As I walk along the pathway that lay beside the rusting playground where I grew up, a million memories swarm in my head… But what catches my attention isn’t the new statue they’d built, nor the rose beds but instead, a man who looked all too familiar.

… It’s wintertime 1989, I’m fourteen years old sitting on the swing next to Marco, the best-looking guy from my grade nine class. I wore the red and white checked dress stained with coke with a denim jacket despite my mother’s warning about the weather. It was freezing and the river that flowed nearby was almost frozen over. We sat side by side on our swings occasionally talking, sometimes looking at each other, and rarely laughing. … It was the biggest dare yet this year. My grade had come up with some stupid dare system where if you did something that the whole class voted you do, then somehow, you’d become more popular. And that was my dream – popularity. I was just Santana, the brown-haired, brown skin, brown eyed girl that no one ever bothered to talk to. So the day I finally spoke up and said I wanted to take part in the immature dare game they called The Devils Dare, was the day most kids actually noticed me for the first time.

I did have one friend, Angie, but she had just moved schools before The Devils Dare began… lucky her. So that left me alone and I was sick of living like that. At fourteen years old, I’d never even held hands with a guy! Vivian, my class’s most beautiful, most popular girl had done everything. She’d held hands with not only one, but many boys, even kissed a few too and who knows what else, and one day she came to school ‘drunk’ claiming she’d stolen alcohol from her parent’s liquor cabinet. But the day Vivian came to school and announced she had a boyfriend, three years older than her was the day I was sick of being lonely. So, I spoke up. “I’ll play,” everyone turned to look at me. I could feel my cheeks beginning to turn the colour of a tomato.

No one spoke. They were all either completely in shock or didn’t know what to say. “What?” said Vivian.

“I said, I want to play.” “ You

want to play The Devils Dare?” “You heard me,” I replied, joining the circle. Vivian began to shake her head. She turned to look at the rest of the people in the group which was essentially my whole grade. But none of them argued against me and my offer to play.

Flicking her perfect blonde locks back over her shoulder, she turned her attention back to me. “Fine, it’s Elliot’s turn to pick the dare so let’s hear what he has up his sleeve shall we?” Elliot, being Marco’s sidekick and even more irritating follower smirked and cleared his throat. “Santana, Santana, Santana…” I raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to give me my dare. For some reason, the silence in the air didn’t even make me anxious, somehow, I felt… ready. “I’m waiting

Elliot ,” I said getting a little bit impatient. “And I’m thinking,

Santana .” “ I  have a dare,” snickered Vivian. “Mind if I steal this one from you Elliot?” He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Fine, go ahead.” Everyone gave into Vivian, it was like the boys were under some type of trance anytime she asked for a favour. To retrieving her a pencil or carrying her to the sickbay when she fell over in sport one time, the boys were willing to go miles and miles for her. Maybe one day they’d realise. “I dare Santana to go out with Marco. This weekend. At Pablo’s Diner, 6 pm sharp.” I instantly look up at Vivian, slowly my eyes are drawn to the other side of the circle where Marco sits glaring at me. “Vivian, are you kidding me?

Santana ?” He rolled his eyes. “No way!” “I’m down,” I say. Murmurs start to arise and chatter replaces the silence. “I’ll be there, Saturday night at Pablo’s, 6 pm.” That was that so I got up and walked away, leaving my classmates behind. … 5:55 pm, Saturday night I walk into Pablo’s Diner to find Marco. As I walk through the door, the bell rings and instantly I’m hit with the sounds and smell of Italian food. Marco’s nowhere to been seen so I take a seat on the empty booth right at the back of the diner by the window. The bell chimes and a boy with blond hair, hazel eyes, and adorable dimples walks in – it’s Marco. He sees me and begins to walk my way. He’s not smiling nor frowning so that’s a start I gather. “Hey,” I say as he sits across from me.

“Hey,” he replies.

Neither of us says anything for a while, I had a mental list of things to talk about in my mind but with a guy like him sitting across from me, all my brain cells had left well before I had a chance to use them. “F-food,” I stammer. He cocks his head to one side in confusion. “Do you want to order,” I rephrase myself. “Sure.” Marco clicks his fingers to get the attention of the closest waitress. The blonde-haired girl turns and starts towards our table. Out of all the waitresses in this town, the one to serve Marco and I is Vivian’s older and even more popular sister and not to mention the girl Marco claims to of kissed on

multiple

occasions. I immediately look down, busying myself with what’s on the menu. “April,” says Marco, I didn’t know you still worked here.

She nodded, her bosoms bouncing up and down a bit too unnaturally. “I see you’re on a date with Santana here. How adorable!” her voice sounded just as fake as her personality. I looked up, trying my best to give her my most realistic smile.

“We’re not… o-on a

date  exactly,” clarified Marco almost immediately. The smile that I had tried my best to plaster on rapidly faded.

April looked at me just in time to see my smile fade. “Well, I think Santana here had a different idea. Is that right San?” “San tana ,” I corrected her, emphasis the rest of my name. “And frankly, no, this is not a date, instead, a dare set by

your  sister.” There was a pregnant pause before anyone spoke again. “Well, what can I fetch for you two?” “I’ll take a loaded cheese pizza and coke,” said Marco. “And I’ll take a creamy carbonara please, with a lemonade.” April wrote down our orders and walked off. Marco pulled a bottle from his jacket, it was only small but it had a golden-brown colour to it. Taking a swig of it, he winced when the liquid trickled down his throat. “Want some?” he pushed the bottle towards me. I shook my head. “No thanks. What is that stuff?” “Rum from my father’s office. He won’t even notice it’s gone.” “Marco!” I whispered although it came out louder than intended. “You shouldn’t be drinking. You’re only fifteen!” “Sixteen actually,” he said. There was a two-year age gap between us. Once I graduated grade three, the teachers were that impressed with my numeracy and literacy skills, fourth grade wasn’t even an option, it was straight to grade five for Santana. Our drinks came and Marco proceeded to top up his coke with his father’s rum while I listened to him talk. His speech was beginning to sound like spaces never existed between words. The alcohol was kicking into his system and fast. Once our food came, Marco dug into his pizza and I began with my pasta. I really thought that I was having a good night. I was beginning to actually enjoy myself when Marco tipped his glass over. It could’ve gone three ways… onto him, onto the sides of the table or, onto me. Just my luck, it tipped straight onto my lap, staining my red and white dress. I didn’t overact as most other girls would screaming hysterically, instead, I just looked up at his guilty face.

No words escaped his lips so I stood, leaving a twenty on the table and walked out. I didn’t know where my legs were taking me. This was the first time I’d been out on the town at night. Most young girls my age would run home or run to their nearest friend’s house, but I didn’t.

Before I knew it, my feet were crunching under the bark chips at the local park. Rain had fallen recently and I could hear the river gushing nearby but that wasn’t the only sound my ears picked up. I heard footsteps approaching me from behind. I was never one to think of the worst so I confidently spun around to face whatever or whoever was coming from behind.

“Santana, I am so sorry, really I-I’m…” “Forget it, Marco,” I replied in a firm tone. “You’re drunk and you just need to go home. Really this is all my fault. I was the one who wanted to play this stupid game to start with. If I’d just kept quiet, we wouldn’t be here.” “Exactly.” “Exactly what?” I asked. “We wouldn’t be here,” he said taking three steps closer.

Now an arm’s length away from each other’s body, I noticed Marco’s tear-stained face.

“Marco, were you crying?” I asked although I knew the answer.

It happened within two seconds. No words said just Marco wrapping his arms around my shoulders and releasing the build-up of tears. He stood in my arms sobbing. What was I to do? Push him away? Comfort him like he’d treated me like gold my whole life? I settled on just lightly wrapping my arms around his back. “Hey, it’s okay,” I whispered after he’d let go. His cheeks were shiny with the tears that dried on his skin.

Then he did it. He kissed me. It wasn’t just a peck on the cheek or lips it was something more. Something that felt like it had meaning.

“Marco…” “Santana, I don’t care anymore.” “About what?”

“About who. About who sees this. About who hears about this.” “Oh please,” I replied earnestly rolling my eyes. “As

if  you mean that. You’re drunk and you are going to have no comprehension of this tomorrow morning so don’t say anything you’re going to regr-” “I love you.” I licked my lips and nodded, raising my eyebrows in doubt. “You do?” “Yes, I have for a while now.” “Okay buddy,” I said carefully selecting the tone and pitch of my voice. Let’s go to the swings, shall we? Just sit? Maybe talk?” Marco nodded. The only light in the park came from the twenty-year-old streetlamps which gave off just enough light to make out someone’s features if they were within two feet of your face.

The swings creaked as we sat on them. “What time are your parents expecting you home?” I ask. “9:30 pm.” “You live on the corner of Rowling Street, right?” He nodded vaguely. “Yeah, it’s a bit of a hike from here.” “I’ll call for a taxi then.” I walk slowly toward the payphone on the corner of the playground block. Once I get to the phone, I glance back at the swing set to see nobody on the swing next to where I was. Instead, it swung back and forth as though someone had just gotten off it. “Marco?” I asked. “Marco!” This time raising my voice. No response. He was gone. … I spent that weekend worried sick about Marco’s whereabouts. Although he’d acted like such a jerk and treated me as if I were a ghost majority of the time we’d known each other, I couldn’t help but wonder if he had meant what he’d said. He’d kissed me and told me he

loved

me. No one had ever said such things about me. I couldn’t even remember the last time my mother had told me she loved me.

Monday morning rolled around and I walk through the school gates, peering around for Marco or at least his best friend, Elliot. Then, I see him. He has his back to me but I know it’s him. No one could miss Marco. I wander over to where he sat on the ground. Elliot must have said something about me coming because Marco turned his head and immediately jumped up. I stop walking and let him approach me. Without even saying hello I burst out with, “where the heck did you disappear to?” “I’m sorry,” “You’re sorry? God Marco, I was-” I stopped myself in my verbal tracks. No, I shouldn’t let him get the satisfaction of him knowing I was worried sick about him. “I was just about to call the taxi and then you were gone!” “So he got you, yeah?” Elliot had joined the conversation at some point although I couldn’t recall inviting him.

