Arthur yanks on his mittens and quickly rubs his palms together in a pathetic attempt to generate some warmth. He wonders (for at least the hundredth time) why he hasn’t moved away from this godforsaken town with a windchill that makes Antarctica look like paradise.

His car door creaks open as the cold December air sucks his breath away and freezes his nose hairs. Careful not to slip on the black ice in the parking lot, he places his boots firmly onto the ground and hoists himself up out of the car.

A mother and her three young children bustle past him, one of them crying “Mommy, slow down!” Arthur barely has time to leap out of the way in order to avoid a collision with a stroller the size of a golf cart.

Christ, what’s everyone in such a rush about? Arthur thinks to himself while shuffling towards the grocery store doors. The last thing he needs is to slip and fall in the parking lot. Being surrounded by a flock of do-gooders hastily running over to help a poor old man up off the cold, wet concrete sounds like his worst nightmare. Just thinking about it gives him a shiver of dread down his spine as he imagines the pity he’d elicit from the worried faces of strangers.

Arthur wouldn’t be wandering into the grocery store alone, worrying about falling if Cece were still here. What would she think of him if she saw him now? Grief blooms in his chest.

The sudden chime of the automatic sliding doors snaps Arthur out of his daydream. He notices a folding table set up outside the store entrance. It’s covered with a cherry red tablecloth and decorated with cut-out paper snowflakes, the ones he recalls making as a child in elementary school. There’s large thermoses resting on the table surrounded by stacks of styrofoam cups and bags of marshmallows. As Arthur approaches, he notices the sign boasting, “Best hot chocolate in town!” Adults and children hurry around the table pouring hot chocolate for those who have wandered up to the table for (what’s probably not) the best hot chocolate in town.

Despite the cold, these people look pretty cheerful. A donation box sits perched on the far end of the hot chocolate stand, explaining that all proceeds will be donated to the local food pantry. Being in the presence of people doing good just to do good brings a pit to Arthur’s stomach. This is something he and Cece would have done during the holiday season, but instead he’s plotting how to sneak by them without making a donation. He wonders when he became a bitter old man.

But, the feeling of guilt isn’t enough to make Arthur want to stop and make conversation with the friendly volunteers.

“Would you like some hot chocolate?” He hears a tiny voice calling up to him from the ground.

Arthur peers down at the small girl dressed in a shiny purple jacket with a purple knitted hat and gloves to match looking back up at him expectantly.

“It’s really good. I promise!” She exclaims hopefully.

At first, he says nothing. The child has a sprinkle of freckles across her round cheeks and little nose, both turned deep red from the cold. Two braids the color of honey stick out from the bottom of her hat. Her dark brown eyes shine up at him and her bright smile doesn’t falter.

Not a bad salesperson, I’ll give her that. “Um, no. No, that’s alright,” Arthur mutters as he tries to walk past her.

What kind of monster am I, turning down a simple cup of hot chocolate from a little girl? She is not deterred. “Are you sure? I can even put mini marshmallows in it!” The confident voice of this young child reminds him of his own daughter when she was that age. There’s no doubt Olivia inherited her charm and cheerfulness from Cece.

Cece.

Cece would be beaming back at this girl, already having said yes and standing in front of the table chatting with the other adults. He can just imagine the look on her face when she’d take her first sip and crouch down to tell the girl, “This really is the best hot chocolate in town!” Cece always knew just what to say.

Arthur sighs and takes stock of his frozen nose hairs and chapped lips. He figures he can enjoy a quick cup of hot chocolate, throw a few singles into the donation box, and get on with his day.

With resignation he says, “Well, alright. I’ll take one hot chocolate please. But go easy on the marshmallows.” The child squeals out an excited, “Yes!” and hurries back over to the stand where an adult helps her assemble the drink. Arthur approaches the table and thanks the volunteer while placing a few dollars into the box. He smiles tightly, hoping to convey his gratitude while making it clear he’s not in the mood for small talk.

“I really hope you like it. I think it’s the best one I’ve made today!” The girl grins brightly at him. She turns away but after a few steps looks over her shoulder and calls back to him, “Oh, and Merry Christmas, sir!”

Arthur brings the steaming cup to his lips and hesitantly takes a small sip.

Laughter fills their kitchen.

“Mom, I want you to open my gift next!” James shouts from the living room, where he’s sprawled across the living room floor in his plaid flannel pajamas. He peels open another chocolate snowman while Olivia peeks into her stocking. The fire crackles loudly and Christmas lights twinkle outside in the dark December night.

“Okay, I’ll be right there sweetheart!” she calls back, quickly pouring steaming milk into four mugs featuring Santa’s face.

“Arthur, would you grab the bag of–” She jumps and squeaks out a surprised “Oh!” Arthur has wrapped his arms around her waist to give her a firm squeeze accompanied by a quick kiss to the spot right below her ear. Cece turns to face him and places her hands on either side of his face, feeling rough stubble on her fingertips. She grins and his favorite dimple on her right cheek appears.

“Kiss me. It’s Christmas,” he smiles back at her.

“Ew!” Olivia shrieks as she slides into the kitchen on her new fuzzy reindeer-covered socks.

Cece presses her nose to Arthur’s before releasing him and turning back to the hot chocolate.

“Mom, don’t forget, I need extra marshmallows with mine,” James says while licking a smudge of chocolate off the side of his hand. Arthur walks over to the pantry, reaching for the bag of marshmallows. He places them on the counter just as Cece swirls a spoon in each mug to dissolve the powdered chocolate. The clink of a spoon against the inside of a mug is the sound of Christmas Eve in their household.

He grabs two of the mugs while Cece picks up the others and he follows her into the living room. He hands one to Olivia who says sweetly, “Thanks, Dad.” James has already taken his first gulp, and yells, “Ouch!” Cece chuckles and shakes her head. “Blow on it first, sweetie.” Olivia snuggles into her spot on the couch while James goes searching for his present for Cece under the tree. Arthur sits next to his wife, placing an arm around her shoulder. He pulls her in close and taps his Santa mug against hers. The golden glow from the fire reflects off her dark brown eyes.

“Merry Christmas, Cece,” he murmurs as he gently presses his lips to hers. Arthur blinks and finds that his eyes are wet. The fist of grief that usually clenches his chest is replaced by a feeling of warmth. He’s finished his hot chocolate.

Pulling the crinkled grocery list from his winter jacket, Arthur steps inside the store.


She slumped down in the little Sigma, which was parked on the main road right out the front of the venue. The car had seen better days. It was a sun-worn red, it stank of cigarettes long smoked, and it was always only about half-filled with fuel. But it still had spoilers and mags and went red. Red goes faster.

But not when you're trying to get changed and the line for the show is just outside the car window. She gave up being discreet and took off her work shirt, bra out for the world to see. It was soon covered by a band shirt. Not the shirt of the band playing tonight. Some other band. It's not like she was here in the guise of a fan. 'This is so freaking difficult,' she grated to the long-haired blonde who was calmly munching his way through a yiros and gazing out the window. 'Always such a rush.' 'Calm down,' he said. 'We've got heaps of time.'

'Easy for you to say,' she retorted, tossing her clothes onto the back seat and rummaging around in her bag for makeup. Finally finding what she was after, she took a moment to take a breath before touching up her face appropriately. The last thing she needed was eyeliner smooshed across her face, and nowhere to wash it off and start again. Getting out of work on time had been difficult. It was a long day. It began before dawn. It ended just on sunset. And it wasn't over yet; the second part of the day was just beginning. The show would go until midnight. Then there were notes to decipher, comments to recall, a vibe to convey. It was just as well that she lived with a photographer whose gig was going to be to sit up for the entire night, selecting, running post, sequencing and submitting. It sounded like such a glorious life: *Music journalist*. If only people knew how fucking hard the work was. Rushed, tiring, underpaid or never paid. Trolls online. Death threats from bands' girlfriends when a review didn't go well. Makeup finished, she slumped back in her seat and sighed. Ate a soggy chip. Looked at her watch.

'Ok, let's do it.' They bailed out of the car, locked it. Walked up the steps to the venue's entrance, printed authorisation in hand.

'Good evening!' the middle-aged door lady greeted them. 'You on tonight are you?' 'Should be!' our girl laughed. 'If Rod's done his job right.' She handed over the verification. 'Jasmine plus one,' the door lady murmured. Scanned the list. Pointed. 'Yep, here y'are.' She put a line through a name on her list, stamped both wrists, added an age-verification paper bracelet so they could buy drinks, and waved them in. The venue was already full. Squwarks of guitar strings, random notes, and isolated drum beats issued from the stage. The support act was warming up. Tonight there'd be three support acts before the main event. 'Fucking hell, *three* supports?' Jasmine sighed to her partner. 'Who decided that was a good idea on a school night?'. Plus One shrugged. 'No time for a drink it looks like.' He nodded towards the stage; the band was assembling itself and the vocalist was about to say something inane. 'Better go grab a spot.' They ambled into the room, greeting people they knew along the way. One of them was a fellow journalist, someone who never had a notebook or a pen and who was perpetually drunk. For the next half-hour, and then the next three half-hours, and then the main event itself, Jasmine stood in a central rear location, near the mixing desk. It was always the spot with the best sound. Too close to the front and you lose the high-end. Too far to the side, all you hear is one half of what's broadcasting, gets bassy, fuzzy. It made sense that the best sound was almost right where the sound engineer sat. Jasmine scribbed notes. Random comments from stage. Mostly song names. In between times, she drank beer, talked to people she knew. Excused herself to go to the loo to write impressions in the stinky peace. Plus One shot three songs, no flash, of each band. His night was easy in comparison: Totally at liberty to socialise, smoke, drink, have fun. In between the start of each set, anyway. The rigours of the day melted off Jasmine as she worked. By the end of the night, a bit drunk, filled with the rhythm of live music and the energy of a crowd, she was exhiliarated. As security shuffled them out at the end of the night, Jasmine began mentally sequencing the show in her head. Thought of angles for her review. Began categorising what was good, what was not so good, and why the second support ought to give up. They were terrible. An elbow in the side interrupted her. She looked up. It was the guitarist from the second support act. 'Saw ya making notes,' he grinned. 'Journo are ya?' He leered down at her. He was off his tits. If he were any more drunk his eyes would be located on different sides of his head. Jasmine raised an eyebrow, smiled. 'Something like that.' 'It'ssshhh only coss you carn play anythink,' he said. 'Wishhhh you could be an art, art, artissshht and all ya got is tha'.' He waved his hand, lurched through the door as they reached it. 'Write whatever you want, darl, we dohnnn give a fhark. At leasssht we're playin'. Plus One caught Jasmine's eye as the guitarist lurched away. He could see that it had hit her. Hard.

