We rushed through the wooden door and slammed it shut. The thing gave a loud thud against the door that shook the frames and made the hinges screech, but the door held. I quickly poured salt under the door's threshold. “I think this will hold it back for a time. We’re on the third floor so I'm hoping the thing won’t come leaping through the window,” I exclaimed with a sigh. Before I could catch my breath, I felt her lips and her breath filling my lungs and giving new vigor to a faint heart. “Thank you, I can’t believe you’d actually help me. I thought I was a goner,” she said with the shimmer of her tears in the pale moonlight. My heart had been racing from the chase, but now it was calm again. “I was wondering why you left without a word months ago, I figured you were ghosting me or something… didn’t think you were running for your life.” “You know me, lady of mystery!” she joked with a forced smile. “You don’t have to do this you know.” For a moment, the months on the run showed their strain on her face. The stress wrinkles around the brow of another wise young 28-year-old woman. She felt the weight of those months all at once and collapsed onto the leather chair by the bookshelf. “I know, but in all of those months, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. You’re here in front of me now, and I’m not losing you again. Come sickness come hell or whatever,” I declared. The hell began to snarl from the other side of a wall across from us. “What is that thing anyway? I can hear it, but I can’t see it.” “It’s not here for you… but I can see it,” she responded with a despondent voice that trailed off at the end as if she wanted to keep the last part a secret. “I made a… a deal with someone I shouldn’t have and now this thing has come to collect… the debt is my life,” she proclaimed hesitantly. I felt my heart do a back flip, realizing that the reason my love was going to die. “It seemed too good to be true… I should’ve known that stage 4 stomach cancer doesn’t just go away. Julie… what did you do?” I asked with dread. “I wasn’t going to let you die. The things you do for the people as police captain, I think you’re a hero. No one else can protect this city like you, I can’t let this city and my hope fade.” She was trying to make the exchange of her life for mine logical to justify it, but we both knew it was a desperate attempt not to lose someone she loved. Before I could respond, there was a crash in the adjacent room and the shattering of a ceramic toilet. We were back in the trying pan and it was time to move. “Third floor huh? Guess the window's not an option. Back the way we came. Hopefully that salt will act as a red line it can’t cross and buy us a minute.” She nodded in a agreement as she joined my side again. We bolted out of the door and down the steps, hoping to reach the ground floor and make a mad dash to our car. We heard the hellhound barking a loud piercing sound that resonated through the halls. It reverberated off the walls and sounded even more fierce. The feet scraped on the hardwood. The beast was overzealous and struggled for traction in its excitement. “We’re gonna make it,” I reassured her as I squeezed her hand. We were on the stairs to the ground floor when I saw a shadow pass over head. I looked up but there was nothing there to cast the shadow. An ear-piercing scream erupted from beside me and for a moment my trip slackened. The hand so precious from me was ripped away from my grasp. I looked beside me, and she was gone. Behind me, I saw the impossible, she was being dragged by her shoulder, bleeding profusely, screaming relentlessly as she was punching the invisible assailant with her free hand. The dog began to shake her, and the bleeding became worse and she went limp from shock. Even at my distance, I heard the snap of her shoulder bone as that beast dug deeper and deeper. She wasn’t struggling anymore, but the beast was still unsatisfied. Fear had paralyzed me, staring at the air as it rips into my love and puts her into this agony. Then rage overtook me. Rage at the cruel fate that would push us to months of being hunted just because she didn’t want me to die and rage at myself for taking this long to do what was necessary. I was done running. Maybe Julia as already dead, maybe she was still holding on, but I wanted to make this thing suffer for all the months of suffering it had given her. The beast again disappeared, and as I looked around, I could only hear the wild snarls of the beast circling around me. I could feel its presence around me, but I could not see it. My heart began to race uncontrollably from the bubbling rage and fear. I closed my eyes to calm myself and listened.

It didn’t matter that he was invisible, I could hear the blood dripping from its jaws. I called out to it, “Come over here you God forsaken beast! I thought all dogs go to heaven, so what the hell are you? Cerberus, Barghest, or just some nameless mutt?” I drew my revolver from behind my back and readied the last bullet. There was no missing this time. I heard the bark come from the air ahead of me and saw the blood splatter. I aimed for the center of the blood and fired. A spray of blood exploded from where I shot, but the bullet disappeared into the nothingness. The beast gave a whimper and for a moment I felt sorry for it. I walked over to the pooling blood, knowing my felled prey was there. I walked forward hearing the steady drip of its blood and the rasping of its last breaths. The dripping stopped and so did the breathing. I was standing over the puddle of blood and gingerly pushed my foot forward, waiting to feel its body. My foot reached the puddle, but still nothing. I felt a cold sweat start and heard a low growl behind me. I tried to turn and face it but before I could, I felt its massive weight push me down. I fell face first into its putrid blood, spitting out the taste of iron with the smell of sulfur. Its claws were trying to pin down my elbows and I could sense it rearing back its head to bite. I rolled over with everything I had against its weight. I heard his body fall to my left. I clutched my empty gun like a hammer and started to furiously slam down the butt of the gun toward the ground. None of those swings reached the ground, they hit the soft stomach of the dog. It yelped and barked in pain. I followed the hammering up and felt the butt of the gun collide with the softer windpipe and then it was hard again. I found the face and I kept hammering until my gun and the floor was covered in blood and no more whimpers were heard. My arms and body were shaking from the strain when I finally stopped. I crawled over to Julia's body and listened to her chest for a heartbeat or a breath. I could feel her chest rising against my cheek. I scrambled to dial 911 and they came in time to save her from the blood loss. “We made it…” I whispered to her when she finally awoke the next day and I fell back to a tranquil sleep by her bedside in the hospital.

“We made it to tomorrow… Thank you for never giving up on us,” she whispered as she kissed me back to sleep.


“Jet Pee Nong, what the hell is that?” asked the walk-in customer. “That, my friend, is the name of a magnificent hotel in a brilliant resort, on the holiday you’ve been dreaming of,” answered the overly keen sales agent at Rickets Travel Bureau. “I noticed the ‘deal of a century’, you’ve been plugging on social media recently. Tell me more.” “You are in luck. We only had one spot available, and it had been booked,” said the young man with the bright yellow blazer with the over-sized letters, RTB, plastered over the breast pocket. Below the logo was a pin screaming ‘Jethro’. “I was in luck, but it had been booked?” “Yes, tragedy in the customer’s family. She had to cancel. So, it’s yours, just give me your card and I’ll get on with booking it for you,” Jethro beamed. Nigel Peters scratched his chin, “I’ve never been to Thailand before, what’s it like?” “Oh, you’ll love it. It will be hot, the beaches are clean, the food is to die for… And Thai ladies are beautiful, say no more,” RTB Jethro was getting on Nigel’s nerves. He considered the reason he was there in the first place, he needed a break. “Okay, book it.” “Splendid decision, Mr Peters, you fly out Wednesday from Heathrow. Have a lovely holiday.” Nigel settled himself in the middle seat in the central aisle and half-way back of the Thai Airways Jumbo. “There’s always one, and he is always next to me,” Nigel mumbled to himself as a scruffy younger man tried stuffing his over-large holdall in the crammed overhead container. “Sorry mate, they buggered my ticket, panic all around,” he said squeezing next to Nigel. Pulling his jacket free of his neighbour as he sat. “You’re here now, enjoy the flight,” Nigel sneered, making it clear he wanted no further conversation. A man was waiting at Suvarnabhumi Airport with a small sign boasting, ‘Mr Peter’, hand-written in black marker pen. “But I’m Peter,” an elderly man stated. “No, sir, I meet Mr Nigel Peter,” said the mini-bus driver. “Excuse me, are you looking for me?” asked Nigel, looking at the clipboard and seeing 'Peters'.

Nigel was directed to his seat on the bus. The mini-bus took no time in becoming snarled in Bangkok’s infamous traffic. “Hello again, mate,” Nigel heard from behind. “Yes, hi, you again, it seems we are destined to sit together.” “Where are you going? I’m going to the beach, I deserve sand and sea after what I’ve been through,” said the scruffy man. “Me too,” Nigel said, dreading the next question. “Are you going to Hua Hin?” “Oh, God,” Nigel breathed as he studied the overhead vinyl. “Yes, I think that’s what it’s called.” The mini-bus pulled up outside a newly painted building, ‘Jed Pee Nong Hotel’ in foot-high letters hung above the entrance. “Don’t tell me we’re both staying here?” thought Nigel. “This way, gentlemen,” said a young receptionist, pointing to the front desk. The driver lugged the luggage to the hotel’s trolly. “Can I see your passports please,” she smiled. Nigel rushed his document out of his pocket, hoping to escape his travelling companion. “Thank you, Mr Peters. And yours, Mr Jackson?” she looked as Mr Jackson searched his pockets and then his small shoulder bag. Mr Peters was getting used to studying ceilings, plane, bus and now the fresh paint of the hotel foyer. “No problem sir, the police station is over the road,” she pointed, “I’ll report it missing. Here’s your key.” “Where’s my key?” asked Nigel. “Oh, we only give one key per room,” she answered. The men looked at each other, then at her. “What?” yelled Nigel. “I’ve got you down as a couple? That’s what the agent told us,” she said. “Oh, no, I had to sit next to him on the plane, shared the bus with him, there is no way I’m sharing a room!”

The girl busied herself with a huge ledger, “We are full tonight, but, tomorrow lunchtime we will have a room free?”

