“This is my worst nightmare” I say, barely breathing the words out. I examine the folds of skin on my now deceased great grandfather while holding his cold, limp hand. I wonder what it looked like when he was younger and smoother. I picture him as a boy around ten playing baseball, and his mother afterwards wiping the dirt from his rosy cheeks. How easy it would be to pull out a handkerchief and wipe the dirt in one stroke and send him to bed where he’d sleep deeply. Do wrinkles make it more difficult to clean? Do they get in the way? I never asked myself these questions until now. His hand was a lot heavier than I remember, but now I wasn’t really holding it, I was carrying it. I don’t want to forget the way it feels in mine; I absorb it all; the calluses, the size and his strength. Don’t forget I tell myself but the coldness is distracting. I’ll just pretend its cold outside and we’re taking a walk together while holding hands. I close my eyes and imagine its Christmastime and we’re going to pick out a tree for the house. It’s so crowded and he takes my hand to lead me through the tangled mess of people and I feel safe. Yes, this will do, I think as I grip his hand tighter. I don’t want to let go. I hold the fantasy for just a second longer until I feel two limbs dressed in pink cotton gripping me like a claw from behind. A despondent voice tells me “I know you loved him so much honey…but now he’s at peace”.  Why does everyone always say that? Without taking my eyes off my great grandpa I respond as politely as I can, “Yeah… thank you”. There was nothing else to say. He’s gone and there’s nothing we can do about it. I wish people would just say what they’re actually thinking and not just say it because they think that’s what they’re supposed to say. I hope she’s not trying to get me leave his side; I need more time. I look around the room to observe everyone. I’m curious about their reaction. Is anyone like me? I now notice that some have left the room and only a few remain. Are they afraid of his dead body?  My little sister is in the corner curled up like she’s in a tornado drill crying while my mom pets her blonde hair, while also crying. My grandma sits at the foot of the bed where she remained from rubbing his feet earlier; she looks down crying silently to herself and brushes the curls that have stuck to her face, cemented by her tears. My great grandmother, the only one not crying, looks as though she is in a trance. She is on other side of him, motionless and is also holding his hand. I study her; her petite frame of only 4’-9” and red faded hair that is now mostly white. She never dyed it or wore much makeup. My grandpa said he preferred her “natural” look. I smile thinking of their love. She doesn’t notice or acknowledge anyone around her. I realized I was witnessing something very intimate and pay closer attention. I hear her say “See you soon” like he’s only gone to go fishing. She releases his hand and gives it a pat. He was her reason for living and like a robot that is shutting down, she lowers her head and stares at the floor.

Most of his family came here to say goodbye. My cousin Andy flew from Florida and just made it before he died.  All of his children, grandchildren and some great grandchildren are all here. What man can say he had so much love in his life? We all depend on him so much, what will happen to us all? The nightmare is starting to feel more real with each minute of his passing. I hold this moment of all of us together with him one last time vowing to never forget this moment knowing that it will soon be gone forever. Hard heavy footsteps accompanied by soft gentle ones capture my attention enough to make me turn my head away from my great grandpa to the door. My uncle Mike is standing next to a middle aged lady with brown hair that I have never seen before. She’s not wearing scrubs like the other nurses but she is dressed in a way that tells me she isn’t just a visitor. “The pastor is here” My uncle announces loudly like a teacher’s pet.  It’s like him to want to take control of a situation and inform everyone of everything. Everyone looks to the uninvited but appreciated guest and says nothing. A few try to force a smile to be polite but their puffy sullen eyes and quivering lips still read sadness. “Hello, I’m Lisa and I want to start by saying how sorry I am for your loss.” My great aunt, the baby and the most vocal and lurid of the deposits my great grandfather left behind, expresses an appreciative “thank you” while my great uncle and grandma nod in agreement. “I’m one of the pastors here at the hospital and I’m here if you’d like to pray together” Her voice is sympathetic and kind but with a shimmer of confidence. My grandma, the caretaker of the family is the one to respond now “Yes, thank you, that would be nice” She accepts the kind gesture. She is one of the nicest people I have ever met and would simply agree whether she wanted a pastor or not just because she wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. Actually, I’m pretty sure that’s what she did just now. Even though she grew up religious, in her adult life she has never been to church nor have I heard her speak of God. Maybe she was thinking of the other family members, like her brother and his family, who are more religious than her and would like a pastor to pray with. Or maybe…it just came down to what her father would have wanted. He was such a religious man; He spent so much time in the church organizing activities and volunteering with whatever they needed. When he wasn’t at church he was living his life to the best of his ability, integrating the Ten Commandments into his daily life. Thinking back, I don’t ever remember a time that we didn’t pray before a meal. Whether my grandma believed it or not, this was part of what made her father and this was about him. When I grieve, there are times I need to be alone. So without saying anything, I decide to leave the room and give the siblings some time to say goodbye to their father with a prayer. I leave the clumps of family that are gathered together like the last of cereal bits in a bowl of milk, and head towards the kitchen area down the hall. I look around in the cabinet and find bagels, muffins and granola bars; I search further and find popsicles, juice and Jell-O. Anything too sweet feels too celebratory and now that I think about it, I feel nauseous anyway. I just want something to make me feel again and hot coffee feels like it would do the trick. Coffee is acceptable for any occasion and not just for the morning: after dinner with dessert, late night drinking, meetings at work and it doesn’t matter whether you’re sad or happy, coffee is always there. I add a couple creams and one sugar and take my first sip. It’s not good, but I keep drinking it anyway, appreciating the warmth and sweetness it brings. Looking at the goosebumps on my arms, I now realize how cold it is in here and take the coffee and hold it close to my chest brushing my long blonde hair to the side so it wouldn’t dip into the coffee but wondering why I even care. The little pleasure it brings me makes me sad, reminding me of the happiness we’d all share at meal times. Just the day before with all his family surrounding him, my great grandpa woke up after being asleep for a day and said “I’m hungry! I need some breakfast!” So my mom and I went to Denny’s and got him a large special of pancakes, sausage, bacon, eggs and toast with jam. We sat by his side while he told us what bites he wanted. He couldn’t eat much and told us to “eat some too”. We sat there feeding him, ourselves and any family member that wanted a breakfast bite. Laughter, smiling, eating, conversing, togetherness; the mood was joyful. That evening great grandpa even felt well enough to bellow out a song. “I’ll see you in the Morning, bright dew on the grass, I can’t go any further” he pauses trying to think of the words while everyone listens, watching him in silence, “because I can’t think very fast” the last lyric was like a que for everyone to start laughing. Here is a man that was dying and he still had a way to make everyone laugh. My guess is that it is an old hymn of some sort; luckily I was able to record it on my phone. He was always breaking out in song of hymns, folk, country and occasionally Bing Crosby. I mean, he used to break out in song. I have to get used to referring to him in the past tense I remind myself. We were told he was going home soon. We were told we’d have more time. Sure, hospice would be sent with him but we were still thankful to get him back home where he was comfortable. But… he went to bed that night and never woke up in the morning. He was still alive though, just sleeping is what everyone kept saying. Then morning turned into afternoon and time kept passing and he was still just sleeping but now we were saying it with hesitance. I guess he was singing about a different kind of morning.  I arrived at the hospital around 3 PM. The once happy mood of great grandpa getting to go home turned into a somber one of the truth. The time had come and we sat, waiting.  A nurse came in to check his vitals and gave us a pitiful smile. My grandma, being a nurse herself interpreted his numbers and confirmed “It won’t be long now”. Thinking back on these memories sends another shot of pain. I’m not there for my family I panic, I’m missing what’s going on, and maybe they need help with something. I run back to the room, setting the rest of my coffee on a cart just outside. It hasn’t been long since his passing, but others are already starting to leave. This is the last time I’ll see Grandpa it hits me. I ignore the looks and the questions of “where were you?” and go to his side and take his hand once more to say my last words to him. I don’t want to cry now; I want my speech clear and confident. I look at his face as if he were still alive. “Goodbye Grandpa…I love you” I say like I have said a hundred times except I know this is the last time I’ll be saying it. I hope that he can hear me in some form. Now it’s time to go. I can’t go on lingering and seeing his body any further knowing he can’t answer back or feel my hand. I have to get out, now. “I’m leaving” I announce to the whole room and start to walk out. I might look like and sound like a psychopath but I don’t care at the moment. I want to say goodbye but I can’t do it that room. An assembly line of hugs and kisses are given until we all decide it’s enough and we walk out together. While walking, my mom tells me I should spend the night with great grandma so “she’s not alone”. I agree but I’m worried that I won’t be able to comfort her, I can barely comfort myself and I don’t understand what she is going through. I drove separately to the hospital and I’m thankful because now I can really let loose on my own. Before I start the car, I play the recording from him singing yesterday and I break out in tears that just don’t stop. My hands wipe my tears like windshield wipers during a heavy rainfall and I start my car and leave. I notice the exit sign “Wixom” and I realize I’m almost at great grandma’s house and I don’t even remember most of the commute. I look at the tissues that are bundled in the passenger seat.  I wonder how much water I’ve lost from crying; I wish I had something to drink. Right off the exit, I spot a McDonalds . I decide it’s better to stop here for something to drink than to bother grandma. While waiting in line I see an ad for a large fry and my appetite returns. My body must be craving salt from all the crying I’ve done.  I order a large fry and an unsweetened iced tea, eating it in the five minute duration to my great grandma’s house. I pull up to her house and notice her light in the living room is still on. I’m glad she’s not in bed yet. Not knowing what to say to her, I greet her as usual. She’s already in her nightgown and ready for sleep. But she seems so out of sorts right now. When I talk to her she looks to the side without acknowledgment. I’m pretty sure she can’t comprehend what I am saying so I don’t say anything more. Part of her soul must have left with Grandpa. I decide the best thing to do is to get ready for bed. Being 18 and pretty much using my car as suitcase, I already have pajama pants, a t-shirt and a toothbrush in tow.  My mom also suggested sleeping in the same bed, on my great grandfather’s side, and although I feel uncomfortable being in his spot, I do as she suggests hoping it helps in some way. I’ve never slept in the same bed as her and I feel so out of place. What if she reaches for grandpa in the middle of the night and finds me? How do I comfort her? I hope just being here is enough.  I stay awake for a couple more hours thinking about our plans for tomorrow, how much I will miss him, how our family will change as a whole and how I will never look at McDonald’ s french fries without thinking about this night.