'Ignore him,' he said, throwing an arm over her shoulders. 'It takes real talent to write a good critique. Why are you bothered?' Jasmine shrugged off Plus One's arm, fished her car keys out of her pocket. 'Because on some level he's right,' she stated pedantically. 'If I was any good as an artist myself, I wouldn't be spending my nights writing *this* for free.'


He is dying. She knows that and doesn't know how to feel about it. Is she supposed to be unset? He is her father. She should be grieving. Moving towards the house she grew up in, her steps slow as she reaches the porch. A creak as her foot hits the bottom step. A pause as she waits for her heartbeat to catch up. A thousand memories flood her mind with just that sound. Jumping over it, as not to alert him. Sitting on it, locked out of the house.  She pulls in a deep breath as she prepares to climb the others. The squeak of the screen door brings to mind her me-ma’s house. It was the one place she felt safe. Summers on the farm, running around with her cousins, just being a child. The next steps bring her to the door. A slight hesitation before she knocks. Maybe no one will answer. Perhaps he is already gone. Hope mixed with dread at this thought has her shaking. A minute passes before she hears footsteps. They are lighter than her father's. The home health care nurse or her stepmom, she assumes. “Lynn, we are so glad you are here.” She is swept into Mary's arms and breaths in the scent of vanilla that always seemed to surround her. Underneath it is the sickly smell of sickness, the smell of her father. “Thank you. I … had to.” She is led into the house, Mary’s arm around her shoulder. “He has changed.” “No offense but you haven't known him as long as I have.” Mary stops them at the entrance to the living room. The ragged furniture of her childhood has been replaced by well matched sets. A woman ‘s touch. “Lynn, I know what he did. He told me all before we were married. He wanted me to know who I was marrying.” Lynn is shocked. Her hand grabs a hold of the wall. “Yet you married him.” “Yes, because he has changed. God redeemed him. He apologized. I told him it was to the wrong person.” “Yeah.” she stared into the room, her eyes finding the corner, now decorated with a cute shelving unit covered in little figurines. She  wondered if it covered the marks made in it while she held fast as she was beat. “You have a right to hate him. I am not sure how I would feel if I was you. All I can tell you is the angry violent man you knew is gone.” “It is easy to change knowing you are about to meet your maker,” She sighs, “Sorry. None of this is your fault. Thank you for seeing too him.” “Come Lynn. He will need more morphine soon. He wants to talk to you while lucid.” She tightens her shoulders, standing straight. No longer the little girl that hid in her room, praying her daddy wouldn't be angry that day. No longer the teen making plans to leave as soon as she could. No longer the sixteen year old who left home never planning to return. She has made a decent life for herself. Finished highschool while living and working on her own. Now attending college courses online while holding down a full time job and attending counseling, she is in the best place she can be to confront him again. Mary enters first. “Irvin, you have a visitor.” Lynn walks in slowly. The last time she saw her father he was throwing her stuff out. “Get out then!” She can hear his strong angry voice even now, “ After all I did for you this is how you repay me!” She had told him she wanted to move, that she couldn't take his abuse anymore. Shaking her head, she tries to pull herself back into the present. “Who is it?” She recognizes it as her dad’s voice but barely. It carries no strength. There is only a painful weakness. It has her locked in place. She knew but to hear his voice, it brought it all into sharp focus. “Come,” Mary takes her arm and leads her forward. Good. She wasn't sure she could have moved if she hadn't, “it is affecting his eyes. You will have to get close for him to see you.” She whispers to her. “Okay.” her voice comes out weakly too. She leads her to his bedside. He is half the man he was before. Half the weight, half the presence. His once thick dark hair is gone and she can clearly see his skull through what is left. His skin is so pale it is almost translucent. His eyes are dark with pain. Still, they light up some when they see her. “Lynn! Is it you?” Her throat fills with unexpected tears. She simply nods, “I thought I would die before seeing you again.” “I wasn't sure I would come.” She slips into the chair beside his bed. The table beside the bed is full of medicine bottles. “I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. Lynn, I am sorry. My inner demons were in control,” a shake of his head brings a groan. Mary is at his other side. “My love, do you need…” He waves her off. “Not yet. I will bear it for a few minutes,” he focuses’ back on his estranged daughter, “that is true but only part of the excuses. They were but I didn't fight them. My mom raised me better, in church. Your mom would have wanted the same. Forgive me for that as well. If you can at all. I didn't do right by you at all. Her death, no that is another excuse. I could've fought against my demons. I didn't. Lynn, I'm sorry.” “For not raising me in church or…?” She wants to forgive him. The pitiful man that lays dying before her isn't the same man that terrorized her childhood. She sees the difference in his eyes, in the peace that is there, even in the dying. Still, she must know what he is sorry for. “Everything. Every harsh word and touch. Every raised fist and belt. More though, every time I could have and should have been gentle and loving and choose violence instead. I wasn't the father you deserved. You were right to leave.” She finds herself gasping as tears of grief and deep forgiveness run down her face. “I forgive you. I love you.” “Thank you. I love you my sweet girl.” It is the last words he says to her. He slips from a drugged sleep into a deeper unco nscious, then into his final rest. His daughter holds his hand throughout.


Nathan spent all of his savings to give me the wedding of my dreams. He rented out the back of the Birmingham Resort and Spa with its lustrous green lawn dotted with robust shade trees, rock garden landscaping, and natural stream with waterfall flowing behind the trellis my father built for us to be married under. Nathan proposed with a two-carat solitaire diamond set in white gold. My dress is an elegant sleeveless white ball gown, and my bridesmaids wear lavender dresses so that we match the arrangements of calla lilies and lilacs that adorn our outdoor venue. White folding chairs make up ten rows of five on each side of the white runner that marks the aisle. Purple ribbon is strung along the inner chairs on each side. The top-rated wedding photographer in the city was hired to document the day, and we retained the services of our favorite restaurant to do the catering. A three-tier red velvet cake was chosen for dessert, and I look forward to smashing that first piece into Nathan’s face. Looking down from my window within my room in the lodge, I feel that everything is perfect, the perfect June wedding, except for one little detail – a one-nineteen heat index. As I look down from above, I notice that the ushers have heeded my warning and have kept their jackets on despite the heat. The photographer is being paid to get candid photos of the wedding party and guests, and if she doesn’t get the memories I’m looking for, heads are going to roll. I see Pastor Rollins under the trellis, dabbing his head with his handkerchief, bible in hand, as he talks to a couple groomsmen. From what I can see, everyone is present. They’re uncomfortably shifting in their seats, trying to get comfortable, fanning themselves with whatever they can find. I know they must be miserable, but we will make it a quick ceremony, not that it will be much cooler in the reception tent. “Okay, it’s time,” I say to my maid-of-honor, Molly, who leaves me to tell everyone to get ready and fetch my dad. Ten minutes roll by and Molly returns. “Nathan isn’t here yet, but Michael is going to go look for him.” “Michael! He’s the best man. It was his job to get him here.” “I’ll let everyone know it will be a little while longer before we can start.” I start pacing the room as thoughts pace through my mind. Did something happen to him? Was he in an accident? Surely, he didn’t get cold feet… or did he? I return to the window. Everyone is uncomfortable and getting irritable. I see Molly emerge with the other bridesmaids, heading down the aisle with a jug of water and some cups on a cart. I can tell they are being questioned by everyone, but I know my girls can handle it. I’m just thankful they were conscientious enough to think about the water. People who are more acquaintance than friends are rejecting the water and leaving. I find this disheartening, but shake it off, knowing that those who are dearest to me are still here and will be here until we figure out what’s going on with Nathan. I call Nathan. No answer. I call Michael, hoping for some information, but there’s no answer. I call Ben, another groomsman, hoping he knows something. No answer. I try all of the groomsmen and none of them are answering. I go back to the window and cannot see any of them anywhere. All I see is more people getting up to leave. There comes a knock on the door and my Aunt Maurine pokes her head in. “Are you decent,” she asks. “Yeah, come on in.” The expression on Marine’s face says it all. “I hate to do this to you sweetie, but we can’t take this heat anymore. Everyone is melting out there. Maybe you two should just go to the courthouse and have a little get together when it cools back down.” I plop into the chair in front of the vanity. “We spent so much money on this. I have food to feed a hundred and twenty people, plus a cake the size of a small child.” I get up and walk to the window. “Everything looks just as I always imagined it. I know he’ll be here. Something must have happened, traffic or something.” “I know, Ash, but I have to get your grandma out of this heat. There are still several people here, including the pastor. I’m sorry, but we have to go. Your present is at the reception tent.” Maurine hugs me and I struggle to hide my disappointment. As she walks out, the bridesmaids walk in. “Any word from any of the guys,” I ask. Molly looks at the rest of the girls then back at me. “Not a word. Ash, Nathan’s family just left.” A knock comes at the door. “Come in.” Pastor Rollins walks in all red faced and sweaty. “I’m sorry Ashly, but I can’t wait around any longer. This heat is really getting to me and I’m certain I saw the groom’s parents leave. The church will refund your money. I pray the best for you.” I lower myself back into the chair, defeated. Looking at the clock, he is only twenty minutes late, but without a pastor, what difference does it make if he shows up now. “Ashly, we’re going to track those guys down and get an explanation from them,” Molly says as she rubs my back. “Maybe we can get them back here and find someone else to officiate at the last minute. You never know what you’ll find on the internet.” “Thank you, ladies. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I don’t know if I’m mad or sad at this point. It’s obvious Nathan backed out. If something had happened to him the groomsmen would have let me know. Instead, they are all avoiding me. At least I didn’t have to go out there and announce to everyone that my fiancé backed out on our wedding day. Since everything looks so beautiful, I’m still going to walk down the aisle, pass under the trellis, and go stick my feet in the stream while I sit on a rock and contemplate life. It’s either that or face the caterers, which I’m in no mood to do at this moment. As I walk down the aisle, I notice my parents are still sitting there waiting for me. I raise a hand, gesturing for them to save their sympathies. “Daddy, can you take care of the caterers for me. I just can’t right now. Right now, I just want to stick my feet in the stream and have a few moments alone.” Mom and dad both nod, kiss me on the cheek, then head up the hill to the lodge. I find my spot and sit down, taking off the painful excuse for shoes I had chosen for this occasion. The water is cool and, with the exception of the splashing of the nearby waterfall, all is silent. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel at this moment, other than confused. Nothing makes sense. I’m not sure what the reality of the situation is, so that reality can’t necessarily set in. Therefore, I just sit and stare. I guess I had nodded off for a second. I didn’t hear my dad come up behind me. When he touched my shoulder, I nearly flew off the rock. “Come on, sweetie, your mother and I want to show you something special, something you’ve never seen before. We think it might cheer you up.” As soon as dad put the car in drive, I was out like a light. When dad wakes me, we are at the lake and my jaw drops. Artificial white flowers are wrapped around two separate ropes, floating on the surface, forming an aisle. On the outsides of the aisle are all our friends and family, fully clothed, wading in the water, waist deep. At the end of the aisle the groomsmen and bridesmaids are lined up on their respective sides. Standing in the middle, holding his bible above the water is Pastor Rollins. Next to him is Nathan, soaked and wet, but looking devilishly handsome in his tux. “Shall we,” my dad asks as he offers me his arm. With dad on one arm, and mom on another, I make my way to the shoreline, speechless but happy. As I enter the water, Nathan’s brother, Luke, begins to play the wedding march on an acoustic guitar from the shoreline. We wade through the water to the oohs and aahs of all those present until my stunning dress is submerged beneath the murky lake water. When my dad gives me to Nathan, I ask him, “What about the money?” “I just want to marry you and make it pleasantly memorable for everyone.” I smile at him, and we turn to Pastor Rollins who begins with those precious two words that define what family and friends mean to us – “Dearly beloved…” Pastor Rollins finishes the ceremony with, “You may now kiss the bride,” and Nathan wraps his arms around me, kissing me passionately. Then he dunks me under the water. Ugh, I’m mad at first, but when I come up, everyone, young and old, is laughing and splashing, hooting and hollering. I jump on him, pushing his head under the water. Payback. The bridesmaids and groomsmen join in on the fun, wrestling and dunking each other to the delight of those in attendance. From the shore I hear Marcy, Nathan’s mom, shout, “Food’s here!” The catering vans pull up and unload all the food, setting it up on the surrounding picnic tables. As everyone exits the lake, Joanne, the photographer, grabs us to do pictures. We are a sorry looking bunch in wet clothes and messed up hair and make-up, but we have fun with it. We are in too good of a mood to take it too seriously and besides, I want pictures that capture the essence of the day. While we are goofing around in front of the camera, our guests are enjoying their meals sitting on the grass with some standing and a few seated at the tables. The caterers brought the cake. Nathan and I finish eating and do the ceremonial cutting. I smash a big slice into his face, covering it in frosting. He wipes the frosting from his eyes, throws me over his shoulder, and runs me down to the lake where he throws me in. I help him wash off and we head back up. Molly runs to her car and grabs her Bluetooth speaker to get the music going so we can dance. Michael taps the keg, and we begin to party. Part of me feels like I should be mad at Nathan, but maybe he’s right. All anyone would have remembered of this day, had we got married at the resort, would have been the heat and how miserable we all were. Nobody would have remembered my dress, or the flowers, or even cared to look at the stuffy old traditional pictures. I guess that’s why the other part of me can’t stop staring at him and smiling. It’s the most unconventional wedding I have ever heard of, definitely not the wedding I had always dreamed of. As it turns out, dreams fade but memories are created in reality.