Mr Jackson shrugged okay. Mr Peters did not, as they trudged to the lift. “You have got to be kidding me!” as Nigel saw the double bed. “Which side do you want? I prefer to sleep near the window. If that’s okay with you. Oh, can you keep your noise down, I need to nap,” called Mr Jackson to Nigel’s fast disappearing back as he stormed back to reception. “I am sorry, sir, but…” she started. “Where can I get a drink?” fumed Nigel. A folding map was handed to him, with bars, and restaurants circled. Nigel marched in the sea's direction and hopefully cold beer. After sampling some strong Thai beer, he got chatting with a few friendly bar girls. The beers soon changed to shots of local whisky. Nigel had calmed down and was enjoying himself with one young lady. They agreed to meet up the following day. “My God, it’s gone one o’clock,” slurred Nigel as he staggered back towards his hotel. “Can I have my key, please?” he said, proud that he didn’t appear as drunk as he felt. “The key is with… um, your friend, sir,” the receptionist from earlier reported. “Let me in, Mr Jackson,” Nigel spoke to the door. “Come on, hurry, I need a pee,” he asked louder. No answer, no sound from inside, Nigel’s firmly crossed legs made it to the WC in reception. “Have you got a spare key, please,” said a much relived Mr Peters. “Yes, sir, I can let you in. He must be a sound sleeper.” The room door pushed back, and the lights flicked on. “Where is he?” asked the puzzled receptionist. “Where are my bags? My passport!” An instantly sober guest opened the wardrobe, then the bathroom even looked under the bed. “Please sir, accompany me to the police station, we must report this. At least then, you will have the bed to yourself,” smiled the girl. No smile joined her across the road. A furious snarl marched back after spending an hour with the bored night officer. “Why did I have to keep repeating myself, as he scribbled notes?” whined Nigel. “His English is not so good, you were speaking too fast,” said the girl. “So, all this is my fault?” “No, sir, please take the hotel key and have a good night,” she offered, thankfully her shift had ended. A hammering woke Nigel at eight o’clock, “Sorry, sir, but you didn’t answer your room phone,” said the receptionist standing next to a police officer. “I unplugged the phone, as I wanted a full sleep!” said Nigel as he glared at his visitors. “Do you mind if I come in,” the officer strode to the coffee table and sat down, pulling the other chair back for Nigel. “What now?” “I need you to prove who you are, sir,” said the stern man in the brown uniform. “I haven’t got my passport, as you well know,” glared Nigel, pulling his wallet from the trousers he had slept in. The police officer held out his hand, Nigel passed the wallet over. “No credit cards? No driving licence? No cash?” “What? Give it here,” stormed Nigel, snatching it back. The empty wallet hit the far wall. The receptionist’s eyes widened. Her ears glowed at English terms she was unused to. “Calm down, sir. You had better accompany me across the road,” said the officer, hand on his pistol. Nigel slumped to his knees, head in hands, “Christ Almighty,” he wailed as he was guided to the police station. After a lengthy telephone conversation with the British Embassy and proving who he was, he could enjoy the rest of his stay in Thailand. A friend sent him cash via PayPal, making life easier with cash in his pocket. Nigel loved the Thai food, he enjoyed watching monkeys steal fruit, he even saw a dolphin when he took an interesting boat ride as part of a trip to the nearby mountain. His guide was the young lady he met his first night. They were getting on as if they’d known each other for years. On his third day in Hua Hin, he relaxed in a deck chair on the beach; he unfolded the Bangkok Post. “What,” instantly he sat up, as a headline on an inside page jumped at him, like a cold fish’s revenge. He felt the slap across the cheeks. “RTB owner found dead in her home!” For a reason only known to him, he looked all around him, as he read, “Well-known travel agent and business owner, Mrs Eastman, was found battered to death in her bedroom. Her husband, Mr Eastman’s whereabouts were unknown.”  Nigel cringed behind the newspaper, suspecting Mr Eastman could watch him. He carried on reading the report aloud, “Young sales assistant, Mr Jethro Jenks, is helping police with their enquiries. Mr Eastman is known to have boarded a flight to Bangkok. ‘We lost track of him there’, said a detective headed the case,” Nigel folded the paper gently on his thighs, as a voice he recognised, shouted from behind, “Keep your noise down, I’m trying to nap.” The END


I looked at my sleeping 11 year old angel baby girl next to me. "We’re running out of time" , I whispered under my breath, ferociously hitting my hands against the steering wheel. I let out a roar worthy of a lioness, no one in this jungle heard it; it was silent, not wanting to wake my child. Her time was running out, her life was running out, her childhood had come to a sudden stop. No turning back now..."keep driving, how much I should tell her, will she be in pain," My heart felt like it was ripping out of my chest. I couldn’t breathe. We  both were running out of time. Sticky drops of sweat were rolling down between my breasts, the old beaten up car window was open but the stifling breeze coming through it was hitting my face, turning the car into a sweltering sauna. The air conditioning on my 1990 Toyota had been out for years. The red paint had pealed and I had an old grey rope holding the trunk shut. I could barely make rent and food since my husband had passed. I had said a “Hail Mary” and patted the St. Christopher hanging from my mirror before turning the key at the start of this trip. “My God”, was a loving forgiving God and I knew in my heart that I was making the right decision for my daughter. My Catholic Church and our priest had another view. Father Vic had talked and prayed over us to make the right choice, I had. It was the only choice WE had. My God would forgive. I looked at Grace, her forehead beaded in sweat, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. She was breathing irregular, she needed more water. She rolled over on her side exposing her tiny belly, her brows frowning. I didn't want to wake her, but knew I must. "What was she dreaming about?" "Does she relive the horror every time she slept? "Ever since she told me what had happened I have been living in a nightmare of blackness and fear. “Would I get stopped, will I be arrested?” My mind wondered, I couldn’t help but wonder why I could cross the borders I’d be traveling over to buy a gun, carry a gun in an open carry state, get married, have heart surgery, go to a state where Pot is legal, gamble, visit brothels, buy cheap gas, liquor, lottery tickets or cross borders to hunt with no consequences, but the hammer goes down when it comes to my child. Her life is in danger; her childhood was about to become completely oblivious. We live in Louisiana; the closest legal clinic is at least a 10-hour drive. We have only been on the road for about two hours; Illinois is still eight hours away. This was the longest road trip I have ever taken, but I’d walk through the hells' fires for my little girl. Yes, my precious sleeping 11 year old baby girl is pregnant. With this "Illegal", Supreme Court’s decision to turn over a fifty year old precedent in one day, America has become a Taliban nation for women. The world’s atlas tilted that day. There will be millions of lives imploding. The six Justices did not care; they tossed a dirty bomb into the uteruses of American women and girls across the United States. The “Righteous Evangelicals”, had won; but at what cost to the freedom of American women. The GOP and the so called Republicans that are left put their heads in the sand and screamed, look over here…don’t look at this, look at our horrible immigration policies. It's been over six weeks now, more like eight...how could I have missed it. "I know how, what mother expects her little soccer player, doll playing innocent child could possible get pregnant at eleven years old. I was shocked when she suddenly got her women’s visitor at 10 ½ years old; The Dr. said girls were getting there period earlier these days with the hormones and additives to or food chain. I didn’t think she needed the “Sex” talk at her age, boy was I wrong. I knew last June something was wrong. Grace wasn’t smiling, laughing or sleeping. She was distant and wrapped her arms around herself, rocking for hours on her favorite chair; I couldn’t get through to her. It wasn’t until weeks after her uncle Rob left to go back to Costa Rica that she broke down with heaving sobs. Rob had touched her down there; he put his penis in her tiny Vagina. She had kept silent with his threats of harming me, it had taken me another week to get the funds together I’d need for this trip; my time off work, hotels, gas, and cost of the abortion in the clinic. I could barely make rent and food with my meager income. My job as a waitress was just not cutting it and covid wasn’t helping my bank account either. I always knew my husband’s brother was off; he had a sleazy air about him. I wondered why he had moved to Costa Rica. I believe I know now, his wife never talked about why the sudden divorce and her move across the United states to California. When I tried to confront her, she said “It’s too horrible to talk about, I don’t even want to think about it, Good Bye”, Then she hung up. I didn’t pursue it further. My anger surfaced all over again, if I had only known. If Grace's father was still alive he would have gotten on a plane and killed the son of a bitch! Why did I say yes to him when he wanted to come to Louisiana? My guilt was interrupted, “Mommy are we almost there”? A lonely tear fell down my right cheek, I thought, “No Grace, we are so far away from there”. I said, “Yes, sweetie”, as I slowly started stopping the car at a diner along the side of the road; she needed, food, water, she needed hugs, and she needs an abortion.


Who Said Life Was Fair A loud persistent voice was beginning to penetrate my brain fog. “Brookfield Police, Annie, are you alright?” I shook my head trying to clear it. Someone banged loudly on the door. The fuzziness was going but I could not find my voice. I could now hear talking outside my front door and I tried to rise. That was when I discovered I was no longer in bed; I was sitting on the kitchen floor. As I tried to lift myself up, my foot slipped and I slid back down. I heard a loud voice say, “Okay, unlock the door.”

I heard loud footsteps enter my apartment and felt a soft touch on my shoulder. A gentle voice said, “Is this Miss Harris?” I looked up. A uniformed police officer was standing over me. In the hall I could see the worried face of my landlord, Steve. He nodded. “Thank you Mr. Chan, you can go back to your apartment.” “Yes, yes of course.”

“Miss Harris, Annie, can you tell me where you are hurt.”  A voice from another room said, “There’s no one else here.”

“Okay Mike, tell the paramedics they can come in now.” I found my voice. I whispered, “ I’m okay. I had a nightmare. I must have been walking in my sleep and fallen. Oh no, was I screaming? Did I wake my neighbors? I’m so sorry to have caused all this fuss.”  “How about we just let the paramedics check you over?”

“No please, it was just a horrible nightmare. I’m not hurt.”

“Then where did all this blood come from?” I looked down. I was covered in blood. Pools of it covered my kitchen floor. It was sprayed on my cabinets, on my curtains, everywhere. I glanced up at the officer who had spoken to me. “It’s not mine,” I said, horrified by the sight. “I’m not hurt.” The face of one of the paramedics appeared over the policeman’s shoulder. “Holy shit,” he exclaimed. The cop glared at him. “Hey, I’m sorry,” the paramedic said, “I’ve just never seen so much blood in one small space before, but I can tell you this much, it isn’t hers. She’d be dead if she lost this much.” “Just check her over,” the policeman said sternly. The EMTs entered the blood spattered kitchen avoiding the broken glass on the floor. They began looking me over. I just sat there, dazed and confused until I was loaded onto a stretcher.

All the while I

kept repeating, “I’m not hurt, it isn’t my blood.” The medics quickly confirmed what I had been saying. A few minutes later one of them said, “We’ll take her to the hospital as a precaution and have her checked out thoroughly, but I can tell you that her vitals are strong, her heart”s a little fast and her bp is high which is understandable, but we can’t see any wounds.” The policeman looked down at me, a puzzled look on his face. “Have you been in the apartment alone this evening, Annie?” “Yes, I went to bed, alone. I must have fallen asleep and had a nightmare. Am I still dreaming?” My agitation began to grow. I glanced over to where I had been sitting in the kitchen. It looked like the scene of a massacre. It also looked terrifyingly familiar. It couldn’t be. Ghosts don’t bleed.

