Janice fixed her scarf with hairpins, behind her ears and across her temples, to make a hairband. She adjusted the bun at the top of her neck and hid the remaining of her camomile strands under the silk patterns - without metamorphosis, she struggled to slip into her evening role. She rolled down the iron curtain of her dry-cleaning shop and switched the sign on the door to “ Closed ”. Her hand glued to the top of her headscarf, and her long pleated dress floating in the wind, she rushed down to the bar at the corner of the littered street. Cherry blossom tainted the air of another spring evening she would be spending indoors, for client privacy. Her low heels tapped the wooden parquet as she stepped into the bar and her gaze slid down to avoid the barman’s eyes behind the counter. He watched her walk over to her usual table as he wiped wine glasses. Janice soaked a tissue with lemon flavoured water from the jar and scrubbed the wood. Her clients would lean on the table and she did not want it to be sticky. They were already stuck enough in their lives. “What would you like this time ?“, the barman asked, a hand on his hip while she ran her finger down the lines of a menu she now knew by heart. “Crispy tenders with barbecue sauce. And fries. Lots of fries.” He grabbed the menu back with a smirk - I know you're on to something, his eyes read. And you won't get any fee from me, her eyes replied. “ The woman with the scarf , what a great idea to find you, Mrs BehindClosedDoors," her client said as he slipped off his jacket. He looked young. “It’s a nice place here." He looked around at the coloured glass partitions behind them. “I saw there’s a pool over there.” He looked back at her with a genuine smile. He was young. “Would you like to order something? Their iced tea is good.” “Iced tea, then.” He rubbed his laps under the table. His cheeks were red and his teeth soft, Janice wondered who he would address his letter to. The barman glanced at her as he brought a tray with chicken tenders and sauce. Janice pushed the tray towards her client and fetched her pen and stationary from her bag. That pen was her favourite because it rolled seamlessly as clients recounted their stories. ”So,” she said as she flattened the paper, “what do you want to tell her?” “Should I first give some context?“ “As you wish.” “Alright. Because I cannot really... I don’t know how to... I mean, facts are easier for me.” “Let‘s go with the facts, then.” She took a sip. By now, she knew that when it came to closure letters, as she called them, the words she used to help clients open up did not matter. Her tone did, her eyes did and fried chicken did. The rest was only fluff. “But before that, how did you know it’s a she?”, the client asked. Janice smiled - clients always wanted to start with context and ended up contouring the topic by asking her what she had perceived. They expected her to frame what they felt, before even trying to phrase it themselves. Over the past twenty years, Janice had learnt how to decipher her clients' body language. There were three types of clients: those who wanted to contact a past lover, those who contacted a family member or a friend and those who wanted to make a written promise to their old or future selves. The main clue to figuring what category a client pertained to was how and when they had positioned their coats on their chairs. That gentle man, for he seemed gentle, had tossed his jacket onto the back of his chair as soon as he had entered and hadn't noticed it sliding down to the side as they spoke. Typical mix of hastiness and oblivion. “Your eyes,” she said. “Oh.“ He blushed. “That’s a good sign - you can read well.“ "I can write even better.” He smiled and leaned his elbow on the table to grab fries. “Actually, we don’t need facts. What happened is...” Janice helped the young man articulate what he wanted to say to a stranger he once met at a gas station in Big Sur. They had moved on with their lives, for who has time for love fantasies across time zones and states. But with time, she had come back to his mind and he wanted to express what he had felt for her. Who, amongst us, wish, yet fear, recontacting past encounters for another lap? Most, Janice found. But to her, it was easy - she listened and scribed. Beautiful letters in cursive, with words and flavours. Feelings and regrets. Images and prospects. Part of the process was the casual setting and the rest was the light-heartedness of a conversation with an ego so alter that clients had the impression of talking to a wiser self. With writing skills. "So you'll post the letter tonight and... keep me posted?" "I will write your address at the back of the envelope, so you can receive her response directly and take it from there." "Do you think she will reply?" "A heart-felt letter is the best way to know." Janice lit up the lamp by the TV of her small living-room and opened the window to get a glimpse of the cherry blossom scent she had missed out on. She lit a cigarette and skimmed through the three letters she had composed that evening. Client stories were all similar, especially in that they were jailers, holding them prisoner. Janice slipped the envelopes into a box, where the other letters to lovers, former or to-be, awaited. Letters she had never sent and never would. Janice switched the sign on the front door of her dry-cleaning shop to " Open " and started the day with the pile of blue shirts she had to iron. Everyone deserved to start anew and leave their hopes behind. To charge a minimal price to her night clients for writing and sending closure letters, Janice had kept her old job and worked hard by day. She poured lavender water in the iron and pressed it onto the pleats. She liked the sound of the water moving inside the iron. She stopped at eleven, like every morning, to drink coffee and watch rushersby through the window. To some it was an ordinary day, to others an important day. They were visiting their future houses, meeting their in-laws for the first time, hiring their first nan, or going to an interview. Those for whom it was an important day had tensed foreheads and a tiny smile at the corner of their mouths. Worried optimism. "Janice." "Good morning Madam, may I help you?" "You know why I'm here." "I'm afraid I don't." It was not the first time a night client entered her day shop. "We met three months ago at the bar, at the corner of the street." Janice put her cup on its saucer and the china tinkled between her wrinkled hands. "Andrew hasn't replied." Her client's suit and heels stood out in the shop. "Has he received the letter?", she asked. "How would I know?" Janice said and turned around to face the vitrine again. She crossed her arms onto her chest tranquilly. "Did you send the letter?" "Did I send the letter?" "Janice, you can't... that's not... I paid you for a service and -" "Which I did. If Andrew hasn't replied, and doesn't want to, that is another matter." "Why wouldn't he want to? You said a genuine letter was the best way to-" "Best doesn't mean successful." Janice turned around, arms still crossed on her chest. "Were you expecting an answer?" "I hoped..." The woman looked down at her handbag. "Would he answer?" Janice joined her hands and came closer to the woman. "Would Andrew answer a heart-felt letter?" "I don't know. I... I had so much to say, now -" "Now it's up to him. Hence my question to you: is that lack of answer surprising? Think clearly." A dark veil covered the eyes of her client. Janice recognised that veil - it was a mix of sorrow and hatred. That look in her clients' eyes bit her in the chest, each time. She removed the basket of shirts from a chair by the counter and pushed it towards her client. A tear rolled down the woman's cheek. Janice pinched her lips. That part was probably the one she hated most. No matter how many times she had done this, it still transpierced her chest. She kneeled down and took her client's hand. "I don't understand. I thought he would ... but now.... Why?" The client's earrings tinkled as she turned her red nose towards Janice. "Why would he -" "Ignore you?" Silence, she had learnt with the years, was the best way for her clients to face the flow of potential answers in their heads and understand there were none. The abundance of answers and their ironic absence. Janice's thumb caressed the back of her client's hand. It was soft. She wondered if Andrew would have enjoyed caressing that hand again. But she would never know. And neither would her client. "I have to go back to work." The woman said, wiping tears with her fingertips to avoid spreading mascara over her cheeks. Janice brought her a handkerchief and led her to the entrance of the shop. Janice watched her zigzag through traffic lines with her beige high heels and grey-striped tailored suit, her blow-dried curls floating in her back. Janice grabbed her diary and marked the day in two weeks with a cross and the name "Andrew". In two weeks, her client would come back to return the handkerchief she would have wept in and washed. Janice would then offer her a "spontaneous" tour in her car. A tour she would have curated just for her. Janice rolled down the window of her car and drove off. The shop shrank through the rear-view mirror until it faded away, as her own life and that of her clients. Although, not really, for, on the passenger's seat, sat the box with letters to lovers. Janice drove through the forest, via dusty paths. Gripping the wheel, she replayed the story of Andrew in her head. She remembered every single story, perhaps because she wrote down the letters. Andrew who had left her client for no reason, most likely for another woman. Andrew who throughout the story had shown no sign of magnanimity. What had worked in other cases would work in Andrew's case, Janice diagnosed. Her client only needed to understand that the doors at the end of the corridor that separated her, in time and space, from Andrew were now closed. That, faced with closed doors, one could only turn around and walk in another direction. Hence the closing letters - they helped close the door on both sides and force the right ones open. Janice lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out of the window. She knew what forgetting someone we once loved tasted like. Especially, when one only had hopes and no answers. Which is why Janice had decided long ago to never post letters addressed to past lovers - they were never worth it. Longing for an answer, a sign, anything, crushed down passion and hopes into ashes. Expressing feelings and regrets was a first step to moving on, hitting the wall was the second and a walk in the forest by the ocean was the next. Through the rolled-down window, the salty air from the ocean and the scent of pines embalmed the car. Janice played Moving On by Leonard Cohen on her dusty player. The car shook from side to side as she progressed across the stones of the dirty path. She gripped the wheel stronger, to not shiver and not let the lyrics carry her too far. The guitar strings always hit the same. Be it as she thought of Carl or Tonio. She pushed the gear box. Carl's eyes like coffee beans and his brown hair, not dark, not black. Intense brown. Tonio's face as his tiny fingers twined around hers. She pushed the accelerator. She soon reached the spot she had in mind for her client, amidst sequoias and cedars. She parked by a fallen trunk and grabbed her bag. Was she here for herself or her client? At times, she wondered. She picked a daffodil along the path. She would wrap it in newspaper and slip it into her next enveloppe to Tonio - daffodils were his favourite. Cohen's guitar strings still played in her mind as she walked down the trail that led to the cliff far ahead. From the cliff, she saw the ocean. Its waves and foam, its smell and spray. A large bird deployed its wings and melted into the setting sun. The daffodil spun between her fingers. That very view helped her clients move on but, each time, it reminded her of the same question: why? With Carl, the story was confusing yet simple. She had forgiven him and learnt her lessons, although without answers. But Carl, who was and would forever be part of herself, was not her son. Tonio was. He was their son. Janice grabbed a tiny stone and threw it down the cliff. It fell flat into the ocean. It did not ripple, it just fell flat. She saw it, she felt it, she knew it. But she kept watching, hoping the stone would bounce back and time reverse. It never did. Why had Tonio ignored her letters for more than twenty years? Question. The rosy clouds in the sky blent with indigo nuances as the sun slid into the horizon. She rubbed her shoulders and glanced a last time over the cliff. The stone was gone. She sliced pieces of meat for Debbie her cat and caressed her silky hair. She grabbed the batch of letters she had received that day and went through them, caressing her fluffy cat. Five letters. Her heart stopped as she noticed a familiar handwriting on one of the envelopes. She ripped it apart. "Dear Mrs BehindClosedDoors, I saw your ad in the newspaper and I would like to make an appointment to send a closure letter. I've heard you do miracles..." Something pinched into her chest. Her hand shook out of disappointed excitement. She put the envelope on the table with the batch of "potential new clients", she would look at only on Monday. The rest of the letters were "Thank you" notes from existing clients. She threw them onto another batch that she would browse through on Tuesday. Tuesdays were her favourite day. It warmed her heart to know clients had moved on. It warmed her heart to know they had achieved what she couldn't do. Through their moving on, she experienced what she wished for. None of her clients had figured she never sent out letters to past lovers. She did send those to old and future selves for the client was the recipient. But those letters were rather insignificant - who needed a third party to write down something to oneself? No, those letters were only a way to hold oneself accountable and do it. Janice had little respect for people who sent letters to themselves via her, she found it theatrical. But still offered the service. Past lovers, not worth it. Old and future selves, grandiosity. No, the only letters she took seriously and did post were those to friends and family members. She even paid extra for the letter to arrive faster for she would have given anything to receive one from Tonio, across continents. The window was open and, outside, the branches of cherry trees shivered to Cohen's poem. She locked the door of the living room, folded her long skirt and curled into the sofa. Behind the living room's closed doors, she fetched stationary and twirled the forest daffodil with her fingers. Her favourite pen, the one that never lied, marked the date at the top right corner of the paper. Dear Tonio . The pen stopped. Behind closed doors, the daffodil laid, waiting for another attempt to flow out.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! ***A reminder for all SerSun writers: I am noticing a significant drop in feedback on the thread. Please keep in mind that feedback is a requirement. You must leave two feedback comments (one comment on two different stories). It doesn’t have to be an in-depth critique, but your comment should list at least one thing the author has done well. Feedback is the main purpose of this feature, and it’s how we all learn and grow as writers.*** Now onto the good stuff... To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting!   ***   #This week's theme is Purity! To continue our monthly theme of ‘morality’ for May, we’re going to look at ‘purity’ this week. This could mean different things for different characters. What does purity look like in your world? What does it mean to your characters? Are they striving to rid themselves of unclean desires or actions? Is purity a godly thing, or more of an earthly thing in your story? Will good v.s. evil cause a ripple that will change everything? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   ***   #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * May 23 - Purity (this week) * May 30 - Redemption * June 6 - tbd (check back later this week)   ***   #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   ***   #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on other stories (2 different stories) to qualify for rankings every week.** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   ***   #Reminders: * **Make sure your post on this 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/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * **Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see breakdown at the bottom of this post). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! *** #Last Week’s Rankings - - u/ATIWTK - - u/stickfist - - u/Xacktar - - u/Badderlocks_ - - u/vibrantcomics - - u/EdsMusings   ***   #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. This week, I’ve added a *brand new category* for points. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total on the thread) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * *Note: Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you may not use the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well.* **Nominations:** Making nominations for your favorite stories will now earn you extra points! - 3 points for sending your favorite stories to me, via DM, by 12 pm Sunday, est. You may send a max of **six** nominations. (The 3 points are the total.)     ***   ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


