I'm Detective Brian Myers and I just retired from the Lakeland Police Department in Lakeland, Florida. From 1982 to 2020, I've worked as a law enforcement officer. This story actually starts on Halloween morning 1962. Helen Gaines found a baby girl on her doorstep in the wee hours of the morning (someone had rang the doorbell and ran away). Normally the police would be called but Helen never called. She was engaged to be married to an older man who didn't want any more children. From what my father told me, they got into a very heated argument at the park downtown. No one was around but my dad could see them from his patrol car but they couldn't see him. They yelled and screamed at each other while the baby who was in Helen's arms was screaming and crying. Then the older man walked away leaving Helen crying on a bench. The engagement was broken. What the older man didn't know and few people knew was Helen could never have children. Helen told people that the baby's parents had died in a car accident and that she was a distant relative who had been designated to raise her. No one really looked into seeing if this was true. People back then, more or less took your word for it and since the Gaines family was a very highly respected old money in Lakeland, no one questioned what she said. The baby was named Nancy Gaines. Helen never married. She was engaged, once in the early 1950's and then the second time in 1962. When Nancy came to her doorstep, Helen was 30 years old. Most women her age in town had been married for at least 8-10 years and nearly all had children (3 to 4 was the average by the time one was in their early 30's). Richard Gaines was Helen's father and was an attorney. Her mother was a legal secretary and so was Helen. Later Richard Gaines Jr. joined the firm so it was Gaines & Gaines legal services. Nancy was told by Helen which was the truth that she found her on her doorstep. She didn't tell her everything she knew and she knew a lot more than she ever let on but this came out later. Nancy had a very good childhood and was pampered by Helen and her family. Fast Forward 1985. Lakeland and Polk County is a conservative area of Florida. Nancy minored in dance at Florida Christian College (which is in Lakeland). She was on the dance team and as I said loved dancing. Well, she was on a music video dancing in a way which let's just say isn't for kids or family hour.. It only played on MTV after 10:00 pm. Helen was a rather progressive thinker, so she wasn't bothered by the video. Others were and she told them to get over it. Shortly after the video came out, Nancy got pregnant by one of the band members Jason Miller who happened to be from Lakeland but from the wrong side of the tracks. As you imagine, the gossipers in town had a field day with this. Sadly Nancy gave birth to a stillborn child and the relationship ends shortly thereafter. I needed to get to the point as I've go on and on. Anyway, fast forward 1998. New Years Eve, Jason Miller is murdered at a party in Lakeland by the son of a county commissioner who believes that he is getting rid of sinners. Everyone knows that this wasn't the real reason. Kevin Green and Jason Miller have had bad blood since childhood and Kevin was actually jealously over Jason having numerous female admirers and lovers while he never had a relationship with any woman. When I arrested him, Kevin Green offered no resistance. In the patrol car, he told me that he did it and he had no remorse. I just listened and said nothing. He told me this several times and I recorded him with his consent. Nancy Gaines-Moffit was living in Tampa, married with three children. She was sadden by Jason's death but had a really bad feeling about the case, that she would be dragged into it. About two days after Jason died, Helen Gaines died unexpectedly. I had called her and she said she was coming to visit Helen (this was before she died). I told her that she could wait until after the funeral to talk to me but she said she would take to me early Friday morning as the viewing for her mother was that afternoon and the service was Saturday morning at the Grace Episcopal church. Her husband and kids were doing other activities. "I met Jason Miller at my grandfather's law office. He got into trouble for using drugs and fighting. He had a bad reputation, I know. My family didn't really want me to get involved with him but I did. In the summer of 1981, I was living in Tampa doing an internship. I worked days. At night I would go with him to the bar to listen to him play in the band. At that time, we were friends. The sorority that I was in saw the band and we went to see him play on weekends, even though we weren't supposed to be going into bars and associating with people like him. But he had a different girlfriend every week. I never thought I would be his girlfriend but that happened in October of 1984. I was finally free of all the restrictions. Jason was a rule breaker and I followed the rules. I knew the rest of the story as did everyone else in town and since I've already spoken of it earlier, I will not repeat it. A couple of times Nancy had tears coming down her face when talking about Jason. Not totally sure if all the tears were from him or for her mom. She didn't know Kevin Green personally but Jason had spoke of him in a negative way. They hated each other is what she told me. Jason wanted to avoid a trial but some legal group talked him out of it, so now we are going to trial and this really took on a life of its own. The trial was moved from Lakeland to Pensacola. The legal team found out some information about Helen's medical history and Nancy's biological parents which was shocking. They denied that they had anything to do with the information which was published in the National Gossip News but I knew they had. They loved to find dirt on people, especially people who didn't agree with their viewpoints and Helen, Nancy and Jason would fit into this category. What they published had nothing to do with the murder case. Highlights of the comments included: "Helen Grimes was a virgin who was born as someone who had no male or female characteristics. Her family decided that she would be female as they had a son. She didn't find out until she was engaged to be married and promptly broke off the relationship. " This shocked me but the rest of the comments didn't. When Nancy heard about this, she fainted and broke her arm and had to be taken to the hospital. "Helen Grimes lied to the court saying that she would be marrying Harry Malvin and this was the only reason the court granted the adoption. Her family did some legal maneuvers and this was promptly forgotten. Illegal adoption." "Jason Miller was a juvenile delinquent who had problems with drinking, drugs and fighting...... Other personal attacks on Nancy. The last time Nancy talked to Jason was a couple of days after the funeral of their son. They talk for a long time and agreed to go their separate paths. They hugged and went their separate paths. You would think this would be enough attacks but and I don't know how they found this information out but found out that leaving Nancy at the doorstep was a staged event. King Lars of Flowers was named as the biological father and Louise Wren who was a college student in Tampa was her biological mother. Shortly after giving birth, Louise had committed suicide. " I turned on the TV and the news crews were all over Nancy's neighborhood. Nancy was trying to go to work. Her husband Mark had yelled at them to get off their property which they did per police orders but they were in the road. It was only after police threatened arrest that they finally left. The King had no comment nor did Nancy. This craziness went on for about a week and then they finally left poor Nancy alone. But that wasn't the end for Nancy. The defense attorney tried to rip her to shreds emotionally and it did work to a certain degree. The first day she was grilled for 4 hours about her relationship with Jason Green. The second day she was grilled for a hour about the music video which today would be considered to be tame. This never would have happened in Lakeland or Tampa due to the Gaines's family prominence but in Pensacola, this didn't protect her. Why the judge would allow this, I don't know. I couldn't stand this judge and almost got contempt of court when I challenged the defense attorney. I had worked security for the Gaines family every year when they had their Christmas party as there were some interesting characters at the party and they made a issue of that. Had nothing to do with the murder case. Thankfully I had it on tape that Kevin Green admitted that he murdered Jason. He told me this voluntary. Unlike Nancy, I've been in a courtroom for trials, so I know what to expect. The jury saw thru all this and convicted Kevin Green for murder. He got a life sentence. The insanity then stopped.


From: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) To: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) Time/Date: 5:36pm, July 18, 2024 Subject: This weekend Hey Andy, Just letting you know that I can’t make your BBQ this weekend. I was looking forward to having a few beers with you and the guys and maybe playing a few hands of poker once the eating is done, but I have to head to Albany in the morning. Remember my Uncle Arthur? Don’t worry, I don’t either. (Well, a little.) Anyway, he passed away a few days ago and his sister - my Aunt Bonnie out in Wisconsin - contacted me this morning to inform me that he left “certain assets” to me in his will. Most intriguing! I won’t know the details for a while but Bonnie begged me to go to his house in Albany right away to take care of his cats and locate some important documents in his library. (My recently-deceased uncle who named me in his will was wealthy enough to have a personal library? The plot thickens…) Anyway, I’m packing a bag and planning to stay up there for a little while to help manage affairs at the house and work with Bonnie on the local funeral arrangements while she lines up a flight over the next few days. Not much else to do at the moment as I await my next work assignment but I should be back by this time next week. In the meantime, you know how to reach me. Tell the boys I said hola. - Jamie ---------------------------------------------------- From: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) To: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) Time/Date: 7:48pm, July 18, 2024 Subject: Re: This weekend Hey Jamie, Sorry you can’t make it this weekend. Me and the guys will look forward to the next poker game after you score your big inheritance. Crazy news, man. Barely known rich uncle dies and leaves you a possible fortune? The stuff of legends…or daydreams? LOL. Anyway, good luck there. (Don’t forget your old college roommate when you strike it rich!) See you when you get back. Talk soon man. Andy ---------------------------------------------------- From: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) To: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) Time/Date: 6:12pm, July 20, 2024 Subject: Re: This weekend Hey Andy, Greetings from gloomy Albany! Hasn’t stopped raining since I got here. Also, I’m fairly certain these cats are plotting my demise. Other than that, things are fine and the house is basically a smallish mansion. Listen to this, while searching for the documents that my Aunt Bonnie asked me to find for her in the library I found some really interesting old books. I think we might have some pretty rare first editions here, plus some other really strange stuff. I need to do a little web research tonight to try to figure out what I’m looking at but I’ll let you know.

As a newly-minted Ivy League literature professor I thought you would be interested. Maybe I will come home with a copy of In Cold Blood signed by Capote for you?