“Get me off this stretcher!” I shouted. “I need to get back to bed so that I can wake up. Please,” I added in a softer voice. “You don’t understand what has happened.” I struggled to get off the stretcher. I was now bordering on hysteria. “Get me off of this thing. Please,” the policeman nodded to the paramedic and I felt a slight prick in my arm.I looked first at the paramedic and then at the policeman who leaned closer to me. “Annie” he replied, kindly. “I found you sitting in a pool of blood. Something happened in this apartment this evening.For your own safety, we have to make sure you are really alright. The first step is to get you to the hospital.” I began to protest. I just need to be absolutely certain that you are okay.” I suddenly began to feel very sleepy. The policeman’s face was getting fuzzy. I seem to remember mumbling, ”Okay,” before I recognized a voice I knew all too well, whisper in my ear. “Talk your way out of this one, bitch.” And then, oblivion. “What do you suppose happened back there? ``One of the EMTs, Eric, called back to his partner Chris, who was sitting next to me in the ambulance.

“Beats me, but can you believe all the blood? It looked like someone bled out ….. Eric, pull over!” “Why?” “You have to see this, just pull over.” Eric pulled into the curb and turned around in the driver’s seat. “What the hell”

The two men stared down at me.. As they watched, the blood covering me began to slowly dissipate. Chris was the first to find his voice. “You’re seeing this, right?” “Uh huh, I don’t know exactly what I am seeing but I am seeing it. Let’s get to the hospital asap,” he said as he spun around in the driver’s seat. They arrived at BGH in record time. “What do we tell the doctors,” Eric asked as they wheeled me into emergency.

“The truth. We play it like we would in any normal case.” “How the hell will we do that?”

“Let me do the talking, okay?”

“You got it. I just want to get away from her as quickly as possible.” A doctor approached the two men. Chris began the spiel he had been practicing on the drive. “The patient is 36 year old Annie Harris. Neighbors heard screams from her apartment and called the police who in turn called us. We found her sitting on the floor of her kitchen, a broken beer bottle in her hand. We couldn’t find any outward injuries on the patient. Miss Harris was confused and claimed she had just been sleepwalking. The police asked us to bring her here as a precaution.” “Any evidence that she was intending to cause self harm?”

“Despite the bottle in her hand, we saw no marks on her to indicate that she had tried to hurt herself,”

Chris replied.

“Okay guys, we’ll take it from here?” “Are you off the clock?” Eric asked his partner. “Yup, and I plan to get royally drunk. You?”

“Oh yeah, and I’ll join you if you don’t mind. And pal, let’s make a pact. We won’t ever speak about this call to anyone or each other again.”

“Deal”. Back at my apartment the forensic team had arrived. The policeman in charge, Gilbert Desjardins, greeted the head of the team. “Michel, at this point I don’t know what happened here. We found a woman sitting in this kitchen surrounded by all this blood. That broken beer bottle was on the floor beside her. Interesting thing, she didn’t appear to have a mark on her. Blood doesn’t appear out of thin air. Work your magic. Let me know what the blood tells you.” “I’m on it,” Michel replied. “Mike,” Gil said to his junior officer as the two men left the apartment, “Head over to the hospital and call me when Annie wakes up. I want to talk to her when she has calmed down.”

“Will do.” Taking one last look at the horrific scene, Sergeant Desjardins left and returned to the station. He had no idea the turn this case was about to take. I began to wake. The first thing I noticed was the noise surrounding me. It was clear that I was no longer in my apartment and that I was most likely in an emergency ward. The hysteria that I had felt earlier had been replaced by an eerie calm. I kept my eyes closed. I didn’t want to talk to anyone until I could process what had led to me now finding myself in a hospital bed. As I lay there, it suddenly came flooding back. That night, I had gone to bed fairly early, around 10 p.m. I fell asleep quickly and woke up with a start. A glance at my clock radio told me it was just after 2 a.m. My kitchen was down the hall from my bedroom. The kitchen light wasn’t on but an eerie silvery white light was emanating from the room. I got up and walked towards it, knowing and dreading what I would find. There, leaning against the counter stood my husband, swinging his customary bottle of Labatt Bleue in one hand. But something was decidedly different. Oh, his nasty sneer was still glued on his stupid face but this time he didn’t look the least bit spectral. Lord help me, Sean, my dead husband had somehow managed to manifest fully. I wasn’t looking at a ghost. What I saw before me was a flesh and blood human. “What’s the matter, sweetheart, don’t like the new me?” I somehow managed to stutter, “What…how?” “I’ve been working hard,” he replied. “You didn’t seem near scared enough on my last visits. It’s no fun coming to call on my girl if I can’t get a rise out of her.” I don’t know how I found the words but I managed to utter, “You scared me, happy? Now get out!” He was dead. He couldn’t possibly hurt me. Could he?

It was as I was backing away that he lunged for me. I knew what was going to happen next.

Sean grabbed me by the throat and shoved me hard against the kitchen counter. He was a big man and normally I wouldn’t have stood a chance against him. But he appeared to be very drunk.I managed to knee him in the crotch. He uttered a curse, let go of my throat, and doubled over. The beer bottle fell to the floor and shattered, spilling beer everywhere. Without thinking I reached down and grabbed the neck of the bottle. With all the force I could muster, I drove the jagged end of the bottle into his neck, just like I did on the night I killed him. Blood spurted everywhere. Sean was vainly grabbing at his throat. He looked at me pleadingly. I could have run. I could have run screaming into the street as I had done on many other occasions. But after years of physical abuse I knew that if Sean survived, I was going to suffer badly.

So I sat there and watched. Blood was now gurgling in his mouth. He fell to the floor, and reached a hand out to me. I watched, the broken bottle still clasped tightly in my hand. After what seemed to be an eternity he shuddered and fell still. That’s when I screamed and finally dropped the bottle. Next thing I knew, a policeman was standing over me asking if I was okay. Gil arrived back at his desk to find his phone ringing. The display showed that it was Michel, from Forensics. “You're good Michel but you can’t have finished up at the apartment this fast,” he said good humoredly.

“Gil, can you get back here asap?” “What’s up?” “All the blood in this place, it’s disappearing faster than we can collect samples. I’d bet on my life that it is blood splattered all over this place but it vanishes as soon as I get it on a swab and now it is disappearing from the floor walls, everywhere. And get this, I tried taking a video of what’s happening. Nothing, the camera screen is blank. I want you to witness this.” Gil had been walking quickly to the car as he spoke on the phone. “I’m on my way.” He called Mike. “How is Miss Harris?” “Still sedated but the doctors gave her a once over. No abrasions, no sign of blood loss. The only marks on her are two faint red marks on her neck. They are waiting for her to wake up to ask her about them but frankly Gil, I think the docs are a little ticked with us for sending her here.” “Too bad. I am on my way back to the apartment now and then I will be heading your way. Something really weird is going on, Mike.” “Like what?” “I’m not sure how to explain it. We’ll talk when I get there.” A few minutes later, Gil and Michel stood staring at my pristine kitchen. Not a spot of blood could be seen anywhere and the shattered glass had disappeared as well. Michel was the first to say anything. “We both saw the blood. Hell, my assistants saw it. One of them took off like a frightened rabbit when it started to vanish. I’ve been asking myself if this scene was staged. Maybe what we saw wasn’t blood at all but with some new “vanishing fake blood.”

“Vanishing fake blood?. Like they might use in a movie or something?” Michel turned off the kitchen light. The room was dark, not a single spot of blue. “I sprayed the floor with Luminal. If there had been blood here it would have picked up its trace. You can see for yourself, nada, nothing.” “And the broken glass?” “I haven’t a clue,” Michel said flatly.

“It can’t just have disappeared.” “But it has,” said Gil, “it has. I’m headed off to the hospital. If anyone has any answers it will be Miss Harris.” “Welcome back to the land of the living,” a perky voice said. A poor choice of words was my thought. The voice belonged to a young nurse standing beside my hospital bed. “How are you feeling?” she continued. I

managed a small smile and replied, “A little groggy but other than that I feel fine, just fine.

“Good. I will just track down the doctor and tell him you are awake. Oh, and there is a policeman waiting to talk to you as well.” I closed my eyes again. I racked my brains trying to figure out what on earth I was going to say to them. I called after her. “Did the doctor find anything wrong with me,” I ventured. “He will answer any questions you have when he gets here.” All I could think of to explain what happened today was to play dumb.I would stick to “I don’t know” and “I had a nightmare.” But I had a much bigger problem. Sean. I closed my eyes.

I had my first visit from Sean about a month after his death. I had been asleep and was awakened by a whisper in my ear, “Hello sweetheart,” it said. I recognized the voice. After all, I had listened to it for years. It terrified me but I really thought it was just a nightmare. This happened several times over the period of a year. I saw a psychologist who told me it was post traumatic stress disorder and put me on Paxil. The whispers stopped. But if I thought it was over, I was mistaken. One night I was woken by Sean’s voice demanding my presence in the kitchen. “We’re out of beer,” he yelled. I remember feeling compelled to go. Just like when he was alive. He called, I jumped to attention.This time I got out of bed and walked to the kitchen only to find it empty, but the air was frigid. I think it was that night that I came to the conclusion that I was not having nightmares, I was being haunted. I decided to move. I moved several times over the years but he always found me. He didn’t visit often but each time he did, he was stronger. First he was just a shadow and then a misty figure that I could recognize. I did try talking to a priest once, but he sent me on my way. Maybe because I wasn’t a member of his church. I don’t know. I hadn’t seen him for two years when he showed up last night in his new form. I was scared but also angry. He deserved to die. We’d been together for seven years, the same number of broken bones I’d received at his hand. He got what was coming to him. I had even been cleared of any charges. Justifiable manslaughter they called it. I didn’t deserve to be persecuted by his ghost. Yes, they found traces of Atavin in his bloodstream. He had a prescription for them. They weren’t to know that I had ground some into his mashed potatoes that night. Not many, just enough that combined with his nightly beers, would make him a little unstable. Unstable enough that a well placed knee to the groin would disable him long enough for me to kill him. No, he was a brute and I was his innocent victim. But now what to do. How on earth was I going to get rid of him this time? Sadly, that was to be taken out of my hands. Gil Desjardins arrived at the ER and spotted Mike sitting in a chair near the reception desk. Before he could reach him, an unGodly scream filled the room. Instinctively both men ran towards the source as did several doctors and nurses.

Just a minute before, I heard the curtain around my bed being pulled aside. The perky nurse stuck her head through and said, “Your husband is here to see you.” She smiled and moved briskly away. Before I could say a word, Sean appeared at the foot of my bed. He leaned towards me and in a menacing whisper said, “It’s time for payback, sweetheart.” I screamed in terror. And that’s how they found me, dead, my mouth open, my eyes wide with fear. So unfair.