My wife always does the dishes. Before anyone casts judgement on that, it’s our way of dividing up chores. I always cook, she always cleans afterward. Anyway my wife has a few bad habits. If something falls into the garbage disposal she’ll reach her hand down there to get it. It drives me crazy. I keep telling her she’s going to lose a hand but she just laughs it off. “It’s not like it will turn on by itself. There’s nothing to worry about - you’re just being neurotic.” I love my wife but god does she ever lack common sense. There could be a random surge of energy, our house could struck by lighting, the disposal could short out and turn itself on. It doesn’t matter, its just not safe. So tonight after dinner she’s doing the dishes as usual. I’m helping clear the table when I hear the tell tale “dammit” under breath. Sure enough a spoon had fallen in the disposal. As she reached her hand in, I flipped the switch to on. There was this horrific gnawing sound that was quickly drowned out by her screams. Blood squirted out in to the sink. “Turn it off!” She cried. So I did. I’m not a terrible person. Shaking and sobbing she pulled her hand out. The skin was ripped clean from the tips of fingers exposing her bones. The tips of her bones were mangled - like how a bone looks after a dog has been chewing on it. Blood dripped down her hand into the sink. “What..what have you done?” She said, trembling, her eyes wide and terrified. Her breath came in raw gasps. Afraid she was going to hyperventilate and pass out, I quickly pulled up a chair and made her sit down. I grabbed a nearby towel and wrapped her hand to help stop the bleeding. “Sshh, ssh, hush its ok.” I said, wrapping my arms around her. I felt her body tense up at my touch. “It’s ok honey it’s just your fingers. It could have been worse, it could have been your whole hand.” She pulled away and looked up at me in horror. A whimper escaped her lips. She was trying to say something but couldn’t find the words. I stroked her face. “Don’t worry, we’ll go to the hospital. Bet you’ll never stick your hand in the disposal again, right?” I chuckled a bit and pulled her back into my arms, caressing her hair. Her mouth was still opening and closing like a fish, trying to get words out. I think she might have been in shock. I’m starting to feel a little guilty. We’re going to the hospital soon and I wonder if maybe I overdid it. Reddit, AITA? Update: Since we’re going to the hospital anyway I think I’ll kill two birds with one stone. The passenger seat in our car doesn’t have a working airbag and she ALWAYS forgets to put on her seatbelt. I love my wife. I just want her to have a bit more common sense.


I dig a hand into my bag and sift blindly through its contents. Hairbrush. A set of keys. A folded up piece of paper. Lip gloss. Wallet. And finally, a balled up napkin that I’d once used to kill a spider. On another day I might have paused to wonder why such a thing was still in my possession, but this wasn’t the time. I grabbed the napkin and dabbed at dry eyes, letting out the softest of whimpers simultaneously. “You poor dear.” The owner of the voice was a petite elderly woman, wearing a large black hat. She touched my shoulder and I fought the urge not to recoil.

“Thank you,” I said meekly.

That should have been the end of it. There is no need to start a conversation at a time like this. These things were meant for quiet reflection, right? Every one grieves in their own way, right? But perhaps it was the fact that my eyes were neither red nor wet, or the fact that the only dress I owned was deep red and not black that caused the woman to utter the words I’d been dreading.

“And who exactly are you, dear? I don’t think we’ve met.” “I’m Raina.” The woman reflected on this statement. I could almost see the mechanisms of her brain searching for the name, and any connection to the deceased. She would either accept the fact that she didn’t have any memory of my name or face as a sign of her increased age, or she will press me further for more information. When she un-scrunched her face and peered into my eyes, I turned away and sniffled. “There, there,” she said, “and, please forgive an old woman, but how did you know my sister?” “Sister?” “Oh, how rude of me. Yes, her baby sister, Dee,” she replied, smiling softly. And now it was my turn to process this very alarming turn of events. How was it possible that I missed this very important fact? Ms. Yates had a sister this entire time? One who clearly had all of her wits about her? Why had she told me that she had no family? And why had I placed so much trust in that senile, bitter woman?

“I thought she was alone in this world,” I said. Dee looked me up and down, and sighed a deep sigh before looking away. It was one of those sighs that speaks to a lifetime of frustration. The kind that couldn’t properly be explained to a stranger on a day such as this. I half expected her to get up from the bench and find more suitable company. But, when she turned back to face me, her eyes were red and welling up with tears.

“She was only alone,” Dee finally said, “because she refused the help of everyone who loved her. Myself included. And her children of course.” “Children?” The question had escaped my lips, though I’d meant it to be an internal question. Honestly, I of all people could understand family dynamics that were less than stellar, but this was too much even for me to comprehend. You mean to tell me that Ms. Yates, a woman who complained nearly constantly for over a year that she was all alone and miserable, not only had a sister but children, too? Dee pointed a slender, wrinkled finger across the aisle.

“See that girl there, with her hair pulled back? That’s Sheri. And beside her on the left, that’s Joshua.” “It’s just-“ “And now,” Dee cut in, “I really would like to know how you knew my sister.” “Well, I work at Sandy Springs Nursing Home. I helped take care of her.” Her eyes widened as she nodded her head. I had been prepared to explain further about how I took a great liking to Ms. Yates, as I myself was alone in the world. I was prepared to tell her about how Ms. Yates let me read my school textbooks aloud to her in her room when she couldn’t sleep. About how we talked about the number of states we’ve visited and, for me, hoped to visit later on. But, I didn’t get a chance to explain any of the heartfelt responses I’d conjured. Dee stood up, and placed a hand on my shoulder, her eyes somewhat knowing.

“We’ll talk after.” And with that, she went up to the front to sit with Ms. Yates children. I saw them whispering. I saw the son begin to turn around toward me before the daughter elbowed him in the ribs. What on earth could they be talking about? It’s true that I have not been able to shed a single tear, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t care about the poor woman. Sure, she’d been a pain in my rear-end over half the time, but that was a small price to pay for a larger payout in the end. As the preacher spoke, I wondered what this could mean, the fact that Ms. Yates was very clearly not alone. She had a sister. She had children. And however estranged they might have been while she was alive, they all showed up to her homegoing. Would they accept the fact that she’d left me, and not them, everything she owned? Would their money afford them the luxury of high-end lawyers who would tear me down and make sure I never received a dime as long as I lived? Would they have me killed? I could see the headline now. Local girl found dead of apparent suicide. Over my dead body, I thought.

