There are some feelings, some deep personal feelings, that are unexplainable. The ones you can’t really share with anyone, even if you did want to; even if you did try to put them into words. The same ones that seem to always last longer than all the others. Alice was experiencing a fair dose of a mix of them at the same time. Sitting at the edge of the rooftop of a two story building, she felt anxious, sad, angry; but not quite. It was as if someone had had a recipe that required all of the above, but had somehow mixed up the doses. Not to mention the sprinkle of hope and happiness that didn’t quite fit in, that she was trying really hard to put out of her mind. That was proving more difficult than usual. Today was supposed to be a good day, after all. The day. Why shouldn’t she be joyful? Because she had been in this spot before. And not just the one where she was sitting, swinging her feet back and forth. No, where she had been already before was in this state of limbo, waiting for those five words she had been longing to hear all of her life. ‘You have been officially adopted.’ Answer to a question she had stopped asking a long time ago. ‘Has anyone come for me yet?’ The actual, real answers she had been used to so far had ranged from sweet at first to plain rude later on. Or as she called them, in her head: “Mr. not today honey;” which was closely related to — in the same way that fire and water are both elements — “Mrs. if there were any news I would have told you by now.” Because, you see, the two story building was a place for kids like her. Kids that had no idea where they came from or who their family was. Alice had been there most of her life: eleven years out of sixteen. The first five years, she had been told, she had spent somewhere ‘people actually come and adopt you.’ That, of course, had not happened to her. The sadness, anger, and anxiousness concoction came from that. From never being the kid potential parents actually brought home for good. A few had tried, especially when she was in middle school, because they fell in love with the way she looked with her curly hair and the glasses too big for her face. They all thought they would bring home a quiet, studios girl. Which she was not. Well, she was studios indeed; she was top of her class and read as many books as she could get her hands on. But she was also very active, climbing every tree in every backyard she was brought to. She also wanted to sign up to every possible sport, even the ‘most dangerous’ as the potential parents put it. It wasn’t her fault that they painted a picture of her in their head that was far from the truth. During that period, the longer she had spent in one of the potential homes had been a whole month. Then puberty hit and she was chosen less and less. The sprinkle of hope and happiness came from the fact that, a little under a year before, she had met what she thought were the perfect parents . They had picked her over everyone else, even the cutest six year old she had ever seen. When they had been asked if they were sure of their choice because ‘that one is not at all what she appears to be,’ the potential father had replied with a: ‘good thing we don’t make assumptions about people’s personalities only based on their appearances. Or at all.’ That had been met with a tight smile from the headmistress, who didn’t argue only because she couldn’t wait to be rid of Alice. Stephanie and Eric, aka the perfect parents , had brought her home that same evening. When too in awe of the tall trees in the backyard, she had instinctively asked if she could climb one, before she had brought a hand to her mouth fearing she had already ruined everything. She hadn’t witnessed the conversation with the headmistress after all. Stephanie had replied, matching her initial enthusiasm, ‘not if I climb it first!’ Later, at the dinner table, she had cautiously asked how come she hadn’t been scolded for wanting to do such thing. Eric had answered her. ‘Because we want you to be safe in whatever you decide to do. That’s why you are not allowed to climb unless one of us is there with you. We don’t want to tell you what you should love, though.’ Stephanie had nodded the whole time. That seemed like a great compromise to Alice. It also made her feel warm inside, the fact that someone worried for her safety. ‘If that was day one,’ she had thought to herself that night in bed, ‘what could possible go wrong,’ ‘Nothing,’ had been the answer for the most part of the first four months she had spent there. The three of them had gotten so in sync with each other that it had felt like they had been a family for her entire life. Eric shared her love for books and taught her everything he knew, from science to sci-fi movies. Which was also where he got his best — and worst — dad jokes from. With Stephanie, she shared her love for climbing and sports in general. Every weekend, they either went rock climbing or to yoga. Yoga, as Stephanie pointed out, was just as important as any other activity. ‘You want to be flexible enough, and relaxed enough, if you want to kick people’s butts,’ she had told Alice one day when she had admitted she didn’t know what she wanted to pursue next: kickboxing or martial arts. They even gave her the best birthday party of her life that far. She had pointed out that she didn’t have many friends at school, only a couple, so the big party wasn’t necessary. They had invited the two friends and all their relatives. The latter, being eager to meet her, had actually treated her like family. They had also brought her lots of gifts. The dream had come to a crashing halt when they tried to finalize the adoption and were prevented from doing so. The perfect parents had tried not to worry her too much about the details. One day, though, she overheard them on the phone: someone hadn’t filed the foster form; either deliberately or by accident. It had looked like the whole time she had been with them she had actually spent back at the orphanage. There was no way forward, only backward. They had been forced to bring her back; with tears in their eyes, they promised to find a solution. Even with all the past experiences and a lifetime of disappointment, she had believed them. That was seven months before. Her hope had risen again, against her better judgement, the day before. She had walked into the headmistress’ office, after she had been summoned there, trying to figure out what she was going to be punished for this time. She had walked out of it, almost skipping, after a phone call with the perfect parents . They had promised, again and again at her request, that they had solved all bureaucratic problems and were going to pick her up the next day. She had been waiting for them on the rooftop since right after breakfast. She had even skipped lunch, not that she was eager to eat the watery soup of the day. Next to her was the book she was currently reading, which had been left untouched that day. It brought her comfort though; it was one of the many she had received on her latest birthday. When she heard footsteps behind her, she didn’t dare turn around, she couldn’t face more disappointment. Or the thirteen year old that was always mocking her. “Hey!” It was Stephanie’s voice. “We have been looking everywhere for you.” Which didn’t feel like it related only to that particular day, but their whole lives. Only then did she turn around, tears in her eyes. “You came?” “Of course we did,” Eric replied, tears welling up in his eyes as well. “Stop it, you two, you’ll make me cry as well.” But Alice didn’t hear her: she was already jumping to her feet and running toward them. She hesitated just a moment, one foot in front of them, before she threw her arms around them for a tight hug. They immediately hugger her back just as tightly. “Is it for real this time?” she asked, as she let go after what felt like an eternity and a moment at the same time. “Yes, Alice. I am y—,” started Eric. “Don’t you dare,” she interrupted him, half laughing half crying. She then hugged them again. Because she could. Because she wanted to. Because she had missed them. Because she was experiencing all those feelings you never know how to explain to others. Feelings she knew they were experiencing as well, her new parents. She couldn’t put them into words, but she was sure all three of them were feeling one thing: love.


Making dreams is honest work. There’s nothing much to it, really, and I’m not trying to be humble by saying that. In the past few years fatigue has become an epidemic. Forced to work, forced to sacrifice sleep for work and family, humans doze off in the most inopportune places, from steering wheels to office computers to you-name-it. It’s cute, watching them submit to sleep so easily. Almost pitiful. I barely have to lift a finger.

But who am I to judge them for craving sleep so bad? Sleep is a drug, an aphrodisiac, a God, a scarcity. I know sleep. I am sleep. My hair is the feather fluff inside your pillows. My eyes are perpetually half-closed, half-resting, gritty and globby no matter how hard I clean them. With my strange, filmy hands I puppeteer sleepwalkers, snorers, and lucid dreamers. I grant the humans I like with wild fantasies and the ones I don’t with nightmares. I am the Sandman, and damn good at my job.

Feeling restless? Have too much energy? Step inside my caravan and I’ll see what I can do for you. That’s it, nice and easy now. Mind the missing step. Don’t be afraid. I’m not the kind of dreamer that’ll lead you astray.

Welcome, welcome to my workshop! You’ll notice that the air in here is different than it is outdoors. Delicious, isn’t it? It isn’t polluted with failed hopes and caffeine, not like the outside world is. I’m allergic to those scents. I’ve lit the finest sage, laced with melatonin and a hint of warm milk. If you inhale deeply, you might get a whiff of the stars and the moon, too. And how do those smell? Like caramel and baby shampoo fused together.

Doesn’t that just inspire sleep within you? Well, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it ? So sorry—I didn’t mean to get testy there. I can see you’re still awake. My clients usually drift off within the first minute of being inside. Why don’t you take off your jacket and find a seat? Anywhere is fine. I prefer to sit on the bed myself. Isn’t it a lovely bed? It was a gift from Father Time. You can tell it was homemade by the delicacy of the stitch-work, the lumplessness of the mattress. He said it took an eternity to make, but an eternity is nothing to him. I’ve seen him work on projects for much longer.

Enough with my ramblings. Let’s talk business. It’s insomnia you have, correct? Not to worry—there hasn’t been an ailment that the ole Sandman can’t cure. Once I coaxed a barn owl into hunting during the day and resting at night. On a separate occasion I lullabied Morpheus to sleep. True story.

Are you comfortable? Good. Let’s see what we’ve got in the inventory. My, my, I really need to organize in there—too much clutter. Ah, yes, here we are: the sheep mobile. My dear friend, would you mind if I hung this mobile above your head? That’s a good sport. Now listen to my words, and heed them carefully. What I’m asking you to do is keep your focus on the sheep. They’ll spin and bray and look so pretty in their popcorny wool, and as they move you’ll count them, one-by-one. Think you can do that? There’s a champ, such a wonderful mortal! Alright: begin. One, two, three, four. Keep counting. Keep going. Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven. Your eyelids are getting very, very heavy. Ninety-eight, ninety-nine. Nothing yet? Two-hundred-and-ten, two-hundred-and-eleven, two-hundred-and-twelve. No? Not even a teensy, weensy bit tired? Let’s try something new. That was an old technique, anyhow. Not very effective. Tell me: have you ever heard of hypnosis? Of course you have—how presumptuous I am, to think humans know nothing! Well, then, why don’t you recline your chair into a comfortable position. Now close those dreamless, vacant, myopic eyes of yours and settle into your body. Make mantis hands: curl your wrists inwards and take in a breath. An interesting fact: mantises are actually very vivid dreamers. Prayer is a form of dreaming. But I digress—oh, I always lose track of my thoughts!—curl your wrists and join your fingertips together. Let your fingernails kiss, like the moonlight pecks your pillow, blessing your night with sweet, sweet slumber. No using tongue! Heh, heh. Just a little Sandman humor.