Morning light filtered through the canopy overhead. The lilting song of a thrush broke through the last remnants of twilight, heralding the start of the new day. A hand twitched amongst the leaf strewn meadow. The meadow air felt thick to this stranger who had appeared as if from thin air. The young girl finally rose to a seated position, her rumpled dress wrinkled and flowing about her as she looked about the grassy meadow, a clear look of growing surprise on her face. Her green eyes settled upon the five standing stones that rose ominously around her, their moss-covered surfaces staring blankly back at her as if they she disturbed their quaint little gathering. Niamh tried to work out what had happened since last night as she shook the sleep from her mind. She recalled having a fight with her parents, a silly argument over a boy she had been seen with yesterday afternoon. Her father had heard about the innocent tryst between the two from a nosey neighbor. Much was said but she only recalled her father forbidding it and what would her mother think? In her anger she had cursed at him and ran off into the woods leading behind their house, scurrying under the picket fence where boards hung loosely. She remembered a thick fog settling in around her much like a thicket blanket. Before she knew it, she could see no further than the nose on her face. Stumbling further forward, she had left the wooded path in into a clearing. In her haste, she become increasingly tired by this point and decided it best to rest in the quaint clearing. At least the ground was soft and adorned with moss and leaves, providing a soft bedding for her to lay upon. However, it appeared she had taken more than just a short respite and instead fallen deep asleep. Attempting to gain her bearings as she looked around, she noted a small ring of mushrooms had formed about her makeshift bed and appeared to fall within the circle made by the stones standing like guardians over them. This sent a chill through her body and she began to worry a little as the coincidence eerily resembled stories she was told of by her grandmother. "No, no, pay those stories no mind. Only old tales of fae and magic, children's stories to entertain and scare children into behaving. I'm no child.." she told herself. Gathering her dress about her, she rose and took off in the direction she thought was home. Angry father or not she felt a sudden urge to return home, unable to shake the nagging feeling of the concentric circles she'd awaken to. Leaving the clearing, she hoped she hadn't strayed far from the path. She breathed a sigh of relief when she came across a group of loose rocks she knew and played upon as a child. Picking up the front of her dress to keep from tripping she picked up the pace and soon broke through a gap in the trees to what would be the familiar sight of her home she knew to be just on the other side. ...only it wasn't there. In place of her house with picket fence and driveway leading to the street of the cul-de-sac she lived on was only a small, almost wild looking clearing. Amongst the weeds and short grass, a squat thatch roofed house made from timber rose before her. Gone were the SUVs that lined the road up and down her block. In their place, cows with their silly gaping faces stared back at her with their jaws endlessly working on the cud tucked away in their cheeks. Sheep milled around, grazing on long grass as their blunted teeth gripped and tore the blades of verdant green from the ground. From the thatch roofed home emerged a man, clad in an old kilt and tunic, looking as if he was posing for a historical reenactment of an 18th century Irish highlander painting. Niamh slowly realized her grandmother may not have been blowing smoke up her backside about the fae folk stories. Perhaps she wasn't mistaken and had just been whisked away to a time closer to 1800 than her own year of 2020. "Oh, this cannot be happening right now. I'm going to wake up and realize this was nothing but a bad dream." She pinched her cheeks till tears formed in her eyes but the idyllic scene before her remained unchanged.


I awoke in a hall of mirrors with the strange sensation that I'd been asleep for a long time. Moreover, I had no idea where I was, or how I'd gotten there. My head felt like a snow globe filled with dust. Conversely, the mirrors that surrounded me were so clear, that they could have been carved from slabs of crystal. Even the floors were made of brilliant glass that reflected off a glimmering mirrored ceiling.

I got the sense that this was the first of many chambers. It was shaped like the inside of an igloo, leading to an archway, that would take me to the next station.

I went through the passage without thinking, never stopping to look at my reflection in the initial chamber.

The second room was far larger than the first; the collage of mirrors stretched for the length of at least four football fields.

I was surprised to find that I was a young boy. A freckled face, with curly orange hair, and a mouth full of crooked teeth gazed at me from every direction. I had the sudden urge to cry. I wanted to call out for my Mom and Dad, but I knew I was alone in this house of mirrors.

Panic quickened my small feet, as I hurried across the shiny path. If I was older, the walk wouldn't be so hard, but my tiny feet made every foot a yard.

When I started to cry, the glass became slick and I tripped hilariously. I thanked my lucky stars that no other kids were around to witness my calamity. I remembered how we all laughed at Onion Breath Tim when he slipped off the jungle gym. Tim bawled like a baby and his Mom had to come pick him up early. Somehow it didn't seem that funny to me anymore.

I realized if I focused, I could see the jungle gym in the mirrors like I was projecting the image from my mind. It was both bizarre and perfectly reasonable to me.

I beamed at the sight of the rusty red slide that I married Katie Bishop under. We didn't kiss because I thought girls were gross. I only agreed to marry her under that slide because she asked me to and it was recess. I was surprised that she didn't think boys were gross.

When I finally reached the end of the long field of mirrors, I was greeted by an archway that looked like the mouth of a giant cave.

I wanted to rush forward and discover what wonders resided in the next chamber, but I stopped for a moment. One of my feet was in the mouth of the cave, while the other lingered in the field of mirrors. I knew I had to go forward if I ever wanted to see my parents, Katie Bishop, or even Onion Breath Tim again, but I also knew I would never be able to return to the field. I knew that in the same way that I knew how to breathe or make my heart beat. I stayed in that purgatory for a long time, but eventually, I moved forward. The next chamber was different in several ways. The ceiling was way higher and domed at the top. Instead of one path, there were several skinny ones, each cordoned off by tightly packed walls of reflective glass. Lastly, the mirrors themselves were less shimmery, yet the images were more defined. This irked me, why make it so I can see better but the image is uglier?

The stubbly face of a man in his late teens followed me through the maze of mirrors. I wondered what happened to that cute kid from the last chamber. How had the adorable freckles given way to a mess of multi-colored blemishes? I badly wanted to turn around and return to the first chamber, but I could see it was walled off.

I had to keep going if I ever wanted to make it out of here. I wasn't sure which path to pick; I walked by a few to see if any called to me. No such luck. Finally, I decided to close my eyes and randomly pick a direction. The path I landed on was tucked between two tightly packed glass walls. I squeezed through them, nearly bonking my head on the deceptively low ceiling as I went.

To my relief, this path was straightforward and well-lit. I broke into a light jog, desperate to escape and find out what was happening.

My memory was still a mess, but I knew that I was a senior in college. I hoped I wasn't missing an exam or a party. To be honest, I was more concerned with the latter.

That's when I remember Annie. I hoped she wasn't worried about me, but more than that, I hoped she wasn't with some other guy. Annie was my first real girlfriend, although I was not her first boyfriend, not by any stretch of the imagination. I believed I loved her, but how could I know? My Dad used to say he fell in love with my Mom at first sight, but they got divorced last year; so seriously, what did I know?

The path started to narrow, to the point where my shoulders were rubbing against the mirrors on either side. It became so uncomfortable that I changed my walk to a slide, where my shoulders were vertically aligned.

I suddenly remembered that I'd be graduating soon, and abandoned my sliding method. Squished shoulders or not, I had to find my way out of this strange place.

Faster than I could have imagined, I arrived at a solid glass wall, with a cubby-sized hole chiseled at its base. As I wriggled through the hole, I shivered as the cold glass pressed against my skin.

I crawled out of the space and into the next entranceway. This time, it was a rectangular doorway, that resembled a parking garage. At least twenty other tiny crevices ran adjacent to the one I'd come through, all leading to the singular nexus.

Without looking back, I went through the doorway. The next chamber was vast and hilly. I silently applauded the creators of this establishment because their work seemed to defy physics.

A rolling floor of mirrors stretched further than my eyes could see. I had no idea where the boundaries of this chamber were, and the ceiling was so high that I couldn't tell if it was made of glass or the real sky.

Unlike the first three chambers, the glass here was of inconsistent quality. At times, the panels were crystal clear, while other sections were dusty or cracked. I feared if I stepped on a broken mirror I'd be impaled by a shard of glass. Luckily, only a few of the spots were shattered, so avoiding them was simple.

I started to climb a steep hill, that reminded me of an ice luge. I could only see my reflection on the floor, and it wasn't pretty. I'd aged at least 20 years since the last chamber. My red hair was now reduced to wispy strands, that refused to be commanded by a brush. I still had no idea what kind of place I was in; if anything, I was more confused than I'd been in the first chamber. Yet, I was no longer frustrated by the lack of answers. Instead, I decided to marvel at the awesomeness of what unfolded before me.

As I ascended the seemingly endless hill, I remembered I had to call my Mom. I'd promised myself after Dad died, that I'd appreciate her while she was here. In some ways, I think I'd blamed her for the divorce, but being older, I realized that was pointless.

Of course, having a divorce of my own colored my opinion on the matter. Even though Ellen and I had no kids, the process was still agonizing. I'd take a glass shard in my foot over that ordeal any day of the week. It must have been doubly tough for my parents, dealing with my whiney self.

My legs started to groan as I hiked up the forever hill. The joints in my knees started to feel like strands of jelly, that could snap at any moment. To make matters worse, much more of the glass was now cracked or uneven. At one point, the entire floor was comprised of jagged glass, meaning I couldn't avoid it. I attempted to gingerly pass through the razor-toothed floor and was rewarded with stinging pains on the soles of my feet.

When the hill finally plateaued, I was so elated that I yelped for joy. There was no new entrance, but the glass leveled out until it resembled the second chamber. My knees ached horribly, and from the reflection, I could see my back was arched like a candy cane. I crept forward, sensing that this was the final stretch of the hall of mirrors. I was excited to learn who was behind this wonderfully bizarre contraption.

The temperature had dropped significantly, and I could feel the cold in my bones. I knew that was a harbinger of the end. Up ahead, I could see a lone turnstile, next to an empty attendants booth.

I slowed as I approached it, thinking of Onion Breath Tim, who was now Secretary of Education Tim.

I wondered what happened to Katie Bishop. The last I'd heard she'd found someone to marry her for real and it wasn't a man. I guess she thought boys were gross after all.

I was close to the turnstile now, and although the mirrors on the floor were dusty and cracked, the metal turnstile was iridescent. When I looked into it, my reflection was split into a kaleidoscope of colors and images. Pieces of freckles, interspersed with streaks of violet, ruby, and emerald, with a balding head, hunched shoulders, and wide eyes, were all weaved together by this seemingly magical instrument.