“You

knew  about this?” I asked.

Elliot nodded, obviously very satisfied with himself. “So how was his acting?” “Acting!?” I repeated. “But he was… Oh my God, you weren’t even drunk, were you?” I now faced Marco. “You pretended to act drunk just so you could see me make a fool of myself. I can’t believe I was even going to let myself hate you just a little less than before. Now I hate myself for even thinking about that.” I turn the other way, my long hair flicking over my shoulder as I storm off. “He’ll take that as a compliment,” yelled out Elliot on Marco’s behalf.

The next thing I heard although I tried my best to zone out their irritating voices was, “this has gone too far.” It was Marco’s voice. I slowed my steps but didn’t stop. The next thing I knew, Marco had grabbed my arm and spun me around. I didn’t have time to think before he kissed me. Again. This time in front of the

entire  school. As our lips parted and our eyes opened there was just silence with the occasional mutter or murmur but then, someone yelled out. “Marco did it! He finally kissed Santana! The girl he’s wanted to kiss since grade five!” It wasn’t just anyone who yelled out those words, it was Marco’s older brother. Gradually cheering and clapping became the sound I heard. Marco stood in front of me, smiling. Unconsciously, a massive grin had made its way onto my face and I stood there looking as taken aback and happy as ever.

“It’s true, what my brother said.” “Really?” “Sure is.” … My heels crunch under the bark chips, this time, twenty-five years later. I no longer have the long dark hair trailing down my back no do I have the innocence I had twenty-five years earlier. I have life experience. I’m a mother to a ten-year-old boy back at my new home by the beach.

“Is that Santana I see?” said the familiar voice. Nothing had changed about him, not even the blond hair or dimples in his cheeks.

“Sure is,” I reply. I embrace Marco into a hug and take in his strong scent. “It’s been too long.” “But here we are. Our very own high school sweetheart reunion. Just for the two of us.” I shake my head and smile. I realised instantly that I’ve missed his presence in my life. “What do you say, want to go sit on the swing set? Maybe talk? Make sure this time you don’t disappear on me, okay?” “Never again,” said Marco. “I don’t know why I ever let you go…”


I was always taken away by the beauty of the woman I loved. Her sheer presence could make me smile, even on days where darkness overshadowed the light. The simplicity of her “Hey!” when she walked through the door of my house had me jumping in excitement like a young child opening presents on Christmas. She was the person I wanted to spend every second of every day with, taking cringeworthy pictures and putting them on Instagram, or recording me when I danced around the room as if I was Jamie Bell in Billy Elliot. Our love was simple – and equal. We first met in college in Sociology. It was the first day of the term and the universe already did us a favor by having the teacher make us sit next together. We were both slightly awkward and although we wanted to start a conversation, it was difficult for us to do so. I finally got the confidence to say the word, hello and in that same sweet way she always does, she looked at me and said “Hey.” It took us twenty minutes to start talking to each other, but after that, we couldn’t stop. It got to so much talking that we eventually started dating. But relationships aren’t easy. To keep a relationship vigorous is one of the hardest things to do as many factors can intercept the relationship and knock it off course: The stress of your job or schoolwork, financial issues, new people that come into our lives, they can all damage a once happy relationship – they can all dispossess you of the woman you love. I hadn’t spoken to her in weeks. She no longer gave me the long-detailed responses I used to get when I messaged her “How was your day?” It was now just: “fine” or “good”. I was inexperienced with relationships. I was naïve. I didn’t know how to tackle this issue because I didn’t know what the issue was. Was it me? Was I the issue? I went to her house to see if she was in, to see if we could speak about this and overcome it. I didn’t want to lose her, she was the first person that made me feel such warmth, such happiness. I didn’t want that to be stripped away from me. She opened the door and I froze. I hadn’t planned how I was going to come about the issue, I just knew that I wanted to. “What are you doing here?” It wasn’t the heartfelt greeting I wanted but with the way things have been going lately, I wasn’t surprised by the way she greeted me. “I need to talk to you, about us, things are different between us.” “I can’t, I’m busy.” She wasn’t busy – I knew that. I wanted to be wrong, but I knew that she was lying to me. She shut the door before I could reply, I stood there for minutes as I had frozen in time. The same night I decided to message her so that I could try and say what I wanted to. For hours I sat there listening to the same 1975 songs, waiting for a reply from her. I never got one. For the next couple of weeks, I tried to try and speak to her, but she never returned the favor. I went back to her house and knocked on the door like I did the previous weeks. She answered the door and started with excuses pulled from thin air. “Stop with the lies!” I couldn’t take the worrying or the hurt anymore and I told her exactly how I was feeling. I told her about the pain of not seeing her in weeks, the constant worry of upsetting her. It was all too much. For several minutes I poured my heart out to the girl I loved about how I couldn’t cope not seeing her and feeling as if I had hurt or upset her in some way. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and on her cheek and said the most painful sentence I’ve ever had to hear. “I think this is the end for us.” She was right. We no longer shared the same amount of excitement about our relationship and it was clear that we needed to move on, and after the longest and most soul-wrenching hug of my life, I walked out of her house and said goodbye to her for the last time.


The flipping imprint, three narrow circles intertwined, on the inside of his wrist glowed soft blue, and soon it would glow red, then yellow, then blue again, but with Black inside, not me. I walked away from the mirror, grabbed the flipper’s phone from the table, and called Mr. Black. “Everything’s all ready, when can we make the switch?” “Today, if you like. Can you come now?” I nodded, shouldered the phone as I gathered fitted pants and a black button down from the closet. “Yeah, yeah I can. I’ll be there in ten.” I hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed, put socks and polished shoes on, then took the Mercedes keys from the hook in the hallway and opened the front door of the apartment suite. Mr. Black’s house, though more like a mansion, was behind a black steel gate I had to be allowed through. I left the car parked a way’s away, something I’d like to keep after the switch, and walked the winding gravel path to the granite stairs that lead up into an entryway that could double as a ball room. A twinkling, glass chandelier hung overhead, and two sets of snaking massive stairs lead up to the second story of the house. A set of double doors off to the right opened and Mr. Black walked out, his forehead reminding me of melting wax, and his deep-seated beady eyes always seemed to be glaring. I shook his clammy hand. “You ready?” I asked. “Of course, of course,” he nodded, raised his hand towards another room near the stairs. “Right this way, to the study.” He shuffled ahead to the dark mahogany doors, then with a grunt, pushed them open. Beyond was a smaller room with shelving from floor to ceiling, spilling with thick books, and a golden trimmed oriental carpet covered the ground. When I stepped inside, he closed the door. There were two low, wing-backed chairs facing a large desk. A decanter with amber liquid, and a black phone sat atop. Behind was a large window overlooking Mr. Black’s sprawling backyard. “Would you like a drink?” he asked, walking around me. I shook my head. “Booze throws off the switch. “So, you ready?” “Yes, yes.” He opened a cabinet, pulled free a rubber-banded envelope, and handed it to me. “It’s all there, you can count if you want.” “Not needed,” I glanced at the shelves, the floor, the books, “I know you’re good for it, with a place like this.” “Okay, so how do we do it?” “First you give me your dominant hand. Left handed? Okay, don’t meet many of those. Place your wrist against mine — the one with the imprint — and close your eyes. I’ll do the same. There’s power in the ink, it just does the rest, like magic, really. Once it happens, you’ll be in here, and I’ll be back in my own, back home. You’ll be left to deal with your old body, but we already agreed to that. Okay… deep breathe in, deep breathe out… One, two, and three!” Nothing. Not a good damn thing. I didn’t feel the tug of being flipped, didn’t feel the pull of switching, of wrenching free of the flipper and thrown back to my body back home, didn’t hear the sound of the whirring, or feel the warmth radiating between us. “Did it work?” Black asked. “No, but this happens sometimes on the first go. Let’s try again. Breathe in, then out… One, two, three!” Again, nothing but clammy flesh on warm skin. I opened my eyes. Black’s were still closed, though he was frowning. “Is everything okay?” he asked through pursed lips. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. Let’s try this one more time.” Again, nada. *What the fuck!* I pulled my wrist away from his, he opened his eyes, and I handed him back his money. “Sorry ’bout this, something’s funky with this flipper, don’t know what.” I turned to leave, but he grabbed my hand and dug his feet into the carpet. “No, wait, I have to have this body… I can’t stay in this one anymore… The cancer, in my lungs, constant pain—” I wrenched my hand free from him. “I can’t do it, buddy. It won’t work. I just tried three damn times. Maybe in a month, if I can get it fixed, then we’ll talk but until then—” “I don’t have a damn month!” he screamed, shaking his fist. “I can’t live like this anymore! You— you promised me that body and now you’re taking our deal back?” “Look Black, I gave you your money back. No harm, no foul. Deal’s off.” I turned and strode towards the door. *Have to get out, have to leave this place before— ah, shit… door’s locked.* “Can you unlock this, Black?” I asked as I faced him and something overwhelming and sharp enveloped my body. My legs crumbled underneath me. I rapped my chin on the floor, felt the crack of my teeth, and something warm was pouring out from me. I groped the flipper’s body. *Not piss, not shit… Ah, blood, goddamn blood.* I tried to roll over, but my arms were too weak now. I breathed heavily into the carpet, heard footsteps come over and felt something on my arm. I rolled onto my back, blood pumping out from my chest. Mr. Black knelt down, eyes red-rimmed and teary. “Now maybe it’ll work,” he said, taking my imprinted wrist and placing it to his. He closed his eyes, breathed in, then out. Nothing. “To— told you, buddy… Not, not gonna work… No— now this flipper’s gonna die and I’ll be, I’ll be back in my body and you’ll be left with a corpse.” I grinned, tasted copper. The world went dark. It went cold. His wrist was on mine when I closed my eyes, and it was still there when I opened them, kneeling over the flipper’s body. *Oh fuck, oh fuck no!* I dropped the wrist like it was red hot, straightened slower than I was use to, heard my knees crack, and shuffled to the window behind the desk. I looked into the reflection. Touched Black’s face, his melting forehead, the sunken cheeks… *fuck, fuck, fuck.* I checked my wrists. No imprints. I lifted his shirt — none — unbuckled his pants — nothing but shriveled gonads… There was no imprint, he wasn’t a flipper, he was me and I was him and I coughed into my palm and looked into my hand and saw blood— the cancer… about a month to live. I walked around the desk, peered down at the corpse on the ground. Mr. Black was inside, or, maybe— I ran to the phone on the desk, picked it up, dialed my home number. Ring. Ring. Ring. “Hello?” I said on the other end. “Hello? Who is this?” I asked, in the study. “Mr. Black, who’s this?” If you like what you read, you can view more of my work in my subreddit at .


