#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Road Trip** As things begin to warm up, I thought it would be the perfect week to do a little literary traveling. This week’s challenge is to use the theme of **’road trip’** in your story. It should appear in some way within the story. You may include the theme words if you wish, but it is not necessary. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   ***   #Last Week Spotlights are postponed for this week. They will be included in next week’s post. I am sorry for any inconvenience. Thank you all for being patient.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or discord.** Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


"Those sirens never get old. They never stop and probably won't. They haven't stopped since my earliest memory. The only constant thing in this life we share. No one knows what happened before but that doesn't matter. They left us with this ground. Desolate and infertile. Nothing grows. The sky filled with grey and white tones. While there are night and day, we never see where the light comes from. The clerics' talk of stories of this bright entity in blue colored skies covering fields of green. Structures that put what we have to shame. Spires that broke the sky. Machines that made machines. And then conflict. One not ever seen before. The cause of all this despair. But we have thrived and discovered our past before the great desolation. Tools, materials, knowledge, and worst of all, weapons. We have little but we live on. We suffer loss but we can't stop. That would be the end of the last precious thing we have. Our lives." The man downed the last gulp of his drink. Continuing spitting the bullshit the barkeep has heard before. The past this, the past that. That couldn't be changed and he knew that. They both did however one was sober and the other drunk of the alchest from the past. How ironic the barkeep thought. He asked if the man needed anything else before he left to clean the tables. The man couldn't even speak. He left and began to clean the few tables he crafted. Crude yet sturdy, like the barkeep. The creator does so in his own image. He gets caught up listening to another patrons' conversation before he realizes the man at the bar was reaching over the counter. The barkeep speaks up, "Can I help you with that?" The man looks over and pulls a bone shiv from his sleeve while rummaging his other. It's a common tool for most people so it wasn't surprising. As he pulled the shiv out, the man shouted to stay away. The few others that were in there looked on. Being threatened by a drunk wasn't new. And it will happen again. They tried to talk him down but he wasn't listening. He said he needed it to pay a debt. The barkeep didn't care but he kept quiet. The others keep talking. Finally, the barkeep spoke up. "Let me help so you don't make a mess." The man fell off his seat and threatened the barkeep, barely keeping his words together, "Stay away, you don't need to get hurt over this." The barkeep didn't care. He slowly stepped to the back of the bar and went to where he kept the payments for his services. He bent over to open the container. The barkeep began to stand and realized the man had moved almost on top of him behind the bar. He hadn't realized how tall this man was till now. He looked down on the barkeep, "Where is it?!" The keeper didn't answer. Again the man said, "Where is it!!" He lunged forward. The barkeep was ready. He stood as he came close. In the blink of an eye, the man's hand was gone. It landed on the bar counter. The man screamed in agony, collapsed, and crawled away from the barkeep clutching his now handless arm. The barkeep spoke in a thunderous tone, "Leave or I'll take an ear so you'll listen!" The man, who must have sobered up, stood and fled into the night. "Everybody out," the barkeep shouted. They listened and left as he asked. No one would disrespect one of the few people who can make alchest. When they left, he stood there, thinking. He hadn't used it in almost 30 years. The glow of his Ion blade caused a slight purple hue to bounce around the room. He stared at the blade that sat on the counter. It was about a meter in length, had an ornate metal handguard, and a matte grey metal blade. It was edged with an unknown material that allowed the weapon to produce the ionized edge. No ordinary man could obtain such a weapon, however. A tear fell from the barkeep's face as he poured himself a drink. He looked to the bottom of the glass. Looked out through the space in front of him and drank. Another vow broken. Survived through triumph, broken by experience. It all flooded back. The men who died next to him, the men who caused this. The men he killed. He broke down. It was all so close to being forgotten. He threw his glass against the wall. He could barely live with himself let alone in this fucked up place we have to call home. He sobbed for a good time. He finally composed himself, realizing he has to live on for those he lost, just long enough to walk to his room in the back of the bar and find the bed. He began the next day like any other; by picking up the mess from last night. Lucky for him the blade didn't cause any blood to drop from the man's stub. Blood is hard to remove from wood. So like most days, he finishes quickly. Swept the floor, straightened the counter, organized tables, and the like. And again, like most of those days, he's alone. Thinking. "What's the point?" he says to himself, almost remorseful. Like he betrayed his friend. But nevermind that, today's another day, and he must move on. He soon found himself alone again. Frozen. Like that day. He never liked that day. The commander kept reminding everyone. “They want your homes, they want your wives, and they want your land. They will take it if we don't stop them”. The things he did to protect what was his. He remembers the screams he heard. Almost Like a symphony when it's mixed with the slashing of weapons and the ripping of flesh as the raid occurred. He remembers watching his fellow soldier strike down a family with nothing but a blank stare. He became an empty husk of a man. Then, it was his ceremonious turn to spill blood and he saw his offering. A man, trying to escape. He chased him through the house, but he was too slow for a trained soldier. He grabbed the man. The man was speaking a different language. He ignited his ion blade… they never did bleed when he used that. The man went limp and slumped to the floor, falling over a table and knocking it over. There was a surprise underneath. A boy, maybe 7. The soldier the barkeep was did not know what he just did. He looked at his hands, not knowing he had this dangerous potential. He became a man he didn't want to. He looked at the boy and lit his blade one more time. The barkeep is knocked out of his trance. “Shit”, he said to himself. It's almost dusk and the bar was ready to be open. “How long had past?” He kept muttering obscenities to himself, cursing he let his day go away again. This happened often to him. Losing time. Nevermind that, there was something more pressing: the patrons. He opened the bar and not long after the place began to fill. More than usual. It was nice not to be alone. Drinks were being poured, conversations being made. Of course like any night, someone ruined the night and he was a familiar man. This time he wasn’t alone. The handless man from the other night had come back looking for revenge and thought he could do so through his friends. Some patrons left. The strong ones stayed and gave them no mind. He waited at the bar counter. The handless man came up and started to heckle the barkeep. What an arrogant man he was. The other men that were with him lined the counter next to the handless man. The 3 of them stayed quiet, just like the barkeep. Finally, after a few minutes of annoyance, the barkeep answered him, “Back again?” The handless man was back for what he was the first time he was here. This time he also wanted his hand. Well, the barkeep was not going to let that happen. He laughed slightly. The man was annoyed with that answer and grabbed the barkeep but the neck, demanding that he surrender the vault. The barkeep could barely get words out. The other patrons noticed and one had stepped up. This one sat in the corner all night and kept to himself. Interesting. The lonely man grabbed the handless man's shoulder, “I think it's best you let him go.” The handless man looked back and threw his hand away and nodded to his friends. The handless man let go. “Well, this is great,” the barkeep said to himself. The handless man let the barkeep go only because the lonely man had used his own blade against his friends. “Are you fucking kidding me,” the man shouted as he watched his friend catch the blade with his chest. The first man fell. The barkeep smashed a glass over the head of the handless man knocking him down. The others ran after they saw the barkeep ignite his ion blade from behind the counter. He followed them with curses as they returned to their holes. Everyone looked on as if they never saw him before. At least not like this. The lonely man grabbed the handless man, “I’ve been looking for this one for a while now.” He’s a bounty hunter apparently. The bounty hunter apologized for what he did and offered money or help to pick up the mess but the barkeep declined. The bounty hunter left without a noise after that. And that was it. Like any other night. All this action and it was over along with the night. This was not the chaos he was used to. Like other nights, he was off to bed. The next morning was different. He was woken by a knock at his door. It was the bounty hunter. “What the fuck?” he whispered. “What do you want” “I was hoping to ask a few questions as a follow up for what happened last night” “I thought your type wasn’t interested in details?” “I'm no ordinary bounty hunter, I guess.” The barkeep let him in. They took a table. The barkeep offered a drink. The hunter nodded and accepted it. “What is it you want to know?” “When did you first see him here?” “3 days ago. He came in by himself. He tried to steal from me so i defended himself.” “I'm assuming you took his hand?” The barkeep nodded. “And you let him go?” the hunter said “Yes. I had no idea he was a bounty or that hunters even came this way. The local gangs have had a hold out here for a while now” “Not anymore,” he said plainly. There was silence for a moment as the hunter wrote. “Now I have a few more questions for you and then we’ll be done” He flipped his notebook. “Where did you get the blade?” “Why does that matter?” “I’m curious,” said the hunter almost demanding “Do I have to ask you to leave?” “No. We all saw what happened that night. I'm the only one brave enough to ask about it.” The barkeep kept quiet for a moment. The hunter was a patient man. As if he waited his whole life for something. “I'm a soldier, or at least was one” the barkeep finally said. “The Unification?” The barkeep hung his head, “Yes.” “Any good stories?” The barkeep paused, “None that anyone should hear.” Another long moment passes with both of them silent. The barkeep spoke first for once. Maybe because he believed the hunter was someone who finally understood, “How about you?” What do you mean?” the hunter said almost surprised “What's your story? You're a bounty hunter with an impressive weapon, and you don’t hide it as I do. You were in a righteous war or something?” “No…,” he said softly, “I made this one myself actually. But my profession has a story.” The barkeep sat ready to listen like he had his other patrons. “It was a long time ago. I'll never forget. It was my birthday. My mother had passed before I wasn't even old enough to know her. It was just me and my father. He had gotten me a device that I could use to discover and listen to these random signals that exist invisibly in the air. It helped me find tools and equipment to make my weapon…” The barkeep kept listening and offered to get the hunter another drink. The hunter, again, nodded. The hunter took a long sip and continued, “... He tried his best and that's all that mattered. But that day is one I won't forget. We heard a loud bang nearby and my dad told me to hide. He was a soldier so he was always cautious since he had his war, he knew how to handle himself. I hid and as soon as I did he came running through the door. Soon after another set of legs entered. They were armored. He was screaming saying to leave us alone and not to hurt anyone.” The barkeep got up and went for his own drink. His first in years. He felt like it for once in his life. He couldn’t remember the last time he *wanted* to do something. He poured himself a tall glass while the hunter talked. He sat and pondered and let the words of the hunter go through his head. Not hearing anything. Finally, he took his sip. The hunter continued, “Then a faint glow appeared and a hissing noise. That man killed my father in cold blood. He fell out of the man's hands and knocked the table I was under over. The man looked down at me. He was frozen. Like he didn’t know what he just did.” The barkeep nodded not listening to what was being said. “You. You killed him” The barkeep stopped mid-sip. “What did you say?” “You remember, don’t you? That day. I remember your face. Do you remember mine?” The barkeep was frozen “Frozen again? How can you feel when you act like a monster?” The barkeep put his glass down, wiped his face, and looked at the boy. He remembered alright. Every bit of his face. “You look like your father.” “You shut the fuck up!!” he screamed as a tear ran down his face. “I'm sorry but…” “No…” The boy shouted, “...you don’t get to say that. Not after what you did. With no remorse” The barkeep was calm. Almost like he was in this position before. The barkeep said sternly, “Well what are you going to do, boy? You're the man now. You found your last bounty and you're going to cry? Yes I killed him and I gave up the blade after that day but I will do what I must to defend myself.” The barkeep ignited his blade. It was more red this time, from the overheating of the blade. “The same color as I remember,” the boy said, pulling his blade out. It was black. As dark as a moonless sky. A never-ending blackness that was the boy's heart. The barkeep walked around the counter and the boy stood up. They faced each other and prepared themselves. The boy is a vengeful mess. The soldier, ready for whatever fate was planning. They raised their weapons ready to end the years of pain for whoever won and lost. They stepped forward and swung. A slash, ripped flesh, and a dropped weapon. “I'm sorry.” the man said.