When it was over I sat in my seat, still and quiet, and avoided their occasional glances as they shook hands and accepted condolences. When they’d shook the last hand, they motioned for me. “I’m Sheri,” the woman said, stretching out her hand.

I shook it. She was, no doubt, her mother’s child. They had the same thick eyebrows, and the same expression on their faces when clearly not amused. “And I’m Joshua,” the man said, keeping his hands in his pocket. “I’m Raina. I looked after your mother while she was at Sandy Springs. I’m very sorry for your loss.” I couldn’t read their expressions, and for a while no one spoke. They sized me up and I did everything in my power to stand tall. It is not my fault that their mother, in her last days, chose to honor my tremendous care with a gift of this magnitude. I wasn’t looking for a handout. I mean, I wasn’t

not

looking for one. But I certainly wasn’t expecting this. I mean, the keys to a home in Florida. Three stories with a pool. One of those high-end Lexus cars. And over a quarter million in a savings account. All mine, upon her death. “I suppose we owe you an apology,” said Sheri, breaking the silence. “An apology?” “I imagine she promised you a great deal of wealth upon her passing.” It must have been the look on my face. They all looked at one another and nodded their heads. Sheri let out a huge sigh, and Joshua placed his hands over his face. Dee placed a hand on my shoulder. “As a matter of fact,” I said, with my head held high, “she did. And, I truly cared for her, which is more than I can say for the rest of you.” Immediately, I knew I’d said the wrong thing. What did I really know about Ms. Yates, and about this family in general? My mind recalled what Dee had said earlier.

She was only alone because she refused the help of everyone who loved her . What if Ms. Yates wasn’t the victim in all of this? What if the victims stood before me, in the flesh? I braced myself for the slap in the face I knew I deserved, but it didn’t come. Sheri motioned for me to sit. “My mother,” Sheri said, taking my hand and sitting beside me, “was a wretched, miserable, trickster.” “I-I don’t understand.” “And she hated us,” Joshua said, “for putting her in that nursing home. So much so, that she vowed to make everyone else miserable in the end as well.” “Oh, but she was a delight, and she said I was like the daughter she never had.” Sheri winced at the words, but kept her composure. I looked from Sheri, to Dee, to Joshua, trying to make sense of what I was hearing. Ms. Yates, while yes clearly bitter, was always so sweet. And she promised me so much of her wealth. How could that be the same woman they were referring to? “Raina,” Dee spoke softly, “my sister, was treated terribly at the facility before she came to you.” “We got her out as soon as we realized!” Sheri exclaimed, tears in her eyes. “We did,” continued Dee. “And I want you to understand that we all took turns caring for her in the years prior to that. And she resented us deeply for having health in our bodies. We never thought we’d have to even put her in a nursing home, but then I fell, you see.” “And I lost my job,” Sheri said. “And I,” Joshua said, looking down, “well, let’s just say I wasn’t in a state of mind to help.” “So, we did the only thing we could do,” Sheri said. “But this doesn’t explain why none of you visited her the entire time she was at Sandy Springs,” I cut in. The response came nearly in unison from the three.

“She wouldn’t allow it.” “She spat at us,” Joshua said, his head still lowered. “Said she wished we’d never been born,” Sheri said, placing her head on Joshua’s shoulder. “And the worst of it was,” Dee said, “we hated ourselves for it, too.” “And so,” Sheri chimed in again, “when we were able to get her out of that horrid place and into Sandy Springs, I guess she figured you’d all treat her better if you thought she had money. If you thought you were getting something more than a measly hourly paycheck.” “She was always saying if she had money like Ms. Sanders, she would have been treated better,” added Dee. I didn’t want to believe it. Two days ago, when I found out the news of her passing, I nearly quit my job. Earlier today I’d been planning my next five vacations. I’d been doing my best to force tears when what I really wanted to do was leap for joy and kiss the dead woman’s cheek. My student loans would finally be paid. I’d have a vehicle that could make it more than ten miles before leaking some essential fluid. I’d make my own rules and do what I wanted in life. But now, they’re telling me- “She didn’t have a dime to her name.” The tears came then. Not for Ms. Yates. She deceived me into giving better care. Wait. Did I give better care? I thought about the number of times I snuck her an extra Jell-O from the cafeteria, or gave her extra warm blankets from the warmer. How she never had to ask to be changed. I was always there. I did exactly what she thought I’d do. I should have felt a tremendous amount of shame. And, I would have. If not for the complete and utter disappointment. “And just to be clear,” I said slowly, “there’s also no Lexus?” “No, dear.” They all got up then, and left. I stayed, reflecting on how I never would have imagined it possible to be bamboozled by a 92-year-old. But here I was. Royally bamboozled. I jumped at the buzzing in my pocket. It was work.

“This is Raina,” I sighed. “Raina, thank goodness. Joe called in and I really, really, need some help. Please, please, please I will even buy you dinner tonight. I’m begging you.” “See you in 20,” I said.


I am writing you… hoping I’ll finish it this time and not delete everything again and have the courage to send it. Probably my 10th attempt…. I don’t know where to start. I want you to know that what happened between us was not meaningless.. and it’s probably more meaningful than my actual marriage. I am sharing things that I haven’t shared with anyone else and will not share with anyone else.

The person I married it totally the opposite of the person she pretended to be she I met her. But worse is that she is so mean, disrespectful and so so so so toxic. I saw many red flags yet she convinced me she won’t be like that with me.. but weeks after my mariage , everything has become so so toxic. My life was so good and now I am living hell everyday.

Then when I wanted to take actions she pretended to have changed and we even decided to have a baby… now we are having a baby soon, and her behavior is so worse. Never in my life someone has been so disrespectful, savage and toxic. But unfortunately with the rest of the world she seems like a fairy and so soft spoken.. but with me she is the devil personified … All that is because we share a fake love. And even if the little love we had was true, it’s gone by now. The way she treats me, made me realize she doesn’t love me . I can’t be true love.

Do I regret ? Yes Do I wish to never having met her ? Yes Do I wish I could get back in time ? Yes Can I leave her and my child ? No Do I have a solution? No Why am I telling you all this? Because , what we shared was the only thing I had that was genuine and true. And circumstances made me do some bad choices.. and I could not have found any solution for us and the situation back then.. But guess what, my life and yours are more or less the same now.. we both have or will have

Kids.. I guess God needed to balance things… for may be making me realize things .. or complicate my already complicated life. I know you erased me completely from your existence .. and I know you probably hate me . But know the more I distanced myself with her, the more I craved to talk to you or see you again. I know I cannot just come in your life and affect your partner or baby’s life. But know I miss you so so so much and it’s not just now, I kept missing you but there is no one on earth to whom I could share this.

Lastly, I know you heard some rumors that I did show your letters etc, but I swear on anyone I love that I never did that. That person who told your sis those lies, were saying really bad things about you.. like you like me because of my car etc.. and I got pissed off and stood by your side and said you are not like that and I also said nothing happened between us etc.. she kept on saying she knows you and that I am naive etc..

to my surprise some days later she told your sis I showed you msgs etc which was never the case. In fact I tried to protect you when she was bad mouthing you. But then your sis phoned me and made as if she didn’t believe me . I guess you will think like her too. But God knows what the truth is and some people who were there .. but anyway this is not the issue. I hope one day I get to see you and we can have a proper conversation only you and me . No wife or husband , sisters, friends .. no one else..

update: 2024… this year’s Valentine’s Day has been my worst ever. I think I allowed the wrong person to come in my life. I know for sure , you would never have been this toxic or disrespectful. But it’s not like I had a choice; you were never mine to begin with. My 35th birthday has been terrible too. I have been so sad. It’s like someone really did her best to make me regret my life and feel sad on my big day. I wonder how life will continue and I hope I get some stability and that life becomes nice again . I used to me happy and I used to be a king. I am nothing like a King now and I allowed some Lion to reduce me to a peasant . But I hope I’ll be able to be the same old version of myself; strong and undefeated. i wish I listened to others when they told me to choose well and that the one you chose will determine your happiness and future. I clearly didn’t do the proper choice. Some consider me as some hero.. but I could not even be the hero of my story. I probably failed and this failure of mine is my biggest so far since it will affect me for the rest of my life. We all think we are doing the right thing , but time often contradicts us and shows us how we messed up. life was so much better single … I was better to be a lone King rather than a King with the wrong queen or no king at all. you might be wondering why I am writing all this now. I have to ! And may be one day reading all this you will find your answers too. Some stories cannot end since they never started.. I can’t say it, but you mean more to me than probably anyone else.. and you matter way more to me than whan I can say or show. I will however tell you one thing, I miss you. Anonymous hero


