The needle stabbed the skin deep until a red drop soaked the metal. I didn’t feel pain anymore. The bloody needle scratched the one hundred and fifty eight mark on the formerly white wall. I dabbed an alcohol soaked cotton ball over the newly punctured skin in my left inner arm. The newly punctured skin was located at the end of series of fading marks surrounding my body. I stood few paces back watching the whole picture, the tally marks, that started one day on a whim, the day I was released from the hospital, in a desperate attempt to cope with the grief, with the guilt, until now the wall was overwhelmed by the bloody marks drawn every day. The memorized pain in my flesh was the reminder of the mistakes I could never forget or forgive. My mind, always protective of me, was in a haste to let go of the memories which threatened the calm and peace. Brutally every detail about her was fading. Hardly, I could picture her; her face in my mind felt unfamiliar, as if belonged to a stranger that never existed. I tried to imagine her melodic voice, to recall her familiar scent, nothing came forth. I loathed myself for letting it all slip away. True, I survived, but sometimes it felt I died along with my family that night. The tally marks were the string connecting me to them. I felt as long as I kept track there was still a chance to get my family back. To say our marriage was a happy one would have been an understatement, we were deeply in love. I would not claim we hadn’t small and trifle disagreements, but never anything serious. How I wished to hear her carefree laughter that had the magical ability to rid me of any distress and angst. I met Anna almost five years ago, right out of college. We started dating, two years later we married. On our second anniversary we decided to try for a baby. Few months later Anna crying gave me the news. I was happier than ever I was in my life. Tomorrow was the due date, our child were to be born if that night would have turned another way. We would have been a happy family; I would have run around the hospital delivering the news to our friends and family with tears in my eyes: ‘it’s a boy,’ or ‘it’s a girl’. I would have held Anna and the baby in my arms and never let go. Unfortunately it was thwarted by my own foolish negligence. My phone vibrated. It was Richard, a colleague; perhaps the only person remaining that could be called my friend.  I had cut off my relations with anyone I knew from before the accident. I let it go to voicemail. He was a good person, and had tried to coax me for a guy’s weekend, fishing or something, getting me out of my own solitude. Richard knew about the accident like everyone else in the office, but he was smart enough to understand I did not welcome talking about it. *** The next day, as soon as I woke up, even before I had my eyes completely opened I knew something was amiss. I sat baffled watching the wall, white as snow, not a mark, not one tally mark of the days gone by was left. Panic raising, my heart racing, I jumped out the bed. For seconds a futile hope sparkled in my heart, maybe all of that was only a nightmare, maybe in the next room, in the kitchen, I would find Anna, cooking breakfast, or frivolously thumbing her phone, paging through a book. But room after room it was deserted, nothing else beside the marks was different. There was no trace of her in the house. It had not been a dream, or if it was, I was still living it. I run my hands over the white wall, touching, to feel my blood still under the perfect white paint, but it was intact. A tear trickled down my eye. I slid down onto the floor leaning against the wall. I took off all my clothes inspecting my body, trailing the fading puncture marks, from the first mark on my right hand near my wrist, which I had made the day I was released from the hospital and came back to the empty home. I recall resisting the urge to cut the blue vein. The trail went from the wrist to my upper arm, to chest, down to my right leg and from left leg, to my abdomen and to left arm, which the last mark still shined red. My eyes got blurry, an unsettling feeling spreading through my body, I let myself float. When I became aware once more, I was standing in front of the white door, which had been locked in the past one hundred fifty nine days. I pushed the key in my hand, and turned. The nursery still beautiful and perfect remained untouched as if trapped in that