Dr. Ismail Mohamed squinted at the headline of the news article on the screen in front of him; ‘Some women now found to be pregnant……’. He did not want to read further or look at the comments or the reactions to the article. He could imagine the hostility and the denial that would be unleashed yet again. He could almost feel the scars from the past year opening up, blood trickling out and his wounds re-emerging. The professional jealousies turning into scorn and ridicule. The plans to destroy him and a lifetime of good work. The readiness to think the worst of him. He could not endure that general willingness to accept that he had fulfilled the lowest requirements necessary to be labeled as a traitor and scum. This latest news update would not bring about vindication. There would be no apologies. The innocent are rarely forgiven for that which they are wrongly accused of while the guilty succeed in their plotting and planning. He thought back to that day a year ago and how it had all started.

The children rushed around the breakfast table. Dr. Ismail Mohamed returned home from the neighbourhood mosque to find books and bags strewn around. It seemed as if he would not have time to get to the newspapers this morning before rushing off to the hospital. Shoelaces to be tied and shirts to be tucked in. His wife, Sakeena Mohamed packed the lunchboxes, found the missing Mathematics book, tidied up the table and managed to get the children into the car with their father in time to go to school. “Daddy, do you have lots of surgeries today?” asked the youngest from the back seat of the car. “Daadd, can we have ice cream today?” asked the oldest from the passenger seat of the car. Dr. Ismail Mohamed smiled and thought to himself how grateful he was for his beautiful family. A lifetime of a practice in obstetrics and gynaecology meant that he was always aware of the challenges couples faced in creating their perfect family.

He walked in the doors of the hospital and made his way to the elevator to get to his office on the fourth floor of the building. He found it odd that Nurse Wijewardena walked past him and did not return his usual morning greeting and smile. He found it even stranger that Dr. Perera was about to enter the elevator on the third floor but abruptly turned around and walked away when the doors opened. He found it most peculiar when he saw women rushing around as he got out of the elevator shouting and gesturing. He did not see or hear the dozens of missed calls from Sakeena on his phone.

“What were you thinking?” they all said “Is this your way of making sure your lot stays in control?” “Are you a terrorist?” “So was the plan that you guys would go on having large families and expanding your businesses whilst we end up with nothing?” The accusations went on and on. The complaints piled on. There was a presumption of guilt. Colleagues and contemporaries. Neighbours and old friends. The common thread was an assumption of ‘us’ v ‘them’. The assertion of the unforgivable; a threat to the existence of the majority itself. The newspaper headline that broke the story read, ‘Muslim doctor carries out illegal sterilisations of thousands of non-Muslim women’.

Dr. Ismail Mohamed tried to explain the difference between a hysterosalpingogram which checked for blocked fallopian tubes and tubal ligation which is a surgical procedure where the fallopian tubes are tied, clamped, cut, banded or sealed closed. He attempted to draw a distinction between the facts and the claims. He fought against the allegations and defended himself against his detractors. “Why are they saying these things?” exclaimed Sakeena who was distraught over the story being spread across the nation. “Isn't there a way to prove them wrong? How could they say that you actually sterilised these women? What motive could you possibly have had to violate the oath that you took as a medical professional? Why would they destroy our family and our name like this?”

Dr. Ismail Mohamed read the posts and comments about him on social media. The spiteful mockery and xenophobic murmurings. The stirring up of incitement. He thought back to his schooling in his little rural village along the coastline and all the hopes his parents and teachers had for him as a child. He grieved the difficult childhood that had suddenly been thrust upon his own children. The burdens that had been placed upon their shoulders. He reflected on his time in medical school making new friends from various ethnicities and religions and the sharing of food, culture and experiences that came along with it. Friendships that had now soured. Kindness that had turned into harsh words. Trust replaced by betrayal. He understood that it fit within their plan. He had been unknowingly chosen as a lamb to the slaughter. A symbol of the struggle for dominance. A pawn in the game of chess.

Police investigations, arrest, detention and court cases; it was all a whirlwind of faces, conversations, processes and events. He marvelled at the surgical prowess so many had bestowed on him to be able to surreptitiously conduct illegal procedures on patients in surgical theatres filled with nurses and medical staff. Throughout the process of questioning by the police, time spent in jail and hours sitting in the courthouse he wondered about the women who had raised the complaints. Were they just like him; used and then tossed away like crumpled pieces of paper? Did they mourn over their inability to conceive and believe that it was really his fault? How would they react when they suddenly found themselves to be pregnant and realised the cost of their words? Could they have ever predicted the disastrous consequences of their contentions? Or was it really that there were no qualms in the conviction handed out? There was the assurance that there would be no absolution of guilt.

(Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.)