         Valentina

                             Jack Bernard Rhodes

The bedroom door creaked open, and I was once again overwhelmed by terror. I was about five years old when my sister, Valentina, would quietly walk into my room at bedtime. Sometimes I could fool her by pretending to be asleep.  One night I remember her saying, “I know you’re awake, Marco. You just went to bed, and it’s time for your prayer. You’re so silly, and why do you act like you’re sleeping? Do I scare you? She asked with a giggle. “It’s just a simple bedtime prayer. Now, put your hands in mine.” It became a nightly routine that I dreaded. For me, it wasn’t just a simple prayer but a nightmare.

Now I lay me down to sleep.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep?

Really? Is God going to take my soul?

If I should die before I wake?

Hearing those words left me too petrified to sleep, for I was certain that one night I would never awaken. A few of those nights, I would arouse and scream in utter horror, for in my dreams, I was dragged away by a giant hand. It wasn’t just the realism of those words that scared me. It was also the sound of Valentina’s voice.  She was blessed with an exceptionally eloquent and persuasive speech. She was only nine but had a rare gift, that made her prayer seem so real. The following year our church was preparing for an annual event that allowed its teens to do an entire Sunday service. One of the boys was always chosen to conduct the spiritual message on

Youth Day.  Another would lead the choir and a group of four boys would collect the offering. Teenagers of both genders would make up the choir.

Valentina had been anticipating the event since the year before when Matthew was its chosen teen pastor for that Sunday. He nervously stammered partially through a written sermon

his mother prepared. He finally raised his head after reading only for a minute after stuttering and mispronouncing his words. He was overwhelmed with a wave of shock at the sight of over four hundred people sitting in the pews, staring back at him. He stood frozen, with his head down, until his mother hurried on the stage and grabbed his shirt collar to lead him back to their pew. “You want to be this year’s youth pastor? Are you kidding?” Esther, our mother asked Valentina, in astonishment.

“Well, I heard they were going to let Matthew do it again! Abigail Spinster said he pee-peed his pants.” Valentina said with a laugh.

“Don’t say such a thing! Matthew is Pastor Finnigan's son! That poor boy was just nervous. He’s such a sweet young man and he wants to be just like his daddy.  It’s not biblical for girls to participate in a church sermon anyway, honey”. Our mother tried to reason with Valentina. “You're too young, anyway”!

 Valentina waited for our dad to arrive home from work. She was the epitome of a

daddy’s girl

and

he loved her to the breaking point. He would pretty much do anything for her and he would not deny her the chance to be the youth pastor. For one so young, she expressed herself clearly and effectively in a way that was difficult for either of our parents to resist her charm. Pastor Franklin Finnigan, sat in his office and pondered how life could have been different if he’d not chosen to be a clergyman. He remembered, as a child, how he combed the area collecting arrowheads. He had an impressive number of them he’d kept all these years. It was really the only time he enjoyed true happiness. He decided to be an archaeologist and travel the world to study artifacts. However, his overbearing father, who was also a pastor, said it was a stupid idea. He persuaded Franklin to forget about such a silly dream, as he described it. “It’s always been my wish, son, that you follow in my footsteps,” his dad would say.

Pastor Finnigan had received an unanticipated visit from Booker Victor, one of his most active and generous laymen. He had the audaciousness to ask that the church break with its tradition and allow his daughter, Valentina to deliver the sermon on Youth Day. Finnigan guessed her age to only be about ten. Not only would the deacons oppose a female child, but Eleanor, the pastor’s wife, decided that Matthew would do the service again. This was despite his disastrous performance the previous year. He took an antacid to relieve his indigestion that was coming and going in waves.  Martha Higginbotham was known to speak her mind. It seemed she would scrutinize every word that Pastor Finnigan uttered, as he stood behind the podium. Often, on Sunday afternoons as he relaxed with family, she would call to take issue with his morning sermons. Finnigan had just arrived home after an exhausting day that finished with a meeting with his deacons. A number of topics were discussed including the request that the young Victor girl be the annual youth pastor. After a contentious debate that concluded with a prayer, a final decision still wasn’t made. Finnigan usually allowed the deacons to make decisions, upon a vote, although he had veto power. The phone rang and as he picked up to answer he was not surprised to hear the voice of Mrs. Higginbotham.  Without even a greeting, she shouted, “you’re not going to allow that little girl to try and preach a sermon, are you?” He had no doubt that one of the deacons would leak this matter that should have been kept confidential until approved. He didn’t think it would be disclosed this soon after the meeting. Overcome by frustration of the day, his patience with Mrs. Higginbotham had run its course and he shouted back. “Yes Martha!” He had never used her first name. “Valentina Victor will be our youth pastor!”

Egos were normally left at the door when the church members disagreed, even concerning earthly political differences. However, news that Valentina would be the youth pastor, even though it would be for just one Sunday service, caused many to threaten to find a church home, elsewhere. It was a hotly debated issue in the church of that time over the issue of females serving as pastors for it violated the articles of faith. Nonetheless, overcome with curiosities, the church was at its capacity on that day. Parents filled with anxiety, prayed their teens performed well. Others who usually skipped previous annual youth services, because they felt it was boring, attended as gawkers. For many it was viewed as an unbiblical and unforgivable practice.

The atmosphere inside the packed auditorium seemed as if its attendees expected to witness an enigma. The buzz in the auditorium quieted as the organist played

Beautiful Savior

and performed surprisingly well for a thirteen-year-old .  One-by-one the choir made their way to their seats. A young song leader wearing a suit, one sized too big, borrowed from his dad, stood before the patrons. After the end of three short hymns, Valentina walked confidently to the stage. Profuse Gasps could be heard as she stood behind the podium. Sitting on the front row was Herschel Berger, the director of Deacons, who glared in disdain.

During the days leading up to that moment, Valentina was very careful that nobody could overhear her rehearsing her sermon. She repeatedly practiced in front of a mirror and did numerous recordings. Within the first five minutes of her message, the mood among the crowd became lively. Within minutes “amens” could be heard from all over the auditorium. Then someone sitting in the back row loudly uttered a word that had never been used in memory of the congregation when he shouted “hallelujah”!  Then the word was loudly heard again and again. People rose to their feet in excitement and dozens walked to the alter to kneel. Many were praying out loud and Mrs. Higginbotham was dancing in the aisle. Deacon Berger looked up at the ceiling with his arms held out as if he was reaching for heaven.

Cell phone videos, of the scene, were posted on various social media sights by that evening.  Rumors had spread throughout the community and beyond the following day. Some believed the behavior that was out of character within that church was a bizarre form of mass hysteria of an unknown cause. Others said it was somehow drug induced possibly from spiked communion wine.  Those in attendance said it was the Holy Spirit that made itself present and roused the church like never before. A televangelist that would one day captivate the nation and the world was born.


Swami rubbed at the glittery tattoo that marked the underside of her right wrist, the faintly shimmering celtic symbol iridescent in the pale morning pre-dawn light. She felt almost like a guilty teenager, yet instead of sneaking in late she was sneaking out early...the exact opposite. The irony of this was not lost on her and she found herself smirking as she silently dropped from the 2nd floor balcony, landing softly as she headed up the silent street towards the local Botanic gardens. The gardens were eerily majestic at this time of morning. The large towering trees and bushes flowering with an abundance of colourful blooms were simply dark silhouettes against the pale mauve sky. Pushing her right palm against a particularly old looking tree she allowed the rough skin of the bark to cut into her skin, the microscopic spikes piercing her as the ancient spell that was woven into the tree’s very essence recognised her. Despite having experienced it hundreds of times, her stomach still felt like it was jumping into her throat as the ground beneath her opened up and she free fell for a couple of meters before landing in the hidden room. Various colleagues muttered their greetings from large cups of still steaming coffee as Swami smiled and nodded back before heading over to a little table set up in the corner of the Earthy room to grab her own refreshment. Across the room from her a muscly, let lean woman who appeared to be in her mid twenties grinned mischievously at her. Rolling her eyes good naturedly in her direction Swami returned to her task of pouring coffee and filling up a plate with an assortment of various breakfast items. She knew Amber found it amusing the way her body reacted so intensely to such a small drop, it was a side effect of being a young and newly matured Fae.

Despite looking like she was 25, her friend was much...much older. That was the thing with Fae, once you reached your maturity around 18 you aged so slowly that the ‘Fae are immortal’ rumour was born. Amber had developed the particular secret entranceway for changelings hundreds of years prior and took great delight in watching Swami adapt to being Fae...probably because it had been so long since she was a changeling. Yawning, Swami joined her colleagues around the intricately carved table in the centre of the room as they prepared to catch up on the last couple of month;s work. It had been less than 3 months since Swami had discovered that she was a changeling, a member of the Fae...a ‘mystical race’ as the humans called them. She, like many others were placed in the human world to report back to Elaria, the Fae’s world to ensure that humanity is kept in check and to ensure that Gaia was kept healthy. There were currently hundreds of changelings all over the world who were raised as humans to help them integrate into society. In fact, most changelings didn’t know they were Fae until around their 18th birthday when the Changeling society would intervene and help the changelings as they developed into mature fae. Several factors were a little hard to hide from everyday life such as the retractable wings, the super senses and the distinctive physical characteristics such as luminant eyes and unnaturally symmetrical features...to name but a few. The special abilities and talents were on a whole new level that Swami was secretly grateful she wasn’t at yet. While the 60 odd changelings gathered in the room were only the ones in the Sydney basin, in their group, Swami had seen people with power over the elements, telepathy, empath and psychic abilities, telekinesis, invisibility and many more. The whole experience was still a little surreal for her, more surreal than having her heart jump into her throat when she free fell...she had always hated heights anyway. The meeting was quickly called to order and soon enough Swami was called upon. It was embarrassing enough to be one of the newer members, let alone be called upon in front of other changelings who knew what she was and expected her to become a productive member of the Fae changelings, their whole life was a job. As she was asked the same standard questions she always was by the higher members of the council, she found herself zoning out...her mind drifting away until a sharp tap on her shoulder had her abruptly returning to reality.