My fingers trembled against the thin paper that was tightly within my grasp. I unclutched them slowly one by one until my eyes were met with the countless wrinkles that spread throughout the photo like the flu. Today was the most painful day of the year, July 12th. Exactly one year ago today I was in Spain on what was supposed to be the best vacation of my life, with my best friend and lifelong partner, who was taken away from me far too soon. We were swimming in the water, when he suddenly pulled out a dazzling ring from his pocket. I was instantly filled with joy. For four years I had been waiting for him to ask me that special question, and finally that dream was becoming a reality. Then for the next few moments everything was perfect. Just as abruptly as the pure joy came, so did the panic that soon arose. A round of gun shots fired in the distance, more than 20 bullets cut through the air. Screams rang like church bells as commotion broke out throughout the entire beach.

I was one of the many frantic people who ran left and right without a sense of direction. However, I wish I could have reacted better to the situation, calmed my mind, and took action like Nathan did. What if I reacted faster would that have saved Nathan’s life? Constantly I get lost within my thoughts believing that his life could have been saved by a simple arm tug, or reassurance that help was on the way for the others. This common thought haunts me and I find myself time and time again, going through various scenarios in my head, about what could have been done differently. I’ve never been caught dwelling in the past but this is a memory I don’t think I’ll ever be able to shake.

 I would give anything to switch places with him. He deserves to be here more than me.

He saved a few people's lives that day. It’s selfish of me, but I wish he wouldn’t have saved those lives, I know it was the right thing to do, but if he hadn’t he would probably still be alive. Leaving Spain was like leaving the old me behind. 2019 met me with devastating problems to face, like keeping up with the cost of our home, maintaining a good work schedule, and taking care of my mental needs. Therefore, the new me wasn't as bubbly, outgoing, and optimistic as the first. Losing someone in a terrorist attack isn't something that you can just sleep on, it rattles your soul. I saved all the money I had for keeping up with our home. It was Nathan’s parents place, and he loved it so much, so I didn't get the proper therapy I needed. My friends told me I should really consider moving out as living in my deceased partner’s home could do more damage than good. Yet, I stayed for Nathan.

I began to feel my palms grow sweaty, as the thin paper stuck to my hand like glue. Panic arose in me just like that day on the beach and the stuffy room didn't make the situation better. Horrifying echoes of zooming fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars clouded my head. I remember being pulled away from Nathan’s cold hands when the paramedics arrived, as my legs left the warm water.

A searing pain grew into my right shoulder as blood from my wound colored the water red. To this day I shutter at the thought of strong ocean waves, due to its resemblance of the heavy currents that covered my head, while help came to my rescue. Taking a walk down memory lane, I travel to the bed and lay on it for one last time. Thinking about it I realize I haven’t slept in this bed since before Spain. It was too painful to even look at, let alone sleep in when I got back from the hospital, so I resorted to sleeping on the couch.

I continued packing up boxes, still clenching the worn photo in my hand. Photo by photo I am reminded of Nathan, as I see a flash of all the memories we had together. I am oddly comforted knowing that maybe Nathan saw a whirl of the good ol days as he blinked for the very last time. For one of the photos I wrapped, I was reminded of my 21st birthday where Nathan and I share a goofy smile, and vibrant pink feathered scarfs tightly fastened around our necks.

Then I walked to the next shelf, taking down one of our more recent photos together. It was a picture of Nathan and I opening the door to our hotel room. I was confused at the time on why he wanted to snap a picture of that moment but he blankly responded “Just because my GIRLFRIEND looks so hot.” I raised an eyebrow but smiled. I now understand the true reason he used the word girlfriend so frequently. Most likely it was to savor the word for the last night before beginning to use Fiancé, but I bet if Nathan was still around he’d say “You were looking hot though!” The night before July 12th, Nathan and I went on a date and talked about our future together. I was actually thinking he was going to propose that night, until the waiter bumped into something and the red wine that was on the tray spilled all over my white dress. At that point I

figured he concluded that it wasn't the right moment to pop the question. Right before the spillage of the wine fiasco the waitress kindly took a picture of us. I glanced down at my sweaty hand to see that moment, as the crumpled little paper was that very photo. It always holds a dear place in my heart as it was in fact the very last photo taken of the two of us. It remains an essential part of my everyday life as it travels from my wallet, to the wall, to the frame, to the shelf, and now to the moving box. I stare at it one more time before putting it away. Curse you July 12th.


It’s not that I would have wanted this to happen, it was inevitable anyway. Who did I really think I was? I have a way of pretending I’d never get hurt. How foolish should someone be. It would only take until the middle of our tenth year together and at the infantile stages of autumn. I had to figure it out eventually. You never really found me interesting or worth any time at all. It was just convenient to maintain an illusion. The smoke had to clear at some point. But, God, does it feel so good to finally know. To finally be able to clearly see what you really were. And I knew all along that you were only padding your time. Even knowing, I still let your teeth dig into my heart. You had asked me at some point what my dreams of the future were. You were only parroting the questions I would ask you to avoid the awkward silence. My future was supposed to be with you, or I thought it was at least. A betrayal even the trees could see better than me. A horrible secret you didn’t want anyone to hear or know. I found it all out but not before my time had been wasted. It hurt so deeply that I couldn’t fathom the pain at an appropriate level. Now that I know, I will tell people a lie that is easier to believe, even for myself. You broke your humanity and dragged mine down with it. I will play the victim as I rightly should, but deep down I understand that the aces are in my hand. I will make you pay for the hardship casted onto me but your action and lack thereof. I will dive deep into my river of anguish and pull up with me the leaden casket of my heart. I will cry for others but not for myself. I will wear a disgusting mask made of my own skin to show the world that I was deeply hurt. All of that will not be true at all. I do not feel pain at this point, only anger. I will wear my rotting mask until it can no longer hide my face. For once the tides reside at the highest and you are at the most vulnerable point in your life, I will tear away my mask and eat it. I will wipe the blood over my mouth the same way you did to my ribs. I will defeat your twisted life and take everything from you. With a simple string of words and a well placed breath, I will take you down with me. I do not want to feel better, I want to feel your skin recede against my poisoned dagger of disdain. You aren’t worth the time you took from me, but I will take mine back. I will dig up the fresh soil and lather the mud over my eyes and throat. I am a sad person and I wear a disgusting mask, but one day, the maggots infesting my brain will bear the flies of your downfall. I will consume your happy existence, just as you did mine.