A few final memories returned to me. Ellen and I had remained lifelong friends. Neither of us remarried or had kids, and that was ok. Mom and I talked nearly every day for ten years, until... I'm not sure.

I felt the cool steel of the turnstile and realized that it was time to leave. No more memories would come to me here.

I smiled and pushed through. I looked back one last time and saw that the glass floor was shimmering like the sea at sunrise. I swear it was winking at me as I left.


2256 — Earth — New Maryland at the Planetary Bureau of Investigation Beyond the slew of case files resting on my desk; I spy Chief Isaac on the phone in his office, pacing about—like a caged tiger. Whatever is going on has the Chief’s panties in a twist. And then his gaze falls upon me, and so does his anger. “Agent Franklin in my office now! Shut the door—sit and listen up. The top brass wants an old unsolved case closed—ASAP. Starting today, you are being reassigned to this case.” “But Chief Isaac…” “No buts, Franklin—start packing, your destination—Perfection.” >>>><<<< 2256 — En Route to Perfection The first to arrive and settle on the new world would name the planet Perfection. From there on, the name stuck. Perfection orbits Proxima Centauri, one of three stars in that solar system, and it is roughly 4.3 light-years from Earth. That makes this a twenty-year jaunt across the galaxy. It's a good thing Friday and I don’t sleep or eat or breathe or have a life. “Friday, be a sweetheart and cue up the J.R. Holmes's case.” “First off, Franklin, I’m not your sweetheart, nor do I socialize with the lesser A.I.” Friday is the ship’s Level-Three, A.I. and my partner. She has the sexiest voice you’ve ever heard. “I’m told Friday that virtual sex is as good as the real thing and that it relieves stress associated with long voyages.” “Keep dreaming, Franklin, that will never happen. Cueing up the latest reports on the case.” She transmits the data to my head. I can see and hear what she sees and hears, and vice versa. “I knew one day I'd get into your head Friday.” “Ha-ha funny Franklin, now all jokes aside, from what we know, this J.R. Holmes has murdered thousands of settlers across the planet, spanning decades. And all within the last hundred years. The anomaly, our suspect, hasn't aged a day since the first murders. This would make him roughly a hundred and fifty years old. Though not implausible, except for the fact that…” “He hasn’t aged a day. I get that. So, what is—he, exactly? A simulacrum, an immortal, an alien, a time traveler. What?” “A simulacrum—impossible. The Laws of Ethics are hard-wired into our circuitry, ‘thou shalt, not kill’, being the first tenet. This leaves us with an immortal, plausible. An alien, plausible but unlikely. A time traveler, extremely unlikely but plausible.” “No Friday, that leaves us back to square one. In the meantime, until we can figure out how this guy is staying young. I’d like you to monitor all planetary communication. Of one thing I am certain, this guy will kill again and again.” >>>><<<< 2276 — Orbiting Perfection During the twenty-year excursion to the planet. Holmes managed to make time, in his busy schedule, for an extra two hundred murders. And more videos surfaced of this monster, revealing he still hadn't aged a day. Unfortunately for the victims, Friday and I were no closer to solving this case. We decided to leave orbit and touchdown where the killer was last seen. A cow town, known as—New Texas. “Alright Franklin, you got me, what’s with the Stetson and Cowboy Boots?” “When in Rome Friday, do as the Romans do, Aurelius Ambrosius.” “Ah Saint Ambrosius. You are aware of Franklin that what he said was, ‘When I am at Rome, I fast on a Saturday; when I am at Milan, I do not. Follow the custom of the church where you are.’” “Isn’t that what I said? For a Level-Three A.I., you often trip over interpretation, a design flaw associated with the lesser A.I.” “Ha-ha, you’re so funny, Franklin.” Using my best western accent, I say, “I reckon I am a little miss.” >>>><<<< 2276 — Perfection — New Texas The starlight of three suns at high noon bake the denizens who walk along the dirt-paved roads of New Texas. A town, echoing a world found only in the memories of those from the old American West. This is an outré world and I distant traveler in search of answers. And that’s when a drunkard patron comes flying out through the wooden doors of the OK Corral Saloon, landing in the dirt in front of me. “Well, Friday looks like them Cowboys are a-gettin' all roostered up.” Through the swinging doors, I enter the saloon and make my way to the bar. My boot spurs make a ching-ching-ching sound in sync with the creak-creak-creak of the dusty floorboards. Behind the bar, a busty bartender wipes down a greasy shot glass, with a dirty white towel. And she says, “Everyone, lookee-here—it's Howdee Doodee!” The saloon erupts into laughter. Laughing, Friday says, “I reckon you're not in Rome.” The laughter and my embarrassment ebb back to the sea. I move to question the busty bartender. “P. B. I., Agent Franklin,” Flashing my badge and I.D. “Have you seen this man frequenting this establishment?” I asked, showing her a Hollo-Print of the suspect. And to my surprise she says, “Yep, he's a regular, shows up once a week. He always sits at the same table over there by the grand piano. So, what’s the guy done?” “It would be best not to concern yourself, Ma’am. And when do you expect him to show up again?” “Well let me see, If I’m not mistaken, it's been nine Earth days, that would make it tomorrow evening, Decadi.” Perfection takes ten sidereal days to complete a full rotation. The days are: Primidi, Duodi, Tridi, Quartidi, Quintidi, Sextidi, Septidi, Octidi, Nonidi and Decadi. “This must be our lucky day Friday; in twenty-four hours we’ll catch this psycho!” “That’s great news, so what’s the plan, Franklin, do we grab him before or after he enters the saloon?” “After, I’ll pass myself off as the evening’s entertainment by playing the Steinway. Then wait for Holmes to show and take a seat at his favorite table. The enclosed space of the saloon will limit his possible escape. And Friday, I'll need you to track the operation as it goes down. Now partner, please be so kind, and come pick me up.” >>>><<<< 2276 — Decadi — New Texas at the OK Corral Saloon The nights on Perfection are as hot as they are during the day; absent the light, or in a downpour like tonight. The packed saloon has patrons standing outside getting wet. This doesn't stop them from enjoying themselves. And with luck, nor will it stop our killer. I’ve now played the ‘Piano Man’ five times and still no sign of Holmes. “Well Franklin, it's been eight hours now, do you think someone tipped him off?” “Doubt it Friday, serial killers are creatures of habit, he’ll show. You know Friday, I’ve been with the bureau now forty-two years, and have served under Chief Isaac sixteen of those. And not once has the chief ordered me off-world on such an important, high-profile case. So, you see, I can’t—won’t let him down.” “You won’t, Franklin—we won’t let that happen.” “Thanks, you're the best partner a Level-One simulacrum could ever… wait a sec—the bartender is signaling. Reading her lips—Holmes!” I watch Holmes as he makes his way through the crowd and towards his favorite table. He pulls out a chair and sits. A pool of water forms at his feet. The bartender places a shot glass and bottle on the table. He slaps her bottom as she walks away. Pouring himself a shot, he tilts his head back, swilling its contents. I stop playing, walk over and stand behind him. I then place my hand on his shoulder and say, “P. B. I.—Holmes, you are under…” Swilling another round, he turns his head to look straight at me. Why is he grinning? Standing, he strikes me with a left across the face; shooting me through the piano—splitting it in two. He then bolts out the way he came in; knocking over patrons as he goes. I give chase, but the rain and the crowd don’t help. I’ve lost him. “Friday, what the hell! I’m as strong as four men, but he was stronger—how?” “Searching… you won’t believe this; it was the drink. It’s called juice. It's distilled from an indigenous plant that endows the locals with enormous strength. But its effects are momentary.” “That would explain how he committed the murders using his hands. I’ll be ready for him when we next meet. Now Friday, are you picking up the tracker I placed on his shoulder?” “Yes, partner, reading the signal loud and clear. Holmes is heading towards the outskirts of town… I’m coming to get you.” >>>><<<< 2276 — Fiat justitia ruat caelum We find Holmes hiding inside an abandoned structure. So we wait for him to make a move. He won't escape a second time. “Franklin, detecting an ignition signature, he's making his escape!” His ship blasts a hole in the roof as it ascends. We give chase. Within minutes, both vessels break free of Perfection's atmosphere. Holmes's ship is smaller and faster and stays ahead of ours as we continue the pursuit. “Friday, do you see what I see?” Ahead of us is a black hole. A black hole we had not detected on our arrival. Now the truth of why Holmes did not age comes to light. “Franklin, if Holmes moves his ship any closer to the black holes' event horizon, we will not be able to apprehend him. And he will not be able to escape the black hole’s gravity.” “Well then Friday, fiat justitia ruat caelum. Now hail his vessel.” “Let justice be done though the heavens fall? Ah understood Franklin, hailing.” “This is Special Agent Franklin of the P.B.I., shut down your engines and prepare for boarding!” “Franklin, he isn’t responding and has now pushed his vessel into the event horizon.” “Well, my girl Friday, this case is now closed.