My sister challenged me to write a flash fiction about talking to your reflection in the mirror and slowly realizing that our world was the evil one. His grin, that's the worst part. It was both alien and familiar; a poorly drawn self portrait. It was too perfect to the point of being unsettling. I couldn't find a flaw if I tried. What’s worse, I had always loved smiles. Especially my fathers, both reassuring and optimistic. People would always remark how much i resembled my father; if only they could see me now. “Well of course there’s no such thing as killing. I mean, there are accidents, but these things will happen, that is the fate set by the Creator”, spoke the phantom hiding in the mirror. “But what about all the people who would have lived in my world? How could you, I mean me, or whatever, exist? Wouldn't a whole different set of people exist? I mean what about the butterfly effect? How do you have radar and rockets, and have you guys ever been to the moon! That was all the cold war and Kennedy... hey what about Kennedy! He must have…” “Whoa nelly! Calm down there me.”, as he snuck in a quick wink, “I guess what they say about us is true; we really are curious!” I don’t like ‘us’, it’s unsettling. With any other man, I would have punched him right in his smug face. Honestly though, I could hardly move if I tried. I took a short breath and thought for a second. “Well if you think like me then you know what I mean. How is this possible?” He, me, whatever, paused and gave a slight smile, “Well I think you see what you want in this other world, whatever is comfortable I mean. We could even look like completely different people. Instinct tells ‘us’ that we’re the same in spirit, if not body. We’re pretty clever you know. Do you know what I mean?” Dammit, none of this makes any sense. But I mean if he gets what's going on then why don’t I? This is so damn confusing! Finally I sighed, “You know what, I don’t even give a fuck. Who cares how this works. I’m still not 100 percent convinced i’m not nuts” “What does ‘fuck’ mean?” he said quizzically. God dammit. I practically screamed, “Oh please don’t tell me you guys never swear either! Fuck damn shit hell cocksucking motherfucker!” “I know know mother.”, he said proudly Exasperated, I groaned, “Well what about hell and damn? You seem like a fairly pious bunch. There’s no way you haven’t heard those words. ” “No… none of those sound familiar.” suddenly slipping back into his quizzical stare. No. This can’t be true. There’s no way he doesn't know all the words we are supposed to be ashamed of. Dammit none of this makes sense! Are our worlds really so different? But, maybe they are. Maybe they don’t know, can’t know, these words. Maybe I’m trying to see what I want, the better part of things. No, I’m too pessimistic for that. At least there’s something I know for certain. Finally the reality set in, slowly things became sickeningly clear. Quietly, with a tinge of fear, i spoke, “Do… do you know sin?” He Laughed, catching me off guard. “You’re messing with me! Man, I should’ve know I’d try something like that. There’s no way you have words that I don’t. Man it really is true; we sure do love to fool people!” Speechless, the seconds strolled by. I saw his expression change one again from joy to query. He is the same person as me, but we could not be more different. His world was a paradise, and mine is a shithole. A virtual antithesis to his impossible utopia. This is such bullshit! This is some sort of sick joke! I mean he said we like messing with people. No, the sincerity was palpable, undeniably innocent. A rage from deep within burst forth. Screaming in what was nearly pain, I tore into this guy, “How!? How are you so perfect!? You have to comprehend this! Sin! The act of evil! All that is bad, the horrors of humanity! How can you be this way!?” “Well, I can’t help it. Anything else is unthinkable. I don’t think I could ‘sin’ if I tried”, he smiled still drowning in his innocence. There it was, the sick sweet truth. He isn't better than me! His world may be an Eden, but it is undeniably a prison. A grin crossed my face, both alien and sickeningly familiar. My sin kept me free. It was time for me to laugh. I carried on a bit too long honestly. It was both terrifying and refreshing. I even think I scared that little punk a bit. Hot damn that’s satisfying. I sputtered through the cackles, “You know what, you can keep your pious bullshit and your fucking Eden! I wouldn't leave here for anything; I’m a free man here!” “That’s wonderful!”, he said. God dammit. Whatever, I’m too excited to get pissed off at his optimism. Still, like a splinter ignored for too long, I felt a sudden sudden prick deep in my psyche. Man, I’m getting sick of this fucker. “What do you mean?” I asked, exasperated. “We love seeing people happy, deep down you know that! As long as you are at peace, I can be happy for you!” “How can you be okay with that? I mean being a captive to yourself and your ‘Creator’ that ‘loves’ you so much? I know you understand me, I can see it your smug fucking eyes!”. Shit, did I just insult myself? I mean, that is me, I guess. Whatever, he won’t understand anyway. Still with that fucking grin he retorted, “He gives me love, unconditional and liberating! I do have free will you know.” “Oh really?”, I said, confidence returning. “You said you couldn't fathom my concept of sin, that means you’re ‘creator, is holding you back!” “No, I’m free to do as I please. Look at it this way, if you got a brand new car, would you crash it just because you could? Why would ruin something perfect?” Fuck, he’s figured this sin thing out pretty quick. Well all that means is I’m obviously very clever, a straight up mental badass. I’ll figure this bastard out. Shit, I probably shouldn't think of him, me or whatever, that way. “Well, I mean at least I could if I wanted to for whatever reason! That’s what makes life so exciting! I mean, when I pop some pills my body gets a beating but I get high as fuck! You've probably never even felt the rush, the ecstasy, of danger.” Man, I've got this guy pinned. “Yes, I know about these pills. I can tell when we take them. I ignore the sensation though, because I have the choice to!” “Ha, that is some ignorant sh..” Wait a second… Confused and terrified, I blurted. “What the fuck do you mean… you know when I get high!? What the fuck is going on here! I can affect you, your world and whatever!? There’s no way… Who the fuck are you!?” “I’m you. You should know by now, but maybe you've ignored me for too long.” The smile was gone. Deep down that racked my soul in a way unfathomable. “No.. no, no no no… what the fuck is going on!? god fucking dammit what the fuck! Just… WHO ARE YOU!? explain yourself motherfucker!!” Insults flowed to freely now. “I’m you, but I think you are no longer me. You haven’t been for a very long time. Still you visit from time to time, so I know you exist. I still keep the hope, and follow the perfect path you made for me, since the very beginning.” I tried to run, tried to scream in a rage but something was wrong. I don’t think my body can anymore. I whispered, “You can’t be… are, are you my soul?” A slight chuckle, comforting. “No, him and I do not get along. I’m your conscience. I am all that is all that you know is good, I have reached out to you our whole life. But like I said, you see what you want here. You saw my ignorance to ‘sin’ as a weak, but it’s becoming clear to us now. You know ‘sin’ quite well, it seems comfortable to you.” A wave a panic rushed to me but found no anchor, I was too stunned. Reality was too vague now. I forced the words past my empty lips, “Why... now?” “I think deep down you know. Look in yourself, tell me what you see.” No, I won’t. I fucking won’t. Fuck this guy! No, no I’m not going to look! Fuck… FUCK! A new phantom is walking towards me from just out of my field of vision. He’s undeniable, I don’t know how, but somehow knew. Truth was unmistakable. Suddenly Truth is wrestling my mind down. It’s futile now, I know it… no... fuck no I won’t let him! Shit, he’s strong. I can barely fight it, I’m more tired than I know. Truth moves closer as I struggle less and less. Finally, angry lips whispered into my ear, “It was too much this time, a pill to many. You are going to die.” I cried absent of tears. My mind sobbed, screaming throughout my whole being. Panic finally overcame me. My knees buckled and the world moved so slowly that it tore at my sanity. Violently my eyes returned to the mirror. He had taken a step back, and the panic turned into soul crushing pain. More than my conscience can take. I begged with my eyes for words of comfort and my last words struggled in less than a whisper out of my whole body, “I am dying. help me, please!” Quietly my conscience spoke, “I wish I could, but I can’t find the words. You have ignored me so long that I no longer know. I’m not strong enough to carry you with me...


I am alone and cold. Starving and sick. I have nothing. I am nothing. As a homeless woman in the city, I always thought I had to be scared of others; don’t ask for help, don’t ask for a handout. Nothing was worth being taken for granted and losing my dignity and self respect. There was one thing I loved though. Walking through the snow storm makes me feel alive. It’s contact with something weaker than me. I can break through the snowflakes and come out on the other side, cold and wet, sure, but alive. I slip on the wet ground but then I feel a warm hand reaching down to me. I take it and he helps me up. When you lose faith, you gain freedom, but that doesn’t mean it’s free of consequence. He wasn’t a streetman, his hands were too warm. There was no bone-chilling cold. Only warmth. I look at the man attached to the hand I was holding. He looked nice, friendly and welcoming. He whispered to me that all I needed to survive was available to me, I just needed to reach out and take it. I knew it was wrong but I took anyway. I got away with it! I took a bite as I was running and had the most delicious sandwich I’d eaten in years. My body using what energy I had left to run away from the man chasing me. I get out of sight from the angry man and I suddenly see the man with the warm hands again. He is asking me how the sandwich tastes and as I take my second bite I realize that something is not right. The man with the warm hands should never have been able to beat me to this spot, how did he get here? Is this a trick? I don’t care, I’m too hungry to care. I look around and the man with the warm hands is gone again and I am cold. The food I’ve just finished takes some of the pain away but the cold stays. Only the man with the warm hands could keep me warm. It’s days before I see him again and when he shows up, I’m low again, hungry, sick and tired. I swear I can feel death knocking at my door, but the man with the warm hands shows up again and pulls me tightly into his coat and covers me with a warmth I’ve never felt before. I told myself I was right and my actions were justified ‘it’s survival’ I would tell myself. And every time I’d take something else the man with the warm hands would return and warm me up until I fell asleep. I was eating now, feeling better. Still sick, but no longer sickly. I took what I needed and was not apologetic. Nobody would help me, and though I would never ask, I always felt like someone would reach a hand out for me to grab. Someone did. The man with the warm hands. One day after taking another sandwich I heard a shot ring out. I felt the sting and then warmth, my whole body flooded with warmth I’d only ever felt from the man with the warm hands. I dropped the sandwich and reached out for someone, anyone and I felt a warm hand grab mine. He pulled me along until we reached a door. I heard yelling and screaming all around me, but it all felt blurry and muffled. I just kept a tight grip on the man with the warm hands and when we walked through the door, I felt so incredibly warm. My bones no longer ached. I don’t care if this is hell, the only one who would help me was the man with the warm hands. I don’t care if he is the devil, he chose to protect me when I was at my lowest and now I won’t have to worry about being cold anymore. I walked through the door and suddenly there was a bright light. It was bright and warm and felt so amazing. I opened my eyes and everyone there was wearing white and had the most welcoming smiles on their faces. It felt like home. Not my home, but how home should feel. The man with the warm hands finally spoke to me and he said I’d never have to worry about being warm or hungry ever again. We walked through some gates that were really shiny and I was shown to my new room. This was definitely not Hell. It felt really good to be here like I’d been waiting for something like this my entire life.