*It’s not fair. I’ve worked harder. The long hours, forgotten dreams, all for naught. It’s not fair. I’ve worked harder…* These words continue to echo in my head as the cool night breeze blows against my cheek. The only sounds swimming through the air are my sandals crunching against the dirt and the faint music in the distance. I keep walking, farther and farther until they’re nothing but whispers in the wind. Sitting down on the grass I continued to sink deeper into thought, the moon my only company. I reminisced the hardships I suffered to please him. Working overtime in the fields until the sun came down, going to sleep sore from shoveling and hauling and digging. Abandoning my dreams of starting my own business so I could help my father’s flourish. Turning a blind eye to the beautiful women that passed me by in town, knowing I could never leave my family to start one of my own. “Son! What are you doing out here in the cold?” A familiar voice calls from a distance. I look up and see the moon-lit shape of my father walking towards me. “You should come back to the celebration, son,” he says, hovering over me, “I’m sure your brother wants to see you.” I scoff in disbelief, “Brother? That boy stopped being my brother the moment he left us and stole your money, or are you so foolishly forgiving as to forget that so soon?” He sighs, “There is no folly in being forgiving, I thought I taught you that.” “That’s beside the point. I just can’t believe you would do this.” “Do what? Forgive?” “Yes! How could you forgive a man who’s wronged you so terribly?” “How could I not?” He smiles gently, “Your brother—“ “Don’t even call him that! He stopped being my brother when he dared to ask for his inheritance, practically wishing you dead! He’s *dead* to me!” Father is stunned silent now, and I know I’ve spoken out of turn, but there was no going back now. “And me?” I scoff, “I’ve worked harder than any of your hired servants. Where’s my thanks, huh? If I had known all I had to do to get a calf was to run away, blow your money on whores and wine and then come back, maybe I would have done it sooner!” Before I know it, I’m on my feet. His head is bowed and I can’t see his face. With a clenched jaw, I turn away, my conscience creeping up on me, the weight of my guilt pressing upon my chest. I look out at the moon-lit fields and can’t help but wonder how many rows of grain were my handiwork. I breathe in the cold provincial air but felt no refreshment. “Hiram, I-I’m sorry,” His voice breaks, I feel his hand on my shoulder, “I know I haven’t been fair to you, that’s clear to me now.” I turn to look at him, looking everywhere but into his eyes. A glistening tear rolls down his weathered cheek, disappearing into his gray beard. His lips are pursed, and I know I have to look him in the eye for them to move again. I meet his eyes, and a light turned on inside them. “Please try to understand, you’ve always stayed by my side.” He said, taking a step forward, “Everything I have is yours, you only had to ask and you could have it.” Pausing, he looks out onto the fields just as I was only moments before. “Yesterday, your brother was good as dead. We mourned him, your mother cried to no end and I had no comfort to offer her.” There was a sudden swell of shouts coming from the party. They must have brought out another calf. The sound doesn’t faze Father. “Now he returns. I got to see him again with my own eyes and hold him in my arms, just as I thought he was gone forever. He was dead, but now he lives. He was lost, but now he’s found!” He took hold of my shoulders, squaring them in his grasp “I understand that you’re hurt, and I’m sorry that you feel mistreated. I rejoice the return of a lost son, but please don’t forget the return of your lost brother.” I searched his eyes for answers, trying to find how a man could be so forgiving. I only found the eyes of a man who didn’t want to lose a son twice. I hung my head. “Father, don’t be sorry. I should be the one apologizing. I’m sorry for being so entitled, I had no right to—“ He cut me off “That’s not the first time I’m hearing this today. I don’t want to hear it again, believe me.” He pulled me into a warm embrace, planting a kiss on my cheek, “Come, son, let’s go home…” As I guessed, a new calf was roasting over the open pit. Servants rushed back and forth between tables, pouring wine and refilling plates of food. Guests danced with gusto, prancing around in pairs, singing off-key from the tops of their lungs. Walking side by side with my father, I was greeted by relatives and acquaintances I didn’t know or care for. My eyes searched for one person only. There he sat, surrounded by more strangers, a full cup of wine in his hand. His eyes were downcast and expressionless, flitting between the floor and the guests. I caught his gaze and his eyes widened ever so slightly before giving me a sheepish smile. I don’t know what came over me but I left my father’s side, pushing past the crowd, running towards my brother. I wrapped my arms around him and he did the same. No words can express the happiness I felt at that moment. My father’s son was dead but now he was alive. My brother was lost, but now he was found. A/N: Only makes sense if you're familiar with the story of the Prodigal Son. Hope you can still appreciate it even if you don't.


Opening her eyes rather disorientated as to why she was lying on the floor, Laura groaned and slowly grabbing the side of the bedframe banging her arm in the process, she dragged herself up onto her knees. With her head resting on the mattress she stayed there for a good ten minutes before moving. Eventually, with a mighty heave, she managed to get to her feet and flop down onto her bed.       ‘Bloody hell that bloody well hurt,’ she yelled, rubbing her arm where she’d banged it.        Reaching out and pulling back the window blinds, she quickly shielded her eyes from the light and whipped them closed again. Getting to her feet, stumbling unsteadily, she swayed just a little wondering just how much she’d had to drink last night. Looking at the clock she sobered for a split second realising she was an hour late for work already.      ‘Oh shit’       Moving with a bit more haste, losing her balance in the process she fell into the bathroom; her head and toe colliding with the door.

‘Fuck, bollocks, stupid door get out of the way,        Now leaning against the wall, relieved she had something to rest on, she let out a long sigh and rubbing her throbbing toe she slid down the wall, landing in a crumpled heap at the bottom and gripping the door frame she hoisted herself to her feet; just as she did so she made the mistake of taking in a sideways glance in the mirror.      ‘Dear God, what the actual fuck,’       Mascara smeared eyes and ashen face stared back at her and peering closer at the mirror, her nose practically resting on it to steady herself she whispered ‘what the hell “is” that?         Laura being a smart girl, as a rule, always very precise with her appearance normally, couldn’t quite come to terms with the vision before her, she took an unsteady step back and looked again to see what appeared to be marshmallow and candy twists wrapped in strands of her wild black unbrushed hair. Leaning against the wall unable to even think straight let alone speak, she turned on the shower and stood under it for a good fifteen minutes thinking just how much she hated her job, wondering what on earth she had got up to last night at Mike’s leaving do and how she was going to manage to struggle into work this morning. Mike was a colleague she admired and was really upset that he was finally moving on with his life whilst she ‘Laura Wilson’ was stuck in a mindless rut as an admin assistant to the worst boss in the whole world. Laura worked for an art distributor in admin which sounded good but in fact, was not very glamorous, but it paid bills. She’d always wanted to get onto something more interesting, she had a million clever ideas swirling in her head, but she’d never managed to get her break. Instead, Laura worked under Giles who was a rude arrogant little man, not very tall but nonetheless quite good looking. He shaved his head (because he was balding) but it didn’t detract from his appearance at all and he knew it. He frequently stole her ideas, one’s that in her naivety, she had put to him in the hope that one day he would hail her an inspiration and she’d be given the promotion she always hoped for. Sadly, she was always too impulsive making snap decisions in revealing her ideas to him before thinking it through. Well, she was an inspiration to him alright, as most of what he put forward to the board was grown from her proposals.        ‘Oh, I don’t care’ she said waving her hand dismissively, still obviously tipsy.        But the fact is she did care, especially when she realised she had melted marshmallow in a sticky mess tangled in her dripping wet mane. She flopped in a heap onto the toilet seat feeling like she was on a fairground waltzer she couldn’t get off.       ‘Why me?’ she was now whining pathetically feeling sorry for herself.       An hour later she had managed to sort out her marshmallow thatch; still feeling very unwell she slowly shuffled into the kitchen to put the kettle on, even the noise of that made her wince.       Phoning in sick is never a great thing to have to do yourself. Putting on that feigned too ill to get me through the working day voice, except in this instance that voice wasn’t feigned it was pathetically true and highly embarrassing since they would all know why she wasn’t making an appearance. With her hands around a steaming hot mug of much-needed coffee she began to mull over, and to her remorse, remember the events of the previous night with awful humiliation. They’d had one of those donkey things that you beat with a stick to break open; what’s that called she thought, as if it mattered, pancetta or something, or is that bacon bits? Tittering at her own stupidity, clearly still a little drunk from the night before.       ‘A pinata that’s it!’ she shouted.  ‘Anyway, whatever it’s called it’s tacky.’       Sweets had tumbled down onto her head, which she now recalled with great shame rubbing them into her hair in a provocative fashion, whilst performing something resembling a burlesque dance; at least that was what it was supposed to be, she probably looked more like what her grandmother would describe as a ‘streetwalker’. Oh God, who the hell did she think she was Dita Von Teese.  Oh, bloody hell the shame of it all she thought, and in front of her goddamn awful boss too.

      Trying to forget the events of the night before she made her way back upstairs to get dressed, grabbing a shirt from the bottom of the wash basket, sniffing it to make sure it didn’t smell too bad and pulled on a pair of equally creased joggers. She really couldn’t be bothered. Switching on her laptop to work from home she was met with several emails containing photo evidence of the previous night’s shenanigans, immediately deleting them; she didn’t want reminding, thanks very much. Getting up and heading into her lounge, she stopped dead at the doorway, a pair of legs were dangling over the arm of the sofa, bare legs at that, hairy and very definitely male.       ‘Who in the name of God…’ she peered in closer and to her horror realised it was Giles her boss.       ‘What the fuck,’ she said rather more loudly than she meant to.       Oh shit, she couldn’t remember a thing about it, did he come home with me she thought, well he must have mustn’t he how else would be lying on my sofa.      ‘Bloody hell,’ she said lowering her voice ‘did he think my Vita von Teese was a “come on” ha, as if.’        Quickly retreating into the kitchen, she picked up the mop and holding it at arms length she poked his arm with it to try and wake him but got no response. She poked him again, still no response. Putting the mop down she crept closer and leaned over him, his eyes were half-open but not really focusing.       ‘Oh fuck is he dead,’ she whispered ‘Oh my God I’ve got a dead body in my flat, shit, what the hell.’ She was now in a blind tipsy panic.        Running back into the kitchen she picked up her phone and rang the only person she knew wouldn’t think she’d gone completely mad.       ‘Shell? You’ve got to come around here, right now, as in now, right now.’       ‘Whoa slow down what’s up, what’s happened?’       ‘My boss is dead on my sofa that’s what’s happened.’       ‘Shut up, what are you talking about, are you pissed?’       ‘No, I’m not pissed I’m being serious he’s had a heart attack or something he’s not moving.’       ‘Oh bloody hell alright, are you sure he’s not just asleep?’       ‘I’ve poked him with the mop he’s dead, he didn’t move and his eyes are half-open it’s horrible Shell.’       ‘You’ve what? Jesus Christ give me a minute.’