A Wholly Superior Creature by C.S. Humble *Part I - The Body* Courtney Marie Davidson joined the ranks of the butchered sometime after 7 PM on the twenty-first of March. A pair of twelve-year-old boys riding their bikes in a drainage ditch near a rained-out culvert found her face down in an oily runoff. According to them, they went home immediately, told their parents, and gave the station a call. I made a note to question them after I examined the scene to see if they'd touched or taken anything. Kids do that sometimes. They'll take evidence, or touch something they shouldn't touch. My partner of eight years, Roger Dale had recently retired, leaving me solo. My leather still squeaked when he got his tenured hands on me. Taught me everything I know about investigation. A harsh mentor, but never unfair. The homicide bullpen was thin as a bed sheet, so I was still waiting to be assigned a new partner when the boy's parents called about Courtney. I smoked half a joint on my way to the scene and climbed down into the ditch around 1 PM. I leaned around the beat officers squaring the tape across the ditch. The crime scene photographer cameras clicked and snapped like mussels clinging to a sloshing dock. The furious pace set my teeth on edge. The bright flashes went off like tiny supernovas in a bright galaxy. My superior, Sergeant Mike Donnell, stood over Courtney's body. He saw me and I saw him. Mike looked back down at the body and waved me over with the tip of the pen in his hand. He slid the pen over his ear and left it there. We shook hands. "Sam," he said. He tore a slip out his notebook no bigger than a deck of cards and handed it to me. "Sergeant." I took the slip. "Her name's Courtney Marie Davidson. Her brother reported her missing two-weeks ago. Recently graduated from Georgia Tech. Smart girl. Honors too. Moved here a couple of months ago to take a job with a think tank dedicated to ending homelessness. Brother's name is...shit," he said, flipping pages over in the notebook. "You know me with names, Sam." "Only took you three months to learn mine, Mike." "Here we go: Marty. He's flying in tomorrow to confirm." All the pleasantries said, his jowly cheeks bowed, setting his chapped lips into a thin, cracked line. He nodded his head down at the body. "It's bad, Sam." Bad was a cheap word for what had been done at Courtney's expense. The sun beat down, putting all the crimson lines of mutilation into the clear light of day. These weren't wandering strokes of inflamed passion, they were carefully scrawled etchings carved by a meticulous hand. From the base of her skull to the heel of each foot was a tapestry that narrated an extended period of torture. Each strange letter and symbol were slashed with a practiced, careful precision. When the photography unit was satisfied with the first batch of pictures they rolled her onto her back. Mike twisted away, his breath escaping his lips like a busted tire. "Jesus Christ." He was right to blaspheme. What they'd done to her back, buttocks, and thighs was a prologue to a monstrous text. Letters scrawled no larger than a thumbnail. Icons drafted from peeled flesh. Those were bad enough, but it was the scarlet mask they'd made of her face that hit a group of seasoned detectives like a hammer. Courtney's weightless blue eyes pierced me. Her killer had locked her jaw open, giving the appearance of a final, harrowing death scream. Everyone stepped away in revulsion. I wandered to the safe darkness of the culvert where I lost my calming chemical buzz and spilled my lunch against the wall. Dark as the inside of a gun barrel, the tunnel echoed with the sound of my tuna sandwich splattering into the water. Then it echoed again with another splash. The sound of a footstep in shallow water. I kept my head down and pretended not to hear. Pretended not to know someone was watching us from the foul depths. "Sergeant," I said. "I dropped my wallet when I puked. You got a flashlight?" "Thomas," Mike called over to one of the photographers. "get Sam a light would ya?" Tom was a little guy, his hawkish features soured with a mild annoyance as he plodded over to me. Clutching his camera like a first-born child, he objected when I snatched the cumbersome tool out of his hand. "Be careful with—Hey!" I pointed it down the tunnel and started snapping pictures. The light pulsed in the darkness and for a millisecond I saw a figure throwing their hands up around their face. "Freeze!" Not everyone who runs is guilty, but one thing Roger taught me early is that when they run, we chase. I chased. Peering down the tunnel was like trying to watch an eclipse through the fluttering wings of a hummingbird, but I saw him. Stamping through the water, I thumbed the shutter like a man trying to spark a dead cigarette lighter. Flashing sparks against the walls I flailed more than I ran. I bounced off one of the sharp corners. The camera fell out of my hand and clattered into the wet channel with a hollow noise. Far down the adjacent tunnel a single pillar of sunlight stabbed down into the darkness where I saw a pair of legs pounding against the rungs of a ladder set into the wall. Up and through an open manhole the legs slid out of sight. I waited to draw my pistol, knowing that it would only slow me down as I made my way up the rebar steps. Sometimes I get ahead of myself. I saw the street for half a heartbeat before the light intensified and lightning struck my skull. My hands slipped off the top rung. My chin collided with the second step, knocking my jaw shut. I had to grope for the top rung two more times before my vision stopped betraying my efforts. The sound of my assailant's feet hitting the bricks chewed in my ears as I slid into an alleyway, only to watch him round another corner out of sight. I tried to roll to my feet, but the world somersaulted and I tottered into a pile of wet garbage. I gave myself a quick pep-talk, which consisted of a "Get the fuck up, Sam," and before I knew it my shoes were scraping the pavement. Rounding the corner the world bent again, and I leaned against the nearest skyscraper for balance. A long warm river was running down my neck and throat. I knew it wasn't sweat. Slashing my vision down the busy street I looked at the legs of every man, woman, and child. Nothing. Not a single wet pant to be found. I was still pretty jumpy when I felt a hand grab me on the shoulder. I whirled and struck. The barrel of my pistol lanced out, cracking Tom across the beak. His legs went stiff as matchsticks, then crumbled in a heap. "Goddamnit, Tom," I said. That was as close to an apology as he was going to get. I blamed the rash action on the head trauma. The photographer groaned, his bloody fingers clutched his face. "You broke my camera, Maxwell," Tom said, his eyes scrunching shut, before they opened wide again in pain. "And my fucking nose.


"The storm is worse than I expected," Mares said, shaking the rain from his coat as he joined the poker table. He was a tall, wiry man with a sharp nose and the keen eyes of a gambler. The room was dim, the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses providing a backdrop to the flickering lights above the table. The rain hammered against the windows, drowning out the distant sounds of the town. Carlos Biltong, still dripping from his walk there, glanced at Mares, who was shuffling the deck with the practiced ease of someone who knew his way around a card game. "Deal us in," Biltong said, pulling up a chair. He hadn’t planned on staying long, but something about Mares’s appearance intrigued him. Mares dealt the cards, his movements precise, almost mechanical. As the game began, the usual banter was subdued. Biltong was talking crazy, right off the bat. What if I never heard my grandfather’s story?” he said and threw in a few chips, his gaze flicking between his cards and Mares. Biltong's grandfather, a brilliant yet enigmatic scientist, had been the one to introduce him to the concept of iterative learning—specifically, the principle of reiterating time sequences with slight variations until the desired outcome was achieved. It was a method rooted in both machine learning and the very nature of time itself, a way to perfect an outcome through endless repetition. As a boy, Carlos Biltong had been captivated by his grandfather’s stories, which were always laced with the mystery of time and the possibility of change. His grandfather would often sit by the fire, a distant look in his eyes, and speak of how one could return to the same moment over and over, making tiny adjustments until everything fell into place. Biltong had taken these lessons to heart, applying them in his work with the Canadian Spacetime Agency, where his research into retrocausality was built upon these very principles. Perhaps, without his grandfather’s influence, Carlos Biltong would have been a different man—one who never played with the fabric of time. "So, Mares," Biltong said, breaking the silence, "what do you think of the grandfather paradox? Anything new?" Mares didn’t look up from his cards. "There’s always something new. But it's not about what’s new, it’s about what’s being missed." Biltong raised an eyebrow. "Missed?" "Yes," Mares said, his voice calm, almost detached. "The geoglyphs in Peru aren’t just marks in the earth. They’re messages. Warnings, maybe. And we’re not understanding those warnings." Biltong chuckled, though it was a nervous sound. "You’re saying the Nazca geoglyphs are trying to tell us something?" Mares placed his cards on the table, face down, and leaned back. "I’m saying they’re telling us more than we’re ready to hear." The rain outside grew louder. Biltong exchanged a glance with Mares, both men trying to gauge whether the other was serious. "What about it?" Biltong asked, his voice more serious now. "You said we could understand it." The thick smell of cigars and the low hum of conversation filled the room, mingling with the faint scent of whiskey and the sharp tang of Biltong’s cologne. The two players sat around the dimly lit table, their eyes sharp, their hands steady. Chips clinked in neat stacks, and cards whispered as they slid across the felt. The small talk had been the usual banter of work, weather, and women, drifting on in time until Biltong sought to confess the workings of his mind. “It’s called the Grandfather Paradox,” Biltong said, his deep voice carrying across the table. “You go back in time, kill your grandfather, and poof—no more you. But then, who killed him?” Mares, seated to Biltong's right, chuckled as he thumbed his cards. “Time travel?. “It’s what that pyramid out in Nazca—what was it, five meters a side was about, they say.” “Not nowhere,” Biltong corrected, drawing out his words for emphasis. “They found it exactly where it was meant to be, inside the Nazca Lines. Like someone from the future just dropped it there. A three-dimensional puzzle piece in a two-dimensional landscape. Some people think it’s a guardian object.” "Guardian object?" Mares asked, leaning forward. His cards lay forgotten as curiosity got the better of him. “A guardian object,” Biltong repeated, savoring the attention. “Supposedly, it’s meant to protect us from ourselves. Remove it, and—who knows? Maybe that’s what’s holding everything together.” Mares snorted. “Right, and next you’ll tell me Eternals are real too.” “Maybe they are,” Biltong said, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Maybe one’s sitting at this table right now, proving a point.” The cards had come to a pause as the players exchanged glances, skepticism coloring their features. But Biltong leaned back, confident, holding his cards as though they were keys to the universe itself. “Alright, enough talk,” Mares said, breaking the spell. His eyes flicked back to his hand, and the game was on again. “Let’s see those cards.” It was down to Biltong and Mares. Biltong, by far the older man, born in 2017 whilst Mares was born in 2053. But then, how old was his grandfather? Maybe he was an Eternal, like one of Isaac Asimov’s characters. The room seemed to shrink as Mares revealed his cards one by one. Four nines stared up from the table, high cards, exuding a quiet power. Mares leaned back, satisfied, certain of his victory. “Four of a kind - four nines in fact,” he said, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Hard to beat.” Biltong’s grin didn’t falter. He laid his cards out with deliberate slowness, as though savoring each moment. “Unless,” he said, flipping the last card, “it’s a royal flush.” Mares gave a sharp intake of breath. Spades glinted in the dim light, from ten to ace. The perfect hand. The kind of hand you might get once in a lifetime, if you were lucky. Or maybe if you were cheating. Or maybe if time itself had a say in the matter. “What the hell,” Mares muttered, staring at the cards, disbelief and anger battling for dominance on his face. “That’s impossible.” “Not impossible,” Biltong corrected, his eyes glinting. “Just… unlikely. Maybe this is just the universe’s way of revisiting the present. A time traveler, proving a point.” “Bullshit,” Mares snapped, slamming his hand on the table. The chips rattled, some tipping over. “You’re saying you won because of time travel?” “I’m saying,” Biltong replied coolly, gathering his winnings, “that if I were a time traveler, I’d come back to this exact moment, play this exact hand, just to watch your face when you lost.” “What are the odds?” asked Mares.” I still don’t believe it. The pack must have been rigged.” “Well,” said Biltong, “I had Ace and Jack of the same suit.” The community cards were Queen, King, Ten of the same suit as my Ace and a Jack, plus two nines, hearts and spades. The five community cards (Queen, King, Ten, and two Nines) and my two hole cards (Ace and Jack) provided me my royal flush. Your two Nines as your hole cards made up your Four of a Kind: Two of the Nines were on the board as community cards. So, one other player, you, indeed had four Nines. You said: “What are the odds of this happening?” “So I was dealt Ace and Jack of the same suit. The community cards included the Queen, King, Ten of my suit (to complete the royal flush), plus two nines. You had to have the remaining two nines. The probability of being dealt a specific suited hand (Ace and Jack of the Same Suit) is, look, I’ll tell you if it’ll make you any happier. There are 4 possible suits and each has 52 cards in the deck. The probability of being dealt Ace-Jack of the same suit is: one in one hundred and ten point five. The probability of flopping a specific Royal Flush is one in two million, one hundred and eighteen thousand, seven hundred and sixty. The probability of Two Nines appearing in the remaining cards: one in nine hundred and ninety. So, the overall odds would be, well, let’s see, if my math is not too rusty, combinatorics as my grandfather would say, are a useful invention, and make stupid old time travel intelligent again, by retrocausality. I perfected a time sequence which seems real to you in which the overall odds of this specific scenario happening is one in twenty three billion.” There was a silence. A charged, uncomfortable silence, where the fabric of reality seemed to stretch thin, like a rubber band pulled too far. The room felt colder, the shadows deeper, as though something unseen had shifted. Mares laughed, breaking the tension, but it was a nervous sound, high-pitched and strained. “Yeah, right,” he said, forcing a smile. “You had me going for a second there.” Biltong just smiled, that same mysterious smile, as he pocketed the chips. “Maybe I’m just lucky.” But the words lingered, and the room didn’t quite return to normal. Mares stared at the cards, his expression darkening with each passing second. The thought gnawed at him—what if Biltong wasn’t lying? What if something was amiss? What if that pyramid out in Nazca was just the beginning? Mares felt that something had gone wrong, something beyond the game. Biltong’s royal flush had seemed like the pinnacle, the impossible hand, but in its wake, things started to unravel, slowly, almost imperceptibly, until his mind gave up. The table fell silent as his words hung in the air, the game all but over. The rain outside slowed to a steady drizzle, and the tension in the room seemed to ease, though an unease lingered just beneath the surface. Mares took his earlier winnings and boarded the train intending to be leaving Peru. He was definitely going to try and stay safe. That was when things began to fall apart. Getting off the train to relieve himself, in a station toilet that he couldn't find. The one on the train was broken. He bent down. A street lamp illuminated the platform, whereupon someone stepped out of the shadows asking, "Are you going to Nasira Almeida’s?" As he walked quickly, and he didn't want to hang around the toilets, he was soon done and then he heard a shot in the plaster walls, orange, they were, and the walls began to fall around him. As if plasterboard was being hacked away. He was behind a protecting wall. The police were closing in. Mares surrendered, bringing his hands up. He called, "Yes, yes, yes," but it was only the cleaner, dressed in orange, who spoke in Portuguese. “It is not for nothing that I am the great-grandson of the famous Mares family, which owns the mansion with a garden of fynbos," Mares muttered. He may be the enemy of other men, of other times, but not of fireflies, words, gardens, waterways, or sunsets. The police were polite, asking him to describe what happened. As he ascertained that they were holding him as a suspect for some murder, he asked what the charges were. "We will soon have this tied up," they said. A guard appeared in the cell when he mentioned food, and then a meal – quite pleasant, really. Mares began to reason with himself; this will soon be over. He needed some diplomatic help, as he hadn't informed anyone about his trip. It had turned out that he was committed not for the murder of someone who was in the toilet, but was being held nevertheless. This made no sense to him. His family approved of his work in the Canadian Spacetime Agency, as he had done valuable research. Basically, everything about this time and place was off. His girlfriend appeared on his cell phone.  "I'm on vacation. It's time I went out and had fun. That's why I'm here. I've been sightseeing. It's a beautiful city," she said. Mares took the bait. “We have our first retrocausality experiment set up,” she said. As Mares listened to her words, a chill ran down his spine. The retrocausality experiment—this was the culmination of all his work, the very thing he had abandoned everything for. Now, it was being realized without him. Flora continued to speak enthusiastically about the experiment, but Mares’ mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t shake the feeling that things had gone terribly wrong, not just with the experiment but with his life as a whole. The decision to step away from his work, the subsequent arrest and imprisonment, the alienation from his family—all of it had led him to this point, and he wasn’t sure he liked where he had ended up. When Flora finished speaking, she looked at him expectantly, waiting for a response. Mares forced a smile, trying to mask the turmoil inside. "It sounds incredible, Flora. Truly, it does. But I think…I think I’ve had enough of time travel, of experiments. It’s not where I belong anymore." Flora frowned, her excitement dimming. "But Mares, this is your work. You can't just walk away from it. Don’t you want to see what we’ve achieved, what you started?" Mares shook his head slowly. "I did want that, once. But now, I just want peace. I’ve lost too much trying to chase after something that, in the end, might not even matter." Flora stared at him, confusion and disappointment etched on her face. "So, what are you going to do now?" Mares looked out at the city again, at the life he had once found so alluring, and sighed. "I’m going to find a place where I can be still, where I can live without the weight of the past or the future hanging over me. Maybe that’s in Toronto, maybe it’s somewhere else. But it’s not here." Flora nodded, though her expression remained troubled. "I hope you find what you’re looking for, Mares. But I think you’re running away from something you can’t escape." Mares didn’t have an answer to that. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was running away. But for now, all he wanted was to leave behind the complications of his old life. As he walked away from Flora, he felt a strange mix of relief and sorrow. He was free, thanks to her word which carried weight, but he was also alone, and the future seemed as uncertain as ever. He boarded the next train out of the city, not knowing where it would take him. As the train sped away from the city, Mares leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, letting the rhythmic clatter of the tracks lull him into a state of calm. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to simply be, without worrying about what came next. But as the train carried him further into the unknown, a nagging thought lingered in the back of his mind: Could he ever truly escape the past? Or was he doomed to repeat the same mistakes, over and over again?