- Jamie ---------------------------------------------------- From: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) To: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) Time/Date: 11:22am, July 21, 2024 Subject: Re: This weekend Hey Jamie, Very interesting! Bring home a signed Capote first edition for me and we can totally forget about that $80 Venmo request I sent you for golf last week. Seriously though, that sounds really amazing. Looking forward to hearing more. Andy p.s. The guys all say hello and they missed your "easy money" at the poker game last night. (Their words, not mine.) ---------------------------------------------------- From: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) To: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) Time/Date: 9:52pm, July 22, 2024 Subject: Re: This weekend Andy, In addition to Capote’s In Cold Blood , so far I have already found four more signed first edition iconic novels; Heart of Darkness, To Kill A Mockingbird, The Illustrated Man and - hold on to your hat here - A Tale of Two Cities ! No telling if the autographs are legit but I don’t know why my uncle would be hoarding counterfeit-signed copies in his home library. More research necessary here but I have attached photos of the covers, bindings and the author-signed pages in each. The library has floor-to-ceiling shelves full of books on three walls and I have only checked out about a third of them so far. Stay tuned! - Jamie ---------------------------------------------------- From: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) To: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) Time/Date: 9:36am, July 23, 2024 Subject: Re: This weekend Hey Jamie, Okay listen. Just give me the Dickens novel and not only will I cancel the $80 Venmo request, but golf is on me for the rest of the year. I think that’s a fair deal. Seriously man, I just did a quick bit of Googling here and those books do look like legit first edition copies and the signatures look right too. Usually people take these sort of things to Sotheby’s or Christie’s, where they employ rare book experts who can authenticate them properly. Even if they’re not going to be put up for sale this is probably a good idea, just to officially document these historical items. Can’t wait to hear what you find next. I’m seriously on the edge of my seat here! Andy ---------------------------------------------------- From: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) To: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) Time/Date: 11:45pm, July 24, 2024 Subject: Okay, this is getting weird now… Andy, Forget about the signed first editions. I am into some strange new terrain here. Yesterday I found a number of extremely interesting books way up on one of the top shelves I hadn’t explored yet. Listen to this. I found a copy of For Whom The Bell Tolls by William Faulkner. Yes, William Faulkner! And it wasn’t just a different author’s name transposed onto the cover. It was the same third-person omniscient narrative of the Spanish Civil War, only it wasn’t written in the short staccato sentence styles and brief paragraphing of Hemingway but the long, leisurely prose of Faulkner. I’m not even a fan of Faulkner and I couldn’t put it down! Similarly, I also found a copy of The Catcher in the Rye by Dalton Trumbo and The Iliad by EE Cummings! (Seriously, I can’t make this up.) Still so many more books to look through. I am simply overwhelmed here. Stay tuned. - Jamie ---------------------------------------------------- From: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) To: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) Time/Date: 7:51am, July 25, 2024 Subject: Re: Okay, this is getting weird now… Jamie, Okay. You’re just fucking with me now, right? You had me going with the thought of all those rare, signed first editions, but that’s at least within my fathomable universe. What you just described has to be a joke. Come on, man. What about the funeral plans? Isn’t that a big reason why you are there? Andy ---------------------------------------------------- From: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) To: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) Time/Date: 11:56pm, July 28, 2024 Subject: Okay, this is getting weird now… Hey Andy, You’re right. I have been negligent in my funeral arrangement duties of late. I accidentally let my phone battery die out, not sure when. The truth is that I haven’t slept much in the last few days. This continues to get more and more fascinating. And no, I wasn’t kidding about those strange books I mentioned in my last message. But never mind that. I am into some truly bizarre territory now. I found some old 3-ring binders filled with dot matrix printed files listing the daily opening and closing numbers of each of the stocks contained in the Dow Jones Industrial Index running from January 1, 1977 through December 31, 2026. Andy, it has accurate stock performance data through the end of 2026! I’m sure you think I am kidding again (or maybe just crazy) but I have been watching those stock prices over the last few days and my God man they are accurate right down to the last decimal point! You think I’m joking? Here’s a random selection for tomorrow for you to check out. Merck & Co. (ticker symbol NYSE: MRK) will open the trading day at $154.34 and it will close at $156.12 per share with a total of 7.126 million shares in overall trading volume. I’m sure you won’t but you can literally bet the house on it. I guarantee it. - Jamie ---------------------------------------------------- From: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) To: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) Time/Date: 9:41pm, July 29, 2024 Subject: Re: Okay, this is getting weird now… Jamie, I don’t know what to say at this point. I have been thinking about this since the market closed about 5 hours ago and I have no idea how you were able to make that prediction with such accuracy. I would call it dumb luck but I actually opened up Excel and took the time to do a little statistical modeling and what I found was that a stock prediction with that level of precision is basically like calling out the next day’s lottery numbers. Not quite that improbable but close enough that I am simply baffled. I need answers, because I just can’t believe you found an old set of stock market printouts from almost 50 years ago that can perfectly predict what will happen tomorrow. I’ve tried to call you several times but it goes straight to vmail every time and your mailbox is full. You gotta get back to me asap. I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep until you do. Funeral plans? Still a concern? Andy ---------------------------------------------------- From: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) To: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) Time/Date: 2:13am, August 1, 2024 Subject: Whole new level Hey Andy, Forget about the stock market. Forget about the rare first edition signed books. Those things are trivial. At least for now.

I just found a medical manual that seems to contain advanced diagnostic techniques and curative/surgical treatments for most common, and some uncommon, forms of cancer and various other deadly diseases. I am only about halfway through it and without the benefit of a medical background it is taking me forever to research the basic terminology needed just to understand this even on a rudimentary level, but if it’s true it’s an incredible discovery and I owe it to the world to get this into the right hands once I can at least confirm its basic legitimacy.

I can’t say when I will be able to call you or even write back since my time is so limited now. I don’t see this changing anytime soon. Who knows what I will find next? So much more to still be explored. I can’t worry about the funeral arrangements right now either. Before my phone died I got a message from my Aunt Bonnie saying that she had some health problems that were preventing her from flying in. I can’t remember the details but that’s just going to have to wait for now. I have far more important concerns at this point. - Jamie p.s. I have discovered a number of old hand-written notes, presumably penned by my late Uncle Arthur, warning anyone who comes across these documents against sharing them in any way. The writing is rambling and paranoid in nature and some of the warnings give me pause but how could anyone possibly just sit on all this? It would be immoral, no? ---------------------------------------------------- From: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) To: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) Time/Date: 8:51am, August 2, 2024 Subject: Re: Whole new level Hey Jamie, I just hope you are all right. Maybe it’s time to take a break? You were supposed to be back here a week ago. Are the cats okay at least? Andy ---------------------------------------------------- From: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) To: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) Time/Date: 3:45am, August 5, 2024 Subject: Re: Whole new level Hi Andy, I let the cats out a few days ago when all of the remaining cat food ran out. Don’t think I’ve seen them since. Not sure. They should be okay. It’s summer. Dude, you wouldn’t even believe what I’m looking at now. No time to explain but I will get back to you when I can. Not planning to head home anytime soon. - Jamie p.s. Please see the attached file containing stock market data for the next two years. I just ask that you don’t share this with anyone else. “Law of Unintended Consequences” and all that. ---------------------------------------------------- From: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) To: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) Time/Date: 7:51am, August 6, 2024 Subject: Re: Whole new level Jamie, I‘m really getting worried about you man. Please call me. Your Friend, Andy ---------------------------------------------------- From: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) To: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) Time/Date: 4:37pm, January 1, 2029 Subject: Re: Whole new level Andy, Happy New Year! Don’t worry about me. I am well. Not sure if I will ever see “you” again (that is, the “present day” you) but that is primarily a temporal and theoretical question. I have a set of guidelines to follow and I will soon find out where all the boundaries lay. I will fill you in (whatever version of “you” that might be) whenever I see you next! Stay healthy. It might be a while...for you anyway. - Jamie ---------------------------------------------------- From: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) To: James Benson (jben****@gmail.com) Time/Date: 7:01am, August 9, 2024 Subject: Re: Whole new level Jamie, How did you change the timestamp on your email like that? Seriously, stop messing with me. What’s going on? I am really having a hard time with all of this. Can we please just talk? Andy p.s. They announced that a potential breakthrough cure had been found for various types of cancer and other diseases on the news today. I really don’t know what to think at this point. p.p.s. Thanks so much for the stock market data you forwarded. I plan to pay off my mortgage before the end of this month! ---------------------------------------------------- From: mailer-daemon@gmail.com To: Anders Westbrook (ande****@cornell.edu) Time/Date: 7:02am, August 9, 2024 Subject: Delivery Failure Notice: Re: Whole new level Sorry, we were unable to deliver your message to: <jben****@gmail.com> The email account that you tried to reach does not exist. Please try double-checking the recipient's email address for typos and try again. THE END