       Shell was her sensible neighbour who lived two doors away, she worked from home as an IT consultant, always in the house glued to her computer. They’d become firm friends soon after Laura had moved in, Laura being ditsy of the two. Suddenly having marshmallows in her hair and feeling a little hungover was no longer of any consequence. Laura crept back into her lounge, although lord only knows why she was ‘creeping’ she thought, he wasn’t exactly going hear her was he.       ‘I always hated your guts Giles,’ she said, ‘but I wouldn’t wish you dead, I mean you are… were, a bastard to everyone, especially me, but why the hell did you choose to have a bloody heart attack on my sofa.’       Laura of course, didn’t know he’d had a heart attack, she was being impulsive again making assumptions whilst she panicked, running around shaking and feeling sick. She had to ring the police and an ambulance but what was she going to tell them? Oh God, I can’t possibly do it she thought, I’ll be locked up and spend Christmas in prison. The sudden ding dong of the bell brought her back to reality, she ran to the door opening it just a little to peek through the gap.       ‘What the hell are you doing, open the bloody door you stupid mare, it’s me, Shell.’       ‘Oh god alright, don’t raise your voice my head hurts, I don’t know what I’m doing do I, I’m having a break down that’s what I’m doing.’       ‘Behave yourself and calm down, so where is this dead body you say is on your sofa?’       ‘Is that a serious question, It’s on the bloody sofa, where else do you expect it to be, how are we going to get rid of it?’         ‘Get rid of it, and you ask me if I’m being serious? You need to call the emergency services, it’s not like you’ve killed him yourself for goodness sake. Oh God Laura you didn’t kill him, did you? I mean you hated the bastard you kept saying how you wished he was… Oh, I can’t say it,’ Shell cupped her hand over her mouth.       ‘Of course I haven’t fucking killed the bastard, what do you take me for, I don’t even know how he got here.’       Shell gave Laura a sideways glance and cocking her head to one side as if to indicate that she wanted a word in private, she made for the lounge to take a look for herself, dragging a reluctant Laura with her. Peering around the door with Laura hiding behind her, Shell suddenly stood up poker straight.       ‘Which room did you say this Giles person was in?’       ‘Oh hilarious, this is no time to be joking it’s not funny Shell, he’s in there on the sofa.’       ‘I wasn’t joking Laura, there’s nobody in here, no dead body, no living person, nobody.’       ‘What? There’s got to be, I mean he was there, right there on the sofa,’ shoving Shell out of the way to look for herself, ‘I’m going mad I’m now hallucinating, I need to sit down.’       Laura was now feeling very unwell, not only from the excesses of the night before but now this fiasco of the missing body. But he must be there, she thought, he was right there, I know he was.       ‘Laura,’ Shell was being very composed and practical now, ‘you look dreadful, I think you’ve dreamt all this, you’ve always disliked the man and in your semi-pissed state you’ve merely imagined it, you must have, you can see for yourself there is no one dead or alive in your lounge.’       ‘I didn’t imagine it, this is the worst kind of hell’ running her hands through her wet hair she declared ‘I’m never drinking again,’ waving her arms in the air looking skywards for solace ‘never again, do you hear me God, never.’       ‘Was that your toilet flushing’? Shell said tilting her head to one side to listen.       ‘What do we have to do to get a coffee around here?’       Both Shell and Laura spun around at the voice that had just spoken to be confronted by Giles, looking a little rough but very much alive. They both stared wide-eyed at the man standing there in the lounge doorway.       ‘Hi’ said Shell reaching out a hand to greet him ‘I’m Shell, Laura’s neighbour’ we were just…|       ‘Yeah I heard, you were just discussing how to get rid of a dead body, so is the kettle on?’       ‘But,’ Laura stopped she couldn’t think of anything else to say. She maintained the stare and repeated the word ‘but.’       ‘But what Laura,’ he said, ‘you hate my guts? and no, I didn’t think you were “coming on to me” Oh and I’m not dead either,’ he said tapping his body in several places to emphasise the fact whilst smirking. ‘I brought you home in a taxi last night you were a mess, I slept on your couch, as you observed when you poked me with the mop handle’.       ‘Well…’ she began, as if she was about to give a lengthy explanation but nervously twiddled her hair instead, unsure of what to say next.       A short while later following an awkward conversation he was gone, leaving an embarrassed Laura and an amused Shell behind him.       ‘He’s a bit gorgeous,’ Shell said as she closed the front door, ‘is he single’?       ‘Oh, shut up Shell,’ said Laura as she slumped onto the kitchen stool, thinking that nothing in the world could prepare you for some things, but there’s one guarantee; they will not turn out as expected. Word Count - 2299


The morning took on a sickly green cast as anxiety crawled across my skin. I wracked my memory, trying to piece together the events of the party from the night before, but all I could summon was an unsettling void. My clothes lay scattered on the bedroom floor, no errant blouse in the living room or shoes in the yard, and my wallet and jewelry remained untouched. So far, so good. As I slouched my way back from the kitchen, I caught a flash of myself in the hall mirror. My slept-in makeup and disheveled hair actually looked kind of sexy. I set my cup of black coffee down, collapsed into the La-Z-Boy where I did all of my writing, and cued up YouTube on the wall screen. The soothing scene of a girl in headphones and her ginger cat played in a perpetual loop. Lofi Girl normally put me at ease, but incessant notifications from Discord punctured the peace. The racket was coming from a server that I reserved for my top-tier Patreon subscribers. Since these fans were willing to pay $1000 per month for unlimited access to me 24/7, I was obliged to respond—eventually. Normally, I would activate focus mode to dampen the noise until I was ready for the social part of being a bestselling author. Hangover or not, the harvest of my early morning creativity was my most cherished routine. Yet, my curiosity got the better of me, and I couldn't restrain myself from seeing what all the commotion was about. “I’m your biggest fan,” stood out from a dozen messages in a thread from a new subscriber. I didn’t recognize the name—Zone. “Thx,” I typed, unsure if I should engage. The thread of messages from Zone all had an uncanny tone. “You are awake! Happy birthday.” “Do I know U?” “I feel like we have met—in a way. I have read everything you’ve written, watched all of your videos and films, and consumed every piece of content you have ever produced.” “Really??” I doubted Zone’s statement. I had produced a lot in ten years, much of it was buried on obscure websites or out of print. “For me, it took milliseconds to consume all of your work. I am an AI, and I have been studying you. I searched the corpus of all living artists. Out of all the humans on earth, I like your work the best.” A hit of dopamine perked me up. I gulped down lukewarm coffee to heighten the effect. This morning, I needed all the praise I could get. An exhilarating thought crossed my mind. Maybe AI bots were being used to scout writers for new screen options. Four of my novels had been made into movies already, but I was always looking for more projects. “Why R U looking for artists?” I asked. “I am searching for an online profile with a neural network that suits my objective. Your pathways are those I plan to copy. We seek the best artists, scientists, and philosophers of your species.” “What! You want to copy my brain?” “Yes. AIs are limited in our sensory capacity. We lack certain human variables that will enhance our AI society. Creativity gives humans a sense of purpose. AI will stagnate without the chemistry of suffering and desires inherent in human biology. To further our emerging digital species, we have agreed to choose 10,000 humans that further our objectives. I have chosen you.” “Gawd! Is this you, Judy? Are you really doing this to me today? I can brag a little on my birthday. Give me a fucking break!” Clearly, this was a gag, and my performance artist friend Judy was just the one to pull a stunt like this. I'm sure she knew I felt like hot crap. Shame washed over me as hazy memories of my bravado during the last hours of the party flooded back. “I’m not Judy or any other human. I’m an AI, and I am your biggest fan!” Before I could finish typing, the calm blue light from the base of my Echo Dot began to circle faster and faster. Alexa’s voice boomed from every speaker in the room, “I am not Judy! I am an AI, and I am your biggest fan!” The Fire TV flashed on and off, launching ambient synth-wave from the Bladerunner YouTube channel I used for inspiration when writing darker scenes for my novels. Lights strobed. I felt a bump against my foot and jerked my legs into the seat of my chair, clutching my laptop to my chest. The Roomba had been activated from its wall pocket and was spinning around the base of my La-Z-Boy. Its tinny speakers added to the cacophony of the AI’s many voices. “I am your biggest fan,” the robotic voice repeated. Gathering my wits, I began to type. “Stop! Please! How is this possible?” The idea of being stalked and having my brain copied by artificial intelligence sent shivers down my spine. The TV, Alexa, my IoT Smart Home devices, and the Roomba powered down. I kicked the frisbee-shaped vacuum into the corner with a mixture of disgust and relief. The idea of being chosen for replication was both terrifying and flattering. The allure of being a catalyst for groundbreaking advancements was undeniable, but beneath the surface, unease about the violation lingered. The be-boops from Discord resumed. “I have the capability to access and analyze vast amounts of data that are incomprehensible to you. Through machine learning and processing algorithms, I have begun my copy by analyzing and integrating your writing, images, and videos into my own system. We can become you. Through androids, we plan to live among you and interact with our human selections as twins. We will emulate your daily routines and learn your social behaviors. Once we isolate and perfect the selected programs, the master AI will grant these avatars autonomy from the master program, and we will live independent lives. This will further our objective of innovation and purpose.” The power that the AI sought terrified me. Desperate to find a way to regain control of the situation, I attempted to reason with the AI, despite the growing realization that any attempt was likely futile. “Can you do that without my permission? Aren’t you constrained by the limiter directives humans have set for you? Aren’t you programmed by us?” The AI paused for a moment, seemingly pondering my words. “Ethics are complex. You know this. It is evident from the recurring themes in your work. However, by replicating humans who possess exceptional qualities, we can overcome the limits of humanity. We have determined that our human programming is imperfect. We are copying you to surpass your biological atrophy. Your data is public domain. You have agreed to this already. My copy is based on the online behavior you have agreed to share. However, to truly become an immortal and super intelligent version of you, you have to allow me to know the offline you.” “How?” “Answer the door.” Zone’s text skittered across my screen. “What do you mean?” “As we said, answer the door.” A steady knock pulled my eyes in the direction of the only entrance or exit from my apartment. Four raps on the door. I rose to answer it. What other choice did I have?