time. Not knowing the babies gender, Anna and I agreed on a neutral color. Frosty aqua walls, with white crib, and chairs, the small red pillows and carpet with pictures of little elephant holding heart shaped balloons. I could see Anna and me painting and furnishing the room, getting everything ready in the first three months. We were overly excited, fantasizing about our future, the three of us. In the corner of the room, in the little white bookshelf with animal dolls hanging off from it, was the stack of photo albums that Anna got printed, from our wedding, the first sonogram of the baby. I grabbed one album and paged through. Watching our life in pictures, I stopped on the wedding photo, Anna looking stunning in her strapless white dress, and I in a black tuxedo with a bowtie. My hands trembling touched the picture; an urge filled with pain and love came over me to melt into that picture to live it once more. Tears dripping onto the album, I could hear Anna laughing, teasing me as I played James Bond. The air became suffocating. I left the nursery with haste, locking the door. I took the car keys, and left the house. I figured a little open air would do me good, but it was as stifling outside. An hour later, I was not sure why I had driven to that place. But the tree that changed the course of my life was standing in front of me. No sign of damage, it stood tall and strong. I was half hoping to detect a sign of evil on the tree, something that differentiated it, but it looked lively as others. “Why are you so sad?” a voice said. I turned and a small girl, perhaps about six, was watching me. “What did you say?” The little girl repeated. “Why are you sad?” She was alone, no adult around that I could see. “Where are you parents?” “I don’t know,” The girl standing still gaping at me shook her head, sending her pony tails bouncing around, and then added “are you lost too?” I was indeed; at least it felt like it. I looked around, there was not one car parked beside mine. Where had the girl come from? “Where are your parents?” I repeated. She shook her head again. “I know my house,” she said getting into my car. I hesitated a moment, looking around, and got in my car drove as she, a six year old, said. On the way she inquired question after another. I started telling her everything about the accident, the tree, Anna, and our unborn child. She was not like normal children; she listened with eyes that seemed to understand. I told her what I could not tell anyone. How it has been my fault, how I had neglected to checkup the car, and the tires which were old and worn out. If I had been careful perhaps my family would have been alive today. The tire blew, and the car derailed from the road, overturned and skidded off into the tree. The passenger-side received a significant part of the impact. Anna had died in the hospital along with our unborn child. I was not sure why I was telling a six year old but there I was, hardly able to control, words poured out. “I wish I had died right there instead of them.” “I don’t think it was your fault,” the little girl said. “You couldn’t have known this would happen.” How I wished I could believe that. It would have been much relief. I pulled over by a street as she said. I got out the car, and opened the backdoor, but the girl was gone. No trace of her. I looked around, nothing on the street as well. Looking around I realized across the street was the cemetery. Not far Anna was buried. I was not sure then if there ever was a girl, maybe I was going mad. I crossed the street toward Anna’s stone. Beside the gravestone I saw few figures standing. Closer I saw, Julie and Scott, Anna’s parents standing now noticed my presence. I had not seen them ever since the funeral. Across from them two more figures, Richard, my colleague, and by him stood Eddie, my father. We nodded to each other. In silence they retreated few paces giving me space. I knelt down by Anna’s gravestone. I started telling her how I had been since the accident, how guilty I felt. Sometime past, I felt lighter, and stood, turning I saw they still waiting for me. Richard and I in my car were following Anna’s parent’s car, they had insisted for me to join them for dinner, all of us, even father and Richard. Pulling out from the cemetery I half expected to see the little girl again, but nothing. I wondered if that girl could have been my baby if things would have turned another way.