**winter dragon** The mountains were always bitter cold during the winter. Snow would pile up and icicles would block the doors. Even in their tiny valley village it was hard. They would get just enough crops to only half starve until spring. A few times they had run out of firewood and had to burn whatever they could spare. Of course, she could never complain. Complaining wouldn’t get them anywhere. Instead on the rare warm days she would bundle up and go look for wild plants or roots. She could easily get enough for a couple days. But there was always a danger to it. The semi melted snow made the stone wet and hard to walk on. And her foot could easily sink in the mud and get stuck. But it was either that or possibly starve to death. Her cloak whipped her back and she fell backwards. The wind was hard on her face, making it hard to even breath. Water leaked into her boots and clothes, chilling her to the bone. She finally managed to pry open her eyes and saw white. A snow storm had rolled in. Dread filled her gut when she realized she would most likely die out here. Tears pricked at her eyes and froze; she would die any minute. She forced herself to a stand and tried to see anything through the blizzard. She thought she spotted a flicker of fire and she forced herself to walk towards it. It had to be another villager, she thought. The closer she got the more unsure she was. How did they start a fire in a blizzard? Why were they out in the first place? She stopped and really thought about it. There had been tales of an ice dragon that lived in the abandoned mines. But they were just fairytales told to warn children away from the mountains. Weren't they? A bellowed growl shred through the air like an iron sword cutting through flesh. She stood frozen as a shape took form in front of her. yellow eyes like a lizard and teeth sharp enough to rip her to pieces. Terror seized her and she couldn’t move a muscle. Now she was surely going to die. The lizard eyes widened in surprise that mirrored her own as the large dragon shimmered and shrunk down into a boy. He looked her age but was taller than her father. He had white hair and kept his eyes and teeth, looking like a strange beast a child would come up with. “I'm very sorry for growling at you, I thought you were a rabbit,” said the very sheepish looking dragon. “you're afraid of rabbits?” she asked and could barely hide her smile when fear overtook his face for just a moment. “no of course not, I'm a dragon,” he said defensively. “oh really? I didn’t seem to notice,” that was all she managed to say before her legs gave out and black overtook her vision. She awoke to a warm sensation all over her body and the sound of crackling wood. She opened her eyes and saw a small fire just a few feet from her. Her cloak was now untied and folded beneath her head. And... she was wearing trousers. She glanced down and saw she was now dressed in a tunic tied at the waist and men's trousers. “I'm sorry for that, your clothes were wet and you would have been colder with them on,” the dragon boy said. He sat on the other side of the fire looking into it, trying to hide his flushed cheeks she guessed. “its ok I guess; privacy isn't a big issue in my village,” she pulled herself up into a sitting position, “what's your name anyway?” she asked. “Alva,” he said. “that's a girl name, "she responded. “I didn’t choose my name,” he said in a harsh tone finally looking at her. “then you're obviously not from around here then. My names Chusi by the way,” she said. “snake flower. And you call my name stupid,” he smirked at her. She scowled “has the storm ended?” she asked, ready to be rid of him. He shook his head. She sighed. “what are we supposed to do until then?” she asked. “nothing, I have nothing here but the bare minimum.” “you're boring,” she said. He glared at her.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! **Important Notes: To make nominations, we will now be using a form! You can find it listed under ‘Reminders’ as well as on our Discord. Also please note this feature has feedback requirements! Please read the entire post before submitting.** To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   *** #This week's theme is Gossip! This week, we’re going to explore the theme of ‘gossip’. We all talk to people: to a friend, a family member, the mail man, that kid on the bus last week, the cashier at the market, etc. We often talk about mutual friends or acquaintances, and the things we’ve heard about them. But these little “truths” are often not confirmed, and may be untrue altogether. A good portion of the scuttlebutt we pass back and forth is harmless. But what about when it isn’t? Gossip can be harmful, dangerous even. What happens when someone’s reputation is tarnished—or even ruined—based on hearsay? Say, someone important in the community or a person with a lot to lose. What happens when the townspeople react to this news without first checking its validity? This week, I want you to think about the reasons why we gossip, why we so easily believe what we’re told, and the domino effect it can have on a community. These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even have a say in upcoming themes! Join us on the discord - we vote on a theme every Sunday. (You can also send suggestions to me via DM on Discord or Reddit!) * March 6 - Gossip (this week) * March 13 - Boundaries * March 20 - Hesitation   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme (not using the theme is a disqualifier).** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The feedback should be actionable and **must** include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 1pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of family friendly for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalog. Please note: You **must** use the exact same name each week. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   *** #Reminders: * **If you are continuing an in-progress serial, please include links to the prior installments on reddit.** * **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire in our Discord’s Main Voice Lounge.** Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **Nominations will now be submitted . After the submission deadline each week, the form will be updated with that week’s authors, as well as the next theme options. The form will close at 1pm EST each week. You do not have to participate to make nominations!** * **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, will be allowed to read their edited serials in their entirety aloud in the discord’s “Main Voice Lounge”.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and hopefully provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules) Visit us on the Discord for more information. * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system! Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above.Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” comments will not earn you points or credit.)* **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total)   *** #Rankings - - by u/Zetakh   - - by u/nobodysgeese   - - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - - by u/katherine_c   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