Long ago, in a country far away, there lived a foolish boy blessed with riches far bigger than anyone could've imagined. The piles of gold and jewels he had towered over even the highest towers and would spill out if filled in the biggest lake. A handful of gold was enough to trade him a year's worth of food. A bag of jewels gave him a house that echoed whenever he walked inside. The villagers near his house complained how unfair it was that a child owned so much gold. He hadn't earned it, he was born into it. It was all thanks to his late parents. It wasn't something he had achieved himself. The boy pondered over what they had said. It *was* a bit unfair that he had all this for himself. And he didn't really know what to do with all the gold besides letting it sit in his vault. Thinking what would be the best usage of the gold, the boy decided to give it to the villagers who complained. Every morning, before the sun even had woken up, he would fill his backpack with gold and jewels and travel to a village. It was a long walk and especially tough with all the heavy riches in his backpack. It would take him hours before he reached a village and when he arrived at the entrance, sweat would drip down from his nose tip and chin. Every noon, when the the sun stood at its proudest, the boy would walk around the village, looking for people who complained. He would approach them and hand them a little bit of the gold and jewels in his backpack. The people's faces would then instantly turn into big smiles, thanking him for his generosity and complimenting him for his kindness. Every night, when the moon yawned a soft glow, the boy would skip home and whistle to himself with a backpack as light as his heart. He did this every day and his richess in the vault shrunk. The piles were now as high as a castle. The gold filled half a lake. The city people had heard of his generosity and complained how it was unfair that only the villagers got his gold. There were people in need in the cities too, and he should pay them visits. The boy pondered over what the citizens had said. It *was* a bit unfair that the people in the cities didn't get his gold, so he decided to take longer trips. The boy bought a horse and a carriage. He filled backpack after backpack with so much gold and jewels that the seams almost burst and placed them in the carriage. When spring woke up and the grass peeked out from the layers of snow, the boy would travel to the cities. The roads were long and tiring. The boy had to encourage the horse to drag the heavy carriage, then he had to stay awake through the night and feed a fire to stave off the animals, who looked at the horse and the carriage with hungry eyes. When summer danced and the flowers played in the fields, the boy would enter a city. He handed out his gold and jewels, and the citizen's expressions switched to big, encouraging smiles, just like the villagers. When autumn reaped its harvests and the mushrooms bowed their hats to each other, the boy would travel back to his place. Tired and weary, but with a carriage as light as his heart. He would then curl up in his home and sleep soundly to winter's lullaby. The boy did this every year and his richness in the vault shrunk. The piles were now as big as tents. The gold could only fill a pool. The king of the country had heard of the boy's generosity and payed a personal visit. When the boy opened the door, he was taken aback by the king's face. It was the sourest face he had ever seen, as if the king had been fed lemons since birth. The king complained how it was unfair that the he, ruler of the country, didn't get any of the boy's richess while everyone else had. The king complained that it's unfair that a small child had such a big house. The king complained and complained. The boy pondered over what the king said. It *was* a bit unfair that everyone else but the king had gotten some of the boy's gold. The boy offered his last remains of richess in his vault and gave up his house, where the steps echoed in each room, and the king's sour face lit up into a big smile just like the villagers and citizens. The boy left the house with his horse and carriage. He wandered for half a day and arrived at a village, where he traded his last properties for a small room above an inn. When he prepared for bed, he heard people talk at the bar downstairs. The thin wooden floor barely stopped any of the voices and he could hear the guests clearly. He heard them complain. How it was unfair that no one gave them gold and jewels anymore. They complained that the boy should've handled his riches better, complained how stupid the boy was, complained how he should've just listened to *them* and not anyone else.


Slump Alicia slumped down on a chair after the last dance of the day. She was a hip-hop backup dancer that was doing a tour with Little Iné, currently the biggest rap/hip-hop singer in the world. She was doing a tour across North America, and they had just arrived from New Jersey, heading up toward Maine. Alicia had always wanted to visit Boston from when she was 9 years old, because of the giant libraries and museums. She was kind of a nerd. Anyways, here she was, 8 years later, in Boston, but for a completely different reason. When she was 9, she expected herself to be in Boston for school, not a backup dancer for the biggest singer in the world. Not that she was complaining. Alicia loved dancing, she started doing it from when she was 5 years old. Then, she was doing ballet. Ew. So girly. She switched to hip-hop when she was 7 because it’s more sophisticated and challenging.

Alicia forced herself to get up, so she could wash the makeup off her face and go to sleep. Opening the door to the tiny bathroom in the tour bus, she turned on the sink and splashed icy water onto her face. She rubbed the waxy makeup off her face and looked at her face in the mirror. Her green eyes stared back at her, with her chocolate brown hair framing them. With her makeup gone, her acne popped out like a neon sign on a black background. After drying her face, she went to her room in the humongous tour bus, changed into her fuzzy cotton pajamas, and went to sleep. In the morning she stretched her arms out, yawning. It was the weekend before Christmas, which meant a lot to Alicia. The whole week she had been doing a whole 45 minute - 1-hour dance routines, 3 times a day. Two days of rest with no dancing sounded like pure heaven. Once Alicia got up and changed into sweatpants and a hoodie, she walked out into the breakfast room at the other end of the bus. More like the buffet room. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were basically just a buffet in the same room, with appetizers, main courses, desserts, and snacks changed to fit the meal. Today, Alicia wanted something sweet, so she got a breakfast that her dad would not approve of at all. Alicia grabbed 2 medium-sized cinnamon rolls, a nice greasy sausage, complete with a tall glass of orange juice. Not dad-approved at all. She found a table where her best friend, Rachel, was sitting. Alicia landed next to Rachel when she was having a conversation with Vivien.

“...so when she sang ‘behind’, I completely lost my footing and went the opposite way we were supposed to go.” Rachel laughed, Vivien smiling while sipping her chocolate milk. Rachel talked a lot; more than the average human being. As Alicia sat down next to her, Rachel said, "Oh, Alicia! Perfect timing! I was just gonna tell Vivien about how Harvard’s library and the Museum of fine arts are open today to the public!” Rachel clapped with excitement since she knew how much Alicia loved libraries. “When can we leave?” asked Alicia. “An online brochure said that they’re open from 8 am today, so we can leave after we finish breakfast!” Rachel responded, sounding like a hyper puppy. Vivien checked her phone. “It’s 7:59,” she said. Rachel’s eyes lit up. “Oh GOODY!” They all laughed, making Alicia choke on her non-organic orange juice.

As Alicia went back to her room to brush her teeth, she compared the scene outside to the tour bus. Outside was a winter wonderland, complete with the glowing Christmas lights everywhere, like colourful fireflies. Inside, it was a mixture of grunge and Polly pocket aesthetics. Who knew those two went together. The walls and hallways were a dark purple, with black and bright blue embellishments on the walls. There weren’t any Christmas decorations because the maintenance crew didn’t want to pay extra time and money for them. The rooms were a cheerful, synthetic pink, with purple decorations, which made the rooms look exactly like a Polly pocket toy, with Alicia as the doll. She wasn’t exactly judging Little Iné’s taste of accessories, but Alicia will one day ask her about the Polly Pocket stuff. Maybe Little Iné loves Polly Pocket. Who knows. After changing into a more…. presentable outfit, Alicia met her friends outside of the tour bus. “...and then I slipped this way, and everybody was staring at me!” Rachel finished, laughing so hard her esophagus might fall out. Vivien waved me over. “Ok, where are we going first?” asked Alicia. “Well, the brochure said that the museum closes at 2 pm, but the Harvard library closes at 6, so we better go to the museum first,” said Rachel. Alicia nodded her head. “How are we gonna get there?” Vivien asked. “I think it’s close enough for us to walk,” said Rachel. “About a 20-minute walk.” She pointed toward Simmons University, showing us the way we had to walk. “Ok, everybody got their stuff?” Alicia asked. Vivien and Rachel nodded. “Let’s go!” A big white structure towered over them. On the sides, there were bare shrubs covered with snow and little blue Christmas lights drape over the branches. A giant rusted statue in the middle of the courtyard shone in the sunlight, with pockets of snow scattered throughout. “...” Vivien opened her mouth, but didn’t say anything, taken aback at the sight. “Wowee wow wow,” Rachel said, walking in circles and almost falling into a bush.

Creak “What’s that?” Alicia asked, now wary of their surroundings.

Hello Alicia turned and noticed that the creaking sound was the statue, its head now turned toward the group of girls.

Run now, or else Rachel turned toward them and yelled,” What is happening?” over the wind that was picking up mysteriously. You haven’t ran yet? Guess I’ll have to destroy you Vivien’s face contorted into confusion. “Destroy us?” Alicia shouted, over the now hurricane winds. All of a sudden, a red laser shot out from the eyes of the statue, burning the spot right in front of Alicia. “AHHHHHH” Vivien screamed, just running away from wherever the nearest burning hole was. Another laser shot at Rachel, burning the heels of her shoes. “AHHHHHH” Rachel screamed, imitating Vivien. They aren’t gonna be of much help, thought Alicia. While running around the courtyard, she had a lightbulb moment. Alicia ran to the back of the statue and grabbed something out of her backpack. A hair straightener. What girl doesn’t keep a hair straightener in their backpack? Alicia chucked the hair straightener at the statue’s head, making a loud CLANG! sound. The statue’s head fell off, slowly rolling its way to Rachel’s feet.

She looked at Alicia in awe. “W-w, h-how..?” Alicia bent down, picked up her hair straightener and waved it at Rachel. Vivien said,” Ohhhhh.” So obvious right. Once they gathered their stuff and Rachel’s heel stopped having a meltdown, they walked into the museum. Alicia glanced behind at the statue. Its head was right back on its neck, the same as when they had got there. No lasers, no creaking sounds. Alicia thought, Hmm. Probably waiting until another group came along. Then they strutted into the Museum of Fine Arts.

After coming out of the museum right after noon, Alicia thought about that statue again. I wish I could just have a peaceful Christmas for once, she thought. All the practicing, conditioning and exercise wore Alicia to the core, so for Christmas, all she wanted was peace, quiet, and rest.