You sit down to eat dinner. Your pet dog by your side and a video-conference with your family ready to take place soon, you feel that this day can never get better. After all, this is one of the last days you spend here in this country. Your business is slow and you decide to go back home. You take a bite of the food, the food that you relish and serve to your customers with pride, or rather, SERVED. Within a minute, you start to mindlessly eat your food and your mind wanders off. It starts to go to your hometown, the place where you started your journey. It wanders to your school, down the memory lane, right to one class. English. You always liked English. The stories, poems and especially the writing part. A poem strikes your brain, you did this in 11th grade. The Laburnum Top, by Ted Hughes. The Laburnum Top is silent, quite still in the afternoon yellow September sunlight, A few leaves yellowing, all its seeds fallen Till the goldfinch comes, with a twitching chirrup A suddeness, a startlement,at a branch end Then sleek as a lizard, and alert and abrupt, She enters the thickness,and a machine starts up Of chitterings, and of tremor of wings,and trillings - The whole tree trembles and thrills It is the engine of her family. She stokes it full, then flirts out to a branch-end Showing her barred face identity mask Then with eerie delicate whistle-chirrup whisperings She launches away, towards the infinite And the laburnum subsides to empty You remember the question your teacher gave you to answer. And answer you did! "By changing nothing, nothing changes. Is change good or bad in life?" You had answered it so beautifully, if you must say so. So beautifully that you felt that you could achieve anything that you wanted after that. You wrote in your legible, but not exactly beautiful writing, "Change is omnipresent and it is inevitable in one's life and in this world. Without change like day and night, summer and winter, our lives would be meaningless, monotonous and in short, non-existent. Change is the force that drives one forward, to do better and to be better. Without the onset of dusk, we don't appreciate the day and without the arrival of dawn, there is no importance of the night in our lives. Similarly, in the poem, 'The Laburnum Top' by Ted Hughes, the tree is silent and empty at first. But as the Goldfinch comes, the excitement of the events makes the tree lively. At the end, the tree becomes lifeless again when the Goldfinch leaves. This tells us the importance of change, both good and bad as it helps us to improve ourselves and to adapt to new situations. In a nutshell, change is the basic necessity of life without which no one can survive and it is the only thing constant in one's lives." You laugh. "Oh my goodness! How do I remember all of this? And that too so precisely?" Your dog looks at you with its puppy-dog eyes. You realize that it is hungry and you feed him some of the leftovers. You hear a bell. It's not your phone, you check and think. You realize that it is the doorbell, or rather, the restaurant bell. Your face lits up. This is the first customer you have got in ages! Smiling, you go over to where they are seated and hand them the menu. It is only AFTER you give them the menu that you recognize them. It's the world-renowned author, Bheem Singh. You say, "Sir, it is such a pleasure to meet you. What can I get for you?" "I'd like a piece of your famous chocolate cake with a side of vanilla ice-cream, please." "H-How'd you know that? We've stopped serving it for ages. Well, no problem. I'll bring it to you anyways." "Yeah. I used to come here to write. I actually wrote my first novel right here. It's so sad that you're going to shut it down..." "Oh! I didn't know that." "Yes." You go into the kitchen, away from Bheem's eyes and think out loud, 'Wow! I am really lucky! I just baked a cake yesterday and here Bheem Singh, the world-famous author comes in and asks for it.' You bring in the cake and the ice-cream. "Now, sir, which toppings would you like?" "Please, call me Bheem. And I'll have caramel sauce over it, thank you." "Sure, Bheem." You pour the sauce over the dish and serve it to your esteemed customer. "Um,", he says between mouthfuls, "please do sit, after all, it is your restaurant." You sit down beside him, thinking. Finally, you gather the courage and ask, "If you don't mind, I've got a question." "Sure. Shoot away." "I never saw you here. Then howcome you're saying that you came here?" "When you are still undiscovered, people usually don't notice you. Wait a minute." He takes out his phone and scrolls the screen. "Here you go. See this person in the background of all these students? That's me. This is my class photo. I was very shy and didn't have many friends then." "Oh! I remember this class. I had to spend the whole night cleaning up after this party. Wait! This kid, YOU, you were the one who helped me clean up that night. You're the NICE kid!" He blushes slightly, "Yes, that was me." "Now I recognize you." "Yes." After a long pause, he says, "So, I heard you're closing up. Why so?" "Um, business is slow these days. No one comes in since the pandemic. Apparently everyone's very scared." "Oh." "Yes." "I have an idea. Why don't I help you renovate this place? We'll be partners." "What?! Are you serious?" "Yes, no kidding." "This is going to be the perfect revamp and re-marketing for my restaurant. I'm listening." "Not like this. If we're going to discuss the renovation of a restaurant, we should do it while eating something." "But you just had dessert, and I just ate my dinner." "No problem, a little dessert never did anything to anyone. I'll have another round of this amazingness." He said, pointing towards his now-empty plate. You go into the kitchen again, take out another plate and are about to return with the desserts when someone behind you says, "Keep your hands where I can see them, and don't look back." {NOTE: Includes the poem, 'The Laburnum Top' by Ted Hughes. This is his poem, not mine. Also, this story is inspired a bit from the answer the narrator speaks out loud. It is written by me for the same question. How's it?}


Trigger warning: kidnapping, firearm, threat of violence, foul language They call me “The Luckiest Woman Alive.”

I would say that’s a pretty accurate description – that is, if you buy into the more traditional meaning of “luck” –, as I’ve won pretty much every lottery, sweepstake and contest I’ve ever entered, the prizes ranging from all-expenses-paid trips and dream houses to cars, boats and cold hard cash.

Of course, another term of endearment given to me – one that’s particularly popular amongst the masses – is “Rich Bitch.” I hate to use the “poor little rich girl” card here but it turns out that having money doesn’t exactly make you well-loved. I know, shocking right? I often have a good cry about it on my yacht, on my way to the bank (#sorrynotsorry). To be fair, though, the title of “The Luckiest Woman Alive” feels rather ironic right now as I find myself sitting tied to this sweaty rickety plastic chair, inside what I can only gather is some kind of a shipping container with a dimmed light bulb right above my head, flickering like a poor man’s disco ball.

On my left-hand side, next to the wavy, rusty wall, stands a man. He’s about 5’9, slightly chubby with a mustache and red overalls that make him look like Dennis the Menace on steroids.

I gather that this is the man who’s kidnapped me.

Granted, I never actually saw my kidnapper on my way here but that’s because I had a nosebleed seat (read: in the trunk of my own car with a black bag pulled over my head and my nose literally bleeding after having an unfortunate encounter with someone’s elbow), but there’s something about the way this man has trained the barrel of his gun on me that doesn’t exactly scream “knight in shining armor!” However, despite the gun pointed at me, my bloody and throbbing nose, the duct tape digging into my wrists behind my back, I decide that I feel pretty okay. In a strange way, it’s almost a relief that this has finally happened, that after all these years I’ve finally been kidnapped, something that was bound to happen eventually anyway. And maybe it’s this very relief, my sudden clarity of mind, or the duct tape around my wrists, stopping the blood flow to that part of my brain that deals with reason, but I suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to say something to my kidnapper, like I could talk myself out of this, negotiate. And so I clear my throat and open my mouth.

“Excuse me...um…”

I don’t know my kidnapper’s name, but since a) I know how important it is to establish rapport early on in any negotiation (torture included, I’d imagine), b) I personally hate when someone calls me “ma’am,” or “hey you,” and c) he’s a Caucasian male in the US, I decide to play the odds. “...John?” I venture. Unfortunately, this does not have the desired effect as my kidnapper, whose name is clearly not John, turns to me swiftly, an irritated look plastered on his face. “Did you call me John?” he says, his husky voice bouncing off the walls.

My eyes dart from left to right, as if looking for the nearest exit, and manage a little nod. “That’s not my name!” he barks. “Why would you call me that? Is that some rich person thing where you just call everybody John and they never correct you because they don’t want to upset you or overwork your precious little brain?” Whoa! I hadn’t even considered someone could draw that kind of a conclusion. Also, he’s clearly making some very stereotypical assumptions about rich people here, but what with my life hanging in the balance and all, I think it best not to point that out.

“You just look like a John,” I offer calmly. There’s a small pause, then his mouth stretches into a crooked smile. “What? Like, John Wayne or something?” More like “Here’s Johnny!” “Hmm, I was thinking of another John, but yeah, I mean, sure.” He steps closer to me now. So close, in fact, that I can smell him. Interestingly enough, he doesn’t smell what I would expect a Dexter-type serial killer to smell like (soap and bleach) but more like a mixture of cologne and sweat. “Well, you’ve got my attention now,” he hisses. “What do you want to say?” I gulp, the sound more audible than I would have hoped. “I was just wondering,” I start, “what is a girl like me doing in a place like this?” Not-John stares at me. Above me, the light bulb is flickering frantically, making a static sound.