The year was 2020, and the earth was ridden with war, famine, sickness and hate. Josh was 21, sitting in his apartment thinking about what his life had become. He grew up in the north of england, but had moved a lot, never settling down in one place. His mother, the last - and the only person he held dear to him, was gone. He reminisced sorrowfully about the trips he'd take on his walk with his mother on his way to school. Josh found it hard to make friends, most likely at this time due to his ineptitude to socialise properly. Everyone thought he was strange and queer, but his mum thought he was perfect. At the age of 15 his mother passed away in a car accident whilst her and Josh were having an argument. Six weeks later at her funeral Josh stood wistfully afore her tombstone. Written on her tombstone was: "RIP Nicola, loving mother and respected artist" right above "greed is the quickest road to perdition". Josh didn't quite know how to feel in the years to come, but at 18 a gentleman in a bar made an offhanded comment on his mother, causing Josh to lash out and break the guy's nose. Josh lost 2 years of his life for this, paired with dropping out of school without any grades after his mother's funeral, he had robbed himself of his own life by 20 years of age. As Josh sat in his room, an epiphany came into his head. He would go back in time and save his mother! Josh had a small obsession with demons, and supposed dark practices, as he spent much time alone trying to distract himself with something interesting to draw attention away from his pain. He drew out an empty book, snagged out a couple of sheets of blank, he then proceeded to aquire a razor from an old disposable shaver. He hurried as he chanted the summoning rhyme he required and plunged the razor deep into his palm... nothing, silence, Josh was dissatisfied with what happened and ultimately felt stupid for even trying. Later that night, Josh went to bed. It was the middle of the night, just passed one in the morning as Josh woke up to a seeminhly almighty glow. Josh was starstruck with fear, having been in prison he thought he had seen it all, but this was something different entirely, otherworldly, even. "Josh, I have come to grant you any 7 wishes you desire!". Josh couldn't believe it! It actually worked! Josh scurried to the end of his bed in absolute awe of what was present. He knew exactly what he wanted. His first wish was to be the smartest person, ever, smart enough to build a time machine, so he could go back to his own mind as he was when he was 15, but with his own current cognitive abilities and thoughts. His second wish; to have his mother's art career really kick off, as good as she was, it's the least Josh thought could do for her. Third wish was to solve world hunger once he had arrived back in 2016 and subsequently the fourth wish was for world peace and the fifth and sixth, complete equality and eradication of sickness. Josh figured he'd get a kick from that, knowing he erased famine, war and hate. Before his seventh wish, Joshua asked the being a question, he asked for it's advice. The being only said that his wishes would change many things for not only the past timeline Josh wanted to enter, but also the present one he would leave behind. Josh took a moment to think upon this. He imagined for what his mother would want. He thought of how if famine, war and sickness wasn't pertinent then that would only create new problems, possibly with accommodation and the world's economy. He tried ever so hard, for once in his life to not think of what he wants, but what is needed for the greater good. He then made a decision... Joshua wished that his previous wishes become retrogressed, for the world to be reverted back to it's initial state. As the being dispersed in a puff of light, Joshua remained on his bed, with cold tea by his bedside, sitting with a strong sense of saudade whilst looking at the scar on his hand think about what could have been, Joshua knew that to rob fate of it's own destiny for the sake of his own would be to rob everyone on earth of theirs. He realised everything happens for a reason, be it good or evil, but ultimately those things need to happen, lest for the perversion of fate by one lead to evil's entry upon another's soul. Joshua knew, by pursuing his own greed he'd be leading others into further turmoil. And Joshua knew, after all - greed is the quickest road to perdition.


Rupert looked through the file in his hands before getting out of his car.

New ID, check.

Real estate listing, check.

Keys for a 2008 Honda Accord, check.

Directions for everything his client has to do for the next eight months while she waits for trial, check. Rupert opened his car door and stepped out onto the drizzle glazed street and headed toward the cozy diner.

Mable’s was his favorite place to conduct this type of business.

He even had his own booth in the back where he had a good view of the door.

Plus, Mable had the best apple pie.

Her coffee was mediocre because she made it so hot that it tasted burnt, but the pie made up for it. The bell over the door tinkled as he entered, and Mable herself nodded at him from behind the yellow Formica counter where she was clearing some dishes from the last customers.

Rupert nodded back and held up his finger to show he wanted his usual order.

He then proceeded to his favorite red vinyl booth and settled in to wait. His client should be there in fifteen minutes.

Rupert himself always arrived fifteen minutes early so that he could settle in and be prepared for whatever may happen.

In the eight years he had been doing this, he thought he had run into all of the possible situations.

A guy who decided to run, a woman who wanted to bring her boyfriend, a guy who was followed and got stuck in a standoff.

Rupert was prepared. Mable brought his pie, coffee, and a small bowl filled with an assortment of creamers.

“How are you doing today, sweetie?” she asked genially. “Oh, same old, same old.

You know how it goes.”

Rupert grabbed a sugar packet to dump in his coffee, and Mable returned to her work. Rupert glanced at his watch, and the hand ticked closer to twelve.

He generously added hazelnut creamer to his coffee and stirred before sipping.

The sweetness almost overrode the burnt flavor… almost.

He was preparing for his first bite of pie when his client entered. Rupert stood as the blond swiveled her head searching the room for him.

She saw him and nodded with a frown.

As she approached, he took in her hair tied back in a ponytail and her relaxed attire of a baggy red t-shirt synched at the bottom to accentuate her curves and black yoga pants. “Please take a seat,” he invited, motioning to the bench seat across from his. “So how is this going to go?” she asked, setting her designer handbag on the seat before sliding in after it.

She was straight to the point, which Rupert hadn’t expected. His client was an Instagram model with thousands of followers who had gotten entangled in some nasty mob business.

Who would have thought that notorious mobster Big Nose Tony would have a thing for Instagram? “You’re going to send out one last pic to throw them off your scent.

It has to be something completely unrelated to where you’re going or what you’re doing.” “How am I supposed to do that?

You wouldn’t tell me where I’m going.” “Pick something from your collection that includes a beach,” Rupert said simply.

He looked over to Mable and caught her eye.

She was there in two seconds to take the young woman’s order. “Just a water,” the blond said. When Mable left, Rupert slid the folder over the table.

“Your new name is Ingrid Moore.

You’re from Iowa but are moving to Michigan.

This is your new ID,” he said pointing to the ID with a less than flattering picture of his client, “and this is your apartment.”

He pointed to the listing. “It’s only one bedroom and doesn’t mention a dishwasher,” she noted. “Right.

It’s basic and unnoticeable like you are going to be for the next eight months.” “How am I going to keep up with my Instagram?” she asked.

“Part of my routine is my cooking pictures.” “That brings me to the next thing.

Let me see your phone.”

Rupert held out his hand. The blond now known as Ingrid reached into her bag and pulled out an iPhone in a sparkly purple case and posted one last pic to Instagram.

Rupert took the phone from her and handed her a gray, utilitarian flip phone. “This is your phone now.

Only I have the number, and my number is programmed.

You are to call no one.

You understand?” “How would I call anyone?

You have my phone with all of my contacts.” “There will be absolutely no social media.

No Tweets.

No pictures on your Instagram.

Not even a Facebook message to your grandma for her birthday.”

He was stern.

He had had clients break this rule before.

Sometimes people were so addicted that they couldn’t resist the siren’s call of spying on an old flame or connecting with family. Ingrid pouted.