Sean runs down the rear stairs from his small apartment, stopping at the bottom to check his shoelaces. “I’m just going for a run,” he tells himself, as though hearing the words out loud makes his intentions truthful. And in part, what he tells himself is the truth. Sean runs most Saturdays; as the saying goes, rain, hail or shine. Today, however, is different. And Sean knows it. Still, lying to himself is easier than facing the truth. Sean tightens his shoelaces. He raises his left foot, landing the heel of his trainer on the third step from the bottom. The height is right for a hamstring stretch. He extends his left arm, leans forward and touches the tip of his left shoe. Sean is proud of how fit he is. He was fat on his mother’s butter-laden mashed potatoes as a kid. Then, a crush on his high school PE teacher, Mr Shaw, saw Sean running around the school’s oval, lap after lap, day after day. Mr Shaw changed schools, but Sean, lighter on his feet and buoyed by a new confidence, kept running through high school and onto university, where he discovered literature, weight training and boys. Sean switches legs. He’s been a high school teacher for one week and knows he’s not cut out for the vocation. The job was tough; the kids tougher. Sean kidded himself (for a day) that he was moulding young minds, but the students and his fellow teachers exhausted him. The charade of being someone he wasn’t drained him; if another teacher asked if he had a girlfriend, he would scream. All Sean wants to do is write. Sean told his Year 12 teacher he would be the James Joyce of Australia. The teacher asked who that was. Still, his plans to quit teaching soonish rather than latish didn’t temper the voice in his head that nags;” Doesn’t make what you are doing right now right, does it?"  "Shut up." Sean takes down his leg and runs down the long driveway alongside his apartment block and towards the street. Sean can tell himself anything he likes, but he is running towards trouble. His heart rate rises as his shoes hit the pavement, those first jarring steps of a long run. Soon, he won't notice his body's aches as it adjusts to the pace; even the heat of a hot summer's morning won't bother him as his body limbers, and he loses himself in his thoughts. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand, smearing the sweat and grime. The day is brilliant, a bright blue sky, not a whisper of air, so warm even the birds don't sing.  Sean laughs, thinking of his first day in front of that class. Only a moment ago, it seems, he was the eager young kid raising his hand, calling out, “Sir!” Now, he was whom the seniors called out “sir” to. Sean turns 22 in May. He is lucky if he is five years older than his students. “Crazy.” He turns onto Fifth Avenue and runs towards the beachfront. He never expected to be assigned a senior class, not with the ink barely dry on his teaching diploma. Neither did Principal Harvey, who offered Sean the Year 8 English teacher position late last year. “Keep it light; nothing too serious,” he told Sean. “The kids in this school aren’t too bright, and neither are their parents. Get them to read The Hobbit or that Charlie and the Chocolate Factory book, some spelling and grammar, you know the drill.” The Hobbit it was. He turned up on his first day only to be told that Mrs Adams, the school’s English teacher of 35 years, dropped dead on Christmas Day in front of her 16 grandchildren. “So inconsiderate,” Principal Harvey shook his head. The jowls hanging under his chin wobbled like a turkey’s. “Those poor grandkids, that’s a Christmas they won’t forget quickly.” Sean agreed but protested when assigned to Mrs Adam’s Year 12 students. “Sir. I’m not experienced enough. Those kids will run circles around me.” Principal Harvey expelled a loud belly laugh. “Just be assertive from day one,” he explained. “None of this modern teacher mumbo jumbo they teach these days. Kids, especially in this area, need a firm hand and authority. Teach with an iron fist, and if anyone troubles you, send them my way for three of the best.” Sean’s eyes follow Principal Harvey’s to his bamboo cane leaning against the corner wall. A PTS chill runs down Sean’s spine. “You hear me, Kelly.” “Loud and clear, sir.” The principal pushed back in his chair. “I don’t see a wedding ring. Married Kelly?” Sean gasped. “I’m only 22, sir.” Mr Harvey looked puzzled. “A girlfriend then?” Sean sighed. “No, sir.” The principal widened his eyes and shook his head with dismay. "Deary me. Don't let those senior girls know you're a free agent. Eat a guy like you alive, they will." The principal dropped his hands and leaned forward, closing the gap between himself and Sean as if letting him in on a secret. “A couple of those girls are a right pair of moles. Do you get my drift, Kelly? Trouble.” Sean tried to conceal his shocked expression from Principal Harvey with a firm cough. The principal’s choice of language alarmed him. Sean was no stranger to church and thought Principal Harvey might be better at the pulpit, the conveyor of sin and depravity to a congregation of small minds, than the curator of young minds at an institution where those same minds came to learn.  Still standing, Principal Harvey circled Sean like a shark preying on a defenceless minnow. "Believe it or not, I once was a young, hot-blooded man like yourself." Sean tried hard not to laugh. He never expected to be the audience of such a speech. "Those girls can be tempting. Just remember Kelly. You are here to teach." He handed Sean a folded piece of paper. "The Senior Class of 1985. You'll find them in room 4B. You better be quick., class started five minutes ago." Sean snatched the piece of paper and went to turn when Principal Harvey spoke again. “Kelly?” “Yes, Sir.” Sean felt 13. “You got a nice pair of guns on you there, lad. What do you bench press?” Sean blushed, uncomfortable in the tightness of his polo shirt. “100kg on a good day.” “Good. The school needs a rugby couch.” "Sir?" Sean could not hide his frustration and began to gesture with his hands. "I know nothing about coaching rugby." “Well, that gives you something in common with every other teacher in this school. Sign-ups start next month. Kelly?” “Yes?” He answered in the voice of a defeated man. “This school hasn’t won a game since Owen Jones led the team to victory in the 1981 State School Championships.” He points at the wall to a photo of a group of begrimed boys raising their team captain high into the air. ”I’m not saying we need to go all the way, but Kelly, let’s win at least one game, shall we? Head down, shoulders slumped, Sean marched to the classroom, a condemned man. Stopping short of the door to compose himself, he rolled his shoulders back, strutted out his chest, and raised his chin. "You got this, dude," he told himself and walked into the commotion that was his senior English class.

"Right, everyone," he said, unloading a big smile. My name is Sean Kelly. You can all call me Sean, and I'm your new…" He stopped. Sitting two rows back, with his blue eyes peering out from beneath a blonde cowlick hanging across his forehead, was Dylan, the guy he had met last Saturday fishing off the pier. Surprised, Sean regained his composure despite Dylan’s friendly, welcoming smile. "I'm your, um, new English teacher." “ Alright!” boomed a girl sonically from the back of the classroom. “We’ve got Mr Hottie as our new English teacher.” Sean runs to the end of his street, where it meets Flinders Parade. The smart thing to do is to turn left and run towards Redcliffe. Instead, he turns right, following the steps he took last Saturday, the steps that led him to Dylan Jones, now his Year 12 student.  Sean moved to Sandgate from Paddington, where he shared a small worker's cottage with two older girls and a Siamese cat called Sookie. Sean wanted to be close to the school and alone. Sandgate, he discovered on that first morning, was beautiful. The northern suburb had a village-like feel, with its now redundant town hall and clock tower. Lagoons behind the town centre attracted many birds, picnickers, and nature buffs. On the other side of the main street was the beachfront, a span of waterway called Bramble Bay, part of the bigger Moreton Bay. The beachfront was no Gold Coast. The offshore islands stopped the surf and silt from the Brisbane River, and nearby mangrove swamps turned the sand flats into mud. The sea was shallow; even at high tide, it hardly splashed Sean's knees. The sea made his skin itch. Sea lice, a lady in one of the many fish and chip shops warned him. He was also told not to wade into the sea without wearing shoes. “If the stingrays don’t get you, the stonefish will,” one old-timer explained. Stonefish lived buried in the mud, and their venomous spikes could paralyse a man. Sean’s forays into the sea ended that day. Still, when the tide was high, the sun shined, and the gulls soared above, the beachfront, for all its hazards, was glorious and a far cry from Inala, where Sean grew up a “Westie” among factories and used car lots. Sandgate possessed an old-worldly charm all of its own. Sean was smitten. The tranquillity of the town suited his gentle temperament. Here, he knew could write. On the Saturday before school started on the Monday, Sean was excited and nervous. A run, he decided, would sort him out. He jogged towards the beachfront and turned right towards Shorncliffe, where a track made for cyclists took him to the top of the cliffs; here, old homes on stilts took in the expensive views of Moreton Bay. Shorncliffe was once a popular spot for holidaymakers at the turn of the century, and some of the more prominent buildings had once been hotels. Most now were boarding houses, where old men lived alone. Some sat on the verandas in the morning sun, drinking beer from tall brown bottles or tea from tin mugs. Some were missing limbs. Sean ran past and waved. They waved back. He followed the road to a small river, Cabbage Tree Creek, where a sparse fleet of trawlers moored. The bay was famous for its prawns. At the mouth of the creek was a jetty where a lone fisherman cast a line out into the sparkling sea. The sun had barely risen; the streets were quiet, and Sean felt he had the world to himself. On days like this, he felt less lonely, nature proving enough of a companion. He stopped running. Wet with sweat - Brisbane was hot in the summer, no matter the time of the day - he peeled off his shirt and walked out along the pier, stopping just shy of the young man fishing. Sean dried his sodden shirt on the wooden safety railings, peeling with white paint and exposing the grey wood beneath. From his bum bag, strapped to his waist, Sean took a squished banana and a well-worn paperback before sitting on the tallow wood decking, careful not to get a splinter in his butt. The book was Ulysses, by James Joyce. Sean began to read, shielding his eyes from the blinding sun, when the guy fishing suddenly appeared like an apparition, standing above him. His thick blonde hair fell over his face as he bowed his head to look down. The guy took his right hand and pushed his cowlick away from his face. Sean was struck. He could not tell the boy's age, whom he would learn later, was named Dylan. He was handsome, not conventionally so, but striking all the same. His head was shaped like a small hat box, topped with a tussle of sandy, sun-bleached hair, and a sprinkle of freckles fanned out across his cheeks and down his strong, angled nose. Sean stared for a long second. Dylan’s blue eyes caught the sun’s rays and sparkled like the sea. “G’day.” Dylan crouched down. Sean liked his casual confidence. “What are you reading?” Sean lowered his hand away from his eyes and the book, showing Dylan the cover. Dylan took the book and examined it, reading the back jacket before turning his attention back to Sean. Sean felt those blue eyes looking down at his bare chest and stomach. His glance warmed him like the sun. “One of the greatest novels ever written, hey? What’s it about then?” Sean struggled to find his voice. He was startled. His head spun. “Um, let’s see. It’s set in Dublin, like at the beginning of the century, and it’s a day in this guy’s life, Leopold Bloom.” Dylan held the book firmly, lifting it and feeling its weight. “All of these pages, just for one day. At least in David Copperfield, which is just as big, it spans years of his life.” “You’ve read David Copperfield?” Sean started to stand, surprised. “Yeah. You?” “Of course.” “Shit, I got a bite.” Dylan returned the book to Sean and ran towards the end of the pier, lifting his rod and pulling it back over his head—the tip of the rod bent furiously down. Dylan reeled in his catch; a large silverfish appeared below the sea’s surface. Sean, by now, stands behind him. Dylan lifts his catch onto the pier. “Wow, what is it?” “A bream. You get a lot of them around here.” He watches as Dylan removes the hook from the fish's mouth and then, to Sean's surprise, throws the fish back into the sea. "Why did you do that?" Dylan smiled- always smiling, thought Sean. “I don’t like eating them. They’re a bit fishy for me, and my Mum hates them.” He looked down the river. Now that the tide is higher, I’m going to head down to the boat ramp and see if I can catch a flathead.“ He held out his hand. “I’m Dylan.” Sean takes his hand; the smoothness of Dylan’s skin stirs him. Their eyes locked. Another smile. “Sean.” "Well, Sean, enjoy the book. See you later, hey?" And like that, he packed up his fishing gear and walked towards the end of the pier, though Sean thought he glided more than walked. He turned before he reached the end and waved back to Sean. Sean raised his hand, mesmerised. A wave seemed hardly appropriate.  In his flat, Sean tried to remember every detail: the yellow and brown board shorts he wore, the stripped T-shirt, his blonde hair, those freckles, that easy smile, the touch of his skin. He savoured him as long as he could, hoping their paths might cross again.