I hope you’re not sensitive to high frequencies. Humming is a Sandman’s native language, and we’re able to best articulate ourselves when we hum at a very shrill pitch. Let the music of my voice whisk you to unconsciousness. Imagine a realm of unseeing and unknowing—you’ll find it in the empty space behind your eyelids. In the cracks and crevices of your brain. Between the breaks in your snores. Think of this land, and visualize yourself within it, one lonely player in the vast world of dreams.

Hhhhmmmm. Hhhhmmmm.

Rockabye baby, on the tree top. Twinkle, twinkle little star. Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Hhhmmmmm. Hhhhmmmmm. Go to sleep. Go. To. Sleep. I said, GO. TO. SLEEP. Oh my. I do apologize for raising my voice. Frankly, I’ve never seen a patient who’s so insistent on resisting. But have no fear, for I am the greatest Sandman the world has ever known, the purveyor of fatigue and defender of Slumber Town! One restless mortal won’t get in the way of my magic. So what if you haven’t slept in two days?

Five? You haven’t slept in five days? Huh. That’s new. Needn’t fret—I have something stronger than sheep. Stronger than hypnosis, too. Here’s a secret I don’t share with everyone: I always carry a little sand in my sleeve. Really, I do! See here, I’m holding a pinch in between my fingers—no more than five grains. That’s enough to tranquilize an elephant. Not that I think you’re as big as an elephant, of course. You just need a heavy dose. An elephant-sized dose. Once I sprinkle the sand over your head, your reality will melt away, slowly and beautifully, as sleep creeps in.

This will work. This has to work. If this doesn’t work I just don’t know what I’ll do. Maybe I’ll scream or cry or do both at the same time but who can say, really, because it’s never not worked before. So it will work. It must work. If it doesn’t work then congratulations, you win, you’re more powerful than sleep, you’re more powerful than me, and I’ll have been of no service to you, not at all. Alright. Now close your eyes again. Think of nothing but sand. Think of the innards of an hourglass. The bottom of a beachcomber’s sandal. Imagine it seeping through your skin, sliding through your veins. The sand is good. The sand is strong. The sand will knock you out like that . … Like that. … Like. That .

… LIKE. THAT.

… That’s it. I’ve had enough. I don’t care that I raised my voice. I don’t care if I woke up my neighbors, either. Who cares whether or not they sleep? Not me. Not you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, for more people to be like you? Immune to my infallible powers. Spitting at the feet of the King of Catnaps. Enjoy a life with no dreams, you wide-awake wretch.

Jesus. I need a cigarette.

You think you’re so smug? You think you know better than I do? Then take it, take all of it! Take the sand and the bed and every other piece of sleep-shit I have here. If I’m not strong enough to subdue one pathetic mortal, how can I call myself a Sandman? It’s your turn now, since you think you’re so high-and-mighty. Take the sage, take the sheep. The caravan is yours to keep. It’s time for me to retire—retire to where, I don’t care. And I lied about the Morpheus story, by the way. I’ve never even met the guy.

So goodbye, so long, au revoir, and adios. All dreams must end and mine ends now.


# Gooooood Morning, /r/ShortStories! You may have noticed a fancy new feature running on this sub called Serial Saturday! So… what is it? Serial Saturday is a weekly challenge for serial writing and we’re now three weeks into this brave new world of writing themed beat assignments for our own original universes. If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the beat schedule at the bottom of the post. # New to /r/ShortStories and Serial Saturday, but want to join in the fun? We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community!  ***Do I need to write for all the previous challenges in order to participate?*** Nope! You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you choose to start with. Wherever you start, take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. ***Can I start a serial off based off one of my*** /r/writingprompts ***responses or another short story I've started?*** Yep, you sure can! Make sure you provide a link to where that story can be found on your own profile/sub, or here on shortstories. ***If I write for the previous challenges independently, where should I post them if I want to write on the current thread with the current challenge?*** Make sure that if you did write for any previous challenges, link them at the bottom of your post to wherever you choose to post them so someone can read the previous challenges if they choose. If you want to jump right in with us on the current challenge you can post your independently written responses to the challenge on the corresponding thread, on your own profile/sub, or on /r/shortstories itself. Keep in mind we only read your most current challenge responses at campfire, and that each thread allows for one submission per author. If you post to the previous challenge threads you are not required to play catch-up with the 2 comment crit rule, though it is required moving forward. # So what are the goals of Serial Saturday? The ultimate goal for SerSat is to help serial writers launch and land their planes. Lots of writers want to tell their stories but aren’t sure how to actually write the dang things *and finish them.* That’s where Serial Saturday comes in. For this first cycle we’re running a shortened cycle of challenges that will end the third week of November. November is also NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), and it may be hard for everyone to keep with it in those last three weeks, but we also don't want to cut short a cycle for people who may *not* do NaNo, so this schedule hopefully can mitigate some of that dicey-ness as well as stay mindful of upcoming holidays. After the new year we'll start with a more fleshed out challenge cycle, with more assignments that will extend SerSat by about 5 to 10-ish weeks. Each post will address how these challenge assignments can apply to both conflict heavy and non conflict heavy stories. Just as a note, anyone can earn a fancy “completed serial banner” on the sub based on the Saturday feature with only 8 installments, so there's no problem with anyone picking and choosing what assignments suit their story. The idea in releasing this schedule is that it should help participants prepare better for upcoming arcs and how they plan to address them. If you prefer to wait to brainstorm until each beat is assigned that is totally ok, too! **The Rules:** * In the current assignment thread submit a story that is between **500 - 750** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely family friendly" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on the assignment thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST.


It's been really nice to meet you and getting to know you these last few days And if you'd like to keep in contact then I think that would be just great...Maybe you could write to me and then we could be like pen pals But I suppose people don't really write letters any more Cos it's normally all emails Which is a shame. I understand you live there and I live all the way over here But you're more than welcome to drop by any time if you're ever near-And if you need a place to crash you could have my sofa bed But my real bed's pretty big really so you could share with me instead-And if you wanted to stay for more than one night - two, three or four, You wouldn't even need to ask me cos you could even stay for five. If after a while you wanted to move your things in bit by bit Then I'd empty half a shelf for you where your toothbrush could sit. And if after a while you wanted to move yourself in all at once Then I think that would be OK too and I would jump at the chance! If after thinking about it you wanted to go halvesies on a pet Then it would have to be a dog cos I'm allergic to cats. And after a few weeks we could think about getting married and Picking out spots for honeymoons where over thresholds you'd be carried. Then a few weeks after that we could think about family options But if one of us was barren we could look into adoption; Cos there's a lot of children out there that don't have a mum or dad But I reckon we'd make good ones or at least ones not so bad; we could get jobs and promotions doing things we really like; buy our kid the stuff you buy like dolls and skates and bikes. I'll teach him or her to ride it like my daddy did for me And you can put the plasters on when they fall and graze their knee. We'll send them off to university and comfort each other when they're gone And I'll hold you in my arms and tell you term time's not that long. I'd make you know your sacrifice was never left unnoticed and the kid we had and raised together was worth not getting promoted. And-and-maybe you'd be irritated by my constant snoring But then again, maybe I - Would find your stories boring...but me and you, side by side, walking hand in hand we know even little arguments are all part of the plan. And when we're old and fat and grey with twinkling in our eyes: I'll love you and forgive you for looking at those other guys, I'll bet spending my life with you will make us want to live forever, maybe we'll be lucky and our lives will end together! For knowing you these last few days has turned my life around And I thank my maker every day For this person that I've found........ Or we could just leave it.