“ What?” She queried as she looked at Amber in question, the culprit to her hasty return to the present. “ It is time to test what abilities you have, or are developing in any case.” This statement alone had Swami swallowing awkwardly, her heartbeat speeding up slightly as her nerves set in. She hadn’t had any signs of any gifts...not even a glimpse. How on Earth, literally did they expect to test her gifts or even determine what her gifts were if she could barely function as a newly developed changeling...adding supernatural abilities wasn’t a good idea. You didn’t add petrol to a raging fire did you? You didn’t encourage a child to walk around with a knife? Sighing in defeat Swami allowed her eyes to close as she mentally prepared to drift into a meditative like state, a mindful state. A large part of her training had been to focus on mindfulness, on being one with the universe...on unity. It was there that her true nature came from, her true spirit and soul. It was from this place that her gifts would emerge from...eventually. Feeling her heartbeat slow and her grasp on reality slipping, Swami gave into the sensation and allowed herself to become fully immersified in the moment. It always felt a little like she was underwater when she slipped into a trance like state. While some part of her was somewhat aware of reality...for example she could still hear Amber guiding her through the meditation...yet the sound was muffled and distorted. Inhaling deeply Swami focused on her aura, on her energy. She always took advtange of these times to check up on her energy field, to try to detect any problems or disturbances. Fortunately, all 8 main chakras were happy and her aura was the clearest and strongest it had been for awhile. Yet something strange lingered within her. The normal bright white light was woven with multicoloured threads of green,red,lilac and blue. Following the threads she was surprised to feel a kind of tingling sensation in her arm to suddenly have the green thread light up in said arm like a pulse of light.

The light drifted down her arm in tiny pulses, pushing towards her hand with a rushing sensation. As she felt the energy leave her body Swami snapped out of her meditative state immediately and opened her eyes widely as they adjusted to the room’s dim lighting. Before her, a tiny almost neon green bush sat on the table. It’s energy positive and vibrant as tiny lilac flowers blossomed before her eyes. Around the table, most of the changelings smiled proudly while a few mirrored Swami’s shocked expression. “ It appears you have power over the elements Swami, congratulations.” Amber stated with a genuine smile as she clapped the younger changeling on the back. As hard as it was to adjust to being a changeling...at least work meetings were never dull.


The tables were beautifully decorated. The smell of fresh flowers filled the air. Waiters walked around gracefully to each guest attending to their every need. This party was surely the event of the season. Ted and Marcy were known for their great parties. Everyone who was anyone was there. Rich classical sounds coming from the band made everyone want to dance. Champagne flowed like liquid gold. Kelly was thrilled to be apart of such an event as this. After all, it was Ted and Marcy’s fifteenth wedding anniversary. Kelly made her way around the room, speaking to everyone she knew and introducing herself to those she didn’t. She sat down at the table to sip her champagne, when she notices her hand was wet and red. It was blood. How? Whose? When? Kelly ran to the bathroom but found Ted and Marcy arguing the hallway. Ted’s hand was bleeding, and Marcy was holding a bloody knife. Kelly screamed. Everyone ran to see what was wrong. Ted and Marcy didn’t notice they had an audience. Susan, Marcy’s sister appeared in the background. She ran to Ted with a towel to wrap his hand. She snarled at Marcy as she flew past her. A thousand questions ran through Kelly’s mind. She didn’t know what happened, or why. She wanted to know why Marcy’s sister ran to Ted first without a word or concern for her sister. “Go ahead. Run to him like you always do.” Marcy yelled. Then Marcy turned to the crowd and explained. “My dear husband has been sleeping with my sister for years. They thought I wouldn’t find out.” The gasps from the crowd were electric. The guests did not know what to say, how to feel or what to do. You could feel remorse in the air. Kelly wanted to run to Marcy and give her a big hug. She wanted to comfort her. Just as Kelly begins to take a step towards Marcy, Susan turned to make an announcement of her own.

“Yes, I’ve been sleeping with my sister’s husband. BUT little do you all know that my dear sister Marcy has been sleeping with my husband for over 10 years. As a matter of fact, my oldest nephew is also my stepchild. So, if anyone is the victim here, it’s Ted and me!”

Once again, the crowd gasped. Kelly was so confused. She didn’t know who to feel bad for or who to comfort. At this point guests were starting to leave the party. Confusion on the face of all those in attendance. Kelly turned to leave as well when she heard Susan scream. Marcy had stabbed her in the back with the same knife that she cut Ted’s hand with. Kelly ran to Susan just in time to catch her as she fell to the floor. Marcy dropped the knife and ran towards the door. Ted followed her dripping blood along the way. Kelly pulled out her phone and called the police.

Ted caught Marcy and threw her to the ground. He was trying to hold her there until the police arrived. Then a tall, muscular framed man appeared in the cool night air. It was Jason, Susan’s husband. He ran to Ted and Marcy, pulled out a gun and shot Marcy in the chest.

“Why did you shoot her?” Ted asked. “I hated that B-. She’s been blackmailing me for child support for years. I would’ve taken care of my son had she told him that I was his father. Instead, she wanted him to believe that you were his dad.” Ted fell to his knees in tears. He couldn’t understand how things had gotten so far out of control. He wondered what his kids would do without a mother. What would he do without a wife? Ted had no idea that his son wasn’t his. All these years Marcy had led him to believe the child was his. As far as Ted was concerned, the child was his. He’d fed him, cared for him, and raised him as his own. He would continue to do so. Regardless of who his biological father was. The police arrived and tried to wrap their minds around the madness that lay before them. They were confused and unsure who to arrest for what crime. By this time, Jason had disappeared as fast as he arrived. The police searched for him in nearby areas and neighborhoods, but he was no where to be found. The ambulance arrived and took Susan to the hospital. Ted rode in the ambulance with her. They both needed medical attention. He also wanted to break the news to her about what Jason had done. They arrive at the hospital. Susan was taken to one room and Ted was taken to another. Susan was in too much pain to speak but she could nod her head in acknowledgment. They rushed Susan to surgery to repair the knife wound. After surgery Susan was resting with Ted by her side. His arm and hand were both bandaged, but he still managed to comfort Susan. He felt he needed a little break to wrap his mind around things. He whispered to Susan that he would be back shortly. Susan was in and out of consciousness, but she noticed someone else in her room. The tall man looked familiar, but she could not focus enough to see exactly who he was. Then the man leaned into to her and whispered in her ear. “You didn’t think I would kill Marcy and leave you alive, did you?” Susan’s eyes popped open. It was Jason.

“Now honey, don’t you recognize your own husband? Ted was so quick to comfort you. The two of you made a fool of me. I will not stand for it. You will meet the same fate as Marcy. You both are horrible excuses for wives. Ted and I will be better off without either of you.” Susan tried to move around in the bed to make some kind of noise. She wanted to knock the IV pole over, but she couldn’t reach it. She tried to ring the nurse, but Jason moved the call button away from her. She prayed Ted came back to the room, but he hadn’t. Jason took a pillow and put it over Susan’s head. He held it there tightly until she stopped moving. He rushed out of the room and down the stairs before anybody noticed he was there. Jason hurried down six flights of stairs and ran out the door to find Ted waiting for him. “Is it done?” Ted asked.

“Yes, it’s done.” Jason confirmed.

Ted hugged Jason and whispered in his ear, “Now we can finally be together.”


PUZZLE PIECES Imagine living most of your life not knowing where your siblings were or what happened to them, living with a tiny hole in your heart and sadness you could never quite shake. Imagine the grief you never had words to explain, coming from a loss you never understood. I feel like it’s in vogue these days to say someone’s story is “theirs to tell,” but I believe that if their story intersects with my story on any level, it’s also my story to tell. Not that I would reveal their secrets or use their stories as weapons, but details are details and every detail is a piece of the puzzle that completes a life. My dad has always loved puzzles. My dad’s story began in 1938, almost 83 years ago in a small town in Arkansas. He was the third of five children born to a mother who died before she was 40. Her husband, my dad’s father, was in and out of their lives and only the first child, Nadene, and my dad, James, or Willie as he was called then, are full siblings, separated by seven years. The second daughter and two younger brothers had different fathers. It’s human inclination to judge a woman who has children by two or three different men, but times were hard and their “Mama” did what she had to do to survive and take care of them. If that meant bringing someone in for a while to lend a hand, obviously that’s what she did. It didn’t make her children love her any less. When she died, there wasn’t any father in the picture. Nadene was 14 or 15 and Willie was seven or eight. The details aren’t clear, but four of the children were in foster care or with family members for a few months before being placed in a Baptist Children’s Home. The two babies were adopted. Willie and his sister Jean lived in the orphanage for approximately the next 10 years. Nadene refused to go to the orphanage and “ran wild,” as my dad was told. For many years he didn’t talk much about that time, but as he’s aged, he shares more of his memories. It’s painfully apparent that his emotional growth was somewhat stunted, but he speaks well of the years he lived in the orphanage and he’s “risen above his raising” to make a success of his life. My parents have been married for over 60 years and there are kids, grandkids, and great grandkids adding to the puzzle. Throughout the years, bits and pieces of information have found their way to my dad and he’s been able to fill in some holes. He reconnected with his father and met him in 1978 or ‘79. I don’t know what went on between them, but I believe my dad made his peace with the man. Jean and my father stayed in contact throughout the years and lived only a few miles apart when she passed away. She had one child. My parents took him in as a young man and tried to help him find his footing, but once his mother passed away all contact between them also passed away. I know it’s a missing piece my dad grieves, though he pretends he doesn’t. He didn’t have any contact with his younger brothers since the early 60’s, but sometime in the 80’s he began communicating regularly with the youngest. From a random phone call approximately three years ago, Willie, or Jim as he’s now known, was able to connect with children of his oldest younger brother. He passed away several years ago, and his children said he was not a nice man, but his children are and came to Uncle Jim’s 80 th birthday party. He was thrilled beyond expectations to place a couple more pieces in his puzzle. Through all the births, deaths, promotions, moves, and the everyday minutiae of life, a tiny piece of Jim’s heart struggled with accepting that he would never know what happened to his beloved sister Nadene. But here’s where the story really gets interesting! All my life I knew my dad had siblings he never saw. I have three brothers and as I’ve gotten older, I can’t imagine my life without them. Even when we don’t get along, they are pieces in my life’s puzzle and there would be a hole if they were gone. My son is an only child and always wanted a sibling. He felt a loss even when he didn’t know any different. Thinking about all this, I decided to look for Nadene. At that time, she would have been 86 and I knew the chances of finding her were unlikely, much less finding her still living, but I thought maybe I could at least find where she was buried.