The Cat That Wouldn’t Purr April 1980 William had the rare fortune, or misfortune, to experience the greatest day of his life and the worst day of his life all in one week’s time. William was a twenty-five-year-old construction worker in Las Vegas, Nevada. Come payday, William would invest ten percent of his pay into a slot machine at one of the numerous casinos in the gambling paradise of Nevada. Many of his co-workers also gambled. Some gambled away lesser portions of their income, and some gambled away greater portions of their income on the American fantasy of winning it big in Las Vegas. William tried to be realistic about his gambling, to establish limits on his spending, and to never allow his gambling to take over and ruin his life. So when William won $850,000.00 and change, he took the same practical attitude about this stroke of fortune but with one exception. William threw a party for all of his co-workers. Pizza, beer, a few hours at a topless bar on the main strip in Vegas, and in just a few hours’ time he had spent over seven thousand dollars just so he and his friends, family, and co-workers could have a good time. The following day at work when William arrived, most of his co-workers were startled at his presence. “We thought you were quitting your job…isn’t that what you said last night so many times?” William explained that having $800,000.00 (and change) was a good thing, but not a great thing. “That’s just eighty grand a year for ten years…that’ll take me to my thirty-fifth birthday…and then what? Or forty grand a year for twenty years…that’ll take me to my forty-fifth birthday…and then what? Maybe I should try and live off twenty grand a year for forty years until I’m sixty-five? And then what? None of those choices are realistic. This money will get me a nice house and will add to my future, but it’s not enough to retire on. I need to keep working. I’m only twenty-five now, I still have time to add to my nest-egg before the golden age of retirement.” Over the next several days, many of his co-workers, family, and friends all approached William asking for necessary loans. “C’mon tough guy! Don’t be an asshole! I just need a down payment for a house, and maybe a bit extra for a new car. You can afford it, we all know how much you won.” William spent the next several days listening to numerous sob-stories concerning finances from all those in his life. There is no need to address what some of his female friends offered him in exchange for various loans and assistance. When the weekend finally arrived, William drove to Palm Springs, California, to escape the constant demands for money from what he thought were his friends and his loving family. He spent the entire weekend either in his hotel room thinking about the future, or in a nearby bar or coffee shop trying to decide what he should do with his life. Late Sunday afternoon William drove back to his apartment in Las Vegas, and was immediately overwhelmed by the vast amount of notes on his front door, the envelopes slid under the same door and all the messages on his answering machine. William was utterly disgusted by the vast amount of attention focused on him, or rather his money, and knew he had made the right decision while in Palm Springs. When he arrived at work the next morning, he gave the boss his two-week notice of quitting. “I just can’t stay in Vegas anymore…too many people know about my winnings. Hell, I can’t even stay in Nevada…somebody would track me down and ask for money. I need to put Las Vegas in my rear-view mirror forever.” Over the next two weeks, William gave various hints to his family, friends, and co-workers that he was moving to the East Coast of America. He would idly chat with the people in his life about the weather in Florida or the beauty of New England in the fall. During these two weeks, he added in numerous other travel destinations and even hinted about purchasing a recreational vehicle and touring America for the next year. On his last day at his job-site, there was no farewell party for William. Too many of his co-workers were miffed at William for not loaning or giving them money. When the workday ended, William merely drove to his apartment and continued his preparations for leaving Las Vegas. Many of his possessions were either sold or given away. He realized that far too much of his income was spent (wasted) on the mundane trivia of life as he filled numerous trash bags with worthless items. These items found a temporary new home in the garbage dumpster behind the apartment building where he lived. When all was complete, William stayed in Las Vegas for an additional two weeks visiting with his family (who never relented in their demands for money) and seeing many of the touristy attractions that the city had to offer. When it was time for his departure, his family (father, mother, and two elder brothers) didn’t bother with a going away party, nor a final meal together. They were all too upset at William for not simply handing over his winnings to them. On his last morning in Las Vegas, William loaded his final few possessions in his pickup truck and then headed for Phoenix, Arizona. He spent two days in a hotel and learned that one of his brothers had, somewhat clandestinely, followed him to Phoenix. William spent a week in Phoenix, then made a sudden departure at three in the morning for Amarillo, Texas. After a week in the city to learn if he had been followed again, he finally decided to travel to his final destination of San Diego, California. ************* May to August 1980 William had arrived in San Diego, found a modest hotel, and then began working on his future. He visited one of the colleges in town to learn of the application process, filled out the paperwork, and was surprised to receive an acceptance letter at the post office box he had rented upon his arrival in America’s Finest City. With his college dreams satisfied, he then began apartment hunting. He selected an older apartment building that was in the proverbial Goldilocks vicinity to the college…not too far, but not too close. He could still ride his bike, weather permitting, to and from college. "Weather permitting," he mused to himself, "so many people are complaining of the heat in San Diego, but not me! After twenty-five years in Las Vegas, this is perfect weather!" He planned to begin college in September. With his high school days seven years behind him, he visited the college bookshop, purchased the necessary textbooks, and began studying at home to prepare himself. He had set-up his three bedroom apartment so that one of the bedrooms was converted into an office where he could review his textbooks and read about various investments for his money. William was determined to make something of his life, and not end up in a blue-collar hell like the rest of his family who lived paycheck-to-paycheck. "After college,ć he thought aloud, "then I’ll decide where to live and buy a house. But that’s after college when my life is on track. Besides, the students at college don’t need to know I’m living in a house I own. They don’t need to know about my finances." William then began living a simple life. An exercise walk or bike ride in the mornings, followed by lingering at a coffee shop for an hour or two, then back home to study or to just enjoy his freedom from the gold-diggers back in Las Vegas. In the evenings, he would again take a brief exercise walk before retiring for the evening. And, of course, there were the occasional visits to the vast amount of bars and nightclubs in San Diego. Life was good for William, but it was soon to become better. One morning in early June, William was exiting the apartment complex where he lived for his morning bicycle ride when he heard an odd noise. Looking around the area, he noticed an incredibly thin cat with a bloated stomach mewing and making other cat noises to get his attention. The cat was located near the outside fence of the apartment complex and near an opening in the fence. William realized that this cat was acting very cautious. If anyone approached it menacingly, it had an easy escape. Walking towards the near-emaciated cat, William noticed its overall condition of neglect. Dirty, apparently hungry, fur not groomed for a long time, and a look of desperation in its eyes. “Hey, Kitty-Cat…Where’d you come from? Where’s your owner?” The cat merely looked at William and continued its pleas for attention. “You’re obviously not feral, as you haven’t run away from me yet. But what happened to your owner? Did you run away from home? And you’re so bloated? How long since you’ve eaten a decent meal?” William was surprised when the cat, seemingly understanding his words, rolled over onto its back and displayed its bloated stomach. As he looked, he saw movement from the abdominal area. “My gosh! You’re not bloated! You’re pregnant!” As William spoke, the cat turned back over, got on its paws, and slowly and cautiously approached William. William bent down to pet the kitty, and as he stroked its sparse fur, he noticed an excessive amount of fur falling off its back with each stroke. “Kitty-cat, I’m afraid to say that you seem very malnourished. You just wait here. I’ll bicycle to the local convenience store for some food and milk for you. You need to stay healthy for your kitten’s sake!” William was again surprised when the cat, again seemingly understanding his words, ended its mewing, sat down, and seemed to relax. As William walked away, he continued to talk to the cat, with his voice increasing in volume as he got further away. “You just relax now. Ten minutes, and you’ll have plenty of food and milk. Just give me ten minutes!” As an answer, the cat gave a single “Meow.” As William mounted his bicycle, he gave a look towards the cat, and he was its sole focus. When William returned, the cat was in the same location as before, near the hole in the wall of the fence, and was waiting patiently. William laid a paper plate on the ground and placed a small portion of dry and wet cat food on the plate to see which this cat preferred. In its starving condition, the cat had no preference and quickly ate everything. “That’s what I thought, little buddy. You’re damn near starved to death. That’s why I only put a little food on the plate. I’ll give you some more in about ten minutes. While you’re waiting, would you like some milk?” As he spoke, he removed a small container of milk from his backpack, cut it open with his pocketknife, and placed it near the paper plate. The cat immediately began enjoying its latest delicacy from William. As the cat feasted on the milk, William dug into his backpack, produced a thermos of coffee, and poured himself a cup. On this first visit with the cat, William stayed with it for over an hour and slowly doled out food, gave it gentle and loving strokes on its back, and talked to the cat to pass the time. As the cat slowly filled up on food, it would lovingly sit at Williams’s side and allowed William to stroke its back and scratch its neck. “O.K., Kitty-cat…Time for me to go. I need to ride the bike for some exercise today. But before I go, I’m gonna take your picture. Tomorrow I can put up some posters to help find your owners. Is that a deal?” The cat offered a single “Meow” as an answer and sat motionless as William snapped the photo. "That’s so weird," he thought aloud, "it’s almost as if the cat understands English." With the photo taken, William began his good-byes to the cat. “Don’t worry about food. I’ll bring you food in the morning before my bike ride, and some more food in the evening before my after-dinner walk. I’ll take good care of you until your owners are located. You just stay clear of any dogs. And I’d take you into my apartment, but the complex has a stringent ‘No pets allowed’ policy. O.K., kitty? See you tonight!” The cat again answered William with a single “Meow,” and then walked through the hole in the fence. With the cat fed and happy, William departed on his bike ride. That evening, William returned to the hole in the fence, but the cat was not to be seen. As he laid out the paper plate with cat food, the cat slowly exited from the hole in the fence, verified that it was William providing its dinner, and then happily walked towards William for some neck scratches and back rubs before beginning with its dinner. As the cat ate, William removed a small cardboard box of milk from his backpack, opened it with his pocket knife, and set it near the paper plate. The cat alternated between the milk and the food until it had its full, then it walked over to William and laid by his side to receive more physical attention with back rubs and neck scratches. After ten minutes, William said his good-byes to the cat and departed for his evening walk. As he looked back, he saw the cat disappearing through the hole in the fence. “That’s kind of odd,” began William as he was walking away. “That cat never purred, not even once. Well, maybe it will in time, once it gets used to me.” William mused over the cat that wouldn’t purr during his evening walk. Returning to the apartment complex, he looked for the cat near the hole in the fence, but it was not to be seen. Over the next two weeks, the situation with the cat repeated itself twice-daily. A morning feeding and an evening feeding. Each feeding session had plenty of back rubs and neck scratches for the cat, which the cat seemingly enjoyed, but the cat still wouldn’t purr. Some of these feeding sessions were short, maybe ten minutes in length, and other feeding sessions would last over an hour as William enjoyed the cat’s company. William had put up the posters searching for the owners, but he secretly hoped the owners wouldn’t see the signs, nor try to claim their cat. One of the people William routinely met on his nightly exercise walks was an older man. This man wasn’t a friend, but he did become a “Nodding companion” as these two men would exchange nods as they encountered each other. One