I'm just an ordinary High School kid, I have a group of friends since I've known since I could walk, I'm on the school's basketball team, and I 100% have amazing grades. Except there's one tiny little secret I've kept from everyone since the start, I'm gay. Nobody in my family or school knows, I've just been afraid of coming out since I realized, I was afraid i would be rejected by society. I heard Mr. Hayward, my former neighbor started to be more open about his sexual orientation, right after he posted a rainbow flag in his front yard. It backfired once the entire neighborhood turned against him and he had to move, so I just didn't want that happening to me. I have dated plenty of girls before, but it just never felt right to me, I guess it was just me trying to cover up the fact that i was gay to begin with. There was the stereotypical cheerleader, Veronica, then there was the book nerd, Emily, I should probably just stop though. "Jason! Get your ass down here and get breakfast before you're late to school!" It was mom, she was a cheerleader back in her day, dad was the quarterback, a classic teenage couple. I quickly ran down the stairs, making my way down to the kitchen, mom was cooking, so obviously it wasn't going to be good food. "Grab the breakfast burrito-" "Sorry mom, suddenly not hungry, see you after school." I grabbed my backpack and kissed her goodbye. It's the same every morning, Mom is up making a horrible breakfast, and dad is at work, he works constantly, sometimes I feel like he won't even come back from his job. I was struggling to get my car turned on for whatever reason, until I eventually did, music is something that helps me get through the day, it's something that is fun, helpful, relaxing, but also can be a sort of therapy. So I enjoy playing some on the way to school, as I was opening Spotify, I got a message from an unknown number, I was about to block the contact until I stopped and thought for a moment, Whats the harm in saying something? which was stupid. Though, I did it anyways, I texted the number. Hi! Sorry, You must've gotten the wrong number. With that, I closed my phone. Awaiting a response, I don't know, maybe it's just me, but believing in the whole "meant to be" nonsense is something I just don't do, but suddenly I considered it. Maybe this wrong number thing, was a sign, or I could've just been being stupid. What if this person behind the screen could be someone just like me? Someone who I can understand? What if, I could share so many things in common with this person, we become friends. So I was determined for this mystery human to reply. I woke up the next morning, staring at my phone, basically every two seconds. I just couldn't look away from it. I was positive this person was going to respond, sure, it was a 1 in a million chance, but it was still something. I feel like the only reason I wanted to message them in the first place was because I wanted to communicate with someone about my secrets without them knowing who I was, without them having the opportunity to tell anyone. I worry, constantly about what I'm telling someone and who I'm telling it to, because if something major like that about me were to get out I would be in deep, too deep you wouldn't even be able to pull me back out. So many people would make my life hell, I would be rejected just like Mr. Hayward, kicked out of my neighborhood and disliked by everyone I know. Sometimes just the thought of it makes me want to simply die, maybe all of the lying would just stop in heaven or hell. I don't care how it would happen i just wanted it to happen often, because of the guilt. I haven't ever tried anything, and I really hope i never do or ever plan to, so i hope this spring break goes well. ding! "shit!" I softly yell, I quickly grab my phone and see that the person responded. Oh, My bad. I'm sorry about that. I pause for a moment before typing out a new message. No worries, I'm Jason, You are? Zane, Nice to meet you, Jason. I smiled proudly to myself, finally happy i made a new acquaintance. After Spring Break I would say maybe around 2 weeks ago, this number suddenly texted me. I had planned to just block them and walk away, but i instead did the complete opposite. I befriended the number. I've learned the person on the other side of the screen goes to Queens High School like me, He's a Junior, Like me, and He's gay, Like me. We haven't revealed who we are to each other, yet. Sure, he knows my name, but there's at least more than 3 Jason's at our school, same with Zane's. I guess it's just out of fear I haven't said who i specifically am, I'm scared, for sure. I haven't even come out to my parents yet, let alone my friends, but around him, around Zane, even if it was online, it made me feel better. I know they say it's stupid to fall in love through the internet, because you don't even know the person, but I felt something I never did with anyone else with Zane, with Zane I felt joy, with Zane I felt love. If I hadn't responded to that message on that exact day, I wouldn't have met him, some say love stories start off at a coffee shop, or at a homecoming game, It's just always "meant to be" no matter the place, you're but destined for each other no matter what, the excuse is always "it was true love" or something sappy like that, but for me, it started with a wrong number.


Her earliest memory in life, was a set pair of blue eyes glaring over her. The pair of eyes belonged to her parents. From the time she was born, she could only remember them watching her. They nurtured her when she was an infant, for she could not move on her own. But when she began to talk they touched her less. And when she could bathe and feed herself, their touch evaporated all together. Her parents still fed her nutritious meals, but they never ate with her. They just sat there, on the other side of the table, observing her with their ocean blue eyes… They never spoke to her, though at night she could hear them mumbling to each other, in a corner of their room. She would sometimes – after they had enough of inspecting her sleep – wake up in the middle of the night and press her ears to their bedroom door and listen to them speak. She would try to distinguish her parents between the set of voices. It was difficult for they sounded perfectly equal in pitch, tenor, and treble. The voices were beautiful in tone, pleasing to the ear, and pure to the soul. In the long run, she never actually paid attention to the words they spoke – just their foggy tones and whispered jargons. She could never tell when one would stop speaking and the other would begin… Even though she was eight-years-old, she lived in a safe enough neighborhood that her parents let her walk home alone from the bus stop. That day when she came home from school and opened the front door to find them hanging from the living room ceiling beam – blue eyes still vibrant in the fading evening and their expressions wore the usual dullness that remind glued to her parent’s visage. She did not see anything amiss. Her parents were staring straight at her. It was just another day to her. So, she walked around her hanging parents and placed her things away in her bedroom. Then exited using the same route she entered and across from where her parents were rotating irritatingly slow – where a dining room table sat and a cleanly placed snack was waiting for her, as that was the norm. However, on this day a thick note card was on top of her sandwich, which read: Our loves, when you finish your snack, please pick up the phone and call the police. Please, you must understand, we did this for you. We love you more than anything in the world. Even more than we love one another. So that the rest of your many lives may not be met with jealously and hatred by us, we took the matter into our own hands before we did something dreadful to you. Remember, we love you and always will. Goodbye . After she read the note, she looked at her second face and shrugged her shoulders, then did as her parents instructed. When she called the number the lady on the phone asked what the emergency was and the girl could not answer the question – because there was no emergency. She told the woman on the phone that her parents instructed her to call the police and that this was the only number she knew for the police. When the lady asked where her parents were? The girl said that they were watching her as they hung from the ceiling: “necks an odd shade of purple” the girl stated. “It looks like a strange bruise,” she finished. The woman on the phone made a sound that the girl did not recognize and then the lady said that help was on the way. When she hung up the phone the girl was confused, why did she need help? About five minutes after she called, there was a heavy banging on the door. She opened the door, after asking who it was, and police officers rushed into the house. The men saw her parents hanging and either gasped and stared at her or looked away entirely. She noticed that her parents’ eyes were a bit faded now and that their skin took on a grayish tone and it seemed strange to her. Then suddenly, she was carried out of the house by an officer who sat her on the hood of his car. The man’s voice was soft, and she realized that this was not his natural tone, for it was still rough and seemed as if he was trying to comfort her. The man asked about the event that took place in the house, and the question confused her. She told him that, “nothing happened. It was just a normal day”. Now the officer seemed taken aback, and he said calmly that their siblings were dead and they’d never see them again. After he said this, she looked onto her second pair of eyes and saw that it was rubbing its sockets as water ran down its cheeks. She told the officer that they were not her brother and sister, but her parents. The officer looked at her with wide eyes and she did not know why. Then, suddenly, her chest began to hurt and the sides of her face were completely wet… It was not long before she moved into her Aunt’s house. The woman lived in a large two-story house that was filled with filth. The color inside was the same as the color outside – brown. The house was stuffed of old boxes that had useless items inside. The air was brimming with the stench of death and waves of smog-like-smoke throughout. The boxes littered everywhere made it hard for the girl to maneuver around without stumbling or tripping over them… Her Aunt was the example of chain smoker. There was never a moment in which she did not see her Aunt without a cigarette in her mouth. As soon as one finished, her Aunt would have another waiting to take its place. The smoke from the cigarette circled around her, always, as if a cloud followed her whenever or wherever she moved. Her Aunt even slept with it in her mouth. The girl watched her Aunt once while she slept on the recliner. The woman held it in between her dried cracked lips throughout the night, and it never fell… Everyday, her Aunt would look at the girl with disgust, and she never knew why and never cared to ask. Her Aunt never spoke to the girl, like her parents, but unlike them her Aunt would not feed her. The woman would only glance at her as she walked into the kitchen, in the torn and stained nightgown that she wore always; her Aunt would go into the fridge, which was filled with cigarette cartons and tapioca pudding, and eat the pudding right in front of her. The girl would watch her Aunt take spoonsful of the pudding into her blackened mouth, the cigarette hanging on the edge of her crusty lips. The girl would, of course, always eat her breakfast and lunch at school and stow away some food from the cafeteria in her bag so that she could have something for dinner. But when the weekend came, she would sneak into the kitchen at night and take a pudding and share it with her other body until Monday came. It was not until two weeks after living in her Aunt’s home that she had finished exploring the hovel. She found in her Aunt’s unused bedroom a purse lodged underneath the bed that was full of crisp rolls of twenty-dollar bills. The girl counted over five thousand dollars. Therefore, when the weekend came around again the girl would sneak into her Aunt’s room and take two twenties, then leave her Aunt’s and head for the convenience store two block from the house. The girl would get whatever she wanted to eat, but always made sure to get a fruit and vegetable like her parents advised her to always do… Her Aunt never left the house nor would she ever go up the stairs where the girl slept, in one of the less stocked rooms. The woman would always have someone deliver a mountain of cigarette cartons and tapioca pudding once a month. The male that brought her Aunts toxins would always, after organizing them into the fridge, give the girl a little pouch of candy and take her to get a hot meal wherever she wanted. As the year passed on, the girl always wondered why her other faces cheeks would gradually always become a bright red when it looked at the overgrown boy, but her own checks never turned the same shade. Her Aunt would speak to him only when they argued about the woman’s unhealthy way of living, and the male would sometimes tell her that what she was doing was not living at all. He would yell at her Aunt, saying that she was not even taking care of the girls, that they were taking care of themselves and that children should not have to do such things to survive. He carried on, saying that he would claim custody of them if this continued. Her Aunt would laugh at him with her ash and gravel infused vocal cords, saying that he was not mature enough to take care of the girl. Then the boy would storm out like a tornado that blew together out of nowhere.… On one of the days the boy was to come by and drop off another load of her Aunt’s poison, three weeks had passed since her 11th birthday, the girl had just come back from the convenience store and was in her brown Tetris room. She was sorting out what she would eat throughout the day when suddenly she heard a booming sound, that was followed by a foreign screech, originating from down stairs. She walked halfway down the stairs before she saw the boy. The front door was almost off its hinges and the boy was seated on top of her Aunt, a pointed silver kitchen knife in his hand, which he repeatedly brought down into her Aunt’s chest. Red liquid splattered onto the male's face and raked down as he repeatedly continued to stab the immobile woman’s body. The blade entering her Aunt’s flesh sounded squishy at times and hard at others. The audio of the blade’s motion was stuck in the girl’s mind. She walked down the rest of the stairs and slowly headed toward him. The girl’s feet were bare, so when she felt the warm liquid between her toes, it surprised her. The male noticed her suddenly and then smiled the warm smile he always gave her. He said that she was free to do whatever she wanted, her Aunt could not do her any more harm. She wondered about what he had said. The girl did not understand him, because her Aunt had never harmed her in anyway. Her Aunt did nothing for her. The boy looked away from her and continued with his stabbing of her Aunt’s now open heart. She did not know what to do, but she was starting to feel hungry, so she went back upstairs; however, her other body did not move. Her other body stayed there, watching the boy stab her Aunt's body. She was shocked at first, because that had never happened before. The girl had to pull her other body up the stairs and then when she was in her room, she ate what she had bought from the store. About ten minutes after she went upstairs, she heard sirens towards the front of the house. So, again, she went down the stairs, and saw that police officers were trying to pry the boy off her now unrecognizable Aunt. When the officers finally pulled him off her Aunt, one explained to another that a neighbor heard a loud noise coming from the house and called the police. One of the two officers put handcuffs on the boy and screamed, “how could you do this to your mother?” The boy just laughed at the officer as he was dragged out of the house. The other officer noticed her and looked at her with wide eyes, the way the other police officer did, the one who told her she would never see her parents again… The next day the girl was brought to her Uncle’s house. It somewhat surprised her that so many of her relatives, that she has never meet, lived in the same region she did all her life with no interaction until now. Her Uncle lived in a beautiful one-story home encased in large glass windows that could be controlled to darken into black when privacy was needed. When her Uncle first saw the girl, his face twisted slightly and then told her to remove those rags that she wore and get in the tub immediately. She complied with his demand, but internally she was alarmed by his sudden agitation. Afterwards, she stepped out of the scented bath and her Uncle dressed her in colorful outfits that, in his mind, expressed her personalities… Her Uncle lived with a man named James. Her Uncle and James were business partners and very close friends. James would always feed the girl delicious homemade meals and pat her on the head. The warmth she felt always made her feel uncomfortable and confused her. As her weeks turned to months the girl noticed that James, unlike her Uncle, was a very quiet man with stoic expressions and her Uncle would sometimes stare at him with bright hungry blue eyes. At moments like these the girls’ chest would feel tight and constrict her breathing, the opaque color her Uncle’s eye would shine would in turn remind the girl of her parents, and water would stream down her cheeks… At times James would ask the girl to help him cook, and she would always be bothered by her other bodies actions. She enjoyed it partly, because James would look at her or her other face calling out names, and then tell her to do two separate things. She found it to be perplexing. Her Uncle would do the same thing; he would ask Jacky to get the clothes out of the dryer and Janet to clean up the room. It always amused the girl that she could separate from herself, and not do or even think the same things, but have two detached thoughts. The girl would watch her other body clean her room with a frown on its face and wonder if it wasn’t happy because it was not a part of her at that moment… In the middle of the night, sometimes the girl would get up to go to the bathroom or get something to drink, on the way she would pass by her Uncle’s and James’ room. On random occasions, she would press her ears to the door and listen to them sleep. Other times, when they were still awake she would hear strange sounds coming from the room. One night when she was going to the bathroom, her Uncle’s door was slightly open and she peeked inside. The girl was confused by their actions. Her Uncle was in a chair half dressed in tight black shiny pants that had holes cut out of it and James was standing next to him in the same outfit. Then James would put a ball in her Uncle’s mouth that tied around his head. James would lock her Uncle’s hands and feet to the chair, and then kneel beside him and inject a golden liquid into her Uncle’s arm. Her Uncle would unexpectedly slump down into the chair, and his eyes would fade, like a light bulb losing its charge. The girl watched with confusion and fascination, but soon realized that she still had to use the bathroom and left. When she came back the door was fully closed, and she could hear strange noises coming from the room... One day when the girl was walking back from the bus stop, thirteenth birthday candies chiming in her bags, she suddenly smells the invading sent of smog and smoke toward the direction of her Uncle’s house. When she reached the house, the girl saw her Uncle outside, watching it burn down. There were two red plastic containers on the illuminated grass with him and a pistol in his hand. The girl watched him. Tears raking down his face as he talked to himself. Her Uncle said that he couldn't live like this anymore. He said that he loved James, but he could not give James the kind of love that he needed, and said that it was time to end it. The girl looked at the house when a sudden scream came from inside, then she saw him. James was in the living room with everything inside on fire, including him. James ran straight for the large window, his blackened body hit it. The clear glass then faded to black, instantly, and cracked in three parts. The screaming stopped promptly, then the glass warped and shattered. Her Uncle dropped to his knees then took the gun and put it to his temple. He looked back at her and said that he was sorry and pulled the trigger. Red droplets splashed on the girl’s cheeks. The girl looked at her other face and saw water running down the sides. “What are we going to do Jacky?” the face questioned. The girl grabbed her other body and said it was going to be alright, assuring herself, as she held the body to her. “But we’re alone again,” the face mumbled against her chest. The girl said that she would always be there for it, and that could never change, they would always be together. “Forever?” her other face asked as it looked at her. The girl said forever and squeezed her other body. Forever...