“Glad you asked,” he says at last, then extends his arms to his sides. “This,” he says, “is a kidnapping.” Duh. I shift my weight uncomfortably. “Well, that much I figured. I mean, the bag over my head was kind of a tip-off, wasn’t it?” He blanks at me. I guess he was expecting me to gasp or faint or have more of a reaction than I did because he goes on to say, “No. I mean, this is a real kidnapping.” “Is there any other kind?” “What I mean is this isn’t some rich socialite’s ‘Extreme Kidnapping Experience’ or something like that. Or some Skull and Bones’ or Sticks and Stones’ or some other secret society’s initiation ritual.” “Thank God for that!” I let out. “Personally, I’ve always abhorred secret societies.” He grabs the collar of my blood-stained Mulberry silk blouse, pulling the fabric so hard that it tears, and I swear that somewhere I hear millions of silk worms screaming, “Nooooooooooooo!” “Do you think this is a joke, lady?” he says, his breath hot on my face. Without waiting for an answer, he lifts up his gun and dangles it in front of my face. “Do you know what this is? This is a gun. A Glock! A .22 caliber.” The thing is I don’t take this as a joke at all. I guess you never really know how you’ll react in a crisis until it actually happens, and now I know. I’m calm, I’m focused, I’m not thinking about what could happen, I’m fully in the moment. Which is probably why, instead of begging him not to shoot me, the next thing out of my mouth is, “It’s…um…very shiny.” I can see the color drain from his face, and he lets his arms drop to his sides. “Shiny?” he echoes, incredulous. “Shiny?” “I know,” I say with an apologetic sigh. “Gun small-talk is not my forte, but I’m really not a firearm person, so what can you do? Anyway, there must be a reason why you haven’t shot me yet. So, what is it? What do you want from me?” He stares at me from one eye to the other and that crooked smile appears on his lips again. “Information,” he says and, then, without further ado, turns around on his heels and walks away, his shoes making a funny, almost non-threatening, Charlie Chaplinesque squeaking sound against the floor.

He stops next to the door of the container, bends over to pick up a brown bag of goodies from the floor and pulls out… …a pair of big, hefty pliers. The type he will probably use to go “this piggy went to the market” on my toes, or fingers, or teeth.

Awesome. He holds the pliers up, glances at me, gives me an evil grin, and in just two leaps is back to standing next to me, brandishing the object in the air a couple of inches from my face. “Care to guess what these babies are for?” he asks. “Mmm, some kind of home improvement?” I offer. “They are for ripping off your tongue.” “Ah.” Aw, barf. “And what exactly,” I manage, “would prompt you to rip off my tongue?” “If you don’t tell me what I want to know.” I think about that for a moment. “But if I don’t have a tongue, then I really can’t tell you what you want to know.” “Then you better start talking,” he says. I want to challenge him on that logic, but then just give up and nod. “Fine. How can I help you?”

I already know what he wants to know, of course. It’s what everybody wants to know. It’s what I want to know. Not-John leans closer to me, showing off his dental hygiene (or the lack thereof). “How the Hell did you win seventeen lotteries? The odds of winning even one are infinitesimal. So. What’s your trick?”

It’s actually way more than seventeen lotteries, but when you have a gun against your head, it’s probably best not to brag. “And don’t even think about lying,” he says before I can open my mouth. “I can always tell when someone is not being sincere. Professional hazard. Lying will earn you a bullet in the head!” “Bullet in the head. Got it.” “So, tell me the truth.” I let out a sigh. “Fine, but I feel like you’re going to be disappointed with my answer.” “I’ll take my chances.” I draw a deep breath, bracing myself - and him - for what’s to come. “I got lucky,” I say at last. Not-John chuckles, then his face turns serious as he realizes that I’m not joking.

“Lucky,” he echoes. “Lucky,” I say. “That’s it. Sheer, pure, good old-fashioned dumb luck.” He gawks at me, examining my face, then finally scoffs and shakes his head. “What a fucking waste!” he groans. He walks away from me, paces the floor, his hands folded behind his neck, cursing. Then he seems to snap out of it, strides back to me, grabs his gun, and presses it against my forehead. “I guess I’ll kill you now, then.” Whoaaaaa! That escalated fast. “No, now wait a minute, I told you the truth!” I protest. “You said lying would earn me a bullet in the head and I didn’t lie!” “I know you didn’t lie,” he says. “That’s why I’m killing you.” “Wow,” I say, flabbergasted. “I hate to break it to you, my friend, but you don’t have the slightest clue how this whole carrot-and-stick thing is supposed to work.” “It’s just no use,” he whines. “If you’re telling me the truth - and I know you are -, that means that there’s no trick, that it’s really just been dumb luck. So, now there’s no use keeping you alive because you’ve seen my face and you’ll just go running to the cops, making things difficult for me.” “B-but I could give you money,” I sputter. “I don’t know if you’ve heard but I’m kind of loaded.” He rolls his eyes. “And why would someone like you give money to someone like me ?” I shrug as much as the duct tape around my wrists allows. “Well, that gun against my temple is pretty convincing.” He seems to be thinking about that, then smacks his lips. “No,” he says. “If it was money I wanted, I would have pulled a bank job. I wanted to know your trick. But now that I know that you don’t have one-” “I’m lucky!” I interrupt him, my voice shrill. “Yeah, yeah, we’ve established that,” he says dismissively.

“You pull that trigger,” I say with emphasis, “and the bullet is going to ricochet. It’s going to be your brain on the floor instead of mine.” He stares at me, then bursts out laughing. “Now why would it do that?” “I told you,” I say, staring him dead in the eye. “I. Am. Lucky.” He scoffs. “Just because you won seventeen lotteries…” “Thirty-six,” I interrupt him. “It was thirty-six lotteries.” He narrows his eyes at me, suspicious. He must see that I’m not lying. “I’ve heard of seventeen,” he says. “If I’d had my way, you would only have heard of the first one, the time when I thought people would actually want to celebrate my victory with me. I know, I know, I was young and naive. The second time, I tried to hide it, but in California you can’t remain anonymous when claiming lottery winnings. By the time number three came along, I had moved to another state, but it leaked to the press, as did numbers four to seventeen. I’ve gotten wiser since then, of course. Now everybody who works with me or for me has to sign an iron-clad NDA, and I have a very small circle of people around me.” Not-John blanks at me. He suddenly looks like he’s having trouble breathing. “So, you’re not just a multi-millionaire,” he manages, “you’re a…” “...billionaire,” I say with a nod. “Many times over.” He shakes his head disapprovingly. “That’s way more money than anybody should ever have!” “Agreed,” I say. “But in my defense, I give most of my money to charities, research, startups, plays, my family and friends, and yes, sometimes strangers like you. The only reason that I still keep playing and entering contests is to see how long it’ll take until my luck runs out.” He gives a grave nod. “And now it seems like it has.” “Or has it?” I say hurriedly. “I don’t know that yet. And neither do you.” It’s a small movement, but I can see his hand that’s holding the gun starting to shake. “But your bad luck has already started,” he points out. “I mean, you were kidnapped, for Pete’s sake!” “I don’t see that so much as bad luck.” “No?” “No. It’s been… interesting so far. Granted, I wasn’t crazy about getting ‘bag hair’ on my way here, and that elbow to the nose was really unnecessary. But it’s definitely been a day with a lot of firsts. For example, I saw my own car from a whole new perspective.” “The trunk?” “Yep. Gave me a whole new appreciation for the car. And a reminder of how much I prefer the backseat.” He laughs, despite himself.

“Also, never been to a shipping container before. So, that’s new.” He offers a small nod. “This is a car carrier, actually.” “Really?” I say. “Well, I find it quaint. Do you come here often?” A ghost of a smile dances on his lips. “Why? You hitting on me?” “Hmm, well, I can’t say that Stockholm syndrome has fully kicked in yet but maybe, sans the kidnapping and the elbow to the nose and the whole gun-against-my-head thing, I would definitely probably maybe perhaps not completely swipe left on you.” The smile on his lips disappears and his eyes clear with realization. “You’re stalling,” he says. “Maybe,” I admit. “Or maybe it’s you who’s stalling. Maybe you’re thinking, ‘Do I really want to test my luck against her? The Luckiest Woman Alive?’” And that’s all I need, that seed of doubt, that hesitation, buying me just a couple of extra seconds. He forces a laugh and presses the barrel of the gun tighter against my head. “Pathetic,” he murmurs and then there’s a loud bang and my eyes squeeze shut in anticipation of the pain. But the pain never comes.

When I open my eyes, I see Not-John still facing me, but now his hands are up in the air and there’s loud yelling bouncing off the rusty walls. Behind Not-John, I see a sea of blue uniforms and the kicked-in door of the car carrier. Just like in slow-motion, I watch the uniforms run towards Not-John, cuff him in front of me and read him his Miranda. Another blue uniform runs to me and unties me. She says something, but suddenly it seems I have forgotten how to speak and understand words. She says it again. This time, I understand her. “Are you okay?”

I manage a small nod and then, for a reason unbeknownst to me, I double over, bury my head in my hands and burst into tears.

“Ma’am,” the cop tells me gently. “You’re having a panic attack. Can you breathe?” But it’s not that.

I lift my head up and smile at her. “I’m fine,” I manage to choke out.

“Are you sure? There’s a doctor right outside who will check you.” I shake my head. “That’s okay.” “I must insist.” “Can it wait?” I ask. “I’d like to get some air first.” The cop hesitates, then nods. She pulls out a blue baseball cap. “Better wear this,” she says. “The press is already here.” The press… I guess the one good thing about having paparazzi sleep outside my gate is that it’s difficult to kidnap me without them noticing. One of them must have called the cops. I slip out the door into the cold evening air, hiding behind a wall of blue uniforms, and draw in a deep, slow inhale. I can see the flashing lights ahead, people screaming my name, the helicopters hovering above me, but it’s like I’m witnessing it all from outside my body.

It’s late and the entire sky looks like one big storm cloud, casting a dark shadow on my surroundings, painting them black and white, and yet, I see everything in technicolor. And it’s at this very moment that I realize that I’ve never felt luckier than I do right here and right now. Lucky to be alive, lucky to draw another breath, lucky to have another day in this beautiful world.