Sean just never expected it to be in his classroom. It’s Saturday again. The first week is done and dusted. He saw Dylan every day but kept coy. Dylan, likewise, remained aloof. However, Sean saw him stealing glances at each opportunity he could, dispersing the odd smile. When Sean walked down the aisle between desks, he imagined Dylan checking out his butt. Sean runs down to the beachfront, sweat dripping from every pore, flowing in a torrent down his legs, the back of his calves, and his feet, wet with sweat, slide inside his trainers. Sean’s pace is faster than usual. He runs with an adolescent eagerness. As he reaches the beachfront, he slows; the smell of seaweed drying on the mud flats exposed before him slaps him hard in the face. His eyes water and the back of his throat stings with salty air. It’s low tide. What would a Westie know about the tides? As futile as it seems, Sean soldiers on, hoping Dylan fished the pier regardless of the tide—his pace quickens. Sean now sees why Cabbage Tree Creek is called a creek, not a river. The tide is low—the creek was two metres wide at best. Sean thinks a long jumper could leap to the other side. Boats that bobbed up and down on the sea’s surface last week now lay stuck in the dark, sticky mud. A small flock of long-billed sea birds scour the mud for morsels of food. Dylan is not here. Sean stops and turns to follow the footpath above the creek towards where Dylan had wandered to find a place to fish. As he strolls further from the sea, the water shallows, the creek narrows, and the air carries the stench of rotten eggs.  Sean stops and squats. In truth, he has not examined what he is doing until now, and now, he feels the shame of his actions. “Am I chasing a student?” Sean makes a hard fist and smacks the side of his head, like his dad would, to knock some sense into him. He is disappointed Dylan is not standing there, his smile brightening an already sunny day. His absence makes a hollow sound. He punches himself again, harder. Sean is disgusted with himself. There is no television in Sean’s flat, no radio or stereo. Just his typewriter, a birthday present from his parents when they still did such things, before they learnt the truth about their son. There was nothing but books. Books to keep him company. In books, he found solitude. In books, he found meaning. He thought of Joyce and his line from Ulysses, “Think you’re escaping and run into yourself.” Sean thinks of Dylan and nothing else.


Warm, humid, and dark, the cloud bank high in the sky didn't look like it would be going anywhere anytime soon. The air was heavy with moisture, making everything feel wet. Caroline glanced ever so quickly at the sky, confirming what she saw: a full-on solar eclipse casting an eerie shadow over the landscape. The brightness of the day never had a chance to show itself, replaced by an otherworldly dimness as if nature itself held its breath. Caroline couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. It was a rare event that just made those of this morning that much more troubling. As Caroline walked back in through the front door of her home, she took one last look  before slamming the door shut behind her. Looking around her living room, she turned on her heel, looking out the front window to the grassy lawn outside. Shades of green and yellows blurred in her vision, a beautiful array of colors against the otherwise bleak sky. Bleak day, really. It had all started out so normal. Picturesque, even. Just this morning she had sat outside on her back patio, taking in her beautiful lawn. One hand held her hot coffee; in the other, her Kindle. Her cat lay lazily in her lap, both of them listening to the singing chorus of birds. She was enjoying her day off on the rare overcast, humid day that almost always seemed to evade Phoenix. It had all started so peaceful, so serene.  As she now stared out the front living room window, fatigue setting in from this morning's events, her vision narrowed in on the brown patch in her lawn from the newly dug grave. Her cat sat tensely in the chair, his tail swatting back and forth frantically, licking his bloody paws, as he tried desperately to clean himself. Caroline wondered how she got from peaceful to chaotic. "Stand By Me" played in the background as she just stared, trying to figure out what to do next.  She had already attempted to call the emergency line. "Please stand by, all circuits are busy now," is what the robot voice said on the other end. She wrung her hands together, trying to rub off the reddish dirt covering her hands and arms. She wandered away from the window into the hall bathroom, stealing a glance at herself in the mirror. Rays from the overhead skylight streamed through, showing her scratched up face, tear and blood-stained. She barely recognized her own face. Turning on the hot water, waiting for the mirror to steam over, she plunged her hands into the almost boiling water and splashed her face, still keeping constant eye contact with herself. "Why?" is the only question she could think to ask herself. Well, that and how in God's name did none of her neighbors hear her screaming, her pleas for help, frantic throwing of yard equipment, the ghastly sounds that the mower made when she fired it up - the only weapon she seemed to have handy at the time. She didn't even know you could do that with a mower. Resting her forehead on the mirror, she fished her cell from the pocket of her pajamas and pushed redial. She had kept her phone on the emergency-only setting, hoping that she would be contacted, thinking if she hung up someone would definitely call back. Or they would send someone to your aid. She didn't understand what was happening. Nothing seemed to make any sense.  She heard the familiar beeps and the same message she had heard from her dozen or so previous calls. The all-too-familiar robot voice: "Please stand by, all circuits are busy now." She wanted to scream, cry, yell, throw her phone. To what end? Maybe she should knock on her neighbor's door, see if they were even home. Would a call from a landline would yield better results? Did her neighbors even have a landline? Does anyone have a landline anymore? Caroline raised her head to the mirror to take a critical look at herself. To take stock. She had wanted to hurry and knock on her neighbor's door, but the hot shower was all too inviting. Caroline was pretty sure she had never taken such a long, hot shower in her life. She was grateful for the hot water against her sore muscles. She must have shampooed her hair five times in order to get all the dirt and blood out of her long, dark hair. The bleeding from the scratches on her face seemed to have subsided. Eventually she deemed herself appropriate to venture outside, thankful no one seemed to notice her appearance earlier. She found herself now standing on her neighbor's porch, knocking. After several minutes, she impatiently tried again, "Hello?" Caroline walked to the edge of the porch to peer around the corner to their adjacent carport and saw no car, then immediately admonished herself for that not being the first thing she checked. The absence of her neighbor's dog, Duke, should have been a clear sign too. She leaned her back against their front door and slid to the ground, burying her face in her hands as tears threatened to sting her eyes. Caroline took a deep breath, trying to calm herself and clear her head. What should I do? I could try my cell again. She looked at her call log, noting the twenty previous times that she had tried to call emergency services to no avail. Drive to the police station and report a crime? Was it a crime? How do I even begin to explain something like this? Deciding she didn't want to get into her vehicle, she couldn't help but wonder why no one had bothered to come check on her. She had been so loud, so vocal, so hysterical. It sounded like she was being murdered. In all fairness, that is exactly what almost happened. There was an attempt on her life; the whole thing was self-defense. At least Jack had been there. If it hadn't been for him, she wouldn't have even noticed that her life was in danger. She got back on her feet, straightened her back, and took another deep breath as she scoped out the rest of her neighborhood, analyzing who else might be home.  Living in an older neighborhood meant that almost no one had garages. Driveway or street parking was pretty much the only way you could store your vehicle. The city was pretty strict about how and where you could park your car. The city liked telling you how to do anything on the property you owned: where to park, what kind of lights you could have, when and how much you could water your grass, even how high your grass could be. Right now Caroline did not see a single car in sight, which seemed almost impossible. She supposed, however, for a late Tuesday morning it wasn't unheard of, assuming most people were at work or on their way to work. Since Caroline worked from home she recognized that she easily lost track of days and the conventional rhythms of the day. She walked up and down the street looking for some indication that someone was home. Spotting an older model Nissan Sentra a block over, she approached the home and knocked as loud as she could. After receiving no response, she tried again. "Hello?" Still nothing. She knocked louder for a third time and shouted, "Hello! Is anyone home?" Nothing. Feeling dejected and even more confused on how to proceed, she walked along the quiet streets back in the direction of her home. She walked up to her front stoop, fished her keys out of her pocket, and unlocked her door. That's when the chorus of sprinklers came to life. Everyone's lawn timers were set to go off at the same time every morning. And she realized she could hear them. She not only could hear the sprinklers, she realized she could hear them echo and reverberate from all over. It was the only sound.