When Matthew was at school he was considered a bit on the slow side, but in the country town where he was born, situated dead in the centre of Devon, many people felt that being quick witted was not essential for a good life. There was a Devonshire saying that strangers would soon be told that went, ‘Devon born, Devon bred. Strong in arm and Weak in ‘ead.’ It was expected by his school friends that he would work on a farm and maybe make a reliable herdsman one day. His teachers, seeing there was no harm in him, mostly left him alone with his thoughts and so at fourteen he left with no qualifications and with no real skills except that Mathew knew he was all right with his hands and had made one or two useful boxes and such gifts as a pipe rack for his father and a row of coat pegs for his mother. He also knew that he wasn't a coward. A few times he had stood up for himself when picked on by bigger boys showing off to their friends. It wasn't really bad, like the day when big John Pennington broke a boy's jaw on the school bus and got suspended from school. When Matthew returned home with his face bruised and blood on his shirt his parents said nothing, but he noticed Mother made his favourite dinner on Saturday and that Father let him help fill in the football pools with him in his shed at the bottom of the garden. As a young man he worked hard for little money on various farms that needed extra help, for lambing, harvest and hay making. He loved the crowded meals in the farm kitchen, the cider and the larking about. Once or twice, at the end of the War, he followed the Home Guard men up on Cadbury Castle to look out by night for planes and parachutes. They never saw any and generally left their Enfields at Tom Lee's place and took shotguns instead, to shoot rabbits by torchlight. In his twenties Matthew switched to milking and looking after stock, as his school friends had predicted. He would cycle to work in the dark and by five he would be getting on with the job. He was thorough in washing the teats and flushing out the pipes with hypochlorite and would leave the parlour as spotless as a block shed with a cracked concrete floor could reasonably be, and smelling like a swimming pool. The cows liked him as he didn't hurry them and was happy for them to come into the parlour with their friends in their chosen order. Live and let live was his motto. This approach was not always shared by his employers. A farmer in a good mood might grudgingly accept that, maybe, happier cows might give better milk. A farmer in a bad mood; caused by a breakdown, or a stillbirth, or a calf getting tangled in a fence, thought Matthew was an expensively slow cowman and would curse him to his face. As they cursed him, Matthew's features would echo their expressions and he would neither get angry nor answer back. It was like weather passing over the face of the sky. Soon they would stump off to find a more satisfying argument elsewhere. He gave his money to his father who passed half to Mother and spent the rest of his son's wages at The Railway Inn, where he stopped for a few pints of half and half on his way home after work. Returning in the dark to their terrace cottage over the railway crossing, Father would come in the back door and turn off the wall switch in the kitchen, where the extension cable was plugged in. The front of the house was never wired up, so Matthew and his mother Kitty, sitting under the standard lamp in the front room, would be plunged into darkness with the sound of the radio slowly fading out. With a fairly unconvincing cheerfulness Father would shout out 'Bedtime!' and climb up the stairs and would be asleep before the taste of his Eucryl smoker's toothpowder had subsided. Kitty and Matthew were prepared for this, and she would switch on the big ever-ready torch and light their way to bed. Every summer Mother and son went on the train to Dawlish for a day at the seaside, where they loved playing on the slot machines. Mathew’s favourite was the machine that tested your grip. Standing with his legs apart he would put his hand into what looked like two brass knuckle dusters and squeeze. By the age of fifteen, the needle went three quarters of the way round until it said he had the grip of a fisherman. He noted with pride that at the very end of the dial, after all the other professions, was engraved the word, ‘Farmer’. The only thing he and Father did together was going to get their hair cut, where Matthew could read the scandalous papers, Reveille and Titbits, while waiting for his turn. When still a boy, Matthew would be sat up on a board set over the tatty red leather arms of the barber's chair and sit still, feeling embarrassed and unused to an adult’s attention. If he was unlucky and got a nick from the electric razor doing the back and sides, the barber would dab the cut with a styptic pencil to stop the bleeding. It would sting a bit on the way home, but he felt happy all the same. Father died when his lungs gave out. It was a common enough death at the time, from a mixture of Navy Cut cigarettes and feed dust at the factory where he had worked for forty years. Matthew, who was with him as he lay drowning in the middle of his big bed, held his hand as he died. At dawn he let his father's hand go, and for two minutes he listened to the breaths slowing, until the gap before the next breath grew longer and longer and Matthew realised it would never come. Money was a bit tighter after that, so Matthew took on a bit more work and Kitty helped out in the shop a few doors up. All the years that Father had worked at the mill she never knew what her husband's small brown wage packet had contained. He gave her money for the housekeeping and that was that. Despite running pretty low on food by Friday she had managed to put a little by every week in her savings account at the Post Office and somehow she made sure that her family were well turned out on special occasions. By the time Mother died, Matthew was working for a family up on the ridge and riding back home on his Honda 70 after work. One wet night he found her asleep by the telly that was still powered by the extension from the kitchen. He sat next to her until dawn not wanting to believe she had gone, and went and told the Doctor in the town. During the short conversation the Doctor noticed that Matthew's gaze never once lifted from the floor to look him in the face. He was never able to settle in the house on his own after Mother went and would often sleep up at the farm. The farmer had died years before and the place was run on a fairly relaxed basis by his widow Anne and her two sons who had never wed. Old Miss Bedford, living in her bungalow down the hill, once exclaimed darkly, while talking of her neighbours on the ridge, that, 'They are always a-enjoying of themselves up there.' Anne's two daughters were jolly souls and had married into local farms, and were as important in the community of Church and young farmers and shows as their parents had been. Frank, the oldest son worked away from home some of the time helping out a friend who supplied generators. His younger brother Ian mostly ran the farm and also showed no sign of marrying, though in his case shyness was the explanation. It soon seemed foolish to keep up the rent on his mother's house and so Matthew moved his few belongings and his beloved television up the hill and was allowed to do up the shippen that had always propped up the end of the long thatched farmhouse. He put a rug or two on the thin lime concrete, which in places showed the cobbles underneath and would sit in his father's armchair watching the telly every night. A paraffin heater would keep the chill mostly off except in deep winter when he would sit under a couple of blankets in his pajamas with his cap on. He kept his pale blue Honda in the shippen with him and when he had to go out he would wheel it across the Platt, through a narrow path in the brambles, the sharp little tendrils scratching the faded black panniers as he passed. In the past the Platt had been used for the odd animal in lamb or calf that needed to be kept near the house, but now there was a newer tin barn for that. The brambles, with a few young blackthorn bushes, filled the small field right up and over the sliding stones of the walls. Someone had once told him that the thorn was mother to the oak but there weren't any oaks yet that he could see. On windy nights in the shippen the draughts were so strong that, when a gust hit, the bare bulb would swing and the tassels on the rug would move where the lime had rotted them thin. Sometimes the whole oaken frame would shudder like a blow had landed on the roof from a giant hand. One of the family would generally bring him out a cocoa to see how he was doing, feeling that they must one day get around to doing the place up a bit, but as he never complained, nothing was ever done. Every now and then, in the winter, the television would lose signal and Matthew would sit in the dark. He knew better than to check the aerial as it was always the transmitter going down for a few hours. It made him shiver to think what the wind was like for the engineers working to fix it, up on top of Stockland Hill. He would still go down into town a couple of times a week and even in to Exeter a few times a year when beasts were sold or if he felt he had sufficient excuse to hang around the Saturday cattle market. Everyone knew him as a reliable and even occasionally cheerful man. Cheerfulness being highly rated in the country when it is a bad night with the rain blowing sideways enough to blow out your hurricane lamp, and the cows have got out. It was generally thought that Matthew would never marry. He could tell a slow joke to the men in The Market House, but he was far too shy to have ever chatted up a girl, and not enough of a catch for one to have bothered scooping him up either. Anne would call him in for his meals with the family and for special high teas after Church where he would sit on a side chair near the fireplace and nod but say little, balancing a tiny floral plate, loaded with scones or Dundee cake, on his knee, and holding a cup and saucer, filled with sweet milky tea, in his wide hand. As he reached his seventies he slowed down and did less and less farm work and it became accepted that he would end his days up on the ridge saying little and generally nodding or smiling when asked a question by the grandchildren or neighbours. His pension was more than enough for his baccy and clothes and the odd present or sweets for the children. When one day his Honda wouldn't start he switched to getting lifts from Anne in her Subaru and appreciated how much more comfortable it was in a car. In reasonable weather Matthew would put on his black wellies and slowly tour the fields and the woodland with a big hank of orange bailer twine, fixing gaps in the wire fences or tying down thorn branches to fill any hole in the hedge big enough for a sheep to push through. His father's antler handled penknife was always in his baggy trouser pocket on the other side from his baccy tin. He kept it razor sharp and every year would harden the edge with a peening hammer when the steel grew too soft. By the time Mathew was in his eighties, the blade had worn into a hook with a dangerously thin shank that showed a gap even when closed up. Year by year the field edges decorated with fresh twine shrank back closer and closer to his home and Mathew was aware that he no longer knew exactly where the badgers were or where the vixen laid up with her cubs. The hard work he had done all his life meant his bones were still strong but his joints were painful and his back worn out from the two hundredweight sacks and heavy bales that he had shifted in the years before dumpy bags and forklifts had replaced them. He never knew a plump farmworker in his youth and felt sorry for the lonely unfit machine drivers that had now replaced so many men. Even now his grip would still have reached the end of the dial on the penny arcade machine at Dawlish. Anne herself was now over eighty and she had had her knees done by the time they moved Matthew into a spare room and got the old commode out of the attic. One day he decided to stay in bed and Anne told her friend Alison that Matthew was off his legs now. There was a pause in the conversation as each thought to themselves that it wouldn't be long before he would be buried next to his mother in the cemetery on the hill above the town. Matthew wanted to rest by his mother and had reserved the space years before. Now the plot was overlooking 'Tarka Meadows', the new houses crammed in where a cider orchard had grown. It had provided the sour little red apples that gave the cider it's bite. 'It was real stuff', he said to himself as he lay in clean white sheets on the steel framed bed, 'not like that Somerset, Kingston Black fizzy pop, everyone drinks now.' Matthew imagined the taste in his mouth, bitter and sweet at the same time, with the fume of the alcohol reaching up into his nose from the back of his throat. He tried to swallow but couldn't. At sunset the nurse looked in and found him. All the family came up to see Matthew for the last time and it was Anne and her daughters who washed him and put his best suit on, though it was a bit of a struggle at times. In a way his life was perfect. Like a stone thrown high in the air over the river, with just the right spin to keep it straight, so that it would enter the water with a quiet deep note and cause hardly any ripples to spread steadily across the pool to the small sandy red cliff on the other side.