Rachel called out,” It’s 12:30 pm. Wanna get lunch?” Vivien’s hand shot up. “I would like a Big Mac, medium fries, and a large Coke,” she said, hugging her stomach. Rachel painted a disgusted look on her face. “You can have that if you want, I’m having Greek food. What about you Alicia?” Alicia thought for a moment. “Hmm, I’ll have some Korean Barbeque.” Rachel nodded while Vivien started towards a nearby mall. “Ok, so does everyone know where Harvard is?” Rachel asked. Alicia nodded, while Vivien gave a shaky thumbs up. “Everybody meet in Harvard Square after lunch, okay?” Rachel asked, confirming their plan. Both Alicia and Vivien’s head nodded. “See ya!” Rachel called, now racing Vivien to the mall. Alicia smiled, took a deep breath and sprinted after them.

 Once Alicia’s stomach was full of Korean BBQ, she walked about 20 minutes to the front of Harvard University. It kinda looked like a mini White House, but with red bricks, and students out on the front lawn. A black sign in the front said ‘HARVARD BUSINESS SCHOOL’ in big white lettering. Alicia spotted Rachel and Vivien near the doors. She ran up to meet them while Rachel was telling Vivien yet another of her dance failures.

“.. so then Hannah stumbled over me and I almost fell onto Little Iné!” Rachel finished, Vivien smiling. Alicia said,” So Rachel, wheres the library?” “You think the library is gonna reveal itself?” Rachel asked incredulously. “We have to go find it!” Vivien raised her hand. “This place is huge. How are we gonna find it?” She asked. “There’s something called exploring, if you didn’t know.” Rachel said, gesturing toward the doors. Alicia grinned and sashayed into the University. After wandering around for so long, Vivien spotted the library. “Guys, it’s over here!” She yelled, running into a room with giant oak doors. Alicia ran in after Rachel, looking up in awe. Bookshelves ran endlessly around the circumference of the room, different colours of book spines staring back at her. Desks lined up in the middle, with some students studying with earphones plugged into their ears. Peaceful. Quiet. Perfect.

CRASH What is happening? thought Alicia. BOOM Let’s hope it’s not another statue, thought Alicia. POW The doors broke down, revealing a bronze statue that was 6 feet tall, standing in the doorway of the Harvard library.

I will destroy you, if you are Neil DeGrasse or not. Who said anything about Neil DeGrasse? Alicia thought. “Everybody, get a book!” Rachel called. Alicia raced to the closest bookshelf and grabbed a book called ‘Encyclopedia Britannica’. How nice.

Alicia recognized the statue from the courtyard. John Harvard, she thought. John wasn’t very friendly. He tore parts off from his bronze body and yeeted them at us, keeping us busy so we didn’t get crushed by a leg. “Woohooo!” Vivien yelled, tossing a book thicker than Alicia’s Encyclopedia at John’s face.

You fools! Only one thing can destroy me: acid! Why would you reveal your weakness to your enemies? Alicia thought. “ORANGE JUICE!” Rachel howled. “What?” Alicia yelled over the commotion. “Orange juice is acid! Somebody go to the cafeteria and get orange juice!” Rachel bellowed and chucked different horror books at John’s nose.

“Already on it!” Vivien screamed and waved a full jug of Tropicana Orange Juice. Rachel grinned. “Open it, and throw it at John!” she yelled. “Alicia, keep him distracted!”

On that, Alicia threw her Encyclopedia Brittanica at John’s eyes, scrambling to find more books. Thankfully, there was a stack near her, so she went through them as fast as a squirrel with acorns. Once Vivien and Rachel got the jug open, Vivien hefted the bottle up into the air, splashing onto John Harvard’s face.

Nooooooo! His bronze figure melted into a pile of liquid, enough to make thousands of pennies. “Rachel ran over to Alicia. “Great job!” she said, high-fiving each other. Vivien started chugging the leftover orange juice in the jug. Alicia and Rachel grimaced. “Vivien looks hungry again. Is it ok if you stay here while we go to the mall again?” Rachel asked, keeping an eye on Vivien. Alicia nodded. “Ok, see you back at the tour bus!” Rachel exclaimed, running over to help Vivien.

When Rachel and Vivien left, Alicia walked over to one of the bookshelves to pick out a book.

Harry Potter Already read that.

Chronicles of Narnia Finished. Artemis Fowl Haven’t read that yet, Alicia thought. She slid the book out of its place among the others. “Artemis Fowl by Eoin Colfer,” she said aloud, reading the back cover. She took the book to a mahogany couch, got comfy, and started reading.


Alive World Blue Moon I calculated the best place to see the Blue Moon in the park and I could almost touch it, so I tried to touch it. I went through the portal and I went to the future.

There was just rubble. There was my house and solar panels and the TV playing animation which I’ve never seen. I always bring a flash drive and download all the data from the computer. I saw the portal and it closed. (story from different perspectives) Nap I went to sleep, I took a nap. In a sense I never woke up, not in the same place at least.

Each and every building was destroyed.

Everything was destroyed. I did the test or well life did it for me.

I saw a TV playing animations nonstop but no exit. I realized that this must be Alive World.

The outcome seemed clear, I would die. Then I saw smoke and a new outcome appeared. I saw my friend unable to function, she was so cold, she ate a bad animal, an evil snake. We hugged for warmth. Her campsite was very clean. It was her. I would have eaten the berries first but maybe they were both poisonous. Then once I hugged her back to health, a portal appeared and we left here with the flash drive. I had a clean bill of health but just in case my friend should get a full check-up. So I paid the Concierge doctor to figure out what is wrong. It turns out she had a severe allergy to the snake and didn’t eat the berries at all. And we became friends again but she scheduled the time spent together, we lived together but we’re nothing more than close family siblings. Come hell or high water that was us. We got a dog and we were happy. I was content with no job then, our dog died unexpectedly. Then she took a full-time Valkyrie shift.

Then she left because I was just a reminder of the dog dying. She stopped living there at all and moved to Hotel Vallahada. She was completely committed to her decision to stay in Vallahada, though I think that it was a little cut and dry for her to leave like that.

If you judged her by the look in her eyes you would automatically trust her and see that she was strong. She definitely narrowly escaped death, either way she was finished with me, no surprise visits and hang outs. She wasn’t feeling under the weather. She almost always got the best portions of brownies and cake though. If they played tug-o-war she would obviously have the upper hand. You couldn’t spot many things that went South, she never blamed things on me, but there was no parent in the situation. She never sent me on wild goose chases to find artifacts that she wasn’t sure of their existence. I hate to admit it but she’s done me a cut to the quick and I’m not happy without her.

She was always in the back of my mind. She was busy, but always made time for me. She never was on a high horse.

In the past the problem with us is she wanted to go to Alive World and I didn’t want to. We didn’t need help but our friend Simon did. If Simon is in Alive World he probably has a screw loose without us we used to live high on the hog. At the time I didn’t know where her second job was. She seemed to work a lot. I even hired a private investigator and paid a lot of money and decided that was a mistake. We both had common sense, so why did she leave me?

I made a long video of all the pictures of us, and us and Simon and her pictures she downloaded to our cloud. I watched the video everyday and wrote short stories that were best sellers in Vallahada and then she came back. I worked as a writer and she was my muse. Then I thought about incorporating animation. I soon realized she had more money than me. Her animation is wildly successful. I wondered why she didn’t tell me. I was extremely jealous, then I knew why I had an extra room punching bag. The day she told me I tried to hide my emotion. My face was weird, then she offered me a place in her company. I wasn't jealous anymore, I was happy. I accepted her back without question and she explained herself a day later fully. I showed her what happened to me one felt when you left I showed her the hours-long video and she almost cried but she never cried. She wasn't in the doldrums we were both in the pink more than normal because of recent developments.

Now we race on treadmills with mattresses behind us in case we fall.

We are not Mormon but we never drink alcohol, none of us have parents anymore. We were both important animators. Our company finally took off.

The expectations were very high.

Then she said she is working part-time for the government on satellites which as well as animation and is a Valkyrie. What I didn’t know was that she was a spy for MI5.

She passed the animation torch to me. WHen Odin promoted her I quit MI5 to be a teacher and co leader of a squadron of valkyries. I was an expert at animation. Every once in a while I wonder where Simon is. Then one day an arrow was shot with a note attached. Simon came back and then I was happier. Then it was writing on the wall, I hired simon. Then I gave him a spare room until my future wife came back. I had that revelation yesterday.

I decided to test our connection through worlds and it's been one year slow. So I called her and asked if she could set up a satellite to establish a connection from the living world which I wanted to live in. Then Simon spilled about his time in the mushroom world all alone with infinite food source candy mushrooms. Here's a sample you can eat and another we can send to a lab.Then she came back and finally used some of her vacation dates, got married, had kids and reached a whole nother level of happiness.