“This is going to kill my brand.

I am going to lose so many followers.

You just don’t understand.” “Don’t worry.

In eight months, you’ll stage a comeback and explain that you had something huge that kept you from your fans like a Buddhist yoga retreat that has made you a more aware influencer.

You will post about the plight of the Tibetans, and everything will be all better.”

Rupert neglected to mention that many people that go into Witness Protection need to stay there beyond the trial to prevent retribution for their testimonies. “The keys there are for your new apartment and a gray Accord you’ll find parked out front.

Your car will be towed to a safe place for storage.

In the Accord, you will find a box of supplies: some clothes, some food to get you started, and a box of brown hair dye.” Ingrid lifted the tip of her ponytail.

“I haven’t had brown hair since I was fourteen.” “Well, Ingrid, you have brown hair now, and you are expected to maintain it through the trial.

It is part of your disguise.

You are too recognizable as you are.

How many followers do you have?” “Three thousand, two hundred, and eighty-five as of this morning,” she answered without missing a beat.

“What am I supposed to do for the next eight months if I can’t post?” “Watch some TV, read a book, practice some new recipes,” Rupert suggested.

“Just stay incognito.” She rolled her eyes.

“Maybe I’ll start writing a book,” she said.

“No one would believe all this anyway.” “As long as the jury believes it,” he said and took the last bite of his pie.

“No getting in touch with agents to discuss book deals until this is all over.

Your mantra for the next eight months is ‘I am incognito.’” She stared at him. “Repeat after me,” he said.

“I am incognito.” “I am incognito,” she said mockingly. “Say it again like your life depends on it, which it kind of does.” “I am incognito,” she said with less attitude. “Good.

Now, I have one last thing for you.”

He reached into his wallet and pulled out a prepaid debit card wrapped in a piece of paper.

“This has some funds loaded to it and a website login for the local grocery delivery service where you will be staying.

Use it.

Have your groceries delivered as much as possible to avoid time in public.

Tip fifteen percent.

Don’t be stingy, and don’t be too generous to call attention to yourself.

You have a budget, so don’t be too extravagant.

None of those caviar omelets you like to fix.” “You’ve seen my work,” Ingrid observed with a smile. “I do my research,” Rupert replied.

“I also included a copy of Harry Potter in your supplies since you said it was one of your favorite book series. “Your GPS is programmed to take you to your new home with a few pre-approved rest-stops along the way.

Don’t wander off the path.

Give me a call if you have any questions or run into any issues. She looked down at the table as if pondering how she had gotten here or what she was going to do now, and then she looked up.

“Is this really it?” “This is it for now.

I’ll be in touch to check in on you when you arrive and when we get closer to the trial date.

Remember your mantra,” he said, standing from his seat. “I am incognito,” she said with feeling this time and shook his hand. He watched her head out the door with a tinkle of the bell, and he placed a ten-dollar bill on the table for Mable.

He’d be back next week with his next client.

He really needed to hit the gym to make up for all of this pie.


It was 1983, but not quite the version you remember. In third grade gifted class, we made these little terrariums. I thought they were the coolest. Mrs. Manchester lined us up in front of a formica table covered with newspaper, a bag of potting soil, and a box of gravel. We each got our own fishbowl and filled it up, added a lonely jade plant, spritzed water on top, and behold, we were gods. My fishbowl was green and tumbled like sea-glass, not smooth and transparent like everyone else’s.

“The pet store didn’t have enough new bowls,” Mrs. Manchester said. “Sorry, Eileen. I found this one in Mr. Reed’s storage closet.” Mr. Reed was our janitor, and he could fix anything. I didn’t mind getting an old bowl. It was beautiful. “Take them home tonight and make them your own,” Mrs. Manchester said. The next day, we shared our creations. Laura Jane Katz had stolen three plastic GI Joe soldiers from her brother Jim’s stash and put them in her terrarium. Her big brother, Tom, had rented War Games on VHS when their parents were at the dinner theater, and she’d been fixated on war ever since. “The Russians blew up a plane in Korea,” she said ominously. “Tom says they can blow us up, too.” Ben Sibely had found a baby bullfrog in his basement window well and held him prisoner in his fishbowl. We’d all just seen the movie about Adam Walsh’s kidnapping on primetime and felt sorry for the frog. Becca France had poured tiny square glitter all over her world. We just shook our heads. Most of our parents worked for Jensen Chemical. Didn’t she know she was poisoning the soil? Me, Eileen Luo, I loved the containment of the sphere, the elegance, the sense of purpose it gave me. I was responsible for my domain, and I would not abandon it. I’d added a pink Polka Dot plant from Mama’s garden, because lo, Let There Be Some Color . Hot lunch was spaghetti and meatballs, which made the cafeteria smell like tomatoes and vomit. Afterwards, we lined up for recess along the concrete block wall outside the cafeteria, under the black and yellow Fallout Shelter sign. We did drills now and then, and I never understood how standing under the sign would protect us from a nuclear bomb. Our school was nice and all, but I had doubts it had the money for being bomb-proof. If Clark Elementary were that rich, our lunch wouldn’t reek like barf every third Monday of the month. Outside, the sun had stopped rising in the sky. We didn’t notice at the time. It was cold for the middle of October in Harrisburg and we pulled our hoods over our heads. On the playground, I stood at the top of the metal slide, behind Becca. She did a flip effortlessly on the crossbar before gliding gracefully down. I envied her bravery and attempted to summon the gumption to follow. But down near the big gingko tree in the middle of the park, a gaggle of kids squatted, white Nikes and Tretorns in a circumference. Zip! The metal slide was cold on my legs, and I ran over to my classmates. Ben Sibely hid his fishbowl under his jacket. Cupped in his palms, he held a katydid the color of sour apple. Her antennae quivered between his fingers. “No, Ben,” Becca said firmly. “They sell crickets at the pet store for that.” “What’s the difference?” Ben said. “Those get eaten alive too. But this one’s free .” “That’s not fair to the katydid,” I protested. “She’s part of the park. She’s not part of the terrarium.” “Mr. T was part of my backyard,” Ben said, pointing to his frog. “And he’s hungry.” I was about to witness an animal sacrifice. A large bug to be chewed alive before our eyes. I could feel the spaghetti becoming real vomit, creeping up my esophagus. “You’re not God,” I said, sweat dripping down my armpits. What was God, anyway? My parents never talked about God much. Baba claimed Buddhist affiliations when people invited him to church potlucks. And Mama said when we died, it was like turning off a lamp. Ben stood firm and crossed his arms. “I’m his God. He’s my frog, and I have to feed him.”

Becca picked up a twig and tapped the glass. “Poor guy. He looks lonely.” Mr. T’s eyes were closed, like he’d resigned himself to his glass matrix. Ben dropped the katydid next to him, but Mr. T ignored it. “It’s not a real world. You shouldn’t butt in,” I said. “Why’d Mrs. Manchester give us a terrarium if we’re not gonna take care of it?” Ben said. “You should build a hole for your frog,” Laura Jane advised. “For when the nukes come.” Our bodies cast abbreviated shadows onto the cracked sidewalk. Unsure of what was to come, purple late-blooming asters tilted their faces away from the sky. Canadian geese tottered along the creek across the street, unsettled by the immobile sun. The pale blue sky yawned above, and for the rest of the day, nothing momentous happened at Clark Elementary. But an hour previously, three events had crystallized, causing the sun to stop in its tracks. Number One.  Halfway around the world, above the Black Sea, a low-orbit satellite for the US Strategic Defense Initiative malfunctioned. Like a thief dropping his crowbar onto a tile floor, the atmosphere released the satellite into Soviet airspace.

Number Two. At the Soviet Air Defense Force command center in Moscow, a computer chip glitched, resulting in the lone US satellite appearing as four-hundred high-speed missiles on radar, headed straight for the USSR. Number Three. A solar storm flared, releasing electromagnetic radiation and disrupting the radar system. It resembled a massive jam of the Soviet defense operation. Calls to General Secretary Andropov were made. He had no choice. There was no question what had to be done. This meant war, and certain nuclear winter. At that point, the invisible hand intervened, stopped the Earth from turning, and interrupted the sun in its worn path across the Heavens. See, Earth had been at it for almost five billion years. If you’d been watching animals evolve into brilliant flashing cuttlefish, only to have them sicken and die in a nuclear Armageddon, wouldn’t you feel a bit gypped? Back in class, Mrs. Manchester read us a chapter of Where the Red Fern Grows and we ate Jiffy Pop for a snack. When school let out, the sun had not shifted in the sky. Our great yellow school bus stopped before the railroad tracks, creaked its front door open, peered across, and lurched us home, all under the mid-morning sun. At eight in the evening, I sat with my terrarium on my bed, cardinals still chirping in the dogwood in front of my bedroom. A Lone Star Tick crept up the leaves of the Polka Dot plant. I reached in the bowl, plucked the tick out and squashed it in a Kleenex. I breathed a sigh of relief. And then, I saw it. All of us gods saving our little worlds, our dear creatures, our terraformed dioramas. I saw Ben feeding Mr. T. brown crickets from Concord Pet Supply, Laura Jane sheltering her GI Joes into a cut-up chocolate milk carton, Becca adding green slime to the glitter coating her dirt. As I held the green fishbowl, I saw the invisible hand hold our planet, sweep away errant satellites out past Earth’s orbit, shield us from the sun’s wrathful outbursts, reset computers, turn back anxieties, rewind incalculable misunderstandings, stall omnipresent fears, and postpone inevitable death. You don’t remember that 1983, because the gods were looking out for you.