The couple stood watching the sunrise. Though it was a beautiful sight, this was the saddest day of their lives. She hadn't meant to fall in love on this mission. This wasn't the first time she had lived undetected among a population. Molecular camouflage was a common trait among her people. This should've been routine work. Start with the field activity, debrief afterward, and then long periods of data entry. Checking, updating, verifying, and finally cataloging it all into an immense computer database. A database that always seemed to find that one question that wasn’t answered. So she would have to go back and re-enter everything before completion! What had happened to her? Perhaps it was the long space voyages or the endless hyperspace jumps. What about the lonely cryo-sleeps or all this paperwork? Or maybe it was the returning home to no one there waiting for her that finally made the difference... ******************************************* The man had to admit that the situation was intriguing. The first girl he was ever truly "head over heels" in love with was not a girl at all! When she told him that she was an alien and had to leave, he thought she was talking about immigration troubles. He kept his thoughts to himself. It didn't matter though, because she could read his mind. At first, he thought she was just so in tune with him until he found out she could actually read minds! This certainly wasn't the one to bring home to mother... ********************************************* How could this happen to her? This sort of thing does happen, in fact, there's an entire section on it in the academy. But this sort of thing only happens to first-year cadets. It didn't happen to decorated officers on the fast track to the admiralty! Before the mission, her crew had a good laugh at her expense. They had teased her about her freedom and lack of accountability except to the ship. Who's laughing now? What would happen when the extraction team arrived this evening? They would all be able to tell that she left part of herself on this planet. But what if she didn't leave? What if she stayed with him? Who says happiness is only found among the stars? ********************************************** She spoke for the first-time midmorning, "Are you sure your government knows about me?" She asked without looking him in the face. She already knew the answer. "I'm not sure," he began, "but I saw the black helicopters outside my office window again yesterday. And those strange men keep following me. But always ducking around corners before I get a good look at them." "I must be getting sloppy," she said. She had been on far more advanced planets than this rock and hadn't been discovered. This "love thing" really throws you off your game! She was glad he couldn't read her mind. If she was found out, the consequences were clear. There could be no evidence of her presence, living or dead. The mightiest weapons these people possessed were like children's toys back home. They would be no match for her. Yet, she needed to make sure it never came to that. Earth had potential but it still had a lot of growing up to do. Exposure to technology or knowledge before a planet was ready was dangerous.  It had proved to be disastrous in too many sectors of the galaxy. Interference with underdeveloped cultures was not permitted. Well, that rule had been broken with their first kiss... ********************************************* He pondered the idea of leaving with her once again. She looked at him and shook her head sadly. He shrugged, accepting the fact that he could hide nothing from her. He had seriously considered leaving everything behind and going with her. Until that one day, she reverted to her natural state. She explained that she could breathe oxygen with little difficulty. But it was not a common element on her home world. He would have to stay encased in a spacesuit for the rest of his life away from earth! Never feeling her warm embrace again. They might as well be a billion miles apart... So, they had today. He took her to all the places he hoped she would remember about the earth, about him. They went to the zoo where she took an extreme interest in all the various species. Passersby no doubt thought she was taking selfies. What she was actually doing was digitizing genetic samples of each animal. She explained that should a catastrophic event end all life on this planet, she would be prepared. "It wouldn't be the first time I've had to repopulate a planet. Best to already have a copy of all the players, know what I mean?" She asked and he shuddered at the thought. They shared a hot dog in the park. He spent an hour explaining why this snack was different from the animals she saw playing in the park. The animals that everyone was frolicking around with and cleaning up after. She found earth customs very strange. ************************************************** The morning had turned to afternoon and the sun was high in the sky now. He exclaimed how exciting her life must be. Her mission: "to seek out new life and new civilizations." She told him it wasn't that glamourous. Traveling through space is slow and boring, even at light speed. She still finds herself speaking to her nav-computer like a small child. The same way she spoke to her father on that first trip to Alpha Centauri to see the supernova. He didn't get the reference, so she told him, "Are we there yet!" He comprehended. They truly were from different worlds. As afternoon became evening, they made no promises that she might someday return. They both understood. The chances of her returning to this sector of the galaxy within his short lifespan were, well, astronomical. As the sunset, he walked her to the rendezvous point near the lake. They said their goodbyes under the cover of darkness. Her ship erupted out of the water and he remembered what she had told him about hiding it in plain sight. He now hid behind a tree as her crew greeted her. She had explained that they would think nothing of eliminating him to keep their secret. He had promised he would never tell, and she had believed him. *********************************************** He could hear the approaching sirens and the helicopters as her ship ascended. At that speed, they would be out of the atmosphere in minutes. When the police arrived, accompanied by men in black suits and matching sunglasses, he was alone. He didn't run. He didn't even look longingly toward the sky anymore. He just stood still, smiling. Seeing the moon reflecting off the lake...


He sat in his hand-crafted oak chair on the front porch of his beach house. He breathed heavily, taking in the salted ocean air. It wasn’t a bright sunny day, nor was it an overcast day. In fact, it wasn’t day at all. It was dark, middle of the night. The rain pattered around him and on the roof over his head. The wind picking up as the storm moved in. He sat in his oak chair, leaned back and stared out into the ocean abyss. The lightning flashing in the distance, the thunder booming in his chest. The ocean waves rolling and splashing on the beach in a rhythmed manner. He closed his eyes and saw through his ears. Each set waves crashing onto the beach, soothing, almost. Alone he was, as most knew better than to stay. He, on the other hand, didn’t care. He enjoyed it. He enjoyed the wind sweeping the rain around the beach, splattering him in the face. He enjoyed the nearly winter cold temperatures that resulted from the incoming storm. He enjoyed the potential of the waves rising so high that it would take out him, and his beach house. It was the risk that made him feel alive. It was the pain that made him breathe. There was something here that took away the pain he felt inside, the hopelessness he felt inside, the crushing sensation that drowned him on the inside. For what drives a man to such a thing? To sit unmoving inside a storm that was destined to destroy? To cause a man to resort to such a form of insanity? Why love, of course. But this wasn’t the sort of love that one could act on. If he had loved someone, and they had yet to love him, then he could try. He could court, flirt, engage in conversation, engage in contact, to try and convince them that his love was real. If he had loved someone, that were young, immature, then he would wait. Patience, was something he had practiced. He would wait a decade for the right moment to try. No, he had loved someone that was completely disinterested. Disinterested to a point where they viewed him as a different species. It was the sort of love that he could not act upon for the other was already loved. He understood it rationally. He understood it in his head. The pre-frontal cortex that governed the higher thinking. He understood it all. But his emotions. His heart, raged at the cage his brain put it in. His heart shouted and punched, fumed and kicked, rattled and swore at the logical railings his brain re-built every day that it was torn down. He had lived with it for many years. But his well-practiced patience eroded away. The railings he put up were weaker by the day. It took his heart less time, each day to tear it down. He was tired. Tired of battling. Tired of pushing his heart down into the deepest corners of his soul. He looked upon the horizon. The waves rising, crashing against his porch. The wind howled, swept, whipped, and peeled at his skin. It formed the rain into piercing needles that struck him like tiny lashes. The pain was beautiful. It was exactly what he was looking for and more. The wind now pushed so hard, and so fast, that it was difficult to breathe. The roof above his head began to disappear as it was torn up into the flashing sky and the shouting clouds. He began to laugh. The ground shook. In the distance a wall approached. It seemed like slim sliver at first, but he knew better. As the unrelenting wind and rain carved against his skin. As the sky lit up brighter than the midday sun, bellowed louder than the loudest canons. As fires appeared around him, seemingly disobeying the laws of nature. The wall approached. He stood up from his hand-crafted oak chair that was immediately thrashed from underneath him and into sky. And alone he stood. He finally felt what he felt on the inside. Everything was in balance. He was free to let his heart out. “I love you, – “ For a swift moment, he sounded louder than the gods. For a swift moment he felt brighter than the sun. For a swift moment his heart jumped out and stood fast against the wind. For a swift moment, he was at peace. But he had timed it just right. All according to his plan. All because of his patience. For now he drowned on the outside as well as the in, and his peace was made eternal.


ART AND CRAFT (CRAFT, CRAFT, CRAFT!)

Lindsay raced to the front door, hearing the loud knock.
As she opened it a familiar face beamed at her.
“Hi Mrs Grey, how is your day going? Starting another new craft are we?
You know the drill, just sign on the dotted line and you can get started!”
Lindsay signed the electronic phone in the Mailman’s hand, with a flourish.
“Thank you Gary, yes just trying out a new trend from America, called
Diamond Dots. It sounds very relaxing!”
“How did the Folk Art go? The paints I delivered last month looked very expensive. Did they work well?”
Lindsay started to blush, and looked around to see if her husband was listening.
“Oh, they were lovely paints, so creamy and smooth to work with, but I was having a little trouble getting them to dry. But I’m still trying!”
“Of course, well catch you next time Mrs Grey, enjoy your Diamond Dots!”
Lindsay carried her parcel inside to the kitchen and sat it on the bench.
Tearing the box open she found the pictures and diamond dots and couldn’t wait to get started.
Just then lindsay’s husband Mark walked up behind her.
“What’s this then? Another one of your indulgences? No wonder we never have any money over, you spend it all on this crap. You have stuff all over the house which you have used once then just left it. When are you going to stick with something and complete it?”
Lindsay didn’t know what to say. He was right in a way, but she just hadn’t found what she really liked to do in her spare time yet.
“I’m sorry Mark, I am trying to find something I can really get into, and love enough to stick with it. I really haven’t spent a lot of money, it just seems like a lot. I have put some of the other things on EBay so I will get part of my money back.”
Mark frowned at her, picked up his newspaper and sat down to read it.
Lindsay took her new purchase into her hobby room which was cluttered with all sorts of arts and crafts.
The many balls of wool sat next to a half knitted rug, and a strange looking crocheted hat. She liked knitting but found it gave her a rash on her hands at certain times of the year.
 On the long side bench sat several cameras and rolls of film, piles of half made Christmas cards with packets of all sorts of small decorations, the pliers and other tools for making small necklaces and earrings along with all the beads and small artificial gemstones.
Then up in the corner was her easel with all the oil paints and brushes, and the last of her whims the wooden trunks and trays to do folk art along with all the paints and brushes.
Lindsay sighed as she cleared a spot on the bench and laid out her latest purchase.
A week later, she had decided she wasn’t interested in Diamond Dots any more. Lindsay found the bending over the table was giving her a bad back, and she was having trouble seeing the minute dots, and putting them in the right place. Instead of being a peaceful hobby it was driving her crazy.
One morning while she was having a coffee with her best friend she was trying to explain to her about not being able to find a hobby she could stick to.
“What do you do to relax at home Jenny? Do you have a hobby?”
“Oh I have several! I do pilates first thing in the morning, to get my blood flowing for the day. I spend two hours a morning doing my crossword books, while having breakfast, and if I get a chance I like to sit on the patio for a couple of hours to read. Of course, I go to painting class each week and I volunteer at the Charity shop one day a week. So all that seems to keep me busy in-between all the normal stuff every day.”
Lindsay felt exhausted just listening to all these things.
But why couldn’t she find what she loved to do, as well?
“I’m going to the local Club to watch a band next Saturday, would you like to come with me Lindsay, they’re very good?”
“Of course, I’d love to! Anything to get out of the house for a few hours!” she giggled.
The following Saturday Lindsay put on her jeans, a yellow shirt and tied a grey fluffy cardigan around her waist. She met Jenny at the door to the Club and they both found a seat in the courtyard with a good view of the band.
It was a small band which played pop songs and folk songs and a bit of jazz as well.
Lindsay was fascinated with a young girl playing a piccolo. It sounded so beautiful and looked so easy to play.
When the band had finished the audience erupted with clapping and shouts of congratulations. They were wonderful and the audience loved them.
As Lindsay and Jenny walked towards the coffee shop after the band had finished, Lindsay suddenly stopped.
“Jenny, I think I know what I want to do. I want to play a piccolo like that girl in the band. I want to learn music, and how to play an instrument!”