As I closed the cover of my 47th book that day, a peculiar question crossed my mind: Why? It seemed like such an odd question. After all, as a librarian, devouring books was an integral part of my existence. The unquenchable thirst for knowledge, coupled with an unwavering determination to unearth the essence hidden within these age-old walls, where every answer resided—such was the path of a librarian. Lost in my thoughts, I felt a gentle tug on the back of my coat interrupting my musings. I turned to find a genuine curiosity, my sole companion amidst the vastness of this Library. It was my little pet lizard, an enigma in itself, as I remained unaware of its species. Despite delving into countless bestiaries, I could never uncover a conclusive answer. The desire to unravel its truth consumed me. I had been searching for what seemed like an eternity, yet in this very moment, everything felt devoid of purpose. Meaningless? No, that wasn't quite right. After all, wasn't it the pursuit of truth that infused it with the very meaning I sought? Oh dear, I'm beginning to sound like those eccentrics I left behind countless books ago. The entire notion is nothing more than absurdity. Although, perhaps the last 10 million books have influenced my perspective. Glancing to my left, I met the gaze of a fellow librarian. His hands clearly held at least a couple dozen books open—a clear indication of his seniority. I had a long journey ahead of me before I could match such impressive speed. “Say, what do you think we read for?” I posed the question to him, and his response mirrored that of a new parent staring at their newborn—a mixture of surprise and unamused indifference. In this library, there were no such paternal figures; you simply came into existence. I couldn't be certain of the accuracy of my analogy, but having read my fair share of fatherly figures, I had a theoretical understanding of what it should entail. "To find out," he replied, delivering a response as straightforward as the one I would have given. I already knew this answer, so why did I seek it from him? Was I hoping that his seniority would provide a clearer, more profound insight? "In the grand halls of this magnificent library, we embark on a quest to uncover meaning," he burst out, as if moved by my question. Did my inquiry elicit a sense of pity? After a brief pause, he continued, "Some argue that our endeavors are in vain, asserting that there are no predetermined meanings to be found. According to them, the universe holds no obligation to offer us easy answers or any answers at all." He returned a book to its rightful place on the shelf before selecting another. "Others contend that we must first exist, and then diligently seek out meaning. They believe that the responsibility of discovering meaning rests solely on our shoulders." He paused again, his hand hovering over a book as he pondered. "And then there are those who perceive the absurdity of it all. How can one hope to find meaning in an uncaring universe, one so detached from our desires? Yet, they refuse to accept the notion of meaninglessness. Even in the face of such laughable circumstances, their souls ignite with rebellious passion. If our reality resembles an indifferent parent, so be it. They proclaim that we shall raise ourselves." “What do you think?" I asked him, curious to hear his thoughts. "I am still finding out," he replied. "And so I read. Within each book resides an extension of my mind, waiting to assimilate and become an integral part of my being. Over time, I will devour the entire library and finally achieve a sense of wholeness. Does meaning truly exist? Perhaps not. Even after delving into the depths of my own existence, I may never unearth it. Nevertheless, let heaven exist, even if my own place lies in hell. Let me endure torment, suffering, and annihilation, as long as there exists one moment, one entity, in which this vast Library can find its validation." While listening to my fellow librarian, I noticed an irritation in my eyes. What was this? A stray beam of light, previously unnoticed, pierced through from a hidden corner of the room. Had it been present all along, evading my senses? Just as I contemplated investigating further, my loyal companion tugged at my shoulder with increased urgency, as if attempting to redirect my attention. What was the purpose of your actions, my faithful companion? As I pondered the significance behind his behavior, his serene gaze struck me with the weight of a collapsing bookshelf. There was no meaning—wait, perhaps there was meaning, but it remained obscured. Or did it? A contagion of thoughts spiraled within my mind, racing at an ever-increasing pace. In a matter of mere seconds, I found myself descending into a cacophony of the mind. “Is meaning reality?” I completely ignored the presence of the light. Actually, no, it would be more accurate to say that I was more aware of it’s existence than ever before. Yet my recognition of it held no power or sway over it. "Whatever do you mean?" He continued his adept handling of the books, swiftly transitioning between them. Truly, he was a masterful reader. "It's just as you mentioned. We comb through the vast expanse of this library in pursuit of meaning. But who determines that such a search is the correct path to follow? Perhaps we are merely misguided." "Are you suggesting that our endeavors are devoid of meaning?" "No, but what if we are asking the wrong question altogether? When a rock tumbles down a mountainside, does it ponder the 'why'? When I gaze into the eyes of my loyal companion, I see the same indifferent nature as that of a rock. Is it the answers that are flawed, or are we cursed with the burden of incessant questioning? My companion, devoid of inquiries, still lives! Do you not see? We have become worshippers of the moon! A false reality, a stolen light molded to fit its own image!" My speech grew fragmented, my pacing erratic. I felt my mind getting consumed by a sense of disarray as I continued, "Can't you see? The universe was never meant for us! Our pursuit of meaning is a hell of our own creation, and there is no heaven awaiting the enlightened! We must cast aside our symbols, our distorted reflections of reality that have transformed into works of fiction, and finally embrace the sun." Although my skin had grown scorched, and my sole listener had begun to flee, frightened by the intensity of the light, I pressed on. No other librarian was within reach, with the nearest one likely hundreds of thousands of books away. It was unlikely that my words would reach them, but perhaps the light would. No longer a mere irritant in the corner of my eye, it had transformed into a vast sea of radiance, seeking to dissolve all fiction. I gave voice to my thoughts for as long as I could. Even if there was the slimmest chance that a listener may be lurking around the corner, I had to hold on. At least, that was what I thought before my flesh started to crumble away into ashes. I realized; even if there was a listener, was I certain they could understand my language? My symbols which were so detached from reality? As my skull struck the ground I witnessed my loyal companion slowly slithering away into the depths of the library. Unscathed, untainted by the sun's searing beam. In my final moments, I beheld the sight of unimaginable beauty. An eternal library, bisected and slowly liquefying in a blaze of glory, akin to a slice of cheese yielding to the touch of a heated blade. No words, no canvas could ever capture the grace of this spectacle. It demanded shades and tones and hues and dyes more splendid than the iris of a magnificent rainbow. Oh, such a breathtaking sight it was. \--END İf you've read it till the end, I sincerely thank you. I would also love to hear any thoughts you may have.