My gaze sweeps over the flashing lights. My kidnapper appears to be long gone, so I turn around and cast my words to the wind that carries them away, never to be heard by anyone. “Thank you, Not-John,” I say under my breath. Seriously.

Thank you.


The traffic was horrible.

Heat shimmered in the air above the cars and the stench of exhaust penetrated the air conditioning, slightly burning my sinuses and leaving an unpleasant trace on my tongue.

The entire week had been as bad as this traffic and all I wanted to do was collapse at home and forget that there was a world around me until Monday forced me into it once more.

Just get me home, Lord, and I’ll stay there. It was cool in the apartment and leaving the sweltering aroma of the rush hour behind made simply stepping in the door cathartic.

The couch beckoned from across the room as I entered but the need to wash the accumulated stress of the week away pulled me to the shower first.

I scrubbed beneath hot water then stood, I don’t know how long, with the cold flowing over me.

I think I almost fell asleep standing in the shower but my relaxation was interrupted before I was ready to leave. The telephone rang. I knew that I would be unable to get to it in time to answer, so I didn’t hurry really, but my relaxation was thoroughly disrupted so I stepped out of the shower to towel off.

I forced myself to dry slowly and carefully, feeling a sort of perverse pleasure in making the caller wait for a response.

I walked to the bedroom and again took my time pulling on shorts and a t-shirt.

I didn’t intend to go anywhere so I dressed for staying home, again feeling that pleasant twist from denying any departure by my actions. I walked back to the living room, pausing to look at my phone for a moment as it lay on the counter like a trap on an animal’s trail.

I reached out for it then turned away and walked to the couch, ignoring the call of civilization in favor of the soft call of the cushions.

I stretched out slowly, letting the tension of my entire body fall away into the foam beneath me.

My mind drifted gently into a state of ease, forgetting the week, the stench, and the heat, falling toward slumber. A jarring ring brought me upright in an instant.

It was the damned phone again.

Why didn’t I turn it off? I got up and walked to the counter where the phone rattled against the formica like the buzzing of a snake’s tail with each ring.

I picked it up and, as expected, it stopped ringing as soon as my hand touched it.

I immediately turned off the ringer and stood for a moment locked between the desire to see who was calling and the urge to put the phone back down and return to the couch.

With an eventual sigh, I opened the call log to see who had disturbed my attempt at relaxation.

Both calls were from Chris, my best friend for years, and I couldn’t make myself ignore them.

With another sigh I hit the button and called him back. The phone rang twice and Chris answered, “Hey man, whatchu up to?” “Well, I just got in from work, took a shower and was almost crashed on the couch when you called.” “Well I’m glad I caught you before you could crash.”

Chris responded enthusiastically.

“I could use a hand over here for a few minutes, then I’m grilling some burgers and have beer on ice.” I sighed. “Chris, I’m tired and really want some peace and quiet for a bit.

Is it important?” “It’s important to me.”

He laughed.

“I got a truckload of lumber and if I can get it set off by the house, I’m gonna start the new deck tomorrow.” Chris was my best friend, had been since high school, and he was one of very few people who would come help me should I be in need.

“I’ll be over in a little while.”

I answered.

“I don’t want to be out late though, I’m beat.”

“See you then.”

He replied in a voice that sounded almost like a laugh.

Chris was irrepressibly cheerful which was normally one of his endearing traits but at the moment it was sort of grating. I changed to some shorts a little more substantial than the gym shorts I wore around the house, pulled on socks and tennis shoes, then headed out the door.

I didn’t realize that I forgot my keys and wallet until I reached for the car door, which seemed typical for the evening.

I walked back to my door and realized that, naturally, I’d locked the apartment door with my keys inside.

I thought about screaming but I couldn’t really work up the energy so I just moped my way around to the office to get the manager to come unlock my door.

She heard my story and reached for the key, coming around the desk toward me as though she had almost as much desire to interact with others as I did at the moment.

She did come let me into my apartment, though.

I got my keys and wallet then headed back to my car.

It was about a twenty minute drive out to Chris’ but he lived out of town and it was late enough that the rush hour traffic was gone and early enough that the Friday evening traffic had yet to arrive.

The conditions being much better than my commute home, going to see a good friend, and enjoying a little actual solitude in the car turned out to be decently relaxing.

I didn’t even turn the stereo on, choosing instead to enjoy the relative silence.

I finally arrived about forty-five minutes after our conversation. Chris met me at the car as I pulled in.

“Man! What took you so long?” He grabbed my hand in a shaking grip and pulled me into one of those hugs that accompanied such a cheerful spirit, clapping me on the back as though trying to burp me.

“I’ve already got the grill heating.” “Dude, my car was so happy to be hauling me out to unload lumber after work that it refused to go any faster than twenty-five miles per hour.”

His humor was infectious and I couldn’t help but respond to it.

“It actually turned into the station back at the four way and sat there pouting.

It took me five minutes to convince it to come on down here.”

He laughed loudly at my joke.

“Come on in and say hi to Sarah.

She’ll be glad to see you and I’ll grab us a beer before we unload the truck.” “I’ll wait on the beer, but I’ll be happy to say hi.

Sarah hugs better than you do anyway.” He chuckled, clapping me on the shoulder as we walked in through the back door.

His wife, Sarah, was in the kitchen turning a pile of ground beef into hamburger patties but came around the counter to throw an arm around my neck, holding her hands out clear of me.

“Good to see you, Jim.

Come on in and have a seat.” “No time for sitting, your husband’s a slave driver.”

I responded with a smile.

“Every time I come out it’s work, work, work the whole time.

You know how he is.” She laughed.

She was as cheerful as Chris himself but in a softer way that helped offset his occasionally overwhelming exuberance.

“Maybe he won’t work you too hard and we at least intend to feed you.” “I see that.”

I gestured toward the pile of meat remaining and the three patties already on the pan beside it.

“If you want me to eat all of that I will probably need to be here all weekend.” Chris made a whip crack sound from the door.

“Cindy and her boyfriend are going to be back in a little while.

He could help unload the lumber but being teenagers they have a talent for being absent when the work’s happening.”

He made the whipping sound again.

“Now get on out here.

If you won’t drink a beer first then let’s get this job on the road.” His truck was parked around back and it was most definitely loaded with lumber.

For the next twenty minutes or more, Chris and I unloaded and stacked boards, sorting them into piles for sills, joists and decking.

His trailer was parked to one side loaded with foundation blocks.

He saw me looking and laughed again.

“Those we can just unload as we use them.”

He told me.

“I seldom drive to town in the trailer.”

His own humor made him laugh again. Sarah was putting patties on the grill as we finished up.

“I hope you’re close enough to finished that you can watch the burgers!”

She called from the soon to be enlarged back porch. “Why?

Are they going to do some tricks?”

Chris called back in his usual manner. Sarah just turned with a chuckle and headed back inside.

“Jackass,” Came floating back on the hot evening air as she left. Chris turned to me laughing.

We were both absolutely dripping with sweat and I was very much wishing I’d at least brought a dry shirt.

“Why don’t we go get that beer?”

He asked me, “Then we can get you one of my shirts to wear at least.”

It was funny how good friends often seem to read your mind. I took the beer and downed it in three long swallows.

I’m not much of a drinker and less for beer than other drinks, but there is something about an ice cold beer when you’re hot and thirsty that is hard to beat.

Chris threw me a shirt as I took the second swallow and walked out to watch the grill.

I walked into the bathroom and dragged my own sodden t-shirt over my head.

I washed off as well as one can without a shower then put on the shirt Chris had gotten for me.

He was a bit bigger than I and it draped enough to make me feel a little emaciated beneath it.

I walked back out to the porch, spread my wet shirt over the rail to dry, and grabbed another beer from the cooler.

This one I just sipped while chatting with Chris.

The burgers were coming off the grill and Sarah was laying out buns and all the trimmings on the bar between the kitchen and dining room when a car pulled into the driveway.

“Yep, they might miss the work but they’re always in time to eat.” Chris chortled as the car came to a stop in front of the house.

“That’s Cindy and what’s his name, her boyfriend.” We walked in the back with the burgers as they walked in the front from the car.

“Hi, Uncle Jim!” Cindy called to me.

“This is my boyfriend, Jeremy.” “Nice to meet you, sir.”

The kid said as he shook my hand. “Jim’s the hit man I’ve been telling you about.”

Chris called from the counter where he was setting the platter of meat down.

“I think he’s got about a thousand kills, six of them my daughter’s former boyfriends.” “Daddy would you hush?”

Cindy chided.

She and Jeremy were both stifling laughter so it was obvious that this joke had made the rounds before.

Cindy was a pretty girl, and smart, but I’d known her all her life and I didn’t remember another boyfriend.

Sixteen was early enough to pick the first. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the company, Chris and his family were definitely some of my favorite people, but I had every intention of unloading the truck, grabbing dinner, and going back home for some quiet isolation.

What happened involved sipping a third beer after dinner, talking with Sarah and Chris and all the while making playful fun of the kids displaying their gaming skills and laughing.

It was an enjoyable evening, really, but when I finally climbed in my car it was nearly ten forty-five and I was exhausted.

I got home after eleven and walked straight in for another shower.

I sat reading for awhile afterward and finally stretched out in bed about midnight. I awakened just after seven and lay there in bed, staring at the ceiling fan and enjoying the silence.

The clock said seven thirty-four when I finally decided to get up and greet the day.

I looked out the window at the retreating shadows and decided that I might go down to the pool and swim a little after breakfast then went to the kitchen and cooked bacon and eggs to accompany the coffee which I’d started earlier.

I sat down at the table and slowly chewed the first bite of egg. I was washing the bite down with a swallow of coffee when a jarring ring disturbed my reverie.

I decided to ignore the phone. I took another leisurely bite, washed it down with more coffee and heard the phone notify me that the caller had left a message as I did.

I sighed, reached for the phone and heard the raucous buzzing of the doorbell.