It was June 18th, 2045, when Earth’s top scientists at the ISS noticed something unusual, a blip that would one day prove detrimental to the survival of the human race. So when the top brass of the ISS got on the phone with the top brass of the United Nations, everyone knew what was at stake. One question still haunted the High Commissar for the United Earth and First Nations Theodore Milton, one which he posed almost immediately to the unlucky bastard who had to be the one to inform him of the impending crisis. “How the hell is one supposed to fix a fucking star?” Commissar Milton then lamented that on today of all days, on the fifth anniversary of Peace Between Hemispheres, this would happen. This is when some no-name undersecretary informed him that there was no time to waste. For what a dozen phone calls in search of a straight answer would soon reveal, Earth had, in fact, little time, one year to be exact. On the sixth anniversary of Peace Between Hemispheres, undulating waves of cosmic energy would obliterate humanity as we know it. And all of this was because a nearby star one day decided to die. The timing of all this felt personal to Commissar Milton. There was the Peace Between Hemispheres Week of Celebration to consider and the North Eastern Quadrant’s biannual meeting. There was the continued rooting out of the radical terrorist group known as The Rescue that had taken hold in the South. Three civil wars were happening on three different continents simultaneously, and a worldwide shortage of silicon was ruining the global supply chain. If there was ever one attribute that was crucial to the continued success of the High Commissar for the United Earth and First Nations and by extension, all of humanity, it was finesse. Everything must be carefully managed. One wrong move or unforeseen consequence, and the whole thing falls apart. Global geopolitics was only ever one slight breeze away from total disaster, nothing more than a house of cards held together with pure will. To say Commissar Milton didn’t get much sleep the following night would be an understatement. The scientists had affectionately named the star, Bright Eyes, which the Commissar didn’t love. Consumed by the world’s imminent demise, he ordered every leader on the “goddamn, piece-of-shit, about-to-be-blown-up” planet in his office by the end of the week. His troupe of undersecretaries knew the enormity of that task would be tough. If anything could grind the world’s government to a halt, it was rearranging a schedule, but they figured that upon learning of the end, the news could put a pep in a lot of prime ministers’ step. Come Friday, the undersecretaries, disheveled, bleary-eyed, and sleep-deprived, had succeeded in rearranging one hundred and eighty three of the one hundred and ninety five leaders’ schedules, corralling them into a large conference hall leased from a real estate company down the street from the United Nations headquarters. When Commissar Milton asked where the other dozen “fucknuts” that couldn’t be bothered to show up were, Undersecretary Riguald simply shrugged, and Undersecretary Williams merely said they were fishing. Surveying the audience one more time, Commissar Milton decided that this would have to do. He made his way to the podium set facing the audience, called for quiet, and jumped straight in. “The world will end in one year,” he said. “I’ve gathered you here as the world’s leaders to find a solution. I want to hear ideas. Nothing is off the table.” To his dismay, many of the politicians were on their phones. Some had formed groups. Others were yelling or murmuring amongst themselves. Some were bellowing as if giving a speech, and others were whispering to what seemed like no one in particular. To say this room inspired confidence would be a lie, and Commissar Milton knew it. It was at this moment that the Commissar mustered all the strength he could, sucked in all the air his lungs could hold, and brought his fist down on the top of the podium in front of him, calling for quiet at the top of his lungs. Remarkably, silence overcame the gathered crowd. The Commissar made one last plea, deciding to change his tac. “The first country to bring me a workable solution in two weeks will get a super special top-secret prize that will be given out next year at the sixth anniversary of Peace Between Hemispheres celebration. That country’s leader will be singled out by name and given the highest honor the world can bestow.” Excitement filled the air as the world’s leaders jumped into action. The Prime Minister of Belarus promised he had a guy that could create a supernova-proof glass dome that would encase the Earth. The Chairman of the St. Marshall Islands drew up plans immediately for a giant mirror that could reflect the energy waves out of the way. Even the Supreme Leader of North Korea got in on the fun, swearing he could build a rocket that could push Earth out of the way. Commissar Milton had low expectations, even directing his troupe of trusty undersecretaries to develop plans B through Z to save the world. Still, he figured the leaders’ excitement was progress, and undoubtedly one out of the almost two hundred politicians at the meeting could come up with something workable. With each passing day, the undersecretaries did worry about the health of the Commissar. They knew the enormity of leading Earth away from destruction had to be taking some kind of toll. \ Two weeks turned into six months with very little to show for it. Getting a flock of politicians to agree on anything was already a challenge, but uniting them under a project that required unprecedented cooperation, seriousness, and resources turned out to be nigh impossible. What became known as Project Blue Dot began in good faith but quickly devolved into nasty spats over who should be required to pay for the project and how credit for the project should be distributed amongst the participating nations. Developing nations expected wealthy ones to front most of the cost while rich ones questioned why they were spending so much money to help other countries’ citizens in the first place. All the grudges long-buried boiled to the surface as the initial breaking of ground on the plan to save humanity stumbled. At six months, with delay after delay and budget cut after budget cut, the Commissar decided to shelve the project in its entirety, allowing all the countries to go their separate ways, off to figure out their own solutions to the world’s impending doom. The Commissar had sent flowers to leaders’ wives; listened steadfastly at dinner after dinner to complaints, demands, questions, and concerns. He had gotten an endless stream of nieces and nephews jobs at every government agency imaginable, helped quell certain coups, helped initiate certain others, had done it all and then some, and all that was left was a pile of countries with worse off relations then when he had started. He immediately called in his undersecretaries to go over the backup plans he had tasked them to come up with in case he found himself in this very situation. The undersecretaries moseyed into the Commissar’s office one by one, shuffling their feet and saying nothing. The truth was that all of the backup plans suffered from the same flaw that had tanked the initial effort. Any strategy to save humanity required unprecedented levels of cooperation, something that humankind seemed unwilling to muster given a large enough scale. So Commissar Milton, now at a loss, did what anyone else in his situation would do. He drank heavily. It was the first time he had drank in a long time. It felt good. He started stashing handles in his desk and around the United Nations compound. His undersecretaries were sworn to secrecy concerning his budding alcoholism, for drinking had become a semi-regular habit for the Commissar, a ritual of sorts calling out to the universe, all in the hope that if Theodore Milton went through the motions enough, then, one day, the universe would show him the way. Bright Eyes was now identifiable during the day. The Commissar had instructed the scientists to make some excuse as to what exactly was giving the sun a run for its money. Meanwhile, the Commissar finding himself as he regularly did, a few tallboys deep on a Tuesday night, suddenly had the great urge to disappear. He wondered if he could pull it off, if anyone would miss him, if things would go on as they always have, if this was his destiny. After draining a beer, the Commissar cut a small incision in its aluminum side. It was something he started in high school for some weird reason and kept up, his singular exciting trait. Commissar Milton blinked, and one empty can had turned into six. How had he come this far, climbed the highest ranks of international government, and stayed sober? This was a serious question for the Commissar, one he’d never considered until now. As people generally do, the Commissar drank a bit in college and then gave it up like most adults. After graduation, he stayed sober, did well in government, was unassuming, steadily climbed the ranks, and reached as high as he could go in the public arena. Commissar Milton phoned his assistant, asking her to remind him where the whiskey bottle some random prime ministers’ wife had given him at last year’s United Nations Solstice Celebration was stashed. In a box in the cupboard, the assistant dutifully reminded him. Commissar Milton made his way to the veranda, poured himself a few fingers worth of liquid gold, and lit up. He couldn’t tell if he was happy or sad that humanity’s last days would be brought to an end by a bright light in the sky. The phone was the first thing Commissar noticed as he awoke. The sun was just peaking over the horizon. The phone rang again, the noise piercing a hole in Commissar Milton’s pickled mind. He fumbled for the it for a minute, willing himself to answer. “What,” he said gruffly. “Uhh, sir,” an undersecretary on the other end said, “I have Professor Laura Donagen on the line for you.” The Commissar rubbed his temples, the pain throbbing harder than ever. “Who,” he growled. “Uhh, Professor Laura Donagen? She says she’s a scientist and can help.” It took the Commissar a moment to realize what the undersecretary was saying. “Put her through.” The Commissar waved over an aide to clean up the remnants of last night, including the half-empty bottle of whiskey and an array of cigarette buts that littered the floor beneath him. His wife would be home soon, and the only thing he hated more than conflict were questions. He was of the belief that questions were a direct attack on one’s capabilities. Good leaders weren’t asked silly questions like where were you all night or why do you look like death, or when was the last time you interacted with your kids. The Commissar didn’t hear the first hello from Mrs. Domner. It was only after a few minutes that he realized she was on the other line, politely waiting for him to finish up whatever it was he was doing. Knowing this, the Commissar dove right into the meat of the business to end this call as soon as possible. “Professor Donagen, I’m told you have a solution to this whole end of the world business.” After a bit of back and forth, the grand idea involved personal energy domes handed out to every adult on Earth. The point of these domes was for a human to sit inside them, protecting them from a supernova’s dangerous gamma waves. The domes were completely transparent with a hinge at the top that held it all together and functioned as a door to fit an adult and small child inside snugly. The transparent material was flexible, almost more like a see-through sleeping bag than a hard surface. Having already developed a workable prototype, Professor Donagen and the undersecretary assured him that this solution was vetted by several reputable organizations and individuals worldwide, thoroughly tested in the Hades Supernova Lab in Berlin and that the best part was that this solution wouldn’t require buy-in from countries and governments. It could be mass-produced. Additionally, these energy domes were cheap to produce, making the cost of providing one for everyone on Earth surprisingly affordable and a relatively quick process. The Commissar did wonder how effective these energy domes could be. At best, they sounded like one of those sketchy products people sell with infomercials on late-night TV. It didn’t take long, though, for the Commissar to agree to the plan. While he didn’t fully understand all the intricacies, the world was four months away from the end. Being picky wasn’t helping anyone. \ Two weeks away from the supernova, eighty percent of the world’s population had been given an energy dome. Governments were all too happy to help and chip in money. It was a solution that required very little of them, and they could still look like they were supportive. Professor Donagen dove straight into the project, distributing the prototype across the world for companies to mass-produce. Each energy dome came with detailed instructions. Precisely fifteen minutes before the scheduled time that the energy from the supernova is expected to reach Earth, one must undo the flap of the energy dome and slide it around your body. At five minutes, close the flap and seal yourself inside. Each dome comes equipped with a specialized filter that could scrub the air and allow oxygen to flow freely into the dome without contamination. Additionally, the Commissar gave a pivotal speech, officially announcing the world’s imminent demise to the public. After employing a few thousand well-paid influencers to hawk the product, almost complete buy-in was assured. The polls didn’t lie. Commissar Milton saw his highest approvals a week before the end, the highest of his career. The media had played ball surprisingly well too, opting not to tear the solution to shreds. TV hosts promoted the pros of energy domes and brought in expert after expert to bolster the public’s confidence. Any little bit of dissent was written off as harmful, unneeded, and anti-human. Professor Donagen and Commissar Milton talked regularly, often multiple times a day. The truth was that for a dyed-in-the-wool scientist, Professor Donagen made for a remarkable business leader. Ramping up production to a global scale in two months, repurposing old factories, recycled material, unemployed workers, and the world’s expertise to accomplish what some in the media were saying was a miracle. On June 16th, 2046, two days before the supernova everything was in place. Energy domes had been distributed to every human on Earth. The Commissar still wasn’t sure what to make of Professor Donagen. She had grown up in relative poverty, just like all the other towering figures of history. She was the first in her family to go to college, studying a dual major in molecular physics and bioengineering. She worked at Star Orbit for five years out of college, designing durable structures and component parts for use in space travel. From there, she moved to the Hades Supernova Lab in Germany, where she worked with a team that studied the effects of extremely high levels of Gamma waves on various compounds. Before she was plucked out of obscurity by Commissar Milton to save the world, she was working for the government of Northern Brazil, having embedded herself deep in the ruins of the Amazon rainforest studying the effects and durability of various rare plants and minerals. The Commissar sat at his beautiful oak dining room table considering a plate of medium-rare steak along with a pile of potatoes and greens, a last meal of sorts set before him. His head was in hyperdrive, filing through all the checks and balances, making sure everything was in order. His home was dark. He had told his security to go home and be with their families, figuring even his enemies wouldn’t try anything tonight. His wife had left weeks ago and took the kids, saying that if the world was going to end she “sure as hell didn’t want to spend her last days with you!” He looked down again at the meal before him. The Commissar had specially requested it. Nowadays, meat from an actual cow was a rarity. Most food came from labs. There wasn’t enough room for cow pastures anymore. In fact as the population ballooned with each passing decade, there wasn’t room for much of anything anymore. Even seeing a squirrel outside a zoo was a rare event these days. If the Commissar could will the food into his mouth, he would, but something was stopping him, a nagging feeling that he had missed something. He had debriefed with Professor Donagen that morning. Everything was in order. At least ninety percent of the world’s population would be saved from this disaster. Contingency plans were put in place to deal with changes in the environment. Rarely was the Commissar amazed, but these last few months had succeeded in rendering him in awe. The whole of humanity came together. We would know in less than a day whether or not all this had worked. His heart was like a drum. The meal still sat untouched before him. The Commissar got up and poured himself a generous amount of whiskey. On his veranda once again, the energy dome unpacked and ready, High Commissar Milton thought about his father. He wondered what he’d be thinking at this moment. Would he be disappointed in him? Would he be proud? Commissar Milton wondered why everything he and Professor Donagen had achieved in the last few weeks had come together so smoothly. A small part of him was thought about tomorrow morning, minutes before Bright Eyes explodes, him getting into his energy pyramid, sealing it tight with a glass of whiskey in hand, closing his eyes, taking a drink, and feeling the effects of enormous amounts of gamma waves turning his body into dust. The worry sat heavy, like a thick black goo, lodged on to the back of his skull, his head spinning a yarn about a world-renowned scientist pitching an idea to a desperate politician; about a woman who had already, long ago, developed a distaste for humanity, born from a mind that thought too much, that questioned too much and was left wanting; a darling scientist becoming possessed many years ago by an intriguing thought: Do humans deserve to live? Every day that question burrowed a bit further into the scientists’ mind like the paranoia worm now eating away at the Commissar’s, nagging, changing, altering the course of a destiny neither one could ever imagine, one that would lead Commissar Milton into the highest ranks of power and the Scientist to an underground group called The Rescue. And like any good villain calling out into the unknown, one day, the universe answered back, telling this renowned scientist that it would set the ultimate cosmic bomb if she could convince the world that it was a dud. The Commissar stared at the wood-paneled ceiling fan that sat above his bed. It turned lazily, pushed by the faint breeze from a nearby open window. He was better than this, he thought. Worry was natural. Tomorrow will be fine. Humanity will be fine. I’ll be fine. Looking out, the Commissar noticed the haze that had settled in. Bright Eyes had turned the entire sky a misty white. The Commissar headed to bed, deciding to turn in early, opting to get as much sleep as he could before the big day.