The moon blew up last night. We couldn't see it. I mean, live. Only the people in Australia were able to watch the whole thing up there, in the sky. And I don't envy them a little bit. Mum, Tiana, and I spent all night in front of the TV. We tried ordering a pizza, but everything was closed, so mum had to microwave some pop tarts. As scientists were uncertain about the exact moment of the crash, everybody tuned in hours before the impact. Every network had the same agenda: journalists, scientists, even astrologists from everywhere in the world had engaged in a debate on the consequences of the cosmic event weeks before, ever since NASA confirmed the date and the overwhelming probability of the crash. And yet, a part of me thought it wouldn't happen. No matter what astrophysics had been saying for the past two months, no matter the mathematical equations newspapers and Internet portals from all over the world kept publishing, it just couldn't be possible. Yet, somehow, by 01:47 AM, it finally did happen. I have thought we would hear a huge crash, a massive explosion. What scared me the most was the whole thing was silent. Like one of those black and white movies a hundred years old, but with better special effects, of course. And boy it was fast! In fact, Tiana was in the toilet when the cameras caught the glimpse of the KV-22 approaching, and seconds later… that was IT. I have never thought of the moon as something so… futile, so volatile, until last night. Suddenly it was there, dark, round, beautiful… and then there was not. It volatilized in millions of fragments as if had been made of dry sand and the huge blast was a gust of wind. After the explosion, the reporters were silent as well. A black emptiness filled our TV, and every screen on Earth I assume. Only after several seconds, they confirmed the obvious. There was no sleep after that, at least at home. We kept watching the news, Tiana, mum, and I. I think they hugged and cried. Maybe I cried too, but I'm not sure. All these thoughts were rolling in the back of my head, and I felt my heart pumping like crazy. We just sat there, and none of us spoke for a while. Then, my mom dried her tears and said "At least now, nobody, not even you girls, will ever listen again to "Fly Me to the moon", or "Bad moon rising", or "Moon River" without feeling old". Tiana smiled. She's too young to understand. I tried, too, but I frowned instead. The world after the moon. This would feature history books, right? "Back then…", we would explain to our kids and grandkids. What about literature? "Do not swear by the moon, for she changes constantly. Then your love would also change". I wonder if I want to live in a world where Romeo's love for Juliet is as meaningless and empty as our night sky is now. And then I swept aside those silly thoughts with a flick of the hand as if they were annoying flies. After all, humanity is probably experiencing one of its biggest challenges ever. What's going to happen to the oceans and the tides? What effects can this have on living organisms and our rhythms? Will I still get my period every month? Hey, will we get to live yet another month? As the sun rose, as usual, my mom told us to try and get some sleep. But I keep scrolling the news and looking for some answers. At least, while the Internet is still working: we have been warned that even those small remaining fragments that would burn as they enter our atmosphere could damage satellites and make us lose connection. For how long? It's hard to tell. The moon is –was!– 238,855 miles far from the Earth. Its fragments haven't finished reaching us yet, although there are already reports of wildfires in New South Wales attributed to big, hot moon rocks hitting the trees, and surprisingly, a missing cargo ship. That's weird. I mean, what are the chances of being hit by a rock from space if you are in the middle of the ocean? Prevented lockdowns have been established in my city, as in other parts around the world. Governments fear panic, riots, and deaths. Nobody knows what's going to happen now. In the meantime, all we can do is wait. Scientists scare us with their terrible predictions of the Earth losing its balance, the poles rotating, the axis moving, and all that causing drastic impact on our already altered climate, which could lead to tragedy anywhere, anytime now. I'm scared. I told my mom I wanted to talk to dad. –Well, call him then! –Isn't too late now in New York? –Baby, I think you should call him while phone lines are still working. Luckily, there is a tone. After all this time, dad and I talk for hours. I think I say all I needed to say. When we hung up, it is dark already. If this was a story, I would have to describe the night as the darkest, loneliest I've ever witnessed in my seventeen years. It's not true though. We still have power. Lights are on in every house, in the streets, and before last night, or should I say back then, we barely looked above. But animals can tell something is wrong. Flocks of birds have been wandering around all day, and they still linger around the trees, even now that the sky looks black. Dogs everywhere in the neighborhood are howling. And I feel helpless somehow. It's not just the scientific community and their shocking insight. I miss the moon and its white, changing shape. A lighthouse, a place to send our dreams to, a symbol with infinite meanings, now all lost. Something which was always there, for every living being that ever lived on the face of this planet, and now it's gone for good. And yet, I think about the devastating effect the asteroid would have had if it had impacted directly on our planet. What if all that happened is part of some master plan? Was Moon our shield? She was there for us, she protected us –we're now alone.


"Who's the President?" "Oh, I didn't vote for that guy" answered Mrs. Johnson.  It was not an uncommon response from a patient with dementia.  They answered the question, but they didn't really answer the question.

It's a clever redirect, one that families often overlooked.

The disease progression was so subtle they don't notice.

But he saw the patients just infrequent enough to pick up on these little clues.

Jack made a mental note to revisit the Mini Mental Status Exam at the follow up appointment.

"And she is losing weight too, has she told you about that?

She's always having diarrhea and not eating."  The questions came from the daughter of Mrs. Johnson.  The daughter was herself no spring chicken.  Jack estimated her to be early sixties, maybe older.  It was always tricky navigating family dynamics during the office visit.  This was especially true when dealing with a patient in denial of her dementia, or with the patients' family in denial that mom doesn't actually have advanced dementia.  In Mrs. Johnson's case, like usual, it was somewhere in the middle.

As was often the case, Mrs. Johnson's daughter had not been coming with her to visits in the past, so now she was making up for lost face time with the doctor.