The four legs of the aged, wooden chair screeched across the tiled floor as I pushed back from the kitchen table. I lazily lifted myself from my seat using the palms of my hands on the worn-down arm rests. "Tea?" I asked, offering a shallow yet reassuring smile to the stranger sitting on the opposite end of the table. He was decades younger than me, possibly late twenties, yet the look of fear on his cleanly shaven face exuded the naivety of a child in trouble. The poor lad was shivering, just recently enduring the brunt of the thunderstorm that continued to rage outside. Clearly, he wasn't prepared for any such rain, his gray pullover sweatshirt drenched all the way through to his skin, black hair painted to his forehead and sides of his face. His pale hands were as pruney as mine, yet mine were from age and not water. He was soaked to the bone. Didn’t take much to soak him though, his slender frame and lanky extremities were comical compared to my rather rotund build. I needn’t impress anyone and decades worth of heavy stouts decorated me heavy. "Umm, no...no," he responded, rubbing his hands feverishly together before cupping them in front of his mouth. After a pause, he spoke again. "Thank you, though." "A warm mug and even warmer liquid serve a better purpose than your breath," I insisted. "Are you sure?" The boy trembled and although his body language insisted being persistent in his initial answer, he wound up nodding. "Good choice. I'll grab you a cup." I walked toward the stove where my tea kettle sat, hearing the agitated water boiling from within. I knew it was just the right temperature for tea, but I still waited for the hiss before pulling it from the fluorescent orange coils. The kettle shrieked, my ears unprepared for the piercing screech despite the anticipation. I pulled it from the stove, the whistle settling down enough for me to hear the water bubbling inside. I placed it down gently on the blue-clothed placeholder my wife had knitted, then opened the cupboard above the sink. I paused for a moment, staring at the floral-patterned mugs. A fleeting thought of my wife passed. It was odd for her not to be home yet. I begged my mind not to run rampant, refocusing it on hosting. I looked over my shoulder toward the stranger, his eyes pinballing between myself and the front door in the room adjacent to us. I quickly looked back toward the cupboard as his eyes met mine. I hoped he didn't perceive my gaze as judging, but his demeanor began to worry me. I grabbed the box of tea and three cups, and brought them toward the table. "Are...are you expecting someone else?" The boy asked timidly, shifting uncomfortably toward the edge of his seat. “I expect my wife home at any moment,” I answered unconvincingly. I sat back down across from him and pulled my chair in. “I hope you like chamomile, we seem to be running low on our tea supplies.” I chuckled but he remained disinterested, staying on high alert. “Chamomile sounds fine,” he responded. His gaze was glued to the third mug, one in which I set at the third empty seat with a tea bag hanging over the side. “You said she’s coming home soon?” “In due time, I’d like to believe.” I started pouring the hot liquid into his cup, the smoky sweet aroma filling the air. It beckoned sleep, but I wasn’t ready. “I’d imagine you’d like to steep yourself, yes?” I asked, handing him the cup. He seemed hesitant to grab it at first, for some odd reason, but the second his damp hands gripped themselves around the heated ceramic, he showed the first signs of comfort since arriving at my doorstep. His forehead relaxed, the wrinkles dissipating like smoothing the comforter of a freshly made bed. His shoulders rolled back, and he melted in his chair as he let the steam engulf his nose. The rain continued pelting the asphalt roof of my one-floor house; a clash of thunder mixed in to add to the dreariness of the often occurring New England Winter storms. We sat in silence as we continued drinking our tea. Every so often, I’d run my hand over the spout of the kettle to sense the temperature from within. I needed it to be ready for her once she got home. “I’m John, by the way,” I announced. “And you? I think it’s a better time than ever to introduce ourselves, don’t you think?” “I suppose,” the stranger answered timidly, then took the last sip of his tea. “I…I’m Harry.” There was still a bit of a shutter to his voice, an uneasiness about him that I was still trying to make sense of. I had my suspicions, but I wasn’t one to pry much. I figured the less I talked, the more he’d be willing; I was the gracious host. As anticipated, he broke the silence after allowing me to finish my tea. “May I use your phone?” He pointed toward the beige, corded antique that was mounted on the wall behind me. “It’s of no use,” I laughed. “That thing hasn’t worked in years. Never had personal calls, I’ll tell you that, only pesky telemarketers. I much enjoy the silence from it.” Harry’s eyes narrowed and brows furrowed in displeasure. “Then a cellphone?” “Those are about as useless as my landline in these parts.” “But do you have one? Can I at least try?” I shrugged my shoulders. “Even if one worked, I don’t have one.” “Well, is there something you could do to help me? A car, something?” He began to rise in his chair, seemingly infuriated, but quickly sat back and settled himself. It was as almost if he had realized he lost his manners – I was certainly glad he found them. “No,” I urged, gripping the arm rest of my chair until my knuckles turned white. “I’ve already offered you all that I have. The wife has the car, we can discuss once she’s back. You can wait out the storm and be on your way.” “Sor…sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.” He was cautious with his tone. “I just, well…” “I’m concerned that you’re even here, boy.” At that point, I grabbed the kettle and poured the hot water into the mug I left out for my wife. I began steeping the bag, my eyes locked onto Harry’s stare. “These woods are deep. I’m rightfully concerned for those who find themselves here. You ain’t fleeing from the Canadian border are you? You a criminal?” “No, no, no, no,” he answered anxiously. “Do I look like one?” He held his arms out to his side and gazed at his body. It appeared he wanted to play into his rather unthreatening build to make his case. “I’m part of a hiking group. We set a check point a few miles back, I assume a few miles. I ventured off before the storm hit and, well, lost my way.” My eyes narrowed as I focused on his rapidly blinking ones. I was tempted to continue toying with the boy but my better half prevailed. He seemed to be telling the truth. “Oh relax, I didn’t peg you f…” The phone rang, the sudden surprise swallowing my words. “I…I thought that didn’t work?!” He yelped. He was panicking, shifting left to right in his seat, slightly flinching with every ring. The phone finally settled. The two of us remained silent in our seat, anticipating our next move. The tension grew strong to the point where I felt the weight settle deep in my chest. Harry sprung up from his seat and without hesitation, I reached across and forced him back down by the shoulders. “Sit!” I screamed, reaching into the depths of my belly to incite a commanding tone. I went to yell again but decided against it. I began rubbing the tips of my index finger and thumb together to calm myself. I felt as though I needed to start explaining myself. I wasn’t the one to be afraid of but sometimes my anger bested me. Harry was as still as a statue, the color drained from his face. “Cou…could I… I mean… I,” he began saying, most likely attempting to bargain for his departure. It didn’t surprise me that the words could not escape his mouth. The muscles of his neck were tense, almost strangling him. He was skinny enough for me to notice the rapid pulsation of his carotid just under his chin. “Could you leave?” I suggested soothingly. He attempted to speak again but words failed him. He frantically nodded instead, a sliver of hope gracing his face. “In this storm? In this cold? Doubt you make it a mile.” I took in a deep breath, my belly expanding into the rounded edge of the table, and then released a dragged out sigh. “She’s too persistent.” I pushed my glasses up over my scraggy, grey hair atop my head and began rubbing my face. Harry’s chair crashed to the tiled floor and his clunky footsteps receded toward the living room door. He yelped as he must’ve realized the bolted lock at the top of the door. I reset my glasses and stood slowly from the table. Harry had picked up one of my wife’s plug-in candlesticks from the windowsill and waved it in front of him like a sword. “Stay back!” He yelled. “Let me go!” His back was pressed against the door, feverishly jiggling the handle to try and loosen it. I knew it wasn’t budging. “The other hikers, they’ll come looking for me!” “Please, Harry, just relax,” I said reassuringly. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Why don’t you just sit back down and we can talk.” “She? You said She!” He began to whimper, tears welling up in his eyes. “A woman… she’s trying to kill me!” He let out a deep sob, knees crashing to the hardwood floor. “She’s hunting me like…like a boar!” I stood over Harry, offering my hand to lift him off the ground. My shadow consumed him and he appeared no more than a helpless child just beaten in the school yard. He didn’t reach to take my hand, he had no intention. “I’m sorry she’s doing this. I thought those days were behind her.” I put my hands on my hips and shook my head. I stared at the pictures she hung on our soft green, living room walls. They were her most recent paintings: one’s of seashore landscapes, shells, and crashing waves. They were direct representations of how peaceful she could be, a side that no one saw but myself. I tried hanging onto those feelings but my slivering moment of peace turned to anger. We distanced ourselves from society for this purpose – she couldn’t control herself. “You should have never ventured up to these parts!” I hollered, ripping Harry up from the shoulder of his sweatshirt. I tossed him on our linen sofa with ease. He weighed as much as he looked. If he minded his own and stayed wherever he came from, she wouldn’t have had to do it. This was his fault. I moved angrily toward him. He pursed his lips and grunted as he lunged from the sofa, fist flying at my face. He missed. I barely needed to step aside as he stumbled to the floor, yelping as his knees and elbows took the brunt of the fall. He was a blubbering idiot, face buried in his arms as he curled up at my feet. Harry craned his neck to look up. “Please, I’m begging. I…I…,” he began to plead, his words still hard to come by. Such a gangly runt, lying there with snot running down his face and eyes swollen like a puffer fish. It was almost if my wife didn’t want much of a challenge. I felt for Harry, I really did. In that moment, I contemplated letting him face the storm, but I had no doubt he’d fail. It came time for me to realize whether I should help this sad sack or give into her like I had all these years. “Did you get a good look at her?” I asked. “Did you?” “No, not really," He answered, then repeated to sob. Once he could catch his breath, he spoke again. “It was too dark to tell. When the lightning flashed, all I could see was long hair, not sure of the color. Her clothes were drenched under her raincoat. I think it was yellow. She was a bit, well, bigger. Sorry. She kept calling me…” He paused and let out a whimper. “She kept calling me Dearie.” “Get up,” I urged impatiently. I noted the frustration in my tone, quickly trying to undermine it with an apology. No doubt it was my wife, Dearie was a term of endearment for her. “I’m sorry, boy. I let my frustration out on you. It ain’t about you. Will you take my hand now?” Harry wiped his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You can go to hell,” he muttered, rising to his feet under his own strength. “Is it your wife? You’re expecting her, no?” He struggled to keep eye contact with me, his neck lazily supporting the head. “I’ll take my chances with the storm. You’re gonna end me right here, I know it.” I huffed and walked toward the front door. From the pocket of my jean overalls, I pulled out a key, unlocking the bolt at the top. The wind forced the door open quicker than I anticipated, freeing my grip and slamming against the stopper. The storm howled outside, freezing rain spraying in onto my bare forearms, sending chills down my spine. Lightning lit up the sky, the silhouettes of the surrounding oaks hauntingly creeping over the house. Thunder crashed only moments after the strike; the storm was just above us. “Here’s your chance, boy,” I said, gesturing toward the woods. “You got a good fifteen or so miles to, well, anywhere that can help you. Maybe get back to your hiking checkpoint? Follow the dirt road, it’ll get you somewhere.” Harry was confused, or so it seemed. I could almost feel his eagerness to sprint out the door but he didn’t move. “Please tell me, is it your wife?” He gulped. “Yes,” I answered reluctantly. “Now, go on.” I expected some sort of retort but he chose silence instead. Cautiously, he walked toward me and the door. He began to say something but car lights appeared through the dense forest and flooded the house. I slammed the door shut. “There, right there, get in!” I pointed toward the closet on the other side of the living room. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get in. Now!” Harry rushed toward the door and opened it. As he looked in, his body stiffened, hand beginning to tremble on the knob. I leaned a bit to get a better look. On the floor sat a drenched blonde wig, crumpled clothes piled above the puddle they formed. Hanging on the back of the door was a yellow raincoat, water dripping steadily from the tail of it to the ground. It fit Harry’s description from earlier but the wig, the placement of the soaked clothes and how they got there didn’t add up. My mind became foggy, my memory from earlier that day beginning to escape me. “Wha…What is this?” He faced me, fists clenched and ready to charge. “Where is she?!” He backed up without taking his eyes off me, then peered down the hallway that separated the kitchen and the living room. It felt as though the wind from the storm pushed me back toward the wall, but no wind was present. I was suddenly confused. I forgot why I was standing at the door. Flashes of running through the woods flooded my mind. The smell of wet leaves, the crunching of twigs beneath my boots felt present. My prey sat in front of me, how unexpected. The white light that luminated the living room became a flashing blue and red. A smile overtook his face, a frown overtaking mine. I looked out the window at the cop cars filling up the front yard, then turned back toward the one I hunted. There was time before they entered. “Why are you leaving so soon, Dearie?” I asked, heightening the pitch of my voice. I faintly smiled as I stared upon the kitchen table, a cup laid out by my husband. “Was it the tea?”