This story wouldn’t have the same ending and I wouldn’t have known where to start without the Internet. I signed on to one of the ancestry websites and did a family search but struck out. I conducted random searches of Nadene’s name and birthdate and variations of both but struck out again. I searched for a couple months but came up empty every time. I was disappointed to have to tell my dad I couldn’t find her. I explained all the steps I went through and the names and dates I searched, the states, the websites. I really wanted this for him, but I had to admit defeat. And then he told me something that made all the difference. I was spelling her name incorrectly. I went back to the ancestry website and entered the correct spelling of her name and found a connection to an ex-husband in Tennessee. I spoke to the husband of the ex’s daughter and he confirmed that it was the same Nadene. Unfortunately, his father-in-law and Nadene had divorced many years prior and he didn’t have any idea where she was, but I was elated. I was on the right track!

More digging led me to a woman in Texas who thought Nadene was her father’s last wife. The last she heard, Nadene had moved to Oklahoma but they never knew each other so they didn’t have any contact.

I kept digging and found an address and phone number. My parents called the number and… disconnected. My dad suffers from a mysterious nervous system condition that causes his head to shake and makes it impossible for him to write legibly, so my mom wrote a letter and provided their phone number in case it really was Nadene. And it was! She is quite hard of hearing so a friend called for her and after 71 years she was reunited with her baby brother Willie.

My niece graduated from law school in Tennessee almost four years ago and after attending graduation, my parents continued on to Oklahoma for the reunion no one ever expected. My dad is “Brother,” not Willie, not Jim, but “Brother,” and Nadene asked for permission to call my mom “Sister.”  I think saying “Brother” instead of his name indicates just how important that familial connection is to her and she cried happy tears all weekend. My parents created a photo album for her with pictures of the places we’d lived and me and my brothers and our children. Seventy plus years were dumped on her all at once and she quickly went from having no family to being part of a big one. My dad discovered that the woman in his memories he thought was his mother was actually Nadene carrying him in the yard on her hip or pulling him through the cotton fields on a burlap sack. In pictures, the family connection is obvious, and she suffers from the same mysterious nervous system condition. Nadene is a tiny, feisty woman who’s willing to go to “fist city” with anyone who tries to tell her what to do. She gives us information about her life in bits and pieces, but enough for us to know she was twice divorced and gave birth when she was very young to a daughter who died as an infant. She lives in a small town where she is well-thought of and people look out for her.  We tried to talk her into coming to the 80 th birthday party, but she was afraid to travel too far from home, and no amount of reassurance could change her mind. My oldest brother met Nadene a few months after my parents did and we have a picture of the two of them standing under an umbrella. She is smiling up at him adoringly, like she’s known him his whole life. I met her about a year and a half ago. I had to go to Oklahoma and see for myself that her living conditions and health and finances were being handled properly. I routinely send cards and letters and pictures to her so she doesn’t forget that she’s part of us. Nadene and my dad speak on the phone at least once a week. They’re both hard of hearing so the conversations aren’t long or deep, but it’s contact, and that’s really all they need. Nadene will turn 90 years old on August 2 nd and my dad, her baby brother, will be 83 on August 14 th . It still astonishes me that I was able to find her, that she’s still living, that my dad’s still living, and that we have all met.

My dad is always working a puzzle and he’s passed the hobby on to his kids and grandkids. We’ve all worked puzzles where a particular piece looks like it should fit. We try and try to cram it into the space not made for it. We do the same with people in our lives, but sometimes the pieces don’t belong in our puzzles and won’t fit no matter how much we want them to or try to make it happen. I like to think that tiny hole in my dad’s heart has been patched, the large hole in Nadene’s life has become a bit smaller, and all of us have added another piece to our life’s puzzles, a piece that fits perfectly.


Kitty cat with a backpack followed by a bubble-blowing dragon, Anabelle loved watching the clouds roll by. Cool grass surrounded the child as she gazed up through the topiary maze. Spring neared its yearly slumber and the day’s heat attested to that fact, but Anabelle never missed an opportunity to seclude herself in the silence of her garden. She slipped there whenever she spied a glimmer of freedom. In her garden, she never wasted a moment’s thought on her problems. And her problems were plenty. “Miss Anabelle!” came the familiar call of Dorothea, “Miss Anabelle, you don’t want to be late.” She sprang to her feet, blew a stray red hair out of her face, and raced through the floral maze. Dorothea’s exasperated expression greeted her. Anabelle realized her hair must look a mess and grass likely stained her pants. She smiled sheepishly through freckled cheeks. Dorothea sighed. Whenever Anabelle’s eyes lit up, all she could do was smile back. She took the child’s hand. “Come one, we’ve got just enough time to tame that mop of yours and get you into a dress.” Anabelle groaned. Anabelle entered the stygian dining room. Forced to trade her comfy pants for a frilly dress the color of lemonade, she stood out as the brightest object in the room. She stood painfully still beside her chair at the lengthy, mahogany table. Her older brother, Oliver, stood opposite her dressed in earthy-toned “grown-up” clothes. Once upon a time, he would have made silly faces to raise a giggle from her. Ever since he began his apprenticeship though, he’d made every effort to be the model son their father expected him to be. Finally, their father entered the room and took his seat at the head of the table. The children then followed suit. Anabelle knew that behind her father’s graying, neatly trimmed beard and somber expression, hid a man who loved his children and only wanted the best for them. Even if that meant he worked too much. But he always shared every meal with them. Two women Anabelle barely knew served them lunch. The meal passed in depressing silence. That had become the new normal. After lunch, the caretaker allowed Anabelle exactly thirty minutes to visit her mother. Cold, grey light bathed her mother’s room. Time seemed to stand still there as if she was already dead. A slight breeze blew the lace curtains as Anabelle took her seat in front of the open window. Tiny fingers picked up the book on the nightstand and Anabelle read aloud. Anabelle acquired the reading skill during her previous year, so she spoke slowly, sounding out the difficult words. She knew it came out rough, but since her mother could no longer read to her, she read to her mother. The next day blessed Anabelle with another chance to observe the fluffy white clouds that offered her a fairy tale escape. Spires of green led her eyes to a brilliant blue sky. Sunlight peeked through cotton, warming her skin. At that moment, all that existed in her world was good. A tiara-wearing dinosaur of indeterminate species filled her vision as she closed her eyes. “Miss Anabelle,” a soft voice roused her from an impromptu nap. A haze foretelling rain replaced the sunshine. Anabelle rubbed the step from her eyes as she sat up. Dorothea crouched beside her, eyes red and puffy. “Miss Anabelle,” she repeated, “I have to tell you some bad news.” Anabelle ran as fast as her little legs could move. She burst into her mother’s room, her brother and father already there. White cloaked everything from the curtains to the bedsheets. She never understood why hospital rooms and patient rooms, doctors and nurses, all dressed in white. Maybe it was to prepare you for what Anabelle now saw. Her mother’s desaturated features blended in perfectly.

Anabelle tried desperately to climb into the bed, but her father grabbed her away. Kicking and sobbing, he held her firmly in his arms, close to his heart. A single tear trailed down his face. Whether for his lost wife or his daughter’s suffering she never knew, but it was the one time she remembered seeing him show his emotions. That was the last day she remembered watching the clouds. Shortly thereafter, Anabelle packed her things and headed to boarding school. Over the years she saw her brother and father less frequently. Dorothea wrote her every week for a time, but eventually, those also stopped. She lived for a long time confined to dull rooms, arduous studies, and everything artificial. Life came for Anabelle on the breakneck current of a wild river. The flow never ceased but it did slow once Anabelle became the curator of a rare and unique books store. Morning after morning, the smell of old paper greeted her. She met intriguing people and acquired exceptional books. Happy didn’t describe her life, but she settled on content. One year, winter ravaged the small town containing the book store. Each day brought more snow and numbing winds. Business slowed and a cloud fell heavy and dark. Death visited the trees and flowers as surely as it visited more than a few people. Fireplaces worked around the clock, but the chill persisted. Just as Anabelle believed the depressing veil would never lift, signs of spring blossomed. Snow melted revealing soupy mud that eventually dried and grew green grass. Biting winds wound down leaving warm air in its absence. Slowly, life began to awaken on unsteady feet. On the first day that winter’s grey haze left the sky completely, Anabelle took a long and slow walk home. She stopped on the brick bridge, the allure of spring inviting her to stay outside longer. So she paused and rested her elbows on the wall relishing the long-forgotten sunshine. Head hung low, she watched the gentle stream below slip by. Clouds rolled into her view, reflected on the glass water, puffy and brilliant white. Little Anabelle, years older and worn down, gasped when amongst the cottony blobs she recognized a kitty cat with a backpack.