If I’ve learnt one thing, it’s this: looking for signs is not for the faint of heart. If you’re seeking one, you may not see it at first. Don’t give up. Stay alert, keep your eyes peeled, and eventually it’ll appear. But you may have to take the road less travelled by.

*	*	* 72 hours. They told me I had 72 hours to get it right. But this was not really the truth, the whole truth, the unvarnished truth, the one that’s stripped bare of veneers and obfuscations. No. The truth is, you have something like twelve hours. That’s all.

Here, I’ll explain the math. I can see your eyes are glazing over as soon as I say the word, but never mind, just listen, pay attention, you never know when you’ll be in that situation. When you’re going to need it . First of all you can take out the non business hours -- I see I’m losing you already, and I’ve lost so many people this year, I can’t bear to lose another. First the maid, then the gardener, then the flower girl. That’s three already. So okay. No more math. Just take my word for it. Just twelve hours. That’s all you’ve got. Practically speaking. The best place was the one at the airport. Of course there were places closer to me. Nearer to home, where I knew the roads, the intersections, the landmarks, where the speed limits were more friendly to me. That is, below the dreaded sixty five miles an hour. But no one vouched for them. They were like the homeless guy come into a bit of good luck, trying to rent a studio on Woodside. No prior references available. That’s what those places near home were like. Maybe there’ll come a time when someone will say, they’ll deliver for you in 24 hours, they’ll have all the magic letters the airline demands, the R and the T, the P, C and the R, all arranged in the right order, lined up like little soldiers fighting in my own battalion, but for right now, they were unknowns. So this is how I found myself, speeding along at sixty five, looking for a sign. The sign that said, “COVID tests, this way.” The google directions lady tried her best. “Stay straight on Airport Boulevard,” she said.

(But what is straight? I ask you this, not as a philosophical question, not as the question the homeless guy asked me when he broke into my house and took a silver pitcher saying, “Isn’t my life more important than the fact that your great grandmother left you this pitcher, and therefore my hunger trumps your idea of what it is to be straight,” but as a practical matter of directions. The North, South, East and West of life.) The boulevard that I was on bifurcated, and then the bifurcations further bifurcated, and then they had progeny, and I found myself swimming in the midst of five lanes. Domestic, International Arrivals, International Departures, If You Want To Go to Brokaw Road, Something Else to Confuse Hapless Souls, these were the lanes, and here I craned my neck left and then far right wondering where the heck the sign for Carbon Health was.

If I saw the sign, I knew that my trip would be a good idea. Wouldn’t it be the Universe’s way of telling me that it was giving me the go ahead to fly in the time of Delta, and here, I don’t mean the airline, but the variant, the one that grabs you in a matter of seconds and decimates your lungs, mind, kidneys, heart and any organ that can’t resist. That Delta. I was giving up when I saw the sign. It was off to the side, hanging out in the crook of the elbow formed by domestic and international, the time they parted ways as all separate roads must, sometime or the other. By this time, the sweat had amassed on my forehead, like melted ice atop a mountain, and major rivers were running down the side of my face. Sometimes the gap between where one is and where the sign is, is too great to traverse. It takes more than a hot moment to cross five lanes. Thankfully there was no limit on how often one can circle around an airport. I wound my way through the innards, passing Air Canada, United, Delta (this time the airline), Alaska and all the others that work for us to pollute our air. A second chance to find the sign. This time I’ll do it, I said to myself. Back at the starting line, I sat up straight, put my shoulders back, sucked the oxygen in deep. One lane, I got this, I told myself, then cut over to International. Before I knew it, the friendly two international lanes had split further, spawning strangers I was unacquainted with. I needed another sign, but there was none. I slowed down. I screamed. I asked Fate what it was playing at. Drivers behind me were getting impatient. I heard horns honking and then the people whose time was more precious than my mother's need to see me made their way around me and sped off down roads they knew better than I did. Third time was not a charm. As I started the fourth round, I began to ask myself: Was the failure to see the sign a sign? Was I in the Escher painting of signs where the lack of one sign points to another, a ladder that leads you to another ladder? Was this a portent that my trip was doomed, not to be undertaken in this perilous time? The fourth round was a bust. Now five has always been my favorite number. It’s got everything: flats, curves, a right angle. It’s not too rigid, and not too flexible. It would be Goldilock’s number, not too this and not too that. So the fifth time I went around, and International split, I stayed on the right. When it birthed a strange little road, I took it. Didn’t Frost talk about the road less travelled by? That came in handy. Then it was there: the second sign, the one that I had been seeking all along. “COVID test.” Modest, painted white, easily missable, a wallflower of a sign. A sign that's soon forgotten, much like one fails to remember the theft by a homeless guy of a silver pitcher, because he presents an infallible logic, the primacy of his need. What's forgotten goes unreported. Never had that dreaded word, and here I mean COVID, not theft, appeared so fair. I stepped on the gas, a smile lighting up my face, looking forward to white gowns, invasive swabs and finally, a single word with a bad rap, NEGATIVE.