Would you like to hear something odd? Something crazy? I knew you would. It wasn't exactly the best time in my life. I mean, when you live in your car and have to travel from place to place, you're not exactly in the greatest of situations. This all happened around last year. I was on one of those creepy abandoned forest roads. The kinds that are just left to be reclaimed by nature. It was so dark. The only light for a hundred miles was the ones from my car. An old, beat up Ford Probe that my folks gave me a long time ago. You know that feeling when your surroundings are so dark that you think something's going to jump out and do god-knows-what? It's amplified by a million when you're on those roads at night. I was on my way a local town so I could stay there for awhile. God, I was so tired. There wasn't a rest stop for about 50 miles. What was I gonna do, just pull over and sleep on the side of the road? Hell no. I knew I had to drive no matter what. "Just keep your chin up, Heather." I kept telling myself. Eventually I did get out of the car for a cigarette. A lot of people attribute a big change in their lives to one small event. This was mine. I lit my cigarette and started smoking. It was so cold outside. The car wasn't that much better since the heater was broken. I put it up to my mouth to take another inhale, and that's when I saw it. Lights They were coming from deeper in the woods. There was just something about those damn white lights. They danced around like fairies, and there were about five of them. I felt a pull in my body, and I tossed my cigarette aside to walk into the forest. I can't explain how I was so entranced by them, and to this day it still puzzles me. Once I got close enough, I still couldn't make out exactly what the lights were. Before I could get even an inch closer, my vision faded, and I fell unconscious. When I woke up, my body was in a rough position. Like I was dragged, or carried, or something. I felt a certain coolness in the air. It wasn't deeply cold anymore. I picked myself off the ground to see where I was. I definitely wasn't in the forest anymore. The sky was filled with grey clouds, and the land was more open. It was dotted with twisted, leafless trees, and there was fog everywhere. There was no time for shock, but I wanted to scream. Was I kidnapped? Drugged? Something worse? I tossed those thoughts aside to find civilization. There was something in the distance I began running to. A large black silhouette that looked like some sort of town. So many questions were running through my head, but I was in a foreign place, so the best thing to do wasn't just stay there and maybe get killed. I needed to find people. I only caught brief glimpses of the things in this strange valley. Skulls on the ground, rocks in the formation of crosses, and scarecrows that I hoped weren't real. I stopped to catch my breath outside of what looked like a large, walled off city. Finally, I made it. Once I approached the gates, hoping to get answers, a barrage of small bats flew at my face. My hands waved around like a crazy person in a moment of straight up freaking out. "Don't mind them. They're just not used to others." My head was pointed at the ground, and I wanted to keep it there. That voice was smooth, but also frightening at the same time. "You need not be afraid, dear. Look up." I decided not to fight myself and just look up. There was a man. He was about six feet tall and very slender. His face was pale white, and he wore a black vest and a cartoonishly tall top hat. "There. Now what's your name?" he said. "He-Heather sir." I shakily replied. "Heheathersir? What a strange name!" he joked. "I am Edgar." I let out a light chuckle. His appearance and voice freaked me out, but I was starting to feel more calm. "You must be a new arrival, yes? Come with me through the gates!" I wanted to say no, since I had no clue what he was talking about, but my nervousness kept me quiet. Damn social anxiety. He pushed his hand on the gates to make them open, and the sight I was greeted to was just... woah. The first thing I saw were the moonlit streets, and then the buildings. This place was like a gothic 19th century London! And in the center... a huge cathedral. Holy hell, this thing was BIG. All of this on a cool, windy, moonlit night. There were people walking around. They all had pale white skin and black clothing. They were all... goth. "Welcome, to the Midnight Kingdom!" Edgar exclaimed. It was so surreal. I had to keep my jaw from dropping at the sight of all this. "Ed-Edgar?" I said, still shaky. "What exactly is the Midnight whatnow?" "The Midnight Kingdom, my dear." he replied. "It's alright. New arrivals usually have many questions. This is a haven for all of those who have embraced the dark style of life. When they are cast out for their different minds, they can come here. A new life, and a place where they can truly be with their own kind." I couldn't believe it, and yet it was all so real. I was definitely no 'new arrival'. In fact, I must've stuck out like a sore thumb with my blonde hair and red blouse. We continued walking through the streets. Edgar stayed slightly in front of me with his tall cane. I could barely say anything since my brain was still processing all this new information. "Where-where exactly is this place?" I asked. "The Midnight Kingdom exists in a hidden place, far from modern civilization." Edgar replied. "It is so hidden, in fact, that no one can ever find it by accident!" Isn't irony great? He led me to some town hall-like building. I gotta say, all this gothic architecture was so stunning. Though, there may have been a bit too many gargoyle statues and bats flying around, in my opinion. Once we were inside, we walked over to a young woman who was organizing books. "This is Solanine. The mistress of planning, and the one who takes care of all events in the kingdom." Edgar said. He introduced her to me, and I couldn't take my eyes off of her. That long, belted black dress with the sequined black roses cascading down her legs. And those black bangs above her bright blue eyes... she was really something. "It's a pleasure." she said, shaking my hand. It was almost as if she knew I was entranced. Her smile was tight-lipped, but so beautiful. "Well, there's no use in delaying things. Sola! Are we ready for the community meeting?" Edgar exclaimed. "Ready as a black cat, Edgar." she replied. Edgar rang an ancient-looking bell, and within minutes the residents marched into the building. I took my seat next to Solanine, and Edgar began to speak to the room. "It was many moons ago that our home was established. You all who have embrace a life of dark nature have come here seeking refuge, and have never looked back from the place where the sun never rises. For it is in the Midnight Kingdom that we never age." "You guys are immortal?!" I whispered to Solanine. A place where only goths lived was believable to me, but immortality? Absolutely nuts. She didn't answer. I suppose it was because she was focusing on the speech, so I dropped it for the time being. Once the speech was over, everyone stood up and walked out. I decided to come up to the stage to ask Edgar about the 'never aging' thing. "Heather my dear, why are you still in those clothes?" he asked, before I could even speak. "The Midnight Kingdom is home only to those who embrace the dark aesthetic. If you do not adhere to that rule, then you must leave." He walked out before I could muster a reply. I nearly panicked. I didn't want to go back to living in my car. Sure, I wasn't goth, but I still needed a place to stay. I left the building after pacing around for god knows how long. The streets were empty. I guess it was night time. Really confusing since the sun never rises in this place. I started my search for black clothes. It sounded easy enough. Just find some clothes someone hanged up to dry, or maybe a Hot Topic or something. I was really kidding myself with this. I searched the streets, the alleyways, the trash cans, and came up with nothing. After lots of searching, I sat down by a sidewalk to think. "Having some trouble, darling?" a voice said. It was Solanine, thank goodness. "This may seem kinda weird, but I need a change of clothes." I said. "Not at all weird, my dear. That word has no meaning here." she replied, chuckling. I laughed a bit too. There was just something so calming about her that put me at ease. "I've got the perfect outfit for you at my home. Let's go there, shall we?" She led me to her house. It was a quaint little dark brick cottage near the giant cathedral. Her living room was decorated to the brim with candles, and her fireplace mantle was lined with skulls. "It's exciting when newcomers arrive. This place has been so dull lately." she said in an almost sing-songy voice. She walked into the kitchen to get something while I sat on the couch. "What do you mean by dull? I'd think it'd be more exciting to live here." I replied. "Lately most of the residents haven't been too receptive. It's like half of them are happy, and the other half doesn't care." she said. "So it's a joy division?" I jokingly asked. She giggled a bit while walking back with a bottle and two glasses in hand. She began to pour two glasses and handed one to me. "Wait, I thought you were going to give me clothes." I said. "They're drying outside, dear. Patience." she said with a tight-lipped smile while sitting on the couch with me. I took a sip of the wine to be polite. Not gonna lie, it was some pretty damn good wine. After getting through two glasses of the stuff, I gained the courage to tell the truth. "Sola, I came here by accident, and I only need the clothes so I can stay." I blurted out. "I figured as such, darling. No need to worry. Your secret is safe with me!" she said gleefully. "You're so... nice... and nice.. and so, so pretty..." I slurred, obviously drunk. My body began to fall off the couch, but Sola swooped in the hold me back up. We said nothing. She held me by the hips, and we looked into each others eyes. It felt so fast, but also so slow. Before I knew it, our lips were locked together. I woke up the next morning hung over. Morning? Night? I have no idea. Whatever happened after that kiss, I really have no memory of it. "Need a change of clothes?" Sola joked while walking into the room. "Like you wouldn't believe." I replied. We both laughed, and I put on my new outfit. It was a black tunic with white stripes and a belt in the middle, a short black skirt, and white satin gloves. I was strangely starting to feel more at home at this point. Maybe the Midnight Kingdom really was where I belonged. After all, in just one night more stuff happened than the last five years of my life, which was mostly just driving from place to place. "Solanine..." "Yes darling?" "I think I want to stay here in the Midnight Kingdom." "Oh that's splendid, dear!" she exclaimed while running over to hug me. I really felt like everything was going to be alright. "Oops, I almost forgot something. You had a question at the community meeting last night, didn't you?" she said. "Yeah, it was about your im-" "Yes darling, the immortality..." she said with an open-mouthed smile. Her smile was so dazzling. The bright red lipstick only highlighted how amazing it was. It even drew my eyes to her... fangs. "Do you like them?" she said, without giving me a chance to say anything. I couldn't. It started to all make sense now... After what felt like minutes of staring, she finally spoke again.