night, William decided to talk to this man about the lost cat and to ask if he knew of anybody searching for their long-lost pet. “No, Sonny-boy, I’ve heard of no lost cats in the area. But let me come have a look at it tomorrow, and it may jog my memory. The older you get, the easier you for-get.” As the older man smiled at his little bit of wordplay, William mentioned that he didn’t look too old and that a man in his fifties shouldn’t consider himself excessively old. “In my fifties? I’m a lot older than that, Sonny-boy. A lot older! I guess I just look young. But that’s a story for a different day. But now that we’ve finally talked, we are now friends. I’ll come by to see your cat tomorrow night. Seven in the evening, did you say?” William nodded at the older man as an answer and then told him the location of the evening feed. “I’ll be there, Sonny-boy. I kinda like cats. If I can help, I’ll be glad to assist you…and the cat.” “Sure thing, old-timer. See you then!” As the older man heard the phrase “old-timer,” he gave a short laugh before walking away. The next evening, William was feeding the cat but without his new friend in attendance. “I guess the old-timer forgot after all.” William stayed with the cat for an hour that night, stroking its fur which was no longer shedding as significantly as their first encounter, and giving it scratches under its neck, which the cat particularly enjoyed. As William was enjoying his time alone with the cat, the cat suddenly leaped to its feet, arched its back and began hissing violently at something behind William. Turning to look at what the cat saw, William saw the old-timer from the previous evening about fifteen feet away. He turned back to comfort the cat, but only had a brief glimpse of it as it hastily fled the area. William then turned his attention to the older man. “That cat is terrified of you! Did you hurt it? Did you ever throw rocks at it or something? So help me God, old man, if you ever hurt that cat” “Relax, Sonny-boy. I’ve never even seen that animal before. I’m a stranger to it, and maybe it just doesn’t like strangers. Most cats don’t like my kind.” Although the older man knew why the animal fled, he kept that secret to himself. “And one more thing. Cat? That’s not a cat. That’s a kat, spelled k-a-t.” William gave him a puzzled look but asked no questions. This older man may be a bit senile, or a bit crazy, so I’ll just let him continue the story, he thought to himself. “You don’t know what a kat is? Well, let me tell you…” The older man then began his story. “A kat, once again spelled k-a-t is a cat that’s been used as a familiar for a witch. You know about those things, Sonny-boy?” “I’ve read the stories. Witches have their pets, which they refer to as familiars, but it’s just stories” “Just stories!” was said a bit too aggressively by the older man. “They are not just stories! Witches are real, and so are their familiars.” The older man paused as he calmed himself down somewhat. “I know a fair bit about witches and their familiars. I used to live in Salem, Massachusetts, and was hard-pressed to leave that place,” he said with a chuckle, “and I know all about witches and their familiars. Believe me, Sonny-boy. Witches and kats are real.” The older man continued his story in a rambling manner. He explained that a witch will either find or purchase a cat (“That’s c-a-t, Sonny-boy.”) and then will turn them into their familiars which are then called kats (“That’s k-a-t, Sonny-boy."). The familiars see and experience a lot at the hands of the witches, and it changes them. “And that change is possibly forever. One easy way to distinguish a cat from a kat is that cats purr while kats do not purr. Once in a blue moon, a kat will eventually change back into a cat, but those changes are rare. Very rare. And if a kat begins purring at you, then you know she is yours for life. By the way, was that kat pregnant?” William nodded his head at what he thought was the rambling or attention seeking of an older and lonely man. Then William had a bit of a sarcastic question for the older man. “So when the kat, k-a-t, gives birth, will it have kittens spelled with a k, or cittens, spelled with a hard c?” The older man became quiet while he considered the question. “I’ve never heard of a kat becoming pregnant, so I can’t answer your question. But here’s something to consider. Kats never leave their witches. Never. The only reason I can think of for that kat to be on the loose is that its owner, a witch, died. Check the newspapers, Sonny-boy, for any recent deaths in the area. Check back a month or more, because a kat with a witch will never get pregnant. This is a puzzler for me.” The two men stood in silence for a few minutes as the older man contemplated a pregnant kat, and William searched his memory for any deaths in the area. Neither man came to any conclusions. William then took the conversation in a different direction. “Old-timer, I’m sorry. I just don’t believe your story about witches and their familiars. I mean you no disrespect, but I’m sorry…that’s just not believable to me.” “Sonny-boy…did you know that when Apollo 11 blasted off to the moon, people were watching the launch that were very old? Most of those old-timers had learned of the Civil War and slavery upon their parent’s lap and from their direct involvement in those events. If you had told them in their twenties about men walking on the moon, they would have just laughed at you. Sonny-boy, there is so much you don’t know. Would you like to hear about ghosts now?” William gave a brief laugh, mentioned that ghosts aren’t real, and indicated that he didn’t want to hear any ghost stories. “Well,” began the older man, “time for me to go then. Headed up north to meet some friends tomorrow. Gotta get a good night’s rest tonight. If I’m back in the area, I’ll stop by and check on you and your kat. That is if the kat lets me near it. Cats, and especially kats, don’t like my kind.” “Before you go, old-timer. My name is William Jones. Most folks call me Jonesy.” As he spoke, William raised his hand so they two could shake hands as the ritualistic gesture of introductions and departures. “What’s your name?” “Giles Corey. I’m just a gentleman farmer from back in the old days in Salem Massachusetts. If I’m ever back in the area again, I’ll look you up.” The two shook hands, and then Giles Corey departed. As Giles walked away, William searched the immediate area for the cat…kat…but couldn’t find it. When he turned back in the direction that Giles was leaving, Giles was also no longer in sight. “That’s odd. He didn’t seem like a fast walker to me.” The following morning, William continued his routine of feeding the stray kat, but the kat was nowhere to be seen. “If that old man…,” began William while speaking to himself, but then the truth dawned on him. The kat had probably left the area for some privacy to give birth to her kittens or cittens. William deftly mounted the fence at their normal meeting spot, jumped into the adjacent vacant lot, and then began searching for the kat. After a few minutes, William heard the sound of something running swiftly at him, then heard a cat screaming in anger. As he turned, he noticed the kat had come to a stop twenty feet from him, and defiantly stood its ground while hissing at William. William raised his hands into the air as if being robbed. “O.K., kitty. I understand you. You gave birth, and you are just protecting your children. I get it.” As he spoke, the kat ended its hissing and sat down on its back legs while staring angrily at William. “But you have to eat. You’re nursing your offspring, and they need milk. Your milk. So you need to eat. Understand?” The kat remained quiet. “See that tree over yonder,” William said, as he pointed to a nearby tree. “I’m gonna put your food and milk over there. Once I’m gone, and you feel safe, you can eat at your leisure. Understand?” The kat remained quiet as William walked over to the tree and laid out its breakfast. As William moved, the kat never took its eyes off of him. Once finished, William walked back to the fence while giving the kat a wide berth. As he mounted the fence, he looked back at the kat and received a single “Meow” as a ‘Thank you’ from the kat. William then leaped to the other side of the fence. “That’s so spooky,” William spoke aloud as he walked to his bicycle. “That cat seems to understand everything I say to her. Maybe she is a kat after all.” Over the next three weeks, the above situation repeated itself twice daily. A walk to the fence, then jumping to the other side. Being angrily greeted by the kat, then laying out her morning and evening meals, then a careful retreat with a single meow from the kat as its form of thanks. During all of these visits, he had never seen the kittens (cittens?), and he was wondering how they were faring. Then the inevitable finally happened. As William was walking towards the fence at the usual meeting spot, the kat walked through the hole and stared at William. A staring contest began that lasted for twenty seconds. William was unsure of what to do. "Do I approach her after all her angry charges, screams, and hisses, or do I stay here and let her decide?" The kat ended the staring contest when she walked over to William and began rubbing herself against William’s leg. “Friends again?” was asked by William, but the kat gave no response. William then proceeded to the normal feeding area, laid out a paper plate and added a mixture of wet and dry cat food. He then opened a small box of milk and laid it out for the mother kat. She walked over, enjoyed a few mouthfuls of food and a few licks of milk, and then she stopped. She turned to face William, gave him an angry hiss, and William knew he needed to back up a few steps. As he began backing away, the mother kat began mewing as he had never heard before. “Rah-rah-rah-rah,” she mewed repeatedly, then became silent. After a few seconds, her litter of three kittens began emerging from the hole in the fence. As they saw the food laid out for them, they hastily ran to the food and began to gorge themselves. As they fed, the mother kat positioned herself between the kittens and William, with her emerald green eyes never leaving Williams’ face. As William watched the youngsters feed, he saw another kitten emerging from the hole in the fence. This kitten was definitely smaller than the rest and was the runt of the litter. As the runt approached the food, it found no space for it to receive its portion. “Momma kat, it’s good that you’re watching me to keep your kitties safe, but take a look at them. The bigger kitties aren’t letting the runt eat. Momma,” implored William, “look at your kitties!” As was always surprising to William, the mother kat seemed to understand his words, and she turned her attention to the kittens. When she walked over, she saw that most of the food was gone and she looked back at William. “O.K., just stay calm momma. You’re probably not gonna like this.” William then walked to within a few feet of the kittens, took off his backpack, sat down with his back against the fence and reached inside the backpack. The momma kat, not understanding what was happening, faced William and began hissing defiantly at him as she slowly approached. Her kittens crowded around her for safety. “Trust me, momma. Just trust me, O.K.?” William then pulled an additional paper plate from his backpack, along with another large can of cat food. After opening the can, he poured the majority of the food on the first paper plate, but he also poured a generous amount of food on the second paper plate. “Don’t overreact momma. Just stay calm.” William then reached over to the kittens, picked up the runt, placed him on his lap, and gave him his own plate of food from which to feed. The three larger kittens attacked the newly added food, while the runt ate peacefully on William’s lap. The mother kat stared at William for about thirty seconds, then joined her other kittens at the paper plate so she could have a decent breakfast. Slowly and carefully, William produced a container of milk and a paper bowl and laid it out for the family. He pulled out a second paper bowl, added some milk, and offered it to the runt of the litter. The runt was wholly relaxed by now and accepted the offering of milk. As the family of kitties finished their meal, the three larger kittens began looking at the momma kat for a clue as to how to behave around the first human that they had encountered. The momma kat walked over to William, climbed onto his lap, and laid down next to the runt. The other kittens walked over to William, and climbed onto his legs, or laid down peacefully against his legs. As William watched the family of kats enjoying his presence, he looked down at the momma kat, and their eyes met. William reached down and began gently petting her back. After a few minutes, the other kittens moved onto William’s lap and started enjoying his petting of them and the occasional neck scratches which they all particularly enjoyed. After a few minutes of this, William noticed the momma kat staring into his eyes again. As he stared back, she began to contently purr. “So I guess this means you are a cat now? And that your kittens are really kittens?” “Meow,” was the answer from the momma cat, but it was a long, drawn-out meow. “And that means I should go shopping for a house and give all of you a proper home?” Another long drawn-out “Meow” came from the momma cat, with her kittens joining in with their mother’s meows. When the meows ended, a slight chorus of purring was emitted by all the assembled family. “O.K., momma cat. You win. Today I begin house shopping. I noticed a nice two-story house down the street last week that’s up for sale. Will that do?” The momma cat answered with a single meow. “So that means I get to name all of you? Momma cat, how about I call you Katherine, so I can call you Kat for short. Will that do?” “Meow,” answered Kat.