James looked at the clock. It was 4:50 pm. He let out a sigh and looked to the ceiling. A small spider hanging on its web caught his attention. He wondered what the world of spiders looked like. Did they ever feel stress? Pressure? Like they ever wanted to quit?

“James?” James almost fell from his chair when he heard the voice from behind his chair. He stood up and turned to look at who was calling him. “Hi Linda, you scared me a bit there.” “Sorry” Linda smiled, a smile James never got tired of seeing. “Can I help you with something?”

“Oh yes, I need you to help me with the report that Andy told us to work on.” James narrowed his eyes. “I thought you had a copy of the report?”

“I did. But I don’t anymore.” James looked at Linda as if expecting an explanation. But she didn’t say anything else. “Okay...I’ll email it to you.”

“Thanks.” With that, Linda left his office. James looked at her as she walked away. She really is strange sometimes, James thought to himself.

James dropped his bag on the floor when he reached home. He fell on the sofa, feeling the strains of work all over his body. Somehow the sofa - that was made of leather - felt so comfortable, as if it was massaging his back. On the walls of the living room hang picture frames of him and the trophies he had won on various sledge racing championships. “Good times,” James said to himself looking at the picture. He remembered how happy he was back then. How he felt alive in those competitions. Suddenly feeling thirsty, James went to the refrigerator to get a drink.

He saw the pile of reports on top of his table, reminding him of the work he needed to complete. “Oh how I love my job,” James said in a sarcastic tone. Just then his phone rang. The caller id read “world’s worst boss.”

“Hello, Mr Richards,” James thought of adding something else to his formal greeting. Something like, hello, Mr Richards, the boss no one ever wants to work for. “James! Where is the report you were told to work on? I need it now!” “I thought I had 2 weeks to work on it? I remember…” “What?” Mr Richards interrupted. “I’m telling you now, I need that report. Get it down, now!” With that, Mr Richards hang up. “Now I really love my job” It was 01:23 am when James finished working on the report. “Finally,” James said while yawning. He really felt tired. But most of all, he felt out of place. Like he was in the wrong place. James had always thought of quitting but he was afraid. Afraid of the future. Afraid of being jobless. Afraid that...he never find what he was looking for. But what was he looking for? James was alarmed by the alarm from his phone. He got up and looked at the time. It was 8:45 am. “What!” James shouted. “I am so dead” he rushed to the bathroom and took a quick shower. He looked through his closet, picked a T-shirt and black jeans. These will do.

He was welcomed by Linda, who was leaning on the door to his office. She was wearing an all-black suit. Her hair was well done. For a moment James was taken up by how she looked. Realizing that Linda had noticed he was looking at her intently, James cleared his throat. “What’s the occasion?”

“The boss wants to see you.” Linda then began to walk away before she stopped. “Oh, and he doesn’t seem too happy” James put his hand on his hip. Now, what’s the matter this time? James knocked at the door of Mr Richards. “Come in” James entered. Mr Richards had just put the phone down. He looked intense. “I was told you wanted to see me?” Mr Richards got up from his chair. He walked towards James.

“The report you sent me was...trash” James stomach tightened. “I mean...what did you even do? This is absolute garbage!” James looked at his boss as he went on and on complaining about how bad the report was. James left anger build up inside him. Did he consider how hard I worked on this report? The time I slept working on that report? Does he even appreciate the work I do here? This ungrateful being! “Oh great. You aren’t even listening to me!” James’ came back to reality. He was in a place he didn’t want to be, a job he didn’t want in the first place, working for a man who didn’t appreciate him or the work he did. His anger had finally reached a point where he couldn’t contain it anymore.

“Now you listen to me!” James said with an angry tone in his voice. “I have done everything...and I mean everything you have asked me to do.” Mr Richards could see a line of veins on James’ forehead.

“...but you never appreciate anything. Nothing at all. So I’m done. I quit!” James walked out of the office, shutting the door loudly.

He walked towards Linda until he was very close to her. He held her head and kissed her without any warning. He broke off the kiss and looked Linda right in the eyes, “I have always wanted to do that.” James then turned and walked towards the exit door. He looked behind and saw all the workers who were looking back at him with surprised eyes. “I hope you all open your eyes” James smiled and walked out. James took a big sip of his wine before he told the bartender to add him another glass. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” asked the bartender. “Hey man, I…I have had a rough day and I don’t know what’s going to happen next. So please…just keep them coming, Ok?” James looked at his watch, it was 11:36 pm. “Time does fly when you’re having a drink.” The bartender, who was pouring him another drink, motioned to James that this was his last drink for the night. “I hope you are going to pay for all these drinks?” James turned the lights of the room when he reached his home. “I’m home.” He looked around his living room as if expecting someone to welcome him. He let out a loud sigh when no one came. What a lonely person , he thought. He walked towards his sofa, clearly feeling the heaviness of the drinks he had. “Why are there 2 sofa sets?” James reached to what seemed his sofa, and dropping like a sack of potatoes, he fell flat on the carpeted floor. James was snoring loudly when his phone started ringing. The ring tone partially woke up. He looked at his phone but couldn’t see the caller id clearly. He groaned as he sat up, realizing that he had slept on the floor. His head hurt badly as he tried to make out what had happened the previous night.

“Ah!” James let out a soft moan. His phone kept ringing. “Hello…” James answered. “Hey, James. It’s been a while.” James tried to make out the voice but his head hurt really badly. “Who is this?” “Oh man, I’m offended. I can’t believe you forgot about me that quickly.” James’ vision started becoming clear. His memory of yesterday begun coming back to him, but his head still hurt. He removed the phone from his ear to look at the caller id. It was his old friend Robert. “Robert? Is it really you?” “No. It’s the landlord and I have come for the rent. Of course, it’s me, Robert!” “Sorry man, I…um…hey, how’s it going? It really has been a while.” “It has. Listen, why don’t we meet up? I want to discuss something with you.” James reached the destination they had agreed upon with Robert. He was 30 minutes early. James entered the restaurant and ordered a cup of coffee and some cookies. He loved cookies, especially chocolate cookies. He sat down and quickly his mind wandered to the conversation he had over the phone with Robert. What did he want to talk about? He looked outside through the big window and saw 2 boys walking across the street. He wished he could be young again and make better choices in life. But what bugged him the most was that he really didn’t know what he wanted in life. What was even his purpose? Somehow James felt lost, wondering if he would ever be or find something meaningful to do. “Just like old times.” James looked at Robert, who was standing in front of him. “You always were early. Old habits never die huh?” Robert was wearing a black suit with sunglasses. His shoes looked like it could cover James’ salary for 4 months. “Are you walking with the Men in Black?” James asked while standing up. The 2 men hugged themselves, embracing themselves in a tight hug before pulling themselves at arm’s length and observing each other.“Well, look at you. You look so…classy.” James said. They both sat down. “So…how’s it been?” Robert began. “Oh, it’s been alright.” “Hmm...it’s that bad huh?”

James took a sip of his coffee and bit on his cookie. “I quit my job yesterday. I couldn’t handle another day in that place.”

“Oh, I see. You have any plans moving ahead?” Robert asked. “Honestly, I don’t know. I just left without thinking about what my next move is.” James put down his coffee. “I really don’t know where I go from here.” James continued. There was a moment of silence. Something like 10 seconds before James broke off the silence. “So...what did you want to talk about?” He took another sip of his coffee, but his gaze never left Robert. “The Iditarod trail sledge dog race” Robert answered. “What about it?” James asked. “I want you to come back and race.” “Come back?” “Yes,” Robert responded. “The race needs people like you, James.” “I’m retired, Robert. And besides, it’s been 6 years since I last raced.” The waitress came and put Robert’s coffee on the table with a piece of cake on the plate. “Thanks,” Robert acknowledged the waitress before she left. “Look...” Robert’s attention quickly turning to James. “Since you left, the race hasn’t really been the same. The passion has died because people can’t live up to what you achieved.” James looked at his coffee. He was deep in thought, remembering how he used to race 6 years ago. “And besides...” Robert continued “you could get some money to help you find another opportunity. You don’t have much to do, and you kind of need the money. So why not give it a try?” James turned his attention to Robert. He could see Robert wanted him to come back to Alaska. “The racers really need you to get their passion back. They looked up to you, James.” James looked up to the ceiling. He wondered if he could still race. But maybe he needed this. The prize money was really good and it could go a long way to help him. It wouldn’t hurt he tried to race again. What else was there to lose? “Are you going to race too?” James asked Robert. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.” “Alright then, count me in,” James said with a smile on his face. “Yes! Thanks, man. I knew I could count on you. We leave on Thursday morning. Everything has been set.” A cold wind welcomed James as he came out of the van. There was snow covering everywhere. This reminded James of his race days. It brought a smile on his face as he remembered his first race when he fell off his sledge. “I saw that” Robert put his hand on James’ shoulder. “It

brings back memories, huh?” James saw a group of people and some dogs up a hill. He climbed towards them, but someone in the group shouted: “Is that James? James the sledge king?” The people, who had been murmuring amongst themselves, turned and looked at James who was approaching them. “It is him…” another person shouted. When James finally reached them, they all rushed to get his attention. “What brings you, James?” one person asked. “Are you here to observe the race?” “I didn’t expect to see you here” “Are you here to race too?” The questions kept coming. “Guys,” Robert finally appeared. “Give James a break will you?” James nodded at Robert as if saying “thank you” “I’m here to race too.” James finally spoke.

“Really?” asked a young lady.

“I thought you had retired?” another person in the crowd asked. “I did. But now I’m back...for one more.” James heard the dogs barking and he knew it was race day. Yesterday he hadn’t slept at all as the people kept him up for most parts of the night. He also was thinking of the upcoming race. Can I still do it? It’s been over 5 years. The organizers where busy arranging the sledges and patting the dogs. Seeing all this made James feel happy. He had always loved the feeling of racing on the snow. He loved how the felt right before a race. How the thrill of the race took over him whenever he would get on that sledge and race. All these feelings were coming back to him. James turned and looked at Robert who was next to him at the beginning of the race line. He was about to going sledging with his friend. Robert had always come closest to beating James but never did. Maybe this time he would. But there was no denying how excited James was. For the first time in a while, James felt like he belonged here. In the snow. Sledge racing. Everything came back to him, and though he had retired 6 years ago. He had never really left. And he then knew immediately what he wanted. He wanted to sledge.