I saw this girl. She was having a hard time getting a garbage bag in the dumpster so I gave her a hand. She seemed scared at first; it *was* pretty dark but I just asked if she wanted some help. She said, Sure." "Man that bag smelled sooo fucking bad. I couldn't put my finger on it but it definitely smelled like something rotting." "What happened after you helped her?" "She said thanks, and told me her name was Chelsea. I said my name was Mike and started to walk off." "Thats when she asked you to help her with something else?" "Yeah man, she was pretty hot so I kinda just said fuck it and went to help her." "Did she take you into the house or did you go around back?" "We went around back at first. She had this weird hole she had dug, said she had removed a dead tree earlier that day. Asked if I would help her fill it in. She had some blisters from all the digging she had done earlier and didn't want them to pop so I said I would help." "Did she show you the blisters?" "Yeah man, they were pretty gnarly. She had two big ones on her palm right under her fingers and another one in between her thumb and index finger. Shit was pretty nasty." "Alright well what happened after you finished filling in the hole." "She told me she wanted to thank me for all my help by making me dinner. I was pretty hungry by then so I said okay and went in the house." "You just walked into a strangers house that you just met?" "Yeah, like I said, I was pretty hungry." "Okay, well what happened when you went inside?" "Well, she asked if I was okay with steak and I said hell yeah I'm okay with steak. She laughed a bit and got some steaks out of the fridge. She asked if I would light the grill on the patio for her and she would do the rest." "This grill was on the back patio, the one you had just used to get into the house?" "Yeah, that's the one. Anyway, I turned that sucker on and she came out with the steaks. She opened the grill and let out a scream. I was like, what the fuck is going on? and she said, "Uh, nothing, there's just a dead squirrel in the grill. I'm gonna turn it off and do the steaks inside. You can just leave it in there and I'll take care of it tomorrow." "I was definitely okay with leaving that squirrel in there. I hate touching dead animals, they give me the creeps. I always think they're gonna come back to life right before I touch em." "So you never looked inside the grill?" "Nah, I didn't want to see that poor squirrel." "Okay well did you go back inside at this point or stay outside?" "I was gettin bit by bugs pretty bad so I went in. I asked if she had any itch cream for the bug bites cuz they were startin to itch real bad and I hate that feeling. She said she had some but it was in the upstairs bathroom. She told me to go up the stairs and it was the second door on the left." "So what happened when you went upstairs?" "Well, I got to the top and went towards the second door on the left, but got distracted by this rad painting she had along the back wall. It was this badass dragon lighting a town on fire." "Is that when you first smelled it?" "Yeah dude, it was horrible. The same shit that we had taken to the trash for sure. My nose never forgets." "Did you follow the smell?" "Yeah, I was gonna take out the trash bag for her since she had been so nice and all but when I went into the room there was nothing there but the smell." "There was nothing in the room?" "I mean, there was a bed and some old books and shit, but other than that I couldn't see anything. It was dark as hell in there and the light switch wasn't working. I tried feelin my way around the other side of the bed and that's when I tripped over something and fell on my face. I thought I was lucky cuz my face hit something kinda soft but when I felt what I landed on I was like what the fuck man, *not* cool. There was a fucking dude just layin on the ground sleepin, or at least, I thought he was sleepin." "You tried to wake him up?" "Yeah man, I just nearly made out with the guy, I figured the least I could do was invite him down for steak. I was being real nice about it but my man wasn't moving. I tried shakin him and kickin him a little but he was out." "You didn't notice the smell coming off of him?" "Not at first, I hit my nose pretty hard and it was bleeding a little so I just smelled that. After a few second though, that shit hit me hard." "Is that when she came up?" "Yeah dude, this chick wasn't right. She asked me what I was doing in this room and I told her I was just looking for the trash bag to take out." She said, "Oh don't worry about it, it's probably just a rat that died under the floorboards." "I started thinkin that makes sense but then I asked if her friend was okay. Should we see if he wants a steak too?" "Is that when she pulled out the knife." "Yeah bro, she went full psycho. She started running around the bed towards me with the knife in her hands. I was like what the fuck are you doing? She just kept running." "How did you get out?" "My mom was a crazy bitch too, she used to go off on meth binges and think I was a CIA agent trying to take her to the aliens so they could fuck with her. Anyway, she usually had a knife too so I just did what I used to do with her." "Which is?" "I drop kicked that bitch right in the chest. She dropped pretty fast and I got the fuck outta there." "Well son, I don't know whether to thank you or send you somewhere to get some help. This woman was the one that was responsible for all those college kids going missing. Apparently she had been luring em in, same as you, then killing em and cuttin em into pieces. We found 6 bodies so far on the property and I think we may find more." "Jeez man, I can't believe she was gonna cook me a steak. What if it was part of one of those dudes who went missing. Fucking sick man." "Yeah, well, I guess that's all we need from you for now. You might need to testify before a judge about what happened but other than that, I don't think we should be contacting you too much." "Alright man, well I guess I'll see you around." "Alright then, have a good night. And try to stay out of trouble." "Sure thing officer. I've had enough weird shit happen tonight already.


The terrors that inhabit the night maybe even more awful in deceitful broad daylight.

According to Helen, it all started with a dead cat and a green monster in the garbage chute. And that, according to her, was all due to the neighborhood in which she lived. The neighborhood wasn't exactly known as the best part of town. An unsavory neighborhood to be honest. But apartments were hard to get. She would have loved to live in a beautiful complex, but that wasn't an option right now. When she came home after work in the evening, she always walked very fast, without looking to the left or right, while her heart was beating like a subway train. Especially when one of those dirty men whistled after her. The sidewalks were overrun with soldiers and sailors, gamblers and peroxide blondes, haunting dark backrooms. She was always relieved when she arrived in the lobby of her apartment building. Then she relaxed. She rarely saw anyone in the lobby, and the hallways were as quiet as the hallways of a fancy apartment complex. She only knew two of her neighbors. The short stocky man who lived in 240 and Mrs. Goldleaf who lived in 204. The latter was the essence of lavender and old lace. The man looked OK, one couldn't really say he looked particularly shady, still, there was something about his personality that didn´t feel right to Helen, she avoided him. One Saturday morning, when Helen went to pick up the paper, the man from 240 was hanging around in the hallway. She wore a robe over her nightgown and a scarf around her head to cover the curlers.