"I notice her weight trend, holding pretty stable over the last few visits," Jack said, trying to be respectful of the daughter's concerns and also reassure the patient that she is ok.  "And the same for recent lab trends."  Something about the daughter was unnerving.  Her eyes, piercing through him, or so it felt.  Jack had the impression she was judging him, judging his credibility, his ability as a doctor.  "She hates me", he told himself. "You always do that," Jack told himself.  "Just focus on the patient, give good care."  He was always second guessing.  He felt like such an imposter.  He had been out of residency a few years but still felt like a neophyte, still felt that his patients, or their families, didn't trust him or didn't believe in him. "And she fell," said the daughter. "When did I fall?" Asked Mrs Johnson. And they went back and forth trying to discern exactly when was the fall, exactly if it was indeed a fall or not, and if any injury or consequence resulted.  Jack watched and listened, typing in his progress note as best he could, trying to get all the details right.  That is how it went at these visits.  The family wanted to make sure they told the doctor everything, literally.  And usually the comments were peppered like a machine gun.  "What did the lab show", immediately followed by "Did you get the notes from the cardiologist?"  Jack didn't have time to answer, much less process, the questions and comments.  He managed to keep it together pretty well, making his progress note legible, intelligible. "We could get some imaging to follow up on any brain atrophy," he said, immediately kicking himself because he didn't like the way he had phrased it.  He always did that, asked questions in a way that got patients riled up and more anxious than they needed to be. "She has atrophy?" asked the daughter, a little panic creeping in. "Did she think you messed up and somehow caused this?" Jack asked himself. "Did you cause this?" Now he would have to spend more time trying to explain that some degree of atrophy is expected in her age, and not abnormal, without coming off as dismissive.  It was an art form, one he was sure he would never master. "What side effects will she have?" the daughter asked, interrupting him.

She was cutting her eyes at Jack as if to say "and don't be trying to pull a fast one on me." The question of side effects was the bane of his existence, if there was one.  What side effects?  As if he could predict that.  It was exhausting explaining how side effects are rare.  Usually the medicine is well tolerated and the patients don't have any problems, but if they do, the most common ones are manageable, like some mild nausea or insomnia.  But the drug label will have everything from blindness to vertigo to sudden death by head explosion.  He often had to go down the list, defusing problems that were never even going to happen. "Sometimes, with these types of problems with the memory and mood, people can become self conscious.

Like, concerned that they won't remember people's names.  And that can be embarrassing.  So much so that they end up avoiding people altogether because they don't want to be exposed.  And that can leave them feeling very isolated".

Jack was just talking now, trying to paint a typical picture of depression and dementia.

Sometimes he would do this to try to connect with the patient and the family when he felt like the visit wasn't going optimally.

Today, the judgement in the daughter's eyes was palpable.

Mrs Johnsons eyes appeared to be welling up.

Did he hit a nerve?

Or was she upset with him?

He never really knew if he was helping or making things more difficult on the patient.  What would happened with Mrs. Johnson after the visit?

Was he stirring things up?

He wanted to help, not make matters worse for her.

Jack felt like he had covered everything. The clock on his computer showed that he had gone over the allotted time, and he was getting anxious, knowing the next patient would be having to wait on him. Probably they would be angry when he walked in.  He didn't mind spending the time with patients, but it was the patient that came after that stressed him.  No, they all stressed him.  And their families stressed him.  He was always stressed.  Did the patients know?  Could they tell?  "You are such a loser," he told himself.  Were they aware that he was an imposter, his training was inadequate, he was not getting every detail correct?

Did they know he was incompetent? They wrapped up the visit and the nurse escorted the patient and the daughter to the check out window.  In the glass, the daughter could see Jack's reflection as he was walking into another room. "I just love that doctor.  He is so thorough.  He answers all of our questions and gives us his attention and time.  He is the smartest, best doctor we have ever had," she told the nurse.  Mrs. Johnson nodded in agreement.  "The best," she echoed.


Throughout the course of my life, I’ve suffered through my fair share of hardships. Breakups, financial missteps, drifting friendships, and even minor physical trauma. But few experiences weigh so heavily on my memory as the “Soap shoes” incident of my sixth grade year. I had an older cousin who lived in a neighboring state. One summer she came up to visit and brought her boyfriend Ryan along. I thought he was the coolest dude in the universe. He was a skateboarder, BMXer, and, as I would soon discover, a “Soaper”. In the late nineties, a company called “Soap” started making shoes with plastic “grind plates” on the bottom of the sole so you could slide, or “grind”, down rails. Some may consider it an early form of parkour. I would analogize it as the vape-pen of nineties apparel. When Ryan railslid into our quiet rural county, none of us had ever heard of Soap shoes. My little brother and I had a little grind-rail set up in front of the garage, upon which we’d pathetically attempt to boardslide with our Wal-Mart skateboards. Ryan grabbed my board and deftly slid across the rail. “Whoaaaa,” my brother and I said in chorus. Then he set down the board, took a few running steps, and slid across the rail in nothing but his shoes. “WHOAAAA.” He showed us the Soap shoes, noting the plastic grind plate on the bottom with special attention, and told us how huge they were going to be. Think Pogs huge. Suddenly I sparked an idea: I could introduce Soap shoes to our school. I would be the coolest kid in class with a monumental trend-setting move like that. But would I be able to hone my skills fast enough to grind rails and impress everyone like Ryan before the school year started? Ryan was one of those cool older kids who was surprisingly friendly to younger kids like me and my brother. He let us both have a turn on his Soap shoes as he coached us from the sidelines in his socks. I was the first to give them a try. They were of course several sizes too big, but I surprised myself when I jumped onto the short rail and smoothly slid across it. I couldn’t believe how easy it was. Again my daydream video played—now inflated with cola sponsorships and hot groupies. Ryan and my cousin left, and I promptly bombarded my mother with requests for my own pair of Soap shoes. The school year was fast approaching and I wanted to make a good first impression. But my mom just didn’t appreciate the pivotal role that Soap shoes athletes would play in the future of extreme sports. At least not to the tune of eighty dollars. As the clock counted down I increased my begging and waved the CCS catalog in Mom’s face like a banner of war at every conceivable opportunity. But she would not budge. Instead, when she took us back-to-school shopping a couple of weeks away from D-Day, we came home with practical, reasonable, affordable new clothes. Eventually, the time was drawing nigh: only twelve hours before I would be stepping onto the bus for the first day of school. I looked down at my shoes. New and fashionable as they were—a pair of Vans skate shoes—they were no Soaps. And if I was going to become the coolest kid in sixth grade, I needed those Soap shoes. Never one to admit defeat, I resorted to the next logical step: I dug through my closet and eventually found, nestled among the cobwebs, an old, dirty, and weathered pair of white New Balance sneakers—archaic relics of seasons-past. The soles of the old beat-up sneakers were *relatively* hard-plasticky and smooth like Ryan’s real Soaps, I reasoned. Satisfied, I got a black Sharpie marker, and crudely wrote “Soap” on the outside of each one, along with the rounded-square Soap logo. Then I wore those badass motherfuckers to school. Around mid-day I was in PE class, reaching for my toes across the polished gym floor and admiring my magnificently improvised extreme sneakers. With an air of preteen brattery, this stuck-up-assed girl next to me said, “Why did you write ‘Soap’ on your shoes?” I looked at her like she was a complete idiot. “So I can grind rails with them.” In response, she stared quizzically. “Like Tony Hawk,” I confidently continued. Internally, I began to wonder if my homemade Soap shoes were going to have as big of an impact on the local community as I’d imagined. Another dickhead kid, Jeffrey, witnessed this innocuous exchange and decided it required his input. “How does writing ‘Soap’ on your shoes mean you can grind rails?” It was a reasonable question, so I dignified it with a response. Besides, this was my chance and I knew it. Real thing or not: it was time to set this trend, baby. I explained to them why Soap shoes were so amazing and cool—I can’t believe they haven’t heard of them yet—and how Tony Hawk would soon become nothing more than a no-name loser with a rolling two-by-four. I glossed over the fact that my repurposed thrift-store-esque New Balances were not in fact authentic Soap shoes, but I think we can agree the Sharpie marker logo was somewhat telling. During the PE class that followed our stretches, Jeffrey gained more followers and they all proceeded to heckle me. At this point, I’ll admit I was starting to question the decision-making process which had led to my wearing old shoes with “Soap” written on them. But in a classic case of overcompensation, I replied to their skepticism with hubris. I touted my hidden status as an extreme sports prodigy, telling them I grinded rails all the time, did 360 spins and backflips, you name it, no big deal. At the end of class, the PE teacher blew her whistle and told everyone to hit the locker rooms and head to our next classes, then went up to her office. The gendered locker rooms in our school were at opposite ends of the gym, each down a set of stairs—one leading to a dank dungeon of mildew and sweat and hazing, and the other leading to, well, who could say for certain. Fortunately at this point, the girls all started heading toward their side. We started walking to ours, and I hoped the battery of accusational questioning was finally coming to an end. Little did I know, it was about to become a trial-by-fire… “If you’re so good at grinding rails,” that son of a bitch Jeffrey said, “why don’t you grind the rail down to the locker rooms.” More faces nodded in agreement. *Gulp.* “Sure,” I said. “Since I do this all of the time, like I’ve been telling you guys, I will be amazing at this.” Virtually all of the boys in class gathered around the top of the staircase, leaving me a narrow runway. I found myself staring down an open lane of sixth grade boys, about to run through a somewhat literal gauntlet of adolescence. As I stood there, I remembered the rail in front of the garage; how I’d found it to be surprisingly easy. *I got this,* I thought. *Just land on the rail, make sure you lean forward, and slide down it.* I ran to the staircase. I jumped, floated about six feet, and landed on the rail in a perfect position for my glorious 50–50 grind. Lacking the essential plastic grind plate on the soles, my shoes stuck to the rail and stopped my feet like a stick into the front spokes of a bicycle tire. My upper-body lurched forward until I Superman’ed into the concrete at the bottom of the stairs, landing first with my elbows and knees, and then with my face and lungs. My glasses left my face and skidded across the floor. The air left my chest with the most horrifically embarrassing sound you can imagine. My soul left my body. The laughter of insidious middle schoolers filled my ears. I tried to stand, but my shattered knees and ankles gave my legs the strength and gracefulness of a newborn giraffe. I half-stumbled, half-crawled my way into the locker room, trying to escape the laughter and shame. *That’s okay,* I thought to myself amidst the aches and tears, *in a few months—a year, tops—you’ll forget this ever even happened.* \ Thanks for reading! I'm relatively new to short stories. I've published in the adventure-travel and humor niches on Amazon and I for shorter material like this (I hope it's okay that I posted this story on there as well).