I glanced at the rearview mirror and saw him, slumped in the backseat with his greasy hair falling over his eyes. The sight of him ignited a fire in my chest, a familiar burning rage that I had spent years trying to extinguish. The flames licked at the edges of my heart, fueled by memories of abandonment and pain. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white as I struggled to maintain control. As a successful novelist, I was used to weaving words together into a tapestry of emotion and intrigue, but now, I could hardly form a single sentence in my head. My father had left when I was just a child, choosing drugs and alcohol over my mother and me. For years, I had wondered what I'd done wrong - what I could have done differently. As an adult, I knew it wasn't my fault, but the damage was done. Our relationship was a broken puzzle, the pieces scattered, never to fit together again. His abandonment had left me with a gaping hole in my heart, one that I tried desperately to fill with anything I could. The countless nights spent crying into my pillow, my eyes red and swollen, my throat hoarse from the sobs that wracked my body. I remembered the depression that had gripped me during my teenage years, the feeling of utter despair and hopelessness that had consumed me. The scars on my wrist were a constant reminder of the pain I had felt, the desperate attempts to numb the agony with the cold bite of a razor blade. As much as I hated him for what he'd done, I couldn't help but mourn the father I'd once loved. The man who had held me in his arms, who had sung me to sleep, and who had promised to protect me from the monsters under my bed. But he had become the monster, and I was left with nothing but shattered dreams and a broken heart. The car ride had been tense, the silence between us heavy and suffocating. The flames of rage and the icy grip of sadness battled within me, each vying for control. I clenched my teeth as I remembered all the birthdays he'd missed, the school plays he'd never seen - the nights I'd cried myself to sleep because he wasn't there. Now, he'd come crawling back, drawn like a moth to the flame of my newfound wealth and success. He'd insisted on me giving him a ride to the airport, and though I wanted nothing to do with him, I couldn't bring myself to refuse. As we continued driving, I couldn't help but notice the way he fidgeted in the backseat, his fingers tapping against the armrest. I remembered a time when those fingers had held me, when I was small and innocent, before the world had tarnished his soul and broken our family apart. Suddenly, the car shuddered, and I felt the engine give a violent lurch before dying completely. We coasted to a stop on the side of the road, and I slammed my hands against the steering wheel in frustration. The tension that had been building between us finally snapped, and I turned to face him. "Are you happy now?" I spat, my voice shaking with anger. "You couldn't just leave well enough alone, could you? You had to drag me into this mess!" He looked at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and desperation. "I'm sorry," he said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Sorry?" I scoffed, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. "You think 'sorry' is enough? After everything you've put me through? After all the pain and suffering you've caused?" He looked down, unable to meet my gaze. " I know I've made mistakes," he said, his voice cracking. "I can't change the past, but I wanted to try and make things right. I thought maybe, just maybe, you could find it in your heart to forgive me." "Forgive you?" My laughter was harsh and devoid of humor. "For what? For leaving me alone with a broken heart? For making Mom work herself to the bone to support us? For being the reason I had to grow up too fast? For the scars on my wrist and the nightmares that still haunt me?" The storm of emotions swirling within me threatened to drown me. The anger and sadness waged a war inside me, tearing at the fabric of my soul - leaving me feeling raw and exposed. Each memory that surfaced was like a razor-sharp icicle, piercing me anew with its frigid, unforgiving coldness. The pain was unbearable, and yet, I could not escape it. He flinched at my words, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I know I can't make up for what I've done," he said, his voice barely audible. "But I wanted to try. I wanted to be there for you, to be the father I should have been all those years ago." My eyes filled with tears, and I shook my head. "You don't get to just waltz back into my life after all these years and pretend like nothing happened. You don't get to play the doting father now that I'm successful and it's convenient for you. You lost that right a long time ago." The silence between us was thick and heavy, weighed down by years of pain and heartache. I stared out the window, watching as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting shadows that danced like ghosts across the landscape. The darkness crept in, swallowing the last remnants of light, and I couldn't help but feel as though it was a metaphor for our relationship – consumed by the shadows of our past, with no hope of ever finding the light again. As we sat there on the side of the road, the wreckage of our relationship laid bare before us, I realized that there would be no resolution. There could be no healing, no forgiveness, not while the wounds still bled so profusely. The scars that marred my body were a testament to the damage he had inflicted, and they would never truly fade. In the end, the father I once loved had never even had a plane to catch. He had lied, desperate for a chance to reconnect, to reclaim the only successful thing in his life – his daughter. But the bridge had been burned, the ashes scattered to the wind, and there was nothing left but the bitter taste of betrayal. The story of a troubled father and his heartbroken daughter ended here, with no happy ending, no resolution, and no closure. Only the haunting memories of what could have been, and the unrelenting pain that would forever bind them together in a twisted, tragic dance.