Helen thought she looked as striking as a nun, but the look with which that man looked at her made her feel as if she were naked. Helen stepped back inside and quickly shut her door. She listened carefully with her ear to the door for footsteps in the hallway before she opened the door again and went to get her newspaper. That paperboy always threw her paper in front of Mrs. Goldleaf's door at 204. When Mrs. Goldleaf heard Helen's footsteps in the hallway, she always came out. The older woman was always very interested in her neighbors and their lives. No wonder, she had very little to do, and she was a widow. This Saturday morning, she peered into the hallway again, her thin white hair pinned up in tight curlers. Mrs. Goldleaf was always so curious. -"Good morning." Helen said kindly. -"Good morning to you too dear." the old lady replied, "Today is Saturday, why are you up so early?" -"I want to clean my house today. Did you hear that noise in the hallway last night, Mrs. Goldleaf ?" The old lady looked at Helen with a disappointed look: "No, I didn't hear anything. I went to bed very late, though." -"That's strange." Helen said, "It looked like someone was dragging a rake across the floor. Thumping and scratching. I couldn't sleep." Gold Leaf clicked her tongue: "It must have been someone who came home drunk. I wonder who it could have been." There was a strange smell coming from Mrs. Goldleaf's apartment. A musty smell of antiques. Helen had been in there once when Mrs. Goldleaf had invited her for a cup of coffee. Her two rooms were filled like a museum, full of trinkets and souvenirs from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. -"And how is your bird?" Helen asked. Mrs. Goldleaf collected all kinds of things, but she was also an animal lover. She had two cats. a pair of goldfish and two turtledoves. The day before she had told Helen that one of the birds was sick. The old woman began to glow: -"Much better today! The doctor said to give him some brandy with a dripper. It's worked miracles." -"I'm so glad to hear that." Helen smiled, picked up her newspaper, and walked back to her apartment.

Helen took the hairpins out of her hair while the coffee trickled into the pot. She looked at herself in the mirror and felt an inexplicable depression set in. "What's the matter with me?" she asked her mirror image, "Why does nothing ever happen in my life?" She combed her hair and put on a little lipstick. Outside, the sun began to shine through the mist. On the fire escape below her kitchen window, Helen saw a dead cat. It was a gray cat. His eyes seemed to be watching her. His head was turned all the way back. Helen felt sick and quickly pulled the curtain down. -"It's just a dead cat." she said to herself as she lit a cigarette, "Maybe he fell off the roof. He probably ran out of nine lives." -"What am I to do now?" Helen thought, "I can hardly sit here drinking coffee with a dead cat under my window." She shuddered at the thought of getting the animal out of there herself. She decided to call the manager. She got up and went to the telephone in the hall. Her hand trembled as the dialed the number. -"Hello, this is Helen from 214. There is a dead cat on the fire escape in front of my window. You must do something about this." The concierge sounded half asleep. "A dead cat? What do you mean? Are you sure he's not sleeping?" "Of course, I'm sure he's dead. Can't you come up and take him away? It's terrible to have a dead cat under my window." Helen replied. -"I have to clean the lobby first. I'll be there as soon as I'm done." Helen hung up, feeling stupid: "Who can blame me for this?" she muttered to herself. She walked back to her apartment and sat in the kitchen. She tried extremely hard not to look through the window. She lit another cigarette and poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. To pass the time, she started leafing through the newspaper absently. In the back of the newspaper, her eyes were drawn to an article with a strange headline: Customer turns green. The article said a bartender fired several shots at a customer who had become aggressive after he had refused to serve him. The customer's hand was a claw and he had eaten a living mouse. -"Nothing but drunks these days." Helen thought to herself. She thought back to the restlessness of the previous night. She heard a noise on the fire escape. Helen reached over and opened the shade. The janitor stood there with a large brown paper bag in his hand. Helen opened the window: "How do you think the animal got there?" she asked. -"I don't know. Probably fought and fell from the roof." The janitor replied. -"What makes you say that?" Helen insisted. -"The neck is torn. Maybe it was a dog." the man continued dryly. -"Up here?" Helen asked in surprise. The janitor scratched his head, "Don't worry, I'm taking it away now." Helen closed the window and poured herself another cup of coffee. She grabbed another cigarette from the pack on the table. It was almost ten o'clock. She stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and emptied it, then walked out with the garbage bag. The garbage chute was in the back of the hall, next to the service staircase. The door was open, and Helen hesitated to enter. She was afraid the man from 240 might be there. The door moved a little, but no one came out. She waited a moment longer, thinking that the last person who had been there might have forgotten to close the door. She walked in, luckily there was no one there. She opened the top of the chute and threw the trash bag down, but there was something in the chute blocking the passage. She could see what it was: it looked like a chicken leg but was the size of a human foot - and green! Helen reached into the tube and pulled to free it. Her stomach turned at the cold feeling of the thing. She pulled at it with all her strength until it was free. She gaped in horror at the thing she was holding. She felt dizzy and began to gag. She let go of that thing immediately and could hear it rattling in the chute. After a few seconds, the horror really set in, and she started running down the hall back to her flat. She was dimly aware of the face of Mrs. Goldleaf who came to look at the door. -"Is something wrong, dear?" she asked. Helen gasped, "No, all is well." and ran on. She burst into her apartment and slammed the door shut. She went to the bathroom and dropped to her knees. She was unable to think. She stood up, washed her face, and walked to her bedroom. She lay trembling on her bed. -"What was that ghastly thing?" She thought back to the story in the newspaper. Maybe that was what that bartender had seen? What a horrible neighborhood this is, Helen thought, first a dead cat under my window and then a monster in the garbage chute. Maybe that cat had something to do with it? Her stomach started churning again. She had never heard of monsters living in the apartment building. And then she remembered something else in that newspaper article: the bartender had said the customer had looked normal at first, then turned green. That meant those monsters could look like ordinary people. Panic set in. What if someone finds out she saw it? What would they do with her then? White with fear she jumped off her bed. She grabbed her purse and put on a coat. When she got to the door, she hesitated for a moment: she was anxious to go out but far too afraid to stay inside. Helen started running up the hall, into the lobby, and onto the street. There were very few people in the street. The people in this neighborhood always slept late. She entered the restaurant, next to her apartment building, and sat down at the counter. She was the only customer. A sleepy-eyed waitress waited with a pad in her hand. -"Coffee." Helen muttered.

Everything looked so normal here. I must be stupid to sit here and believe in monsters, Helen thought. Maybe it's just neurosis and I'm delusional. Yes, that made a lot more sense. That story she'd been reading had probably entered her subconscious. I'll go back to my apartment and call the doctor, Helen thought. After all, a doctor can cure anything. Even green monsters that are in your head. She finished her coffee and fished out some change from her wallet. The sloppy waitress came over to take the money. Helen looked through the glass front to the street and got a cold fright. The man from 240 stood there. His gaze met hers. He was smoking a cigarette. He turned abruptly and started walking toward the apartment. Helen felt that fear again she’d felt earlier. She took out her key ring and walked quickly to the apartment next to the restaurant. The man from 240 was in the lobby just ahead of her. He held the door open for her. Helen kept her head down and did not look at him. In the hallway, she felt a sense of panic. She was here alone with "him" and cut off from help should the need arise. Her heart began to throb wildly. For a moment she thought that the man was going to say something. He moved with his hand as if to grab her arm. Helen backed away, but he stepped aside and let her pass. Helen started running down the hall. Panting, she arrived at her door and stiffened—she heard a scratching sound in her apartment. She backed away, ready to start running again. She looked at the man from 240 who was now standing at his own door. The way he looked at her did not sit well with her. It is him, she thought to herself. He is one of those green monsters. She was sure his skin could turn green, and that there were very long claws on his feet. What now? She was trapped in the hallway. Caught, next to that "thing". She sprinted the short distance to Mrs. Goldleaf's apartment. Like a madwoman, she threw herself against the door. -"Mrs. Goldleaf, please, open the door." Hellen screamed. The door opened immediately. Mrs. Goldleaf's round, wrinkled face beamed at Helen: -"Come in honey, come in!" Helen nearly fell over the landing. She heard the door close behind her and dropped herself onto the couch, panting. A cat came purring next to Helen's legs. A cat? -"Where is the other cat?" she heard herself ask. She understood! The old woman's face trembled. It changed. It seemed to melt... into something green. Outside in the hallway, the man from 240 stepped into his apartment. "I'll never have the guts to ask her out." he thought to himself, "What would a girl like her want to do with a lousy cop like me?"