The counter assistant is busy today. The latest book of a popular author is selling well since it came out just last Monday. Today is Saturday. It's 2pm and he must have checked out at least 5 copies since he got back from his lunch break. He greets each customer cheerily and politely and they go away happy with their purchases or Christmas returns. He is aware of people around the aisles and knows that other assistants are ready to help if needed. 2. In the children's section, a girl in a pink velour tracksuit sits in an armchair with her legs curled up. She plays with her Rubik's cube. She has the red side and the white side done, but the other colours are mixed. She can see her little brother, in his jeans and T-shirt, looking at the selection of children's books. She thinks he is taking too long picking what he wants. He takes out book after book, looking then replacing before taking the next one. She carries on playing with the cube. 3. A man enters the store. He looks around at the shelf labels and sees the one he is looking for. On the way to the self-help section he passes a lady in a pale blue coat that just covers her knees. Her slender calves meet the top of her black ankle boots. She is eyeing the novels in the romance section. 4. The lady in the blue coat walks along the carpeted floor in her low-heeled black boots. The footsteps cannot be heard on the carpet. She finds the cookery and crafts section of the store and finds this more interesting than the romance novels. 5. The little boy in the Batman T-shirt finishes looking at the children's books. His face looks frustrated. He stands up, thinks, makes a decision, walks away from the children's section. 6. The counter assistant notices a little boy in jeans and a Batman shirt. The boy wanders past the counter and the assistant briefly wonders who is with him as he appears to be alone. A couple of girls come to the counter to pay for some teen magazines and he serves them. Behind them the queue is building again. He sells another of the new novels. 7. The man at the self-help section is looking at books that promise happiness if he will only follow what they tell him. He is puzzled at the apparent contradiction between the advice in some of the books. He wants them all to say the same thing so that he will know they are right. He likes what some of them say but not others. 8. The little boy in a Batman T-shirt wanders around the store. He feels a bit lost and is not sure what he is looking for. He sees a shelf labelled self-help. He thinks maybe he will find what he wants there. His feet in their trainers make no noise on the patterned carpet of the store as he walks up to the shelf. He sees the word happy on one of the titles and thinks that sounds good. He pulls the book from the shelf to inspect it. 9. The man looking at the self-help books is bemused as to why a child would be looking in those too, but he thinks that it is none of his business. He continues to look at the books on the shelf, occasionally pulling one from the shelf for a closer look before putting it back. He is wondering if he will ever find what he wants. 10. The girl curled in the armchair has now got the yellow and green sides of her cube done, but the red and white sides have got mixed up. She sighs. She stayed up too late last night reading Harry Potter and she is tired. Her eyes droop and close. 11. The counter assistant serves a lady in a blue coat. She has chosen a book about making flavoured liqueurs. He thinks it looks interesting and says so. The woman smiles and agrees, her glossy auburn curls bobbing by her face. She leaves the counter but does not leave the shop yet. She heads towards the children's section where she can see the pink headband that matches her daughter's tracksuit. She approaches her daughter but cannot see her son. Her daughter is asleep with a Rubik's cube at her side in the armchair. The woman shakes her daughter's shoulder to wake her. “Zanna, where is Vinnie?” she asks. 12. Zanna opens her eyes and glances across to the shelf of children's books. She does not see Vinnie. Tears well in her eyes as she looks back at her mother. 13. “Zanna, you know you were supposed to keep an eye on him. He was only 7 yesterday, for goodness sake! You should know... look we'll talk about this later. He can't have gone far. Stay here.” The woman flags down a passing store assistant to ask for help. The store assistant checks the security cameras and sees Vinnie. Vinnie is talking to a stranger at the self-help section. Mum and the store assistant head towards the self-help section. 14. Vinnie has got talking with the man in the self-help section. The man knows that it was Vinnie's birthday yesterday and that Vinnie has no money. He is amused by Vinnie's assumption that self-help means help yourself as in free. He means to be kind and buy him a birthday present. Vinnie and the man go to the children's section to choose just the right book. 15. Zanna sees the man coming towards her with Vinnie. She doesn't know who the man is but she is cross with Vinnie for getting her into trouble. 16. Mum and the store assistant get to the empty self-help section of the store. Mum looks stressed. The store assistant reassures her that another staff is watching the door so they know that Vinnie is still in here. She offers to take mum and Zanna to the staffroom while the staff track down Vinnie. They head back to Zanna and see Vinnie is there with her. Vinnie is excited that he will get a present from the man . Mum is relieved that Vinnie is found. Zanna hopes that mum will forget to be cross. The man realises some of what has happened and introduces himself. He says he is still happy to buy the book for Vinnie. Mum is surprised as Vinnie has a gift card. She asks Vinnie why he thought he could not pay for his book himself. Vinnie explains he has no money. Mum explains about gift cards. Finale. “Oh!” exclaims Vinnie. “Now I know why you said to bring my birthday card out to the shops!” He goes back to the children's books and picks out a volume of Mr. Men stories. On the cover is a picture of Mr. Happy with some of his friends. The counter assistant wishes Vinnie a happy birthday as Vinnie pays for his new book with his birthday card.


Boiled peanuts are the best. The best way to get good quality boiled peanuts is to go and drive down the highway in the armpit of Alabama and find a place that looks like it sells meth and has a plywood sign with the words "\[southern name (Buck, Rog, etc)\]'s Boiled Peanut". The sort of place that reeks with a cacophony of the harsh scent of pine trees, goat dung(and just dung in general), sulphur, chickens, gunpowder, and maybe just a smidge of meth and weed. The sort of place that is about 50 miles from nowhere and is just a barn with three walls, a rusty, beaten up 1950's camper with about half a coat of paint, yellow-brown curtians with flowers on them, and a small oak tree growing through the hood, A shopping cart with a lawnmower engine lashed onto the side with bungee cords for some godforsaken reason, and a old man about of about 50-60 years with a beard wearing stained overalls and no shirt sitting next to a potbellied rusty stove in the three-walled barn. That, my friend is where you will find some of the best boiled peanuts in the whole wide world and if the police show up with a K9 units and non-stanard bullet-proof vests, that is when you no you really got the good stuff. (Yes this happened to me and it was pretty funny). Me and my church youth group were heading to Florida (we are from Georgia so it was quite a bit of a ride) and after we had been on the road for about half an hour we hear a pop followed by a rythmic thud. we pulled over and found that a piece of a chain-link fence had cut through the rear tire of Fr. Roberts car. The Father didn't have a jack so we walked up the road trying to wave someone down. After about 15 minutes a white camper pulled over and the driver offered his assistance. After getting the tire off and putting on the donut tire we were back on the road. After about an hour of driving I had begun to think that you weren't supposed to drive on a donut tire for more than a few minutes, but I decided that I was just an 18 year old knuckle-head and Fr. Robert surely knew how they worked better than me and it was probably a higher quality donut or something. At this point, the donut managed to work itself halfway off the rim and go flat. At the time, we were driving through Alabama when we got the second flat tire. Fr. Tony pulled over at Buck-Peanut Roasted or Boil. (It wasn't an upclass establisment). After being stuck for about half an hour we learned that the tow truck wouldn't arrive for 2 hours. There were just three of us Me, Fred, and Liz in the car plus Fr. Robert. (Names changed of course) So we started calling churches in the area and the second church we called said that they were sending one of their deacons over right now. We were all very happy at the good news and once he arrived we took the wheel off of Fr. Robert's car and drove into town, got lunch and then came back. We pulled in right behind a police SUV with the words "K9 Unit" written on it and one of the police officers was holding what looked like a warrant. Father Robert explained that our car broke down and we were just about to leave. Father Robert was wearing his collar so they knew he was a minister (I am an Anglican) They said that they were just here to talk to Buck and waited for us to leave until they approached him. That is the tale of how I met my church crush (The girl named Liz). She seems pretty cool, and I plan to ask her out in about a month when we go on the same youth group trip again this summer.