I've started writing this hundreds of times and never gotten to the end. The first few times I tried, I did it on paper in a notebook because the internet hadn't been invented yet. I burned the notebooks. This is the first time I've finished and not destroyed what I'd written. If nothing else, this act of creation without destruction is a small victory to me, but I know you hardly care about that. Nor should you. You should care about what you're about to read because if what I say is true, your generation may be in some serious shit. I'm in my late 70s, no wife or kids, not many friends, and although I'm not quite on my death bed, I'm certainly nearing the end of my life, so my personal stake in this is low, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't weight heavily on my soul in an existential kind of way. We all keep secrets, some darker than others, and this has been my darkest. The story starts in California way back in the 1960s. For those unfamiliar with that period in history, the one word I'd use to describe it is turbulent. Just imagine the straight-laced world of the 1950s you know from television crashing head-on into what you probably associate with hippie culture, namely radical politics, protest, heavy drug use, rebellion against authority, and conspiracy theories, but also comradery, selflessness, and the genuine belief that it is possible to change the world for the better. I was a university student at the time, so you could say I was in the thick of it, but I wasn't at one of the true hotbed schools like Berkeley. That said, there was almost no way to be young and alive in California and to keep away from the upheaval. It was literally all around you, and it sucked you in. There wasn't a Friday night when you didn't listen to a speech by Abbie Hoffman, take LSD, or hazily conspire to take down the establishment to a background of folk tunes, and then go out to bar where long past midnight some guy in a black suit tried to recruit you for a plastics corporation or the CIA. Or so he said, or so you remembered the next morning. It was actually at one of these bars that I met my first real girlfriend, whom I'll call Edna. Edna wasn't a hippie, she was in town taking typing classes and working part-time as a receptionist, but like me she had become infatuated with the scene. Edna was only the second girl I'd slept with, and after a few months of going with her I started having trouble maintaining, then even getting, an erection. Back then it wasn't like it is now, when even polite people talk about erectile dysfunction and you can get medication to help with it. Back then there was nothing except a whole lot of embarrassment. At first, Edna and I thought it might be stress or lack of sleep causing my problem, then we suspected alcohol, but despite taking a fairly systematic approach and eliminating the possible causes one by one, we couldn't figure it out. Within weeks, my sex life just stopped. You can imagine how devastating that was to a young man. Let's rewind a bit. About six months before meeting Edna, I had met a guy named Jerry in one of my political science classes and we'd quickly become friends. Jerry and I would regularly meet up, talk about everything from music and world revolution to UFOs, and generally goof off together, and he'd always have a decent supply of weed for us to smoke and Grateful Dead bootlegs to listen to, which was fantastic. Although I've never had a truly best friend, Jerry was definitely my closest friend during my early student days in California, so he was the person I eventually turned to for help with my sexual problem. I remember that it was late at night after getting stoned immaculate, as Jim Morrison would say, that I told Jerry about my erectile dysfunction. He listened as I struggled mightily through the telling of it, and without laughing or making light of the situation told me not to worry too much, that it would probably go away on its own, but if I didn't want to wait and wanted help now, I should go see a man he referred to as Gerbil. Gerbil was about ten years older than us, originally from New Mexico and had been studying chemistry at Berkeley until about a year prior, when he'd been expelled after being caught synthesizing hallucinogens in a school lab. Faced with the possibility of going back to New Mexico without a degree, Gerbil had decided to pursue the American Dream instead. He set up his own lab, kept his clientele, and expanded his operation. Drugs, incidentally, is how Jerry had first met Gerbil. And through Jerry is how I met the guy. That's one other unique thing about Gerbil: even compared to the regular paranoiacs, he was paranoid. You couldn't just see him. You had to be introduced by someone he trusted and he had to "vet" you, which included a brief interrogation and sitting silently while he "read your mind." My vetting lasted about half an hour. After it was over, Gerbil relaxed and I explained my problem to him. It was easy because he was like a magnet for deep truths. You wanted to tell him the embarrassing stuff. Long story short, he told me I was far from the first guy to be suffering from this type of condition and that he had a tried and tested solution. I'll never forget the moment when he held out the pill bottle to me. His smiling, unshaven face, the sunlight streaming in through the dirty windows, and the pills themselves, oblong and delicately off-white in their little glass home. When I asked how much I owed him, he shrugged and said that for a friend there was no cost, then laughed and added that he had more than enough money anyway. After all, he said, he was making truth serum for the CIA. "Just make sure you follow the instructions," he said. "And remember: you were never here." When I got home, I read the instructions, which had been typed out on a strip of paper and taped to the outside of the pill bottle. They were simple enough but odd: Insert one (1) pill into urethra at least one hour prior to intercourse. I'll spare you the awkward details of my first time doing the insertion. What you need to know is that the pills worked. God, how they worked! Never before, and never since, have I had an erection as hard and for as long as when I used those pills. In the past twenty years I've tried Viagra and all the others, but nothing even comes close. It was like fucking with the world's most sensitive steel rod, and you could go for hours! Edna and I sure made up for lost time, but pretty soon Edna wasn't enough. We'd go at it two or three times, she'd call it quits for the night and I'd still be raging to go. I'm not proud of it now, but I started meeting other girls just for sex. Any girls who'd have me, really. At bars, meet ups, between classes, at concerts, everywhere. There was no emotional connection but physically it was bliss. I loved it, they loved it, and I guess later they dubbed it the Summer of Love. I wish I'd counted how many pills Gerbil had given me, but I didn't. All I knew was that I was going through them like a knife through reheated butter. From what I remember, one pill was enough to last up to forty-eight hours, but I was using them almost non-stop, and the supply was depleting. I was probably addicted. It was after I'd used about half of my initial supply that Jerry asked over coffee one morning whether my "problem" had gone away. I told him it had and more than hinted at how my sex life had exploded, and he told me that was fantastic news. Then he lowered his voice and told me Gerbil wanted to meet up. I agreed, he told me the time and place, and I never saw Jerry again. But I'll get to that in a bit. Gerbil and I met a few days later in what remained of a hangar on an abandoned airfield. It was beyond city limits, and Gerbil seemed to make a big deal of that fact. He told me he'd recently purchased the land way under value and was planning on building a bunker on it. Because that sounded like just the craziness he'd be into, I took him at his word. When I told him how well the pills had been working and that I wanted more of them, he wasn't surprised. He said he was thrilled and handed me another bottle of pills identical to the first. This time, however, they had a price. But it was the kind of price that wasn't paid in dollars and that made my horny young mind spin with possibilities. Gerbil was organizing a series of orgies and he was giving me the pills in exchange for taking part in them. Back to Jerry: disappearing for a few days wasn't unusual. He went on benders from time to time during which he'd unreachable and absent from class, but those usually lasted a few days, after which he'd show up groggy and with stories to tell. After a week, I started to worry, but even then it's important to remember the times, both in terms of technology and perspective. We didn't have cell phones you could call anytime you wanted, and it wasn't unheard of for people to "drop out" of society. I had a professor who suddenly disappeared for half a semester, and when he came back he told us he'd gone on a walkabout. Still, I expected Jerry to tell me if he was planning something like that. He'd said nothing and now he was gone. I started asking around but realized I didn't actually know much about him. From what I gathered, he was still enrolled in university and still living at the same address. He just wasn't there. My relationship with Edna was falling apart at the same time. I was bored with her, and she was getting bored with life in California. She was honest about wanting to move back East, and we both knew I wouldn't be going with her. And although she never said a word about it, I'm sure she knew I wasn't being faithful. Hell, even free love has a cost. I can't say we broke each other's hearts, but I will say that as I've aged, I've imagined more and more often what my life would had have been if we'd stayed together. I went on to love again but I never found a true love. Edna, especially in those early times, may have been the closest I ever got. Ironically, we loved each other most when we couldn't be physically intimate. The first of Gerbil's orgies that I attended was held in the middle of the desert. There was music, drugs and absolutely no inhibitions. It was the most exciting experience of my life, and I loved it. Gerbil himself was never at the orgies, but almost everyone seemed to know him, at least by reputation. I don't remember how many orgies I ended up going to, but it was over a dozen, each in a different location with new women, many of them intoxicatingly exotic to me. Foreign students, bored housewives, groupies, intellectuals, stewardesses, and wanderers from all around the country and the world: India, Russia, China, Europe, Latin America, everywhere. I still have no idea how Gerbil organized these things or convinced so many women to go to them, but he did, and I must have fucked nearly all of them. The pills were my fuel. Sometime during this hazy period of hedonistic pleasure, the police found Jerry's body in New Mexico. Apparently he'd hitchhiked all the way down there, spent a few weeks living on a ranch and overdosed on a cocktail of drugs so strong he must have been halfway to heaven by the time his organs failed. Foul play was ruled out, and no one in New Mexico cared if a longhaired hippie had killed himself accidentally or on purpose. There was no funeral as far as I know. About a week after Jerry's death, I received a letter from him in the mail. Judging by the gradual degradation of his handwriting, it had been written in several sittings. Most of it was personal and there was a lot of pain behind the words, but it was the last sentence that has stuck with me because of it's plain brutality. Four words: They've fucked us. I fucked away my breakup with Edna and the loss of my friend. Orgy after orgy. It was while sitting in a bar on a hot Wednesday night in the middle of July that I discovered something that chilled me to the marrow of my bones. I was down to my last pill and imagining the best way to take advantage of it, waiting for the perfect piece of ass to walk in through the door. I had a mug of beer in front of me, not my first, and I was absentmindedly walking the pill up and down the tops of my fingers, when suddenly I lost control and it fell straight into my mug. I must have been too drunk to react, because instead of fishing it out, I watched instead as it descended into the murky depths while giving off a spray of infinitely fine bubbles. I didn't know how a pill should react in beer, but something about this reaction seemed off. When it had settled at the bottom of the mug, the pill started shedding something other than bubbles: namely itself. Tiny pieces flaked off and floated to the top, and the pill began to tremble. Soon, dark spots became visible beneath the off-white colour of what I instinctively began to conceptualize as a shell, until the entire casing was gone, leaving only a trembling black insectous creature! Immediately I knew it was organic. Even more: alive! I watched mesmerized as it struggled in the liquid, scurrying towards the edge of the mug but unable to climb the glass sides. Finally, I put my fingers in and lifted it out. It was small but unbelievably hard between my fingertips. I couldn't crush it. I held it briefly against the overhead light, its body wholly opaque, before it slipped out, hit the unswept floor and scurried away. I scrambled after it, much to the cruel amusement of the other patrons, stomping forward on the floor before falling to my knees, but with no luck. It was gone. Returning to my seat, I thought, Just what the fuck have I been pushing into my urethra? I had no pills and the only evidence of anything abnormal was my own boozy memory, so I had nothing. Except a feeling in the pit of my stomach that something was horribly wrong. I tried contacting Gerbil in my usual ways, hoping to get more pills to experiment on and either put my mind at ease ("You hallucinated, idiot.") or get my hands on something I could send to a lab, but all my usual ways were indirect, like asking for permission to speak, and permission was being denied. Gerbil stopped responding. Eventually I grew desperate enough to visit the abandoned airfield, which was the only address of his I knew, but it was empty and unchanged. When I went to the land office and asked about ownership, the clerk told me the land belonged to a man named Beaconfield who was mostly likely long dead. Because I didn't know anyone other than Jerry who'd known Gerbil, I had nowhere else to turn. There's only so many times you can ask a stranger if they know a man named after a small rodent. Eventually you give up. And so Gerbil was gone, my pills were gone, Jerry and Edna were gone, and soon the 1960s themselves were gone, metamorphosing into a sexless 1970s for me, then the 1980s, 1990s and the new millennium. All as if someone had snapped their fingers. To say my life was dull would be an understatement. I had work, and followed it around the country, but I had little else. Forged at a time when we all wanted to remake the world, I had remade nothing and found myself leading a life of comfortable insignificance. But despite my memories fading, they never completely disappeared, and I spent many evenings wondering, trying to piece together clues, and always unable to shake those four words of Jerry's: They've fucked us. Was I scarred by a friend's suicide? Sure. But it was more than that, often in the form of sweat-inducing nightmares about tiny black insects crawling around my insides. In the early 2000s, I saw a political ad for a candidate vying for the U.S. Senate. There was nothing unusual about the spot, but a few seconds caught my attention. They showed a series of photos of the candidate as he was growing up, attending school, graduating, etc. In one of them, he was with his mother, and my heart nearly stopped when I recognized her as Edna. I don't know what emotion I felt first, but I settled on hesitant happiness as I jumped online to confirm what my eyes had shown me. Although I didn't find the ad itself, I did find an interview with the candidate, including one with a gallery of photos, and in one of them was the confirmation I was searching for. Edna's face, older but still beautiful, stared at me from behind her son's electable smile. I was breathless. My happiness became joy. It was wonderful not only that Edna had done OK for herself but that she'd done extraordinarily, because it takes a certain kind of success to raise a future statesman. On election night, I made popcorn, drank beer and cheered on Edna's son as if he were my own. Shortly after the polls closed, CNN projected him as the winner. For one night, my own insignificance didn't matter. I shared secretly in someone else's relevance. A few months passed in the afterglow of this beautiful discovery. Sometimes I even had fantasies about contacting the senator to offer my congratulations, which would be a reconnection with Edna, but I always knew this was impossible. I was nobody to her, a shadow from the past. She probably didn't even remember me. The reason why I mention this is two-fold: because I want to write and relive the happy moments, despite their way of decomposing into dread; and because Edna was merely the first of many. Over the next year, I recognized the faces of three other women I'd had sex with in California in the 1960s. I may not have known or recognized their names, but I do have a memory for faces and I was certain about theirs. All three were the mothers or grandmothers of successful people: a politician, the CEO of a pharmaceutical corporation, and a lawyer. What are the chances? Over the next months and years, I started to actively research the background of anyone who had recently attained a high level of success, or more accurately, a high level of influence: of power. Most were guarded about their pasts, many enigmatic, but some made public just enough of a thread of information for me to pull loose, and whether in photos or on video, what I kept finding were the faces of my former lovers, women I had met while cheating on Edna or, more often, women I'd fucked at Gerbil's orgies. In time, I realized that the web extended beyond America. I found world leaders, generals, economists, industrialists and policy makers scattered about the globe, yet whose foremothers had all been in California with me! It was insane. I felt insane, wacko like the worst conspiracy nuts I'd met in the 1960s. Yet, just like them, I was convinced I was right, and what was right was too weird to be coincidence. Today, the people whose mothers and grandmothers I fucked rule the world, and the singular way in which they are all working toward the same goals terrifies me to the very core of my being. To everyone else, they are unconnected individuals. To me, they are connected, and it gnaws at my mind, this question that I know I will never be able to answer: What are they and to whom do they owe their allegiance? But I no longer search for them. I have accepted reality, and I don't know what difference it makes to know exactly how many of them exist. I still have no evidence. I can't go anywhere with a story relying on an old man's memory of his own LSD-fueled sexual exploits. I've tried, and gotten laughed out of the room. The best reaction is sympathy for being a senile old man whose mind is playing tricks on him about his past. And that's without mentioning my own theories involving parasites, mind control or aliens. Yet those words: They've fucked us. How I wish I had been able to hold on to that tiny black creature! Or stopped myself from putting it in my body. But I couldn't and now I'm here, posting my story somewhere at least a few people will read it. Maybe you'll believe me, maybe you won't. I don't know if I want to give a warning or a confession, but either way I've done it now. What finds its way to the internet stays on the internet. I hope for your collective sake that when you find this years later, you'll be able to have a good laugh. I know I'm not laughing. I truly believe that in the 1960s I participated in something whose conclusion will be the ruin of mankind.