Hi there, This story is by no means my best work, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! This is one of my first stories and is the first of them that I am posting. Feedback is much appreciated! Thanks! “Ow!” he exclaimed as he drove the needle’s cold point into his arm. This was his life as he knew it. His addiction had basically ruled him for as long as he could remember. Heroin was his drug of choice, but he had done every drug he could get his hands on since he was twelve. He loosened the belt around his arm and felt the warm embrace of the high as it overtook him. “No big deal,” he said to himself as he often did when he was coming up, “Just like a shot at the doctor’s.” In truth, he had no clue what he had just done to himself. He leaned back and tried to relax. His heart was pumping a mile a minute as his body tried to process the rather large dose of opioids now flowing through him. The alley he had chosen was not done so at random. He had observed it for weeks and knew enough about it to know it was safe for shooting up. It was in a relatively poorer neighborhood where people knew not to go out after the street lights were on. This meant little to no foot traffic and the police’s presence was almost nonexistent. For him, this was the most important part, as prison was the equivalent of death. Something wasn't right. He felt his muscles start to move as if they had a mind of their own, twitching and writhing violently as his body was overwhelmed by the massive amounts of heroin coursing through his veins. He was overdosing and he was very aware of it. In the midst of his violent seizures, his thoughts drifted back to the first time he tried shooting up. It was the most euphoric and relaxing experience he had ever had and he was instantly hooked. How can something that feels this good kill you? This was his last rational thought before he was completely gone. A rather foolish notion, but it had been his feeling his first time shooting heroine and ultimately his last time. His body shook even more violently as his mouth began to fill with a thick, frothy foam. He stopped moving rather abruptly as his heart finally stopped beating. He slumped over into a pile on the cold brick wall, another junkie murdered by The Shot.


Hey. My name's- actually, I can't tell you, and welcome to the story of my life. And trust me, you don't want it. You know, I've always been a bit of an outcast. Everyone always had a cheat code to get through, except for me. Of course, I'm not blind. I see that others suffer too. I see the jock who's allowed to do anything he wants, but it's because his parents don't care. I see the kid who cries silently in the cafeteria while his friends ignore him because it's a regular thing. I see the girl whose own therapist turned against her because of her manipulative father. I know I'm not the only one suffering. It's just that.... for some strange reason, everyone knows naturally how to do certain things and I don't. Everyone knew how to fit in to some extent, even the 'loners' would immediately find a friend group in the first week of school. Even when I first went to school and no one had formed a group yet, it seemed that they would all gravitate to finding a certain type of people they wanted to talk to, and those people would feel the same. Nope. Not this girl. I stood wondering why everyone else could talk to each other and I couldn't. It was like I.... didn't exist. While everyone laughed and joked in the cafeteria, I ate by myself. Maybe it was because I sat at the allergy table. Of course, there were at least three other kids there, but they were crazy and all boys. I don't have anything against boys in general, but I couldn't relate to them or understand their jokes. They were actually a bit crazy, though. One proposed to a pokemon card, while another ate a peanut butter jelly sandwich on purpose. And he smiled and laughed afterwards, even as the rest of the table basically shrieked because, well, WE'RE ALL ALLERGIC TO NUTS. Oh, and I might of had bullies, but that's the thing with me. I don't know where to draw the line. I didn't know if it was bullying or I was just being dramatic. I still don't know now. Let's fast forwards to when I moved before third grade. I finally got a 'best friend'! But let's face it, friendships when you can't understand them don't last them. After all, my friendship started with a duck eraser and a purple-green tie-dye pencil. My first friend was Karen. Yeah. Let that sink in. She'd sit by me at lunch everyday, and I'd love having someone to talk to. In the middle of fourth grade, however, she went away to China because her grandmother died. I was so excited when she came back, but.... she didn't talk to me anymore really. She sat by Molly, who was one of my 'popular' friends. Although, I don't know if I could call her a friend or not. She always seemed a bit toxic, but I could never tell. I also had Kaitlyn, who also seemed a bit toxic, but less than Molly. She'd sit by me every now and then, but she'd bring her friends and talk to them the whole time. Now, remember, this is the allergy table, so there weren't really a lot of kids there. There was one other kid called Abigail on the other side of the table, but she was surrounded with friends. I could see why. She was perfect. Beautiful, never got any lower than an A+, and extremely kind. She didn't want to see me sit alone, and neither did the teachers, and eventually I figured out that the teachers wouldn't leave me alone until I didn't sit alone. So I sat with them. Honestly, I doubt that she really likes me. Don't get me wrong, she's a great person, but I was never really talked to. I couldn't really get into their conversations. She probably only talked to me out of pity and obligation. So I was a lonely girl. I didn't act like everyone else, either. Basically all the grade either hated me or silently judged me. Recess? Ah. I played tag with a bunch of boys. Again, pretty sure they hated me. Pretty sure they still hate me. I honestly didn't care too much, I just wanted to play tag, which I loved to do. But it did hurt. I was known, I think, as the somewhat-quiet-yet-loud serious loner. It was in sixth grade when things started going both downhill and uphill. Alright, so remember I said Kaitlyn visited every now and then? Well now she had her own pretty big friend group. I considered them as good friends, though I know now they didn't like me much. A girl named Kailey came then, and they all became way more toxic. Now, again, I'm still not sure if what people do to me is bullying or not. So I'll stop mentioning it. However, a new girl came with Kaitlyn one day. Her name was Lisa. Lisa is another absolutely perfect girl. She doesn't even have to try. But I won't rant again on what other people have that I don't. Lisa is a really great friend to this day, and I'm really glad I met her. Another friend I made in sixth grade was Kira. Now, Kira had just moved in this year too, but unlike Lisa, I didn't really meet her in school. Sure, we knew each other existed, but we never really talked. From third grade, I enrolled in a very 'tough-person' sport. It's not a well-known one either. I was never good at it, no matter how hard I tried, and I didn't understand how my coaches didn't give up on me yet. Again, pretty sure most of them hated me. But basically all the girls there joined after me, so I tried forming 'friendships' with them. It went sort of well. Everyone else in the club still hated me, but at least the people who joined after me were still friendly. I tried. So Kira was one of those people. Now, I'm not good at fencing, but I can teach some basics, so I tried to help. Now I have a personality that's kind of hard to ignore. If I like you and I think we have a chance at friends, I'll be nice and act normal. By the way, normal for me is dark humor and sarcasm while smiling. If I don't like you and I know you don't like me, then I'll be ignoring you and acting cold. There'll still be sarcasm, but not in the joking-around-with-friends way. Of course, this got me into trouble because kids are stupid and decided to ship me with every male they know. Because I am the joke of the grade. I didn't like that, and here's a lesson guys. If the person you're 'teasing' seems genuinely upset even if you think it's a small thing, stop. It probably doesn't feel like it. Either way, at this point in time I started to realize that some people actually liked me when I acted like myself. The third friend I made was a girl called Stella. I met her because our grade was rehearsing how graduation would go, and she was next to me. Yeah. I started feeling much better, because when she introduced me to her friends, I saw that they actually liked me, and not out of obligation. The main friend I made from that was Harvey, someone who I saw was absolutely fine with being himself and was liked for it. In seventh grade, Stella would eventually introduce me to a girl named Clara, who I also became friends with. She also helped me rekindle my friendship with Karen. Now, I wasn't closest with Kaitlyn, but I did become friends with another one of her friends called Aria. Yeah, things started getting better now that I had friends. However, the best part had yet to come. A few months into the school year, during gym, I was talking to a girl I was friendly with called Ashten. She introduced me to a girl called Emily. Shiny chocolate hair, blue eyes, and an identical twin. Now, me and Emily weren't immediately friends. A couple of days later, I was sitting in front of my fifth period class for lunch again, when I saw Emily. The thing was, somehow, we had never ran into each other before even though we ate lunch in the same place. I guess the days I was there she was at lunch group. I haven't mentioned this before, but music is my life. I exist for it. I was listening to music and then Emily asked me what it was and I gave her my other earbud. We hit it off after that. We were so different yet so alike. I was like this girl with a bad reputation and hated a whole lot of things, yet she was this girl who loved basically everything, and hated no one. Except for Hitler. Yeah. Essentially I was this little bubble of darkness and she was a ball of sunshine. But despite this, we were alike in so many ways. She loved listening to the new songs I discovered, and we messed around and laughed at everything. We understood each other, too. We could tell each other things we'd never tell anyone else and not think anything of it because we knew the other wouldn't ever tell anyone else. We even have a handshake and best friend necklaces. They're yin-yang necklaces, and of course, Emily got the white sparkly one while I got the black one. It's better that way, they match with our closets. I'm in 8th grade now, the last year of middle school. It's only been like a year and a half but I feel closer to her than I have with anyone else. You know what the best part of our friendship is? We could be apart for a long time and it would still be like nothing's changed. Except her height. Why is she so tall.