"It doesn't count if you're already planning your defeat." Head Judge Foley spoke the words as Inmate A sat on the stool with his guitar, hopeless. He kept his head down, avoiding eye contact like a young Perseus afraid of facing Medusa. "If you want to live another day, I suggest you give this performance your all." The poetry of his song impressed me. Both inmates undeniably had talent, and that was all I knew. There were specific clauses in our contracts stipulating we could not look into their pasts under any circumstances to maintain complete impartiality, and U-Stream made sure we complied in every possible way: the service cut Internet access in my hotel room and confiscated most of my electronic devices the minute I arrived in Los Angeles. Besides, it seemed neither of them received much publicity at the time of their convictions. These men were no OJs, but their moment of fame had come. “ So blind I lost Sight of the future High was the cost Hard was the failure ” Inmate A concluded his heart-wrenching piece before dropping his acoustic guitar to the ground, so disenchanted that the welfare of the instrument barely mattered to him. The lyrics evoked a polymer of visceral pain and desperate regret – I had no doubt the words were his own. He stepped away from the stool and stood patiently by the side of the stage as Inmate B made his way up, a violin in hand. The three of us were seated on an elevated platform right in front of the stage in the prison courtyard, surrounded by a sea of correctional officers and prisoners. The environment felt very intimidating, certainly different from our usual studio settings back in the U.K. “Hello judges,” he said, approaching the microphone. “Today, I’ll be performing Paganini’s Caprice no. 24. I'm sure you'll find my life worth saving.” “Thank you for your positive attitude Inmate B,” replied Head Judge Foley without a hint of emotion. “Go ahead when you’re ready.” He launched into a breathtaking performance. The notes flowed at an unbelievable speed that defied my most optimistic expectations, without ever sacrificing intonation or melody. Other violin players had auditioned for Talent Hunters before; in that moment, I remembered them to be amateurs in the face of such a prodigious display of skill. I did not turn to look at my colleague’s faces yet imagined their reactions must have been the same. The decision seemed impossible to make, and I deeply regretted accepting the position in the first place. I enjoyed judging on the show when it dealt with regular people battling it out to win a Vegas show. Then the network cancelled us when ratings started to drop, so of course the producers went looking for something more sensational, something that would raise the stakes and attract new curious faces. A new deal was made in partnership with the streaming service and the U.S. Justice Department. Instead of welcoming regular people with a dream on the program, we went from judges to executioners: the talent show now focused on death row prisoners, trying to win a diluted sentence. Whoever the winner was, his life would be spared. The other would be executed on the spot in front of millions of people watching the live stream. Not by lethal injection, as was usually the case for executions: the producers chose beheading, for the sheer spectacle of it all. Such was the barbaric world of provocation we lived in. All it took was a sickening but novel concept to attract hordes of shock value aficionados. Inmate B reached the end of the piece, drawing applause from the ecstatic crowd. I could not tell whether they were in awe of the performance or simply thirsty for the blood that was about to be spilled. “What a sensational performance!” exclaimed Head Judge Foley. “Time to deliberate now. Inmate A, will you please come back to the center of the stage?” Inmate A walked towards the microphone accordingly. They both stood side by side, shaking violently as Death breathed down their necks. One would soon go under the scythe; it all came down to us three. For the first time, I had supreme power over someone’s life, and I hated it in every possible way. To my surprise, the other two appeared confident, perfectly composed in spite of the dreadful choice that weighed down on our shoulders. “Let me start,” said the Head Judge. “Inmate A, I was deeply touched by the eloquence of your lyrics. Thank you for writing such a powerful song imbued with heartfelt meaning, it will stay with me way beyond this competition.” She turned to Inmate B, whose body convulsions had worsened with every word of praise she showered on Inmate A. “As for you Inmate B, every note was played to perfection. It’s a very difficult decision, and I’m afraid it comes down to heart versus skill.” Their breaths stopped for a moment as she left them hanging. It was a long, unjustified dramatic pause that no doubt provided suspense for the viewers, but terror for the contestants. “I usually go with the heart. However, Inmate A's defeated attitude made me sway the other way. Inmate B, you're my choice.” The choice visibly bolstered Inmate B's confidence. He puffed his chest, ready to win. Judge Klaus spoke next. “As for me,” explained Klaus, “I agree with Judge Foley with regards to the heart versus skill dilemma.” My heart skipped a beat. If they both chose the same person, my vote wouldn’t be needed. Two out of three was enough to crown the winner and behead the loser. I prayed with every fiber of my being. Even though the prospect of remaining silent enticed me, a part of me felt profoundly ashamed: all I wanted was to avoid being accountable for the choice, not to save them from this torture. “I can’t side with her on the result though,” Klaus added. “This is a talent competition, not an assessment of confidence. Inmate A, you're my pick.” Hope vanished instantly. The votes were fifty/fifty. Both inmates looked at me with the imploring eyes of a dog headed for euthanasia. “Judge York,” said the Head Judge. “Will you please cast the tie-breaking vote?” I opened my mouth, but not a word came out. No matter how hard I tried to articulate, my jaw suffered from an acute case of paralysis. “Judge York?” she repeated. “Your decision please.” The fear radiating from the contestants was simply too much to bear. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t.” “What do you mean, you can’t?” “I can’t make this decision. It’s not up to us, none of this is human! Can’t you see that? Can’t you see how barbaric this whole thing is? Blood is on all of our hands for the mere act of thinking this was a good idea.” The Head Judge looked astounded. “This is your final word?” “Yes it is.” I expected her to side with me. For sure, she was about to realize the error of her ways and convince the producers to call off the contest. She took out her rulebook instead and flipped through its pages, still devoid of any emotion. “Very well. The rulebook states that in the absence of a deciding vote, the execution of any of the prisoners cannot proceed.” Relief surged over me. That’s it. I had averted this monstrous competition. “The belligerent judge will be executed instead.” Again, my jaw dropped, but not a word came out. The other two judges looked indifferently as bodyguards carried me up the stage. Now I knew for sure: they lusted for the blood, and so did the viewers of the livestream. “No, please! This must be a mistake, I beg you! I choose Inmate B, I do!” “I’m sorry,” said the Head Judge. “You confirmed it was your final word.” I found myself pressed against a wooden plank while the executioner approached. As for the two inmates, they remained still, staring at me with the empathy only someone who had come close to the plight I found myself in could feel. I did not know why they had been jailed, but I knew for sure they had more humanity left in them than many of the producers surrounding me. Inmate A picked up his guitar again, and sang me his song once more as the executioner’s blade grew closer to my neck: “ So blind I lost Sight of the future High was the cost Hard was the failure ”


“Scanning techniques: Identify target vein. Reevaluate to confirm anatomy and pathology. Draw a line of the vein on the skin. Some physicians want 5-10 cm intervals indicated to assist with anesthesia introduction. Keep the room warm to prevent vasospasm.” The professor mumbled. I am trying my hardest to stay present. I am trying my hardest to focus on the material and not the monotonicity, boring, slow, unenergetic, and just old-fashioned delivery of the instructor. There has to be a better way for us to learn this stuff.  “Image guidance during procedure: Access. Placement of instrumentation. Perivenous anesthesia. Thermal treatment. Post treatment,” he tamely drummed on. Reading word for word from the PowerPoint. This is so painful. This is important information. Midterms are in two weeks and my goal is to do well, obviously, enough to have a comfortable cushion for the second half of the semester. But listening to him present the information is harder than memorizing it. I think it would be easier if the sound of his voice was anything else but sheep jumping over fences to my ears. The dullness is briefly interrupted by the clicking-on of the A/C system. Which is terrible news. It is 58 degrees outside. Hoodie weather. And we are not even allowed to wear hoodies inside due to the school dress codes. Here come the goosebumps. I feel them start at the lumbar. They quickly travel up my spine to my shoulders, causing me to do the shimmy. I swear they, the people in charge, want us to freeze to death. My attempt to focus on the information that is currently being excruciatingly provided to us is now replaced with focusing all my blood to move towards the important parts of my body, so I don’t die of hypothermia. Ugh. There go my fingers. C’mon blood. Do your thing. Luckily, I sit next to this giant window. An escape of sorts. A whole row of windows line the entire length of the exterior wall in the classroom. It is easy for me to get lost in the scenery of day-to-day life outside. A team of landscapers mow, edge, blow, and sweep their way through the courtyard. Something they do every Monday. Judging by the efficiency of their work, they know what they are doing. I hope they get paid enough. The parking lot is a little less full today than any normal Monday. I bet some students partied a little too hard this weekend. Lucky for them. Maybe some are sick. Unlucky for them. Either way, they are not here. The family of squirrels in the large cypress tree in the front garden seem to be quite active today. Looking around, I just realized that the front garden is filled with native trees. There are a couple of Mexican Buckeye and two Honey Mesquite. How did I not notice these pretty trees? “The needle is advanced from below the transducer into the field of view where access to the vein can be imaged.” He continued. Oh good, the A/C just shut off. I survived. I suppose it does not need to be on long to ensure an average indoor temperature of what I guarantee is set to freezing. Just across the street there is a large interstate highway. It is elevated by large concrete pillars and built-up grassy knolls. I can hear the traffic from here. A lot of people are in a hurry. I am curious to know where they are going. I am assuming most are headed to work. Maybe school. Some could be coming back from vacation. What I would give to be heading towards a warm beach right now. “Duplications: most are segmental; complete duplications are rare. To be duplicated, both saphenous veins must follow the same path and remain parallel within the fascia. Duplication demonstrates a beginning and end along the same path,” said Charlie Brown’s teacher. I think. My nostrils flare, picking up scent coming in from down the hall. The cafeteria is not that far from our door, but being able to smell food from that area is still an uncommon thing. It smells like another student just pulled lunch out of one of the microwaves. What is that? Is that.. Is that fish? Holy crap. It is fish. Who? Why? What have we done to deserve such blatant disrespect? That is a very violent smelling microwaved fishy aroma. My nostrils and olfactory sensory neurons are in a battle for their lives. I think they are losing. My eyes are watering. The fishy smelling air particles are now in my eyes. In a weird way, it makes me hungry. I have a snack-sized bag of Cheez-it calling my name from my lunch carrier. And just thinking about sinking my teeth into the BLT wrap that I have prepared is making my mouth water. I don’t do BLT’s the traditional way. I chop the bacon, the hickory smoked goodness of bacon, lettuce, and tomatoes. I throw them into a bowl. I combine mayonnaise, ranch, and sriracha in another bowl. I then mix the two bowls. After spreading on and rolling up tortillas, boom! Delicioso. I need a haircut. One of the girls in the class just got new hair put in. I am still not even sure what that means. But what happened to the poor horse? Is there a hairless horse walking around somewhere? Looks good, though. Even after her pointing it out, I still cannot tell what belongs to a different animal species and what is natural. I just grow my hair out the traditional way. Then cut it. Then I grow my hair out. Repeat. I just need to taper it back. Maybe, a low skin fade is in order. I have gotten away with growing my hair out for far too long. The tips are passed the collar of my shirt. I really should have taken the clothes out of the dryer last night. Now, when I get home, I am going to have to run them for at least 15 minutes to get the wrinkles out. 20 minutes makes them too hot. But it is just whites. Do I need to get the wrinkles out of the whites? It is just work out shirts and socks. Maybe I am good. I hate folding wrinkled shirts, though. I will play it by ear. “...trendelenburg position. Post treatment. Okay, take a break. Be back in 10 minutes.” Damn it! What did I miss?