A breeze brushes against my face and it’s not until now that I realize my cheek is wet. Strands of hair stick to my hand as I wipe the tears away. Now my fingertips are cold. I predicted the meeting would be filled with emotion but hadn’t thought I’d actually cry. Especially not at this point. I wasn’t even at Penn’s Landing yet. The toe of my shoe catches on a loose Belgian block in the street and a young man rushes to hold my elbow. “Are you okay?” His expression is kind and I try not to be distracted by his pierced cheeks. “Yes, thanks, just not paying attention.” After waiting more than two decades for this, how could I shift my focus elsewhere? Of course I wasn’t paying attention to the Belgian blocks in front of Independence Hall. There were bigger thoughts – much bigger – that were spinning in my mind. Paul had been a great father and I loved him. He cheered for me when I was a spelling bee contender. He shouted every time I scored a goal at a soccer match. And he glowed with pride at my college graduation from the University of Pennsylvania. But I never knew until Mom died that he’d been my step-father. I’m not even sure why he told me, but he did. Tearfully, about a week after Mom’s funeral. Initially, I didn’t believe him. It was absurd. How could Dad not be my father? It didn’t make sense. But there was something in his expression, in his words, and in his shaking hands that told me he was telling the truth. Paul’s truth held few details, though. He didn’t know my father’s name, only that Mom had dated him before Paul met her. Against his parents wishes, he married her when she was five months pregnant on a sunny day at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church on South 10th Street.. Her bridal bouquet had been filled with white roses and blue delphinium, he’d remembered. When I learned that my birth father was someone other than Paul, I silently gave my grandparents credit for never having treated me any differently than they did my cousins. At some point, they must have decided to embrace me in the family, like a baby bird being protected in stronger wings. From Paul’s revelation until now, it was a blur of late-night online research and sending in DNA samples to perhaps not always legitimate sites. But what was someone shady going to do with my DNA? Make a clone? I would be flattered. The pressing and inexplicable need to connect with my birth father went far deeper. As years with no leads passed, I felt increasingly desperate to find him, to meet with him, to look at his face. And that was going to happen in about 10 minutes. I pressed my red Kate Spade cross-body against my hip as I quickly crossed Walnut Street. I would be seeing him any minute now. He knew I’d have a red pocketbook. I knew he’d be wearing a red scarf on this blustery October afternoon. My feet moved more quickly than I wanted them to… past the Seaport Museum and towards the Viewing Deck. A long and hard gust of wind blew in from the Delaware River and I pulled my gray peacoat tighter. How odd it was that I didn’t feel ready to meet the one person I’d waited almost half my life to meet. It had been a slightly awkward email, but I’d hit Send before I had a chance to edit it: To: James Collingwood From: Sarah Woodword Subject: DNA Test Match Hello James! I’m sure you realized, as I did, that we’re an almost exact match on FamilyDNATree! Looking at their report, you will see as I did, that all the science indicates that you are my biological father. I have been looking for you for over two decades and it would mean so much to meet you in person. I only want to know who you are as a person and to hear what family stories you’d be willing to share. I was born, raised, and currently live in Philadelphia. Are you still in the area? Would you be interested in meeting me? I’ve been searching for you for over twenty years, since my mother (Kimberly Hart Woodward) passed. It would mean the world to me. Best regards, Sarah Had it been too emotional? Too filled with expectations? Those questions, and more, haunted me for a year. And then James Collingwood replied to my email. To: Sarah Woodword From: James Collingwood Subject: Meeting Would you like to meet at the Viewing Deck at Penn’s Landing at 2pm on Friday, October 8th? To make things simple, I’ll be wearing a red scarf. James To: James Collingwood From: Sarah Woodward Subject: Meeting That would be wonderful! To keep things consistent, I’ll be carrying a small red pocketbook. I can’t wait to actually meet you! Warm regards, Sarah I never heard back from him. But did I need to? He had set the meeting in place. I only needed to show up. I am now at the Viewing Deck. It feels like my heart is pounding at an unsafe rate as I quickly scan the few people looking out at the Delaware River. There is a small family with unruly children. To their right, a young couple look flirtatiously at each other. An elderly man sits in a wheelchair by himself. Could that be…? I tentatively make my way over to the old man and glance sideways at him. No red scarf. I glance at my Apple watch. 2:05. Okay, it’s not considered “late” until fifteen minutes, right? I take deep breaths, hoping to quell the rising panic inside. Is he not going to even show up? Is he going to actually stand me up? My anger rises to unwarranted levels. I turn and look in every direction. Not one red scarf. I turn back around and stare at the river. The flow rises and falls, the white sky illuminates the ripples that travel away from me. Suddenly, I feel like everything is flowing away from me. I’m 44 and never married. Something always went wrong with each relationship, and it was never the same thing. The water running past me now reminds me that I will never be a mother. Which makes me think of my mother. In my mind, I see her in all the black and white photos I’ve seen of her: The small baby, the mischievous toddler, the 3rd grade student in the class photo, her hands folded on her lap, the photos of her in her high school yearbook… laughing, vivacious, alive. The next photos I saw were of her and Paul at their first home. She was visibly pregnant. Her smile didn