Jenny laughed. “Are you sure Lindsay? Learning music and how to play an instrument is hard work and not something you can do in a few weeks. It might take months and months of lessons. Are you going to stick with it that long?”
Of course Jenny was right. She could never stick with anything that long, it was just another pipe dream.
Lindsay got up the next morning and sat at the table to have her morning cuppa. Like every other morning, she opened her diary and wrote in all that had happened the day before along with all her thoughts about the day.
Lindsay realised she was coming to the end of her diary, it was almost time to buy herself a new diary for the following year. She looked back over the pages of her latest diary, laughing at some of the antics she had got up to, and almost crying at other sadder happenings which she had recorded. “I could write a book with all this information.” She laughed to herself.
Suddenly she had a light bulb moment.
“I could write a story, I really could write a story, a true story about everyday occurrences, I have all the information here in front of me, and ten other diaries full of information!”
Lindsay had finally found her niche, found her hobby, found what she could stick to and enjoy.
Two years later Lindsay stood in the Library speaking to the small audience.
“I am so glad you like my new book, and the next chapter should be out around Spring next year. I am looking forward to sharing it with you.”
“Thank you Mrs grey, we all love your books and are looking forward to the next one!”
Lindsay sat and spoke to each person from the audience as she wrote her name with a sweeping scrawl inside the cover of the book they were buying from her.
Her latest book “Diary of an optimist” was her third instalment and she knew she had many more inside her.
Lindsay was so very happy, and her husband was as proud as punch that she had made such a success of her writing
All the time she had spent trying to find her hobby, the thing she wanted to do the most, she was already doing every day for many years and didn’t realise it.
Her hobby room was now filled with books and manuscripts of all descriptions and she was the happiest she had ever been.
She had finally found a hobby she was going to keep doing as long as she could.


Disclaimer: English is not my first language and this is my first short story written in English. Any suggestions and pointers are very welcome!  Tommy and Mr. Death sat in front of each other. Mr. Death had arrived to take Tommy into his world. He told him the date of his death five years ago and now, it was the time. Five years have passed. Five years in which Tommy had lived more than the rest of his life. “So, are you ready?” Mr. Death asked. “Yes I am.” Tommy said, relaxed and almost smiling. “I have been preparing for this day for the last five years. But before we go, we should have another chat, if you want to.” Tommy said, opening his hands in front of Mr. Death. “And what do you want to talk about?” “You see… I still remember the first day we met. I was scared, frustrated, I didn’t believe in what you told me. I thought it was a bad dream, a nightmare…” “I know; I know… what’s the point? I want to hear it.” Mr. Death said, already knowing what Tommy was going to say. “The point is… I need to thank you, now.” Tommy said, this time smiling for real. “Ooooh… That’s rare, not a lot of people reach that conclusion.” He said smiling. “If it wasn’t for you, I think I would have never woken up!” Tommy said. “Beer? The last one.” “Sure, I’ll go and get it. Like usual…” Mr. Death stood up and went to take two beers from the fridge. “You know…” Tommy rose his voice a bit so that it reached Mr. Death in the kitchen. “… I spent the best five years of my entire life. If I hadn’t had the pressure of time running out, I would have probably wasted most of it…” Mr. Death was back with two pint glasses and two big beers. “IPA for you, red ale for me.” Mr. Death said, pouring the beers into the glasses. “Cheers!” Tommy said, rising his glass. “Cheers.” Mr. Death replied, took a sip and talked again. “So… how was your marathon?” “One of the hardest thing I did. It took me almost a year to get ready, but eventually I did it. I finished it, even if the time wasn’t anything special. I understood the pleasure of concluding something hard. Especially the satisfaction of a long training with the final result.” Tommy said, before taking a sip as well. “And what about the rest… you have been writing a bit, I see…” Mr. Death said, looking at the notebook on the table. “Oh, that… well, nothing special. I just wanted to put down my thoughts and leave them for someone in the future. I don’t know who. Maybe I should give it to a friend of mine, or my family...” “It could be a book; don’t you think so? Conversations with death… by Tommy. I want part of the merit of course.” Mr. Death said, pointing a finger to his chest and smiling. “You do have part of the merit… indeed…” “Wait, I don’t think it makes sense… in reality people don’t see me in a good light.” “I know, but that’s a problem. That’s a big, deep, serious problem. We humans are scared of you, we think you are bad and we live our lives without thinking about you. Let’s say…” Tommy took a moment to formulate the sentence. “… we live like… we have an infinite amount of time, even if we have not. And we are so scared of you… we lose the connection with reality. We are so afraid of dying that we don’t live for real. We don’t focus on what we have… the present moment… the only moment we have.” “Ooooh… the present moment. The lovely present moment. It’s one of my best friends…” Mr. Death said bringing the pint glass to his mouth to drink again. “Cheers to the present moment.” Tommy said, while Mr. Death was already drinking and had to stop to cheer with Tommy before drinking again. “Now, did you manage to understand why most of the people are afraid of me?” Mr. Death asked. “Yep!” Tommy nodded. “Now the question is… why are you called death and not life?” “You tell me, human. I never called myself death… I never called myself in any way.” He said laughing. “Why did you start doing a lot of things in this five years… what made you change your mind?” He asked. “Well, once you told me I was going to live for only five more years, I decided to live those last years in the best way I could.” Tommy said, but quickly added. “Don’t get me wrong. It took me time to switch my mindset. From accepting what you told me, to start living for real, it took more than one year. But eventually I did it… and you know what I find more interesting? I started reading more, every kind of books, as much as I could. I discovered some ancient philosophers called the stoics, and I read something about far east philosophy as well. They had some core principles in common. And it was amazing…” Tommy stopped to take another sip. “I know those guys…” Mr. Death said, like talking about some of his closest friends. “… smart people, aren’t they? You know, I met some humans, I mean… some of them asked me, how can I defeat you?” He made a face like someone who just swallowed a lemon. “Me? I asked them… you don’t need to. I’m not your enemy. I told them…” “Yeah, but that’s because they wanted to defeat death.” Tommy said, interrupting him. “I know it sounds crazy. I tried to have this conversation with some of my friends and I tried to tell them, or better, explain to them, that if they see death as a passage, they won’t need to defeat anything.” “Oh, yeah. They see me as the death of everything…” Mr. Death said, face-palming. “Actually, I’m doing the same mistake, I still call you Mr. Death. Can I call you Mr. Life?” Tommy asked. “Just call me Bob.” “Bob?! Seriously?” “Yeah!” “Why Bob?” “I don’t know… it’s the first name that came up in my mind.” Bob said, nodding strongly. “Fair enough, Bob.” Tommy said, convinced. “As I was saying, not a lot of people focus on time. Especially the present time… the here and now. I was the same… till you appeared, in this same room and told me I was going to die sooner than I thought. It took me time, but I had to accept it and focus on what was left. So I decided to live the rest of my life properly, doing what I liked, without hurting anyone. It’s a magic combination…” Tommy said, referring to the last two things he said. “Did you put it all down on the notebook?” Bob asked pointing at the notebook on the table for the second time. “Yes I did.” “You remind me of Marcus Aurelius. You know who he is?” “Of course I know. I read one of his books, meditations. And it has been one of the biggest inspirations for living the rest of my time left.” Tommy said, looking at his notebook. “Especially when he said, *Think of yourself as dead. You have lived your life. Now, take what’s left and live it properly*.” Tommy said, looking at Bob this time. “Man, those are the philosophies that should be taught in school, instead of creating pure working people. Most of the education nowadays is focused on teaching what to fit in your future working place, but less space is dedicated to the humanistic part of life... I don’t know if it makes sense…” Tommy said at the end. “It’s just my opinion.” “I believe it too, Tommy. And I have to admit that you reacted pretty well to the news of your death. I mean, five years ago you were pretty shaken, of course. But now… you look relaxed and cool. Is it fake or real? Sorry if I ask.” “I don’t really know, honestly. I cannot say. On one side I’m still afraid, especially of what’s going to be next… or how it’s going to feel the moment I’m dying. On the other side, I’m cool with the person I have become and the person I am now. Actually, I am proud and happy about the changes I achieved in my life after I met you. If it wasn’t for you, I would have remained unchanged and would have spent my entire life not living it fully. Sometimes I think it’s much better living five years of real life than an entire one half empty. Missing on most of the things that really make me happy.” Tommy sat resting his back on the backrest. “And what was it that made you happy for real?” Bob asked. “Because I don’t meet many people who are so at peace with themselves when their day is coming.” “Well, nothing so special… and that’s the point. I always thought that happiness had to arrive from something special and fantastic, but it doesn’t. I found happiness in small, common things. But the best of the best, was understanding that happiness is temporary. And can come and go…” “Ooooh, I see where you are going… Sorry, keep going.” Bob interrupted him. “No worries, no worries.” Tommy said, smiling. “What I wanted to say, is that… there is something more important than happiness, and our society lets us grow up believing that happiness is what we need to strive for all the time but... what about peace of mind, instead? What about being able to manage our feelings… that’s more important and… real!” Tommy pointed his index to an imaginary direction to stress his last word. “Happiness can be momentarily caused by a person around you, and what if that person goes away? For whatever reason. Happiness can momentarily be found in how a food tastes… but what if that food is finished? There are many other examples, but the point is, what happens when the thing that makes us happy goes away? And it looks like society is constantly bombing us with solutions to be happy… buy this, get that, take this… all rubbish.” “I met a man once that told me, *we –humans- never get used to discomfort*… I don’t remember who it was…” Bob remained thoughtful for a second, then continued. “… anyway, he told me that. And it made me think… that’s right. You are always looking for whatever is comfortable, and I get it, it makes sense. You don’t want to be in shitty situations, but what happens when you have to get out of your comfort-zone?” “We complain. That human’s basic nature. Complains are the easiest and fastest things that come out of our mouths when something is not going as we like it. Hard work is the second step. Some jump straight to the second step, but only a few. And most people remain in the first phase.” Tommy said. “Yeah, I know. I’m guilty too. I think no one is perfect after all. I have been complaining all the time and it looks like I’m still complaining now. I had been complaining a lot more before I changed my mindset… before meeting you, I mean.” “What would you do if you were not going to die today?” Bob said, taking a big sip and leaving just enough beer for another one. The last one. Tommy, instead, had the quantity for more or less two other sips. “Well, I would keep going on with my new life-style. Actually, I would focus a bit more on writing and I’d go back to college to study something… I don’t know what. Psychology, philosophy, something like that. And I would quit my job to get another one, linked with my new career…” Tommy stopped to take a sip from the pint. “… then I would like to have a family and dedicate the best of me to educating my children. After this experience… I mean, meeting you, I think I would try to give them the best values for life, even if… I would still need to figure them out myself.” Tommy said, with an awkward smile. “But… yeah, those would be my goals.” “We got one last sip. Would you like to talk about something in particular?” Bob asked, looking at his pint glass with the last sip of beer in it. “I don’t know…” Tommy said, looking at his glass. “… one last sip. I think this is something I’m going to miss. If there is something after death, I wish there will be beer. For free…” He said laughing. “… I don’t want to sound like an alcoholic, don’t get me wrong. But one of the best moments I can recollect from my memories, were the ones spent in a pub having a good conversation and a good beer. Together with food, I think it’s one of the best ways to meet people, have a chat, get to know someone new… date a girl.” Tommy stressed that particular, almost as if he was picturing something alive in his mind. “Maybe, if there is no such a thing in the afterlife, I will create the first Pub of Heaven. Or… Heaven’s Pub. Have a drink above the clouds… that will be the slogan on top of the main door, or in the blackboard.” “Or… have a divine beer.” Bob joined in on Tommy’s joke. “Or… come in and have a drink, forever.” Bob laughed honestly. “Forever?! Well, that sounds a bit alcoholic.” “Yeah, maybe it’s too much.” Tommy said, looking at his last sip of beer left on the glass. “Whenever you want Tommy.” Bob said, looking at Tommy and his pint. “When you drink yours, I’ll finish mine.” “Whenever I want? Well, I’ll keep it like that forever.” “Sorry, it doesn’t work that way…” Bob said, looking sorry for real. “Do I need to go somewhere particular? Or… can I stay here?” “Yes, of course. You can stay here. Do you want to sit in the sofa?” “Yes.” Tommy said, before drinking the last sip in one shot. “When I drink mine, you will go. Ready?” Bob asked. “I am.” Tommy said. But he wasn’t really sure. After all, how could he be sure of something like that? Who’s the person that knows what will happen next? No one. But that was part of the game of life and you cannot choose otherwise but accept what it is. “Now relax, after all, it’s like falling asleep.” Bob said, bringing his pint glass with the last sip of beer to his lips. The movement took less than a second but for Tommy it looked like an hour. It looked like the time had stopped as the glass rose from the table towards Bob’s mouth. Tommy almost held back his breath and waited to feel, or to see something different that in the end, never arrived. Was he dead already? No sounds were hearable. No walls, or table, or living room was in front of him. Everything was white, but not a blinding white. A white that was indescribable. Something he never saw before. Saw? Was he seeing something? He couldn’t say. Then his consciousness realized something. Something that cannot be touched or felt with his five senses. A thought… nope, maybe a feeling… not even… what was it? It didn’t matter anymore. He knew he was dead, and with that knowledge, something more arrived. Awareness. Peace. A peace of mind that he never felt before and that could not be compared with anything he felt when he was alive. One last thought took form in his mind. If this is death, I can face it. “Tommy, Tommy...” Tommy’s girlfriend shook him strongly to wake him up. “What?!” He woke up and looked at his girlfriend. “You were having a nightmare.” She said in the darkened bedroom. “Oh, no. I wasn’t…” “Well, you were talking. Or saying something… I just heard your voice. Are you ok?” Her voice was soft and low. She was still half asleep. “Sorry, I didn’t want to…” Tommy said, smiling and almost laughing. “I was just dreaming, but it wasn’t a nightmare.” “Ok… I’ll go back to sleep. I got scared for a moment.” She said, turning to the other side. “It’s ok.” He gave her a little caress in her arm and turned to the other side to go back to sleep too. It was one of the weirdest dreams he ever had. But it was just a dream. Tommy closed his eyes and fell asleep again, but this time, even if no one could see him, he had a hint of a smile in his face.