We walk together at sunrise regardless of the weather, the day's schedule, or mood. If it rains we get wet. If it snows we face the chill. If the humid August heat thickens the air we breathe it in, and push it out. The sparse weeks of gentle weather are noted as fleeting things not to be normalized. He chews the packed snow out of his paws or rests in the cool creekbed. I chain smoke and drink lukewarm black coffee regardless of the weather. It is a steady routine that I do not wish to alter. Yet the constant of change pulls this comforting security apart. He grows less playful. I notice this long after the change began. He rests more often, a rest welcomed by the dull ache in my knees. I searched for my first dog during the collapse of a long-term relationship. Grasping at straws, I wanted to seize any chance to slow the panicked fall. I imagine some couples do this with pregnancy. Anything to pump the breaks. To restore what once was. In our case, the puppy did not work as intended. This small dog is the last remaining link to a past life. A version of myself that lived more passionately. I miss aspects of that stranger. The bursts of creative action that led to success beyond my years. A doomed success that could not withstand an unhealthy relationship, mind, or routine. Years beyond that we walk together. His graying muzzle at odds with how close in my heart those days stand. I do not belong in this world anymore. The quiet streets, the quaint cabins, the peace of the ivy-coated wood all replaced. All replaced by unsustainable comforts. Comforts that strip a diverse forest into a complex of identical culdesac homes. Areas that he once ran off-leash are now strip malls with scam artist chiropractors or payday loan operations. Areas that once wafted honeysuckle, now reek of modernization. Oil, rotting garbage, freshly poured heated blacktop. It aches to have a love of the world that lives only in memory. I fear that he will pass soon. That my last connection will be severed. He has begun to limp. It is only a matter of time. I know my sole companion well enough to see how tired he has become. I hope that the memories of a kinder environment have faded from his mind. It seems unbearably cruel for such an innocent creature to long, as I do, for a more natural world that will not return. After the military scientists created artificially intelligent defense systems nuclear deterrence became obsolete. War between the major nations of the world could be fought as it had been. The major countries of the world placing boots on the ground. Scores of adolescents in mech suits dying, and killing as no other combatants had in the history of warfare. China invaded Africa, The United States invaded Africa. Millions are dead. We live on rations now. 1800 calories a day, 1500 calories a day, 1200 calories a day. My companion is hungry. I wonder if he understands that I struggle to provide, or if he believes that I choose not to. His fur is coarse and patchy. He licks bits of infected dark skin obsessively. The day will soon come when the suffering of his age, and starvation will outweigh my revulsion. My revulsion to do what must inevitably be done. The Chinese have landed troops in Florida. We are no longer fighting a war that can be won. We are drawing out our demise. Those captured are enslaved or killed. The outline of my pelvis pulls taught skin, and I fear that the 22nd century will be a world without the English language. The few people that I see on my walks, which have become much briefer, are gaunt figurines. I have no room for pity. Three weeks without electricity, or news of the invasion. I found an enemy pilot hanging by his parachute from a weeping willow. Cut him down. Walked him to my home. He died from an abdominal wound. This took a few days. I marked his grave with the star pattern on his nations flag. My lungs rattle. I must have caught an illness from the pilot. Starvation has comprised my immune system. Fever skin cracks at the joints. Infected armpits ooze yellow pus mixed with trickles of blood. Today is the day my companion leaves the Earth. He is ready, and I have grown so weak that I fear I will not be able to drown him tomorrow. I place him in a wagon and wheel him to the lake. His cataract blinded eyes lack comprehension. I wade out with him in my arms and do not return.


Hans lied in the filthy, waterlogged crater. His rifle lost deep in the mud. He felt that his heart was beating hard enough to announce its presence to the whole world, the pounding rain, the whistle of artillery, and the explosions that interrupted his thoughts him wrong and wrecked his ears and body. He covered his ears and clutched his helmet in vain, he still felt the shock through the earth hard enough for it to matter little. For a long time, he felt the pounding artillery and the small crater slowly filling with murky, mucky water was all there was to the world. Then. He heard a cry over the pounding of the colossal drums of war. A thud and the wet scrape of breastplate against the mud and rocks. He wasn't alone in the hole anymore. He turned to face another soldier cowering in the crater. Wide helmet. Long coat. Flat plate. A Federalist covered in mud. Hans unsheathed his knife, lunged at the Soldier, throwing the full weight of his body into the stab. The Soldier rolled aside to dodge his attack and Hans plunged straight into the grubby side of the crater. The Soldier struggled to unsheathe his own bayonet. Hans pushed himself out of the mud, stood up, and took a swing at the Soldier before he managed to draw the blade. He lost his footing on the grimy incline, tripping back first into the knee-deep filth filled water, losing his grip on the knife. the Soldier took the opportunity and jumped on top of him, pinning him under the water. Hans struggled and writhed to no avail, growing desperate, he rummaged through the filthy floor of the crater and cut his palm on something sharp. *The knife!* He took hold of the blade and stabbed at the Soldiers belly, only to hit the metal plate. he tried again, now the upper thigh, and the blade sunk deep into unprotected soft flesh with a sickening *Shink*, he felt it hit something hard and pulled the knife out, stabbed it in, out, back in, and out again in a frenzy. blood flowed free, turning the murky water a reddish-brown. The Soldier howled in pain and clutched his thigh, releasing his hold on Hans. The blood penetrated through the gaps in his grip. Hans surfaced with a gasp, and pushed the Soldier off of him, who fell onto the side of the crater the Soldier grew lightheaded, his blood draining fast. He tried to stand up, but his leg betrayed him, falling onto his hip, he let out a sickening howl that degenerated into a miserable sob. Hans went to finish his opponent off, but he fell onto his knees in the water in a coughing fit. He retched up the filthy water he had inhaled and vomited the meager rations he had wolfed down before the expedition. Once he had recovered from the fit. He looked up to see the soldier in front of him, sobbing in despair, clutching at his bleeding thigh, his whole pant leg was soaked with blood. he got a good look at him for the first time. Thin face, blond hair, green eyes, he couldn’t be any older than him, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, slumped on the side of the crater. “Hjaelp!” the Boy pleaded between a sob. Hans just stared, on his knees in the water dumbfounded. “Oh, God.” Hans vomited until there was nothing left to empty, and then continued to dry heave. “Hjaelp” The Boy repeated hopelessly, his voice growing weaker by the word. “Jag baer dig!” “Mor…H-Hjaelp!” The Boy broke into a weak sob once more. but there was nothing Hans could do. so he just sat there, and sobbed, in horror, soaked in the filthy, bloody water. for a long time, in the pounding rain and artillery. until the Boy could beg in words no more. Hans retreated to the other side of the crater. Still, the Boy stared at Hans, with large eyes full of despair and accusation. eventually, day turned to freezing night and the pounding artillery finally stopped. Hans decided to stay in the crater, for fear of snipers, he had no way of knowing who had won the battle. The cold bit deep, he wouldn't survive the night like this, his uniform thoroughly soaked. He looked at the Boy and morbidly realized the only way he would survive. He crawled his way to the Boy. He tried to move him, but then the Boy, still alive, let out a whimper and struggled against Hans futilely, he was far too weak now to put up any meaningful resistance. Hans began to turn the Boy over to undo his armor. As he lifted the Boy’s hip he let out a weak cry and sobbed once more. Hans broke down too, but did not stop. “I’m sorry.” Hans sobbed The Boy wailed in agony. “I’m so sorry.” he succeeded in pushing the Boy over, who wailed into the mud “Please forgive me.” He struggled to undo the straps of the armor with his numb hands. “Oh, God!” He turned the Boy over again. and was met again with his sobs “Oh, Saints forgive me!” He removed the breastplate and began to unbutton the coat under it. The Boy no longer even had the strength to resist. Hans kept pleading for forgiveness. he wriggled the coat off of the Boy. A pack of cigarettes and a silver locket fell out of the breast pocket. Hans picked up the locket and inspected it. The front read “*För Leo*” in cursive script. Hans decided against opening it. he placed the locket in Leo’s shivering hands now dressed in only an undershirt and soaked pants. Hans draped the coat over himself. Pulled out a lighter, a cigarette from the pack, placed it in Leos’s mouth, and lit it, before lighting one for himself.