I stepped into the rickety elevator and let my bag slam to the ground. Who had ever convinced me to take up teaching bowling as a career? Oh yeah, that's right. I sighed and leaned my head against the wall. Well, I guess Denny hadn't quite left me high and dry when she fired me. She had pestered me for weeks about taking up bowling as a side gig, she said I was so good at it and wouldn't I just love the extra income? I snorted. Extra income? Yeah right. They paid me diddly squat for the steady, and might I add well done, evening shifts that leaked well into the night on many occasions. Denny had been so happy when I told her I had gotten the bowling job. Her eyes lit up and everything.

"Oh, yay, Robert! Congratulations!" she had said.  I started planning to ask her on a date right then. The next day, right before I asked her out, she told me that they had decided to let me go. Some lie about a change in economy and needing to lay people off and maybe I could get my job back when things settled. They'd call me.

I did not ask her on a date.

No one else that I talked to got fired. I gathered my things and left the office in a daze. Sure, helping make rockets and stuff like that wasn't as glamorous as it sounded, but still. I had enjoyed it, at the very least. Maybe I hadn't been as good as I thought. Like when you think you're killing it at Mario Kart and look at what place you're in and realize you rank 12 out of 12. Maybe I just hadn't been good enough…

And now? What kind of life was I leading? Boarding an elevator death trap in a run-down 12 story apartment building at 2 AM, looking forward to another graveyard shift teaching jerks how to bowl? I looked above the elevator doors to see what floor I was on, this elevator moved like molasses through honey. The monitor glowed with a green number one and I sighed as I realized I hadn't pushed a button. A deeper sigh escaped from somewhere inside me. There seemed to be an endless well of them these days. I punched the button for the twelfth floor and felt the car floor begin its ominous shaking as the shabby elevator rumbled to life and I found myself staring at the buttons. The square buttons extended in one very straight line from waist height to head height, my head height, at any rate. Because of this, the owners of the apartment building always put tall people with no children on the top six floors. Very tall people got floor twelve. I measured in at about 6'3" (they actually measured their tenants) and I got assigned floor twelve. At the time, that had felt like icing on the cake. Being forced to move into a crappy apartment and being assigned the twelfth floor. Just a cherry on top of the worst cake ever. When I got fired, I had been able to maintain my mortgage for about 5 months. I sold my car, my very nice car, to pay for the last month because I already had too many loans and nobody would give me another. My prayers availed me nothing. I was sure God had seen the mess I made and decided He could do nothing. The only thing I ever felt after prayers was an increasing need to get a new job. But there was no point in looking. And just quitting would have been financial death. I had chosen, instead, to move out of my house before the bank foreclosed. I had found this place. Cheapest rent for miles, and for someone who makes an hourly wage of less than minimum (how could that even be legal, again?), cheapest sounded good. $300 a month should have sounded too good to be true. I should have known better.

The owners never fixed anything because they never raised the rent and so never had any money leftover after bills (or so they said) to fix anything. And so I became the handyman formy own apartment. Which quickly turned into the handyman for the whole building. I had started with my own floor and when news spread that I was a decent handyman, I got women crying on my filthy doormat begging for help. Children who had sprinted up flights of stairs asking meto fix a toilet before their mom got home and got angry, three people slid notes under my door and left their own doors wide open for me to go fix a problem. I never saw those people, not once. I even got a few burly motorcycle guys asking for help. They always had light problems that they had tried and failed to fix. Every single one of the lights had electrical problems, mostly corroded wires from leaks in the ceiling. To date, I had fixed three faucets, seven toilets, two fridges, and 48 broken lights. Some of them more than once. I'd even fixed the elevator buttons twice, they'd get stuck and just quit working. I really needed to charge for all the repairs I did. I usually footed the bill for any extra wires and tools that were needed. Maybe they'd hire me on as the handyman here. That wouldn't be too bad. I shook my head. I was too exhausted from bowling to be a full - or even part - time handyman too.

My eyes drifted away from the buttons and fell on the poster I had taped there six or seven months ago when I had moved in.

Tony's! Pizza and Bowl! Now with free instructor upon request! (Schedule 2 days in advance!) I cringed. What purpose does an exclamation mark serve if every sentence has one? Even the parenthetical sentence had one, for goodness sakes! The free instructor sentence made me angry. They had said they'd pay my wage if I taught for free. I told them I expected $10 an hour and they had agreed, in writing, even. I had never seen anything over $7 an hour since I got my first paycheck. Every time I argued, they said, "oh, that's a mistake. Sorry! We'll send a note to management". I am convinced that they never even wrote the note. And they never let me go to talk to management myself. I quit arguing after 5 months, when I lost my house. More prayers unanswered and a growing pile of pay stubs that were proof. Last time I drove by my house, a little family had been having a picnic on an immaculate lawn. It had never looked like that when I lived there. At least it was in good hands.

The elevator shuddered to a stop and the rumble stopped. I looked at the monitor. 8. Eighth floor. I sighed. Here we go again. The elevator regularly got stuck between floor 8 and 9. I was a bit concerned that the rumble had stopped, though. Usually the elevator got stuck for a second up to a minute and then flung you up past the ninth floor. The tenants who lived on the ninth floor usually got off on the 8th or 10th floor and took the stairs. I was convinced that one day I would have to walk all the way up to the twelfth floor. If that day ever came, I would sleep on the couch in the lobby. Or maybe the floor was cleaner. I bumped my head against the wall a few times, would I be stuck in this life forever? As my head hit the wall a fourth time, the elevator dinged and the door slid open on a blank wall. I peeked out the door and sighed. There was a six inch gap between the elevator and the wall. "That's safe," I muttered as I looked down into the dark abyss. "It's like something from a horror movie". I shook my head and punched the "door close" button. This elevator was old enough that the button actually worked. A bit too well, actually. It had the nasty habit of giving in to the wishes of rival siblings and would catch fingers or arms of the other sibling in the door. So far, this had never led to too many problems. For children or the owners of the building. Nobody living here had enough money to sue anybody and still come out on top financially. We usually just shrugged and moved on. The doors slid shut with a screech to wake the dead and I began to wonder if I might be here for a while. I leaned against the wall and slumped to the floor. Interesting things always happened when I was far too tired to appreciate them. I pulled out my phone and checked the time. 2:30 AM and my phone at 2%. That was fine, my phone could live for at least an hour on two percent. And that was if I was streaming YouTube videos the whole time. Of course, I didn't know how long it had been on 2%. Because after 2%, my phone died. 1% didn't exist. And then I realized, today marked one year since I had been fired. Happy anniversary, Misery. I rested my back against the wall and closed my eyes, I was so exhausted. Might as well just sleep here. The feeling of the elevator flinging past the ninth floor would wake me up. I woke up sometime later to the feeling of the elevator moving. It took me a whole minute to realize that it was falling and by the time I had the sense to freak out, it had screamed to a halt. The abuse to my ears was still ringing when I pulled out my phone and checked the time. 3:47. Great, this was just ridiculous, how long would I be stuck here? The monitor above the door flashed green and I saw the number 3 before the elevator car was suddenly plunged into darkness. Power out. I sighed and rubbed my face. I could feel the car inching downward.

And I was angry. One thing after another. Failure after misfortune after bad luck. My job, my house, Tony's!, this apartment building, my stupid heavy bowling bag, my car, this elevator, and now I was going to die trapped in an elevator in the dark with my bowling bag and a sign from Tony's!.

I stood up and blindly reached for the sign, tearing it from the wall and ripping it to shreds. I felt around for my bowling bag with my foot and when I found it, I kicked it. It hurt abominably, but I didn't care. I was done with being trapped. Trapped in an elevator. Trapped in an unfair job. Trapped in this misery I was calling life. And all of them seemed to be spiralling downward. Things needed to change and I was going to make it happen.

I stopped and pulled out my phone. At floor three, it wasn't very likely that I would die from the elevator hitting ground floor, even at free-fall speed. It was time to plan my life. I wasn't just going to sit back and let it happen to me anymore. Maybe that's what God was trying to tell me all those times I felt like leaving my job and then let misery stop me. Maybe God knew that I could make the change and He was letting me find my own power. On my phone, I opened a notes app. I saw old notes-to-self about things I should try or things I should do again. One note popped out at me. It simply said, "maybe you should try being a handyman. You like fixing things." That was it! Should needed to be a thing of the past. I opened a new note and started typing.

To do tomorrow: ~ Go to the police station and see what can be done about my stolen paycheck money.

~ Quit Tony's! and look for different work doing something I enjoy. Like being a handyman. ~ When I have enough money, MOVE. Maybe get my old house back? Or move to a different city entirely? As I typed this last sentence and hit save my phone died. The elevator lights slowly faded back on. It felt like a mic drop. The elevator rumbled to life and started its slow climb back to the top. I looked at the monitor and saw a green number 5 flicker into being. I smiled. It looked like I hadn't sunken as low as I thought.