I remember. God knows if I try I can still remember, believe it or not. I got a brain like a mine. Memories like tunnels all the way down. Branching and twisting deeper down inside me. But you know time. Beams rot and earth sweats and sometime...sometimes I’ll go looking for a name or a face and there’ll be nothing but rubble. Big black cave-in on my thirty-fifth birthday or my high-school graduation. Dropping out of college and my great aunts all buried together. I don’t even try to sift through it anymore. But if there’s one tunnel that’s as solid as a gun barrel it's the time I spent working repossessions in 1966. I worked for a P.I. I met after I got out of the army. He’d been fingered by the V.A. to sniff out deserters and he came looking my neck of the woods. He had been looking for a buddy of mine. At first I told him to shove it but two hundred bucks and a job offer later, I tell you. The look on a mans face when you walk in on him screwing his neighbours teenage daughter with a gun in one hand and an arrest warrant in the other, it’s not a first day story that a lot of people can match up to. Cortez had offered me the job as he was in need of someone able to walk streets he couldn't walk without being fingered for a bad actor. What he meant by that was he wanted a good white boy in brown pants to vault a few fences, look through a few windows through cupped hands without having the cops called on him every five minutes despite giving a very convincing story about a potential gas leak. I called bullshit on that early on, but didn’t press it as it was good money. But straighten my damn hams if a pair of wire-frame glasses I lifted off my dad and a few ‘aw jeez’s and a couple of ‘golly I’m real sorry’s didn’t make people annoyed or assuaged enough to let you get out of their faces without so much as a reprimand. The glasses thing was a trick I used a crazy amount of times throughout my career. People trust nerds. Or at least feel like they don’t have anything to fear from them or don’t think that they’re going to need to prove themselves to them in anyway. They came in handy in fights, too. People avoid the glasses almost subconsciously. But I went on to work with Juan Phillipe Gavrón Cortez for that entire year until I moved on to other P.I. work under my own license. And believe it or not, like I said before, that time was the most memorable I ever spent working that side of the law. But Jimmy, or ‘Señor Cortez’ as he’d have me call him in front of his wife and kids, I drove him from job to job and did some picking up and dropping off and developed a few rolls of film in my granny’s bathroom and then dropped ‘those’ off on some very fancy doorsteps. Besides catching folks dodging the draft or dodging taxes or pretending they can’t walk. I remember this one time, after congress passed this disabilities list ‘morbid obesity’ was one of the new bright and shiny ones. And over eight thousand new people started claiming dissability. And I tell you, you won’t believe how fast some of those fat motherfuckers can move. Not that some of them didn’t qualify. But there’s nothing like having a fat sobbing man being forcefully weighed by two court officers to check that he ‘is’ in fact over 100 pounds. Jimmy and me and his seemingly endless supply of cousins also worked litigations for this downtown law office. Mainly going over to clients places and not outright threaten anyone, but roll up our sleeves and lean against some doorways just so as to flash the leather of what could be a .38 in a holster. But most of the time, we went into bankrupt peoples houses and retrieved physical collateral to pay off their court debts. People who owed money to the bank. People who couldn’t cough up legal fees. I remember this one job. We drive up to this house. Big. Glass house. And we go in and we begin to retrieve the collateral. But there’s this one armchair. This sickly green leather thing with thin little mahogany feet. And there’s this blonde girl sitting in it. Legs tucked up under her. Trying not to cry. She wouldn’t get up. We were nice about it. We weren’t complete assholes. Generally we’d just stone-wall. No reaction. Insults, spit, fists. We just move along. And so when she won’t get up, I just pull the chair with her in it through the house and load it into the truck. She doesn’t say a word. And we’re about halfway down the hill when she starts banging on the side of the cab to be let out. We do, but she don’t say nothing, she just hugs herself with her bare arms and walks up the hill. Her daddy said it was about it being her mom’s chair. Mother topped herself after daddy lost millions. Not his fault. He tried to break into the casino business out in Vegas. And those boys don’t like competition. That is the most walled of all walled gardens. The guy submits all the permits and cost plans and puts up the money and pays off all the right people and hands out all the under the table cash they tell him they’re gonna need from him, they still shred him. Casino built, slot machines in plastic. All those shiny little chips. They waited until the very last second. And then they knocked down every door and threatened every soul who could make his dream a reality. In three days. He lost everything. And on the fourth day he receives the bill for the demolition of his own casino. A demolition that had been booked a year prior to him paying every single one of those pricks. But I also remember the circus. An entire circus. This sun-bleached high-top that sat outside Albuquerque. We turn up and there’s nobody home. Everything set up for a show. Nobody there. Except for the ring leader. This flabby guy with no shirt on and a pair of jeans tucked into treadless cowboy boots and he’s stacking a bon-fire. Broken chairs and shit. And sitting right in the middle of it like an egg in a nest, is this big green safe. This old-school monster with brass dials. Size of a Datsun. And this guy is drawing on this dunhill cigarette and he’s screaming his head off. “This is what you fuckin’ get!” this and “This is what you fuckin’ get! You bitch!” That. And we stroll in and we ask him what he’s doing and he looks at us. And he draws this bright orange cattle-prod from this leather loop around his belt and he’s weighing it in his hand like he’s going to take a swing at us. And so we reach into our jackets and we flash our pieces and he lets his arm fall. And we ask him again, you know what’s the deal here, collateral’s coming in, legal defence needs to get paid, what’s with all the broken collateral? And the guy doesn’t say a word, he just flicks the switch on the cattle-prod and the sticks it into the bon-fire and the whole thing goes up. These big gasoline gorged flames. And we’re all watching this thing go up. And that’s when the safe starts screaming. Just howling. Like a storm siren at the bottom of a well. And my buddy, he pulls his gun and he starts whipping this fucking guy. Screaming at him. We’re running around like maniacs, trying to find water. My buddy Angelo just stomps the flames with his boots and eventually he just crashes right into the blaze and throws his body against the safe and it topples. End over end, it mashes into the ground. Angelo’s dropping and rolling. I go over to him but he’s okay. My other buddy Reese, he’s dragging the leader by the hair and he throws him onto the safe. Guy screams, the safe was red hot. And next thing the guy knows there’s three guns in his face. I’m frozen. But everybody else is screaming. They grab his wrists and make him work the dials. It’s burning his fingers bad. But he’s laughing and soon enough they’re turning that wheel and they all heft the door open. And flying out is this Orangutan. Enormous. And pursued by a black cloud that smells like burning hair and grilled meat. Teeth like sickles it comes at Reese, the monkey takes a swing at him and clips his jaw and I tell you it sounded like a queue ball hitting an eight! Pop! Jaw, broken. And without thinking, guns start going off. And they just shred that poor animal. And the leader, he’s just laughing. And we don’t know what to do. So we just call the cops. We never found out what happened. Until about a year later. There was this bar where all the cops drank and really all the legal servants had a tab. A real fuck-Irish place. There were better bars but I made sure to show up every once in a while to pay tribute to the other, ah, assholes in my line of work. But I’m there with a date of all people. And everyone’s talking and we get onto war stories. You know, gristly shit to rile up the girls and what-not. But out of nowhere, my date starts telling this story! She was a paralegal at the time and she starts talking about this gristly court case she’s on. She’s talking about this class action type deal. This ‘incident’ at this circus that was in the county at the time. She’s talking about one of the acts. This act they did with a magician and this orangutan. This disappearing act. Magician comes out with a pair of mahogany boxes. Big as a mini-fridge. Crank on the side. And this act is an audience participation affair. The magician announces the trick. Something will be going into the box. And won’t be coming back out. The ape is going around and it’s going to pick somebody out for the trick, right? And he grabs this baby. This little toddler out of her chair and he waddles off with her. And the mother follows. And people are kind of freaked out, but the mon’s laughing and going along with it. The ape sets the kid down. Pats it on the head. And the magician’s upset but the mother’s into it. This young blonde. Country girl. And the magician laughs it off, picks the kid out of the ape’s arms, hands it back to the mom and people are set at ease. Now. The magician briefs the woman. Something personal is going into the box. And it’s going to be sucked into the magical googah void or whatever. And eventually returned to her. No big deal. And the monkey. Is supposed to take something from her. Necklace, handbag, hat, whatever! And like you already fucking know, that ape has got that baby in that box quicker than the magician can mace the damn thing. And it’s cranking the crank and smiling and nobody knows wether to scream or not. Is this the act? Nobody knows. Evidently the magician is keeping on with the show, that’s his job. He’s making jokes and assuaging the mother under his breath that the kid is ok and he follows through with a quick spell and the ape hobbles across to the second cabinet and swings open the door. And there’s a top hat. Black velvet top hat. The magician fakes being shocked, the mother is looking concerned and the ape wears the hat and does a dance before putting the hat back into the cabinet. Door close. Crank routine, back to the first cabinet. Door open. Cantaloupe. Ha, ha, ha. Magician is hurrying it along. He’s talking into his head set, and the monkey keeps running back and forth between the cabinets, cranking and opening doors, alarm clock, shoes, cake, microscope, gloves, no baby, no baby, no baby! And the mother is starting to get upset. And so everyone’s starting to get upset. She’s getting a little too wrapped up in it. “My baby, my baby!” And the audience is starting to make it clear that this act isn’t funny anymore. People are calling out. The magician’s panicking, rushing through the act. And then he declares one final joke. “CRANK THE OTHER WAY!” And the ape does a big ‘whoopsidoo’! And he cranks the other way. And sitting in the cabinet, is this little, itty-bitty babydoll. And he walks over to the mother. And he tucks the doll into her thin little arms. And waits for the applause. Police. FBI. Search party after search party. They never found the kid. As much as one can grieve. That is the best damn magic trick that I ever heard pulled. And like they do with real witches. They tried to burn that monkey. I got a brain like a mine. Memories are like tunnels I dug. If I wanna see my brother’s face or my mom’s, if I wanna remember the first ride I ever bought. Or the first girl I frenched. All I've gotta do is take a walk. Down those tunnels. But lately, the more I try to remember, the more cave-ins I find. I couldn’t tell you what colour my mom’s eyes were. Let alone her hair. I don’t remember my pops at all. But I know. As long as I’m alive, the tunnel down which ‘that’ monkey lives. That’s been cast in steel. If it all comes crashing down. That tunnel. Is gonna be there forever.