Lyrica stopped for a moment to take in her surroundings before continuing to follow the guides. She was only there for a quick look at her living quarters for the upcoming competition, then she would go home to tie up loose ends. Sleek silver walls covered in vines is all she could see. There were no bright direct lights or fixtures, just a soft glow that lit their path as they continued walking. It was unusual and slightly unsettling but she tried to kept her mind carefully blank, knowing if she started doubting she would back out. And she needed the fame this project would bring. Finally her guides stopped in front of a metal door, blank as the walls surrounding it, though free of greenery. With a touch from the guide, the door swung open. She nodded her thanks then stepped inside. The door promptly shut behind her. She whirled around, a slight needle of fear forming but relaxed again once she saw there was a handle on the inside. This room was only a slight contrast to the hallways. Warm, cream walls rose up around her, while scalloped white lamps emitted a brighter but still soft light. There were no pictures or windows or other furniture however, just 3 beds covered in white pillows and sheets placed around the edges. She was surprised to see 2 women already there, lounging on a bed each, talking quietly. As she approached they stopped and turned their attention to her. "I'm just here for a quick look." Lyrica said smoothly to their questioning eyes. "I still need to pack and bring my things." The women nodded, then promptly turned back to their conversation. Though she was close, Lyrica could not hear what they were saying. They seemed content to ignore her so Lyrica turned, making her way to the other bed,where she carefully sat. Doubts once again started forming. This lock in challenge had come out of the blue. She had seen no advertisements or announcements that she could remember, her manager had simply come to her one day and told her she was chosen. Getting her career off the ground had been difficult to say the least. She had yet to play a single show or been offered the chance to record. This was it as far as Lyrica was concerned. If she didn't get any interest after this she'd need to move back home, to her grandmothers imposing Victorian era home and marry the old man who had been courting her for only weeks, yet had taken liberties and.... She shuddered and pushed the thoughts away, locking them deep. She would make it. She had no choice. Lyrica barely remembered standing and opening the door to leave but soon she was standing outside, blinking in the bright sun. How had she found her way out without the guides? She dwelt on the confusion for only a second, then shrugged it off. "That's what happens when you think too much!" She murmured aloud, then began striding away not looking back. Part 2 "This is your last chance." The ominous words hung in the air between the two men, seated and looking at each other intently from across a broad silver table. The one who spoke stared at the other man, unmoving, as though waiting on the answer to an unspoken question. The other sighed and ran his hand over a large 4 way jagged seam on his head. "But of course. I have control this time. There will be no accidents JJ." A small half smile briefly appeared, then faded. "I know the warning signs now. We have containment procedures. We will get the information we need." The other man still stared ahead, saying nothing. Finally after several minutes he stood, his eyes tracing the seam on the other mans head. "You know what will happen if you can't. No matter who you once were there will be only one option." He stood and turned, pressing on the silver wall behind him with two fingers. A door swung open but the man hesitated a minute more before stepping through. It closed quietly behind him. "No mistakes." The seamed man whispered to himself, before pressing on the opposite wall and exiting the room. Part 3 A slightly spicy smell wafted up to Lyrica as she filled her bike basket with her purchases. The store she stood in front of had just what she needed, though she'd had to ask for entrance to the back. Satay was mostly forbidden, though if you knew where to look it was easy to find. She had covered her shady purchase with several jars of pickled peppers, her grandmothers favorite. It was the only way to hide the smell and would perhaps earn her at least a lukewarm welcome back if the lockdown challenge didn't go as planned. She was due to check in in 1 hours but couldn't shake a feeling of unease, as though she was missing something. She still couldn't completely remember her exit earlier from the room to standing outside the facility. As though she had blinked and appeared. "Maybe it's the satay...no!" Lyrica shook her head then hopped on her bike, taking off quickly on the rough gravel of the parking lot. She'd never had any side effects before and it helped her write her songs. Being stuck in a room for a week was the perfect opportunity to put pen to paper and think of something new. As she pedaled her thoughts drifted again. She'd never seen a building like it before. Come to think of it, she couldn't recall ever even seeing it. The location was a place she'd passed a few dozen times, so if it had been there before there was no way to miss it. Then again she was usually focused on her destination, career, or pushing away other unpleasant thoughts. A misplaced building was the least of her concerns. Deciding the risk was worth the reward, she turned her mind towards home, hoping the peppers filling her basket wouldn't betray her lack of confidence to her grandmother. This was her last chance and she had to believe this would be the start of something wonderful. Part 4 When Lyrica arrived, she once again followed the guides, struggling to keep her mind blank. To occupy herself as she walked, she studied the floor, noting it was made of the same silver material as the walls, sprinkled through with green circles instead of vines. It wasn't enough however and she became aware of a feeling of being watched. Eyes turning upwards, she looked around for cameras but could find none. The guides backs were turned to her as they walked ahead, almost gliding. It suddenly occured to her that she'd never seen their faces. They were always turned away from her. She shook her head again, muttering to herself. The challenge hadn't even started yet and she was losing it. So what if she didn't know what they looked like? That's not why she was here. They soon came to the same wall as earlier and with another light touch from one of the guides, the wall sprang open. Lyrica squared her shoulders and walked past the guides into the room, turning to thank them but the door closed before she could even face them. She noticed the handle had been removed this time. Sighing, she made her way to the only open bed. There was nowhere to put her bag so she stood for a moment, looking around again. The two women from earlier were there, sitting straight up in their beds and looking at eachother, though not speaking. As she watched, they slowly slid down and seemed to fall asleep instantly. Suddenly, she felt drowsy too. The worry from earlier must've drained her. It's not like she had anything to do. A nap would be pleasant... The bag she was carrying slipped from her hand and she was asleep before her head hit the pillow. JJ watched as the last woman fell asleep. It was time. He beckoned to the seamed man who stepped beside him, turning his gaze on the unknowing women. "Are you in? Can you see?" JJ tried to keep his voice even. The slightest bit of emotion could mean disaster at this stage. He could not afford what would follow if the seamed man detected it. "Yes. The ones this time are particularly creative." A small smile filled his face then vanished. JJ suppressed a shudder at the smile. "I will seal the door and leave you to it then. Do not dissapoint us." He stepped away, intent on leaving when the seamed man spoke again. "Get some rest." The slightly cheerful tone made JJ shiver. He quickly walked through the door and closed it behind him. This had to work or it all meant nothing. The seamed man continued staring at the women, then began tracing his fingers down the lines of his head. Suddenly the women were writhing as though in pain though no sounds left their mouths and they continued sleeping. The seamed man began humming an old nursery rhyme to himself, a smile filling his face. "Merrily merrily life is but a dream. " Part 5 Lyrica awoke suddenly. Her dreams had been full of her home, the old man who had been courting her and the last disastrous visit before her manager had called her about the lockdown challenge, as usual. This time though therr had been a man with a seamed head she'd never seen before who terrified her. Her head and body throbbed painfully as though she'd been in a fight, just as it did everytime she woke up in this place. She had no idea how many days had passed. The lockdown was only for a week but it felt like a month already. Her roommates were never awake when she was. It was lonely but a small relief. If they were awake she'd be tempted to ask them if they too felt as though they were being watched, even in their dreams. If the seamed man had appeared to them as well. If every waking moment felt exhausting. She stood and stretched before reaching for her bag. It was the perfect opportunity to take some satay and write. Lately though it felt as if all her creativity had been slowly dissappearing, replaced with a blank void she couldn't seem to shake She popped a large wad in her mouth and let it dissolve on her tongue. The only way the dreams would fade and she would feel awake was with this. Feeling her fingers start to tingle and her mind race she settled down to try to write when a loud thud startled her. It sounded like it came from outside the door. But no one else was supposed to be here except the guides. Another loud thud had her scrambling from the bed. She looked over and noticed the other 2 women were awake now and looking at the door too. "Do you know what that is? Is it maybe time to go?" Lyrica asked the women. They didn't respond, only looked at her, then back at the door. Another thud, louder this time seemed to shake the whole room. Fear began filling her as a small dent began to appear on the handleless door. The guides always opened it with a touch of their fingers, so who would breaking in? A metallic scraping started accompanying the thudding and the dent grew bigger. Full of terror, Lyrica began yelling at the door, "Whose there?! Is this some kind of trick for thrills? I didn't agree to this!" She turned to the other women again, and was shocked to see they hadn't moved. She realized something was terribly wrong. They were acting as though they couldn't see or hear anything. Their eyes were open but glazed, their chest rising and falling at a slow, steady pace as if they were still asleep. Because they were asleep she realized. As soon as the thought formed the door burst open, revealing sleek metal figures with seamed faces. She instantly knew they were the guides and tried to scramble away but there was nowhere to go. A metallic hand wrapped around her wrist and vines appeared from nowhere, snaking up her arm. Despite her terror she began to feel drowsy. "You were supposed to be sleeping this whole time" The whispered words made her jerk her head up to stare at the seamed face of the guide who'd whispered it. "This would all have been much more pleasant without your satay." The last sentence sounded almost sorrowful. The last thing she saw before sleep took her were the faces of the 2 women still in bed. They were smiling. Final Part JJ ran, knowing he was out of time. He'd been foolish, thinking that he could trust the seamed man. That some remnant of his old friend and partner had remained after the change. His thirst for knowledge had led him to allow unspeakable things. He'd watched as the newest girl was taken away and knew that his friend had lost control. He skidded to a halt outside a piece of wall thickly covered in vines, staring in horror. He couldn't have made it here. Only he knew the location. The vines parted, revealing a room with a table in the middle, covered in broken straps. The seamed man gestured to the edge of the table, grinning widely. "Please, sit old friend." He still stood, working through his options. He had none. The fact the man was up and walking meant only one thing. "How long?" He asked. "Before you left the room last time." The seamed man replied with a broad smile. "I felt your fear and your curiosity. It was all I needed." JJ sighed. "The girls?" "They gave me all the energy I could need." The seamed man ran his fingers over his head. It slowly began to split, a hum filling the room. JJ fell to his knees. There was no one he could warn, no one who would come if he called. He realized he was asleep and had been for some time. The seamed man had tricked him, gotten into his mind and manipulated him like the test subjects. That meant everyone else in the facility was at risk. It was too late. The seamed mans face began to change until JJ was looking at himself. He began to feel drowsy as he watched his doppleganger stride past him towards the door. "Sleep now JJ. You are so very tired. I'll take it from here.