bottle of air freshener that kept me company through this past year. It was real. “Precious pine” and “April Tulips” can’t even compare. They were designed to draw you in and somehow trick your brain that you were in some perfect backyard paradise.

   The entire world around me is one color, boring. A small shrub shaking is the only thing out of place in this monotone city. I kneel down, peering into the branches. Two glowing green eyes meet mine. The small creature slowly creeps out of hiding. We stare at each other for a while. Its eyes hypnotize me holding my gaze captive. When I finally break free the midnight black kitten is only a few inches away from me. I reach down and give the alluring child a few strokes.

   A small roll of paper attached to its collar catches my eye. I carefully remove the small note. In scribbled cursive it reads “Need something real? Something new? Take a chance! 5:00 pm Greenway’s Antiques.” Odd. The note felt so personal, so real. Agh that word again, real. I have to give who ever wrote that note props, they almost had me convinced.

   Thunder starts to rumble in the distance. Time to head back. I look down to stroke the kitten once more, but it was gone. Odd. Later that night as I begin to settle into the covers the image of the note continues to replay in my mind. “Something new.”

   Finally, I doze off. But, before long, a faint scratching begins to leak into my slumber. I toss trying to keep myself asleep. It’s probably just a tree branch rubbing on the window. Still the annoyance continues. Well, looks like I’m not getting any sleep tonight. I wander to the kitchen, tea sounds good. I scoop a few spoonfuls of tea leaves and drop them into the steeper. Light green clouds emerge into the hot water, swirling and dancing in the cup. The scratching continues. As my tea steeps I decide to go investigate the cause.

   I peer through the dark window. Two green eyes. Is it? No, it can’t be. It’s probably just another stray. I try to shoo the feline intruder away. It just stares back at me defiance and serenity in it’s eyes. I pull the curtains closed. Whatever. I sip at my tea until I finally start to feel the affects of drowsiness setting in, and I curl up in the covers.

   I awake again, just like yesterday with the sun streaming through the curtains. I wander to the window curious to see if the kitten was still there. It’s gone. The kitten probably followed me because it thought I would feed it, it would be silly to believe anything else.

   It’s Sunday and I have work tomorrow, so I should probably get some groceries. As I shut the door behind me I can’t help but peek see if the kitten is in the window. It’s not. Of course it’s not it was just a fluke.

   Outside, the sky is still grey and the rain is drizzling again. I hop into my car careful not to track mud in. The car quietly hums as I make my way to the supermarket. I’m about half way there when I start hearing the worst sound you can possibly hear from your car, sputtering.

   I pull over, and lift the hood. Odd, there is no smoke, no smell of burning rubber, no leak. I get back in the car and the simple drizzle, like yesterday turns into a heavy down pour. Thunder rumbles, and I can see the faintest bolt of lightning in the distance. I try to restart the car, it sputters. I try again, and again, nothing good.

   I guess I’ll have to call a towing service, but who knows how long that will take. I call the local towing service, EmergenC, and the ringing seemingly never ending, stops when someone picks up. “This is EmergenC towing, how can I help you?” An annoyed voice asks. “Hi, can I get my car towed? I’m on 87th avenue.” I reply. “Sure, that’ll be $250 plus tax.” The voice says. “Okay, thanks” I reply. “Someone should be there within two to three hours.” She retorts. “All right.” I sigh before hanging up the call. Great, my car breaks down, then I’m robbed, and on top of all that I ‘m stranded.

   I look around, I need to find somewhere dry and warm to wait for the tow truck. One tiny store catches my eye. How ironic, Greenway antiques. The only store around is somehow a mysterious antique shop. I make my way to the entrance. Somehow the shabby place, looks surprisingly warm. I peer in the front windo I had finally gotten my car towed to a local auto-shop, I looked at the sunglasses reflecting the light from the lamp in my room. They oddly reminded me of the kitten. Come to think of it, both of them were glossy black, mysterious, alluring. I drifted off to sleep again, the kitten and the sunglasses holding my mind captive.

   Monday. I awoke this time with no dreams. I was slightly disappointed. Those dreams were pretty much the only interesting things in my life. The sun was out today. I caught myself getting lost in the blue skies and drifting clouds for a moment. But I have work today so I proceed with my routine.

   As a secretary there’s not really much going on in my day. Picking up phones and writing down messages doesn’t exactly save lives. The only thing risky about my job is using a stapler.

    As I walk out the door dressed in the same boring clothes as always, a thought comes into my head. I need some individuality. I quickly snatch my sunglasses off my dresser. Much better. With these glasses on I feel surprisingly confident.    But that confidence is cleared away and replaced with shock as a person walks by. As if by magic, light blue, glowing words seem to appear in front of the man. “I’m going to be so late!” Hovers over him. I take off the glasses. The words disappear. “Excuse me sir., did you say something?” I ask in horror. “No…” He replies, probably thinking I’m crazy. The man walks away confused. What is going on?! Now, a mother with her child passes. “I hope he doesn’t have any cavities.” Appears above the mother. “I hate the dentist.” Floats above the little boy’s head.

    My jaw drops in disbelief. I look out to the crowd of people with thousands of glowing thoughts, worries, and inner dialogue appearing above them. I blink my eyes a few times, somehow trying to figure out what is happening. I catch a quick glimpse of the time. 9:25?! I’m running late to work! This- whatever this is will have to wait.      I hurry onto the bus, and really wish I had my car. With all the people on there, I became dizzy with all the floating thoughts, and had to take the sunglasses off. Outside the buzzing city blurred around me until we came to an abrupt stop, and I nearly ran out of that smelly, muggy cage.      I sat at my desk trying to think of possible explanations to why or how seeing people‘s thoughts through cheap sunglasses from an antique shop could even be possible. In the corner of my eye I spot one of the business men from accounting walking by, and out of curiosity I slip on my sunglasses. “Great, now I have to have it brought here, that stupid secretary can’t even brew a pot of coffee.” Appears above the man’s head.

    I quickly slip off my sunglasses as he makes his way to the desk. “Can you pick up a drip coffee from Al’s for me?” He asks with a fake smile on his face. He knows I‘m not supposed to be used for picking up food orders, and he thinks that a smile is going to change things. I don’t think so. “Well, I’m sorry sir if my coffee is unsatisfactory for your taste but sadly, my company time doesn’t entail picking up orders.” I reply. “Alright.” He says shocked before walking away. Maybe things are looking up.