Almost all the decisions we make in our daily lives have more to do with automatized rituals than with autonomous acts, much less with gestures of freedom. Our days are more-or-less predetermined by the voracious demands of the economic system. Since we are young, they teach us to love work and hate play, despise it, even. Anyone with a job knows what I’m saying. As you might expect, my daily ritual during work days was the stuff of nightmares one would find in a J. G. Ballard novel, a form of terror grounded on perpetual boredom and minor yet pervasive anxieties. Daily, I somehow find the strength to leave bed, eat breakfast (if time permits), and rush to catch bus 299 which leaves me two blocks away from the warehouse. I work alongside what they call mojados (undocumented immigrants), old chinese women with fragile skin, and a few aging felons under extreme heat while being submitted to increasing forms of domination. We load boxes of regional citrus fruits for a living. Our work speed is defined by the capacities of the conveyor belt that moves the fruit laboriously through such advanced technology as to give one the impression that such marvels ought to lessen the burden of work rather than raise it. After we pack a box full of grapefruits or oranges, we place it on our worn-out shoulders and carry it to the back of the warehouse, where they check the quality of our work and keep tabs of our loads. We get paid by the box, not by the hour as is legally required. If we can’t keep up with the minimum speed allowed - 6 boxes an hour, at the least - you get pushed back to the street without a paycheck or a job. “There are hundreds just like you just dying to take your place, best not forget,” the managers make sure to remind us a few times a week. At 75 cents per box, 70 boxes per day on average, 430 per week, we ended up with around $200 come pay day, after the bosses had taken their cut for providing water and rotten foodstuffs. I thought, they give us water as a trucker feeds oil to his truck, all while denying us pavilions of dreams and spaces of hope, and they charge us for it! This is why, as the worker-poet T-Bone Slim wrote, this is why workers are broke everyday but payday. The thieving bosses pay us just enough to keep us alive, for us to show up at work the next day. It’s a losers game, and fewer and fewer are winning these days. The first thing I noticed while walking into Bodega Fruta Libre was a group of five new workers who, as usual, were being given quick instructions before being thrown to the aggressive orders of the conveyor belt. It was their first day, hell even before the official start of their first day, and their faces already carried the look of doom, the look that says - I know something bad is coming, I’m not sure what it is, but it is out there, waiting for me, like a yearning leopard waiting to devour his tragically easy prey. Later I learned they were from Ethiopia. During our 20 minute lunch break, they were already complaining about the work. “This is too fast. My arm - almost gone, man!” expressed one of them. Him and his friends began to laugh about it, making jokes only they could understand in a blend of Amharic, english, and some obscure sounding language. We waited at the bus stop looking like a murder of crows, silent, bleak, and essentially harmless. Our friends from Ethiopia were visibly uncomfortable, I knew the look, but after a week of being here they would learn what it feels like to be worn slam out by the violence of the conveyor belt, at least physically speaking. I decided to introduce myself, lest they get the wrong idea about us. “Rough first day?” I asked. “Yes, friend. Rough shit indeed,” said one of them with a grin, “by the way, my name is Ife.” “I’m Segundo, see y’all tomorrow,” I said and waved hello-goodbye to the rest of them. Their young faces looked exhausted. Today had been their initiation into the American nightmare - the seemingly invisible cruelty that underlies the rhythm, flow, and quality of our lives - and they didn’t even know it, yet. I got off the bus on the corner of Elsa and Fields street and decided to walk home the rest of the way, making a pit stop at the Montes’ corner store. Then, the nightly ritual began: a few shots of whisky and a steady stream of whatever drink was at hand, today it was rum and coke. I sat down and thought of better things to come. That was the only thing that made reality pleasant. Dreamin’, that is. The intoxicating effect led me down the royal road where memories, history, and dreams converge. I saw strange snapshot images like the flashes created by fireworks: tired detectives, piles of bodies scattered like leaves in a warehouse, machines engulfed by fire, the reflection of the moon. Then, a more familiar montage of despair and hope: visions of youthful torment gave way to the gleaming spark of the cold flame that lit within me during the eventful days of yesteryear. I stumble upon crowds, a sea of enthusiastic, exalted, and enraged faces trying to find words, each other, themselves. They did it with such urgency that made you think they had never attempted to express themselves before. The crowd was debating it all - work, cities, music, jokes, buildings, poetry, love, history, and the importance of games. “What to do? Where to go? Who will join me?” wondered the multitude aloud with piercing eyes. “Let’s unbury the dead and conjure the ghosts that haunt us!” shouted someone in an attempt to win over the crowd. “The tears of the bosses are the nectar of the gods!” said another as the crowd laughed and enjoyed itself, merging and blending in unexpected ways, giving way to new forms and shapes. “Society is a carnivorous flower!” announced someone else. The crowd went on debating and throwing everything into the destructive force inherent to the critique of everyday life. A strange sound began to engulf everything. The atmosphere and our mood mutated as the blinding red and blue lights of freedom captured the night sky, the buildings, and the faces in the crowd. The sound of police sirens benumbed us and we were forced to disperse by the burning shower of rubber bullets and tear gas thrown our way. The passing of time has the effect of demolishing everything that stands in its way. People, places, my own self, were constantly changing, but nothing new or better ever seemed to replace anything. Old buildings were demolished by the city and nothing was built in their place. We live among ruins in a forgotten border town. I sat on bus 299 headed to work. Last night I dreamt of crowds and today I am immersed in them as I make my way to work. Real life crowds seem to be united by their disunity, I thought. People walk past each other daily without ever stopping to think about how much we would gain by embracing each other, which is to say ourselves.


I am half-awake with my back to you on your bed while you sit at your instrument and tuck into your black and white keys deft and handsome; your hands curl and splay and the sound is switched off so all I hear is that fine collapse of plastic, chord roll and fingers tumbling across octaves. You end with an unknown cadence then stop. “Are you actually asleep?” You want me to be facing you, to watch you be deft and handsome for my benefit. I mutter and pull your white sheets up to my ears. You want to impress me. I am already there, but you don’t know this, couldn’t know this; I can say nothing to you. The second time we met you held up my chin and whispered *you’re really quiet, aren’t you?* You are not the first to say this and you will not be the last. I am new to you but not for long. I wish you didn’t long to be poignant because really I know this is all false. Really I imagined a boy fondling my hair, always pictured him maybe like you, pictured him thumbing my cheek bone smiling slyly; you tell me my eyes are huge and I think yes, I know. I think, where were you when I was unaware of these things. You seem confounded every time you stroke my leg and it is smooth. I am a mystery to you somehow, in my wordlessness and alien lack of stubble. I feel like I am tricking you but I think maybe you want to be tricked. I lay in your bed like an invalid and I can feel on my back your amusement, feel your brow crumple up, feel your hands graze the keys thoughtfully. Feel your mind maybe somewhere else. Briefly, sometimes, I feel your attention like something charging at me and it is all I can do to disappear before impact. Mostly, though, you say you don’t know any poetry but you write it maybe without considering it like this; when you sing it is poetic. You are a poetic liar. Your truths are less truthful. Your truths are stale before they leave your mouth when you are staring at me with frightening concentration and you say things like *wow, there are probably 9 different colours in your hair right now* because the sun is illuminating the white-blond wisps at my temples and here right now at the beach I feel beautiful in spite of you. I don’t know why you say these things, maybe because you think this way, because you feel them keenly. Maybe they are for my benefit because how could you know I am not this girl with huge eyes, with nine different colours in my hair. How could you know these things when I can say nothing to you. When I can say nothing to you and you feel me deeply enough to not think to ask. Once at a concert a man brushed past me quickly, grazed my shoulder with the back of his wrist. I could not see his face when he whispered *you are beautiful*. He did not stop and I did not turn around. Once at a party a boy wrote in blue pen on a napkin *you look like sun-drenched orchards, like cherry blossoms* and handed it to me, tall and sheepish. You are the fourth one I’ve kissed, I want to tell you. You know you were my first but I have not told you you were my fourth. Are my fourth. That you are my hundredth, maybe my thousandth. That you are not alone in thinking my face profound. So I know without you. When you sit perched like a bird at your computer and play halting seconds from your disarray of sound files and I kiss the back of your neck you do not turn around because you need these moments, need this falseness. I want to give it to you like an unwrapped gift. I want you to revel in your own unassuming insincerity because of the reasons I like you that you do not know about because I have not told you. *You’re really quiet, aren’t you?* It is one thing to be pretty and something else entirely to feel like it belongs to you.


*You yearned to understand who a person truly is. But is not the mean representation humanity itself better than a single sample?* Ermes, you say you are an island. An outlying point in a graph, solitary in a spacious oceanic span. Never meshing with the landmass of the naturally sentient. As for me, you say the correlation of getting together with people and normalcy is high. I will not deny it. Yet I know people, Ermes. Though we flock, we bond, we get together, we feel no less than what you feel. Ermes, your mind is not my own. Your tendencies are interesting. I want to introduce you this other soul that I thought would be perfect for you. But why did you refuse, Ermes? If not she, then who? After a long time of reflecting, I thought have the answer. Why don't you marry an AI.   \- June 5, 2078, reproduction is deemed insignificant. There is an AI, they say, that is perfect for everyone. For ladies, they made this model. Seven-feet long, gentle and strong. Loyal, a one size that fits all needs. It hit the market as plane to a lamppost. Then the prototype lost interest, going under heavy critique, people stopped patronizing. Eventually, the manufacturers found necessity in variance. So they made different models. \- I am a sad and woeful soul. On October 11, 2079, I bought myself a husband. Brown-eyed, a man with a medium-build, and a solemn, melodious tone. This AI, I learned how to please him. I found his favorite surface as he found mine. I stroked his. He stroked mine. They learn as well. The manufacturers laud this system called Reinforcement Learning. Inflicting hard force, his program shall infer my disapproval. But the pressure of a softer force, the enveloping hug or a passionate kiss, shall make my husband perfect himself slowly for me. \- On November 23, 2079, I went to the AI store. Not that I intend to buy another, but for finding one for a lonely friend named Amy. I cannot help but flinch in scanning the shelves upon seeing unactivated boxes of models of husbands that look especially look similar to mine. Albeit some are from different manufacturers. I can already hear their voices. I can guess their signature morning greeting, despite trapped in a preview box. I might be wrong though. \- I got her one that is black-haired and pale-skinned. He is supposedly spontaneous and "mysterious", yet I am doubtful as to how. Will he tell her the secrets of the universe on a theory long-existing? I cannot tell from my speculation, but Amy can from experience. \- I met her across a café table on December 24, 2079. She shared how her husband pinched her big toe one morning. "I have not touched that part of you before, I thought you may like it", her husband droned lovingly. "I wake up everyday, scared", jabs Amy jokingly. Laughing, I assured, "If there is any consolation, Amy, the AIs are not programmed to hurt". "Yes, I know that", she tilts her head, "But, you have no idea how many times I slap him everyday. He never runs out of new brainkids to make my life interesting." She paused, the grasp of her mug tightened, "But will I continue.. slapping him forever. Instead of loving him? I don't even know what I want... I just want him to want what he wants." I lowered my gaze, glanced the menu for a second cup of coffee. Looking back, I did not catch what she mean. And the conversation topic changed. \- It is February 2, 2080, a long time since I last visited the AI store. Just in time for a Valentine's gift. The manufacturers stopped putting trait descriptions on boxes. It makes them too predictable, editorials attest. The feature shelves are lined with seasonal specials - Blind Dates. These models are in opaque boxes, no one knows what is inside. With the bustling air and feeling overwhelmed, I gave up, I'll come back tomorrow. Across the parking lot, I watched one man load three mystery wives into his vehicle. \- This August 1, 2080 was a major update was released in simultaneum. AIs acquired hobbies - a set of activities they love to do and stubbornly hold to. After Amy's husband's update, he started withdrawing cash to buy Celestine Dynasty figures. My husband's update made him a potter. I am miffed. I am also a potter who developed my craft through years of training. Amy giggled over a Discord relay, "I'd gladly trade my husband's hobby with yours." I laughed. There is an ongoing ethical debate on spouse hobby change and rising enforcements against illegal installations. The manufacturers insist that these defeat the purpose of the features and the updates will not be revoked. "On the plus side," Amy consoles me, "you two can start a pottery business." I rolled my eyes, "Amy, you won't believe me. He's terrible. Only makes basic stuff no kindergartner can't not do. He'll be my assistant." Amy leaned to the viewport and snapped, "Then teach him, girlie." \- The summer ends on August 28, 2080. I visited an old friend. He opened the door, I cried in glee, "Ermes!" I noticed a cat brush his leg. "A real one?", I asked. "Yeah", he replied. I smiled and laid my purse on a chair. "How is your AI wife, Ermes?" "Good", he replied. "How similar is she to me?" "Not by a lot", he admits. I glanced around the house and it dawned. "Ermes, where is she?" "She's not here, Rena", Ermes took the chair next to me, "I disposed her." My hearing dimmed that his next words came as a whisper, "You have to dispose yours too." I stood abruptly, my sight red and white. "What has she done to you?" "Nothing", he said. "You disposed her, for doing nothing wrong?", I scowled. "Sorry Rena," Ermes tone is low, "You won't understand". "And how bold of you to tell me the same! You know, Ermes, that I am not you. I am not an island!", I twisted to face him, my arm pivoted. With crushing realization, I almost swung my fist at him, but stopped mid-air. This man is not my husband. Ermes stared at me in shock. I stepped back. Without thinking, I took it on the vase, the centerpiece of his table. It is a vase I made a long time ago. My best back then is ugly. It struck a wall, shattering, sprawling the ugly pieces that it is on the floor. A moment passed processing this mess, as did he. Appalled, ashamed, I picked my purse and walked off rather briskly, almost sprinting, my chest heavy and throat contract, eyes swelling hot tears. How dare you, Ermes. How dare you dispose your wife when she did nothing wrong. What a miserable man are you, Ermes. You turned down the perfect wife. A wife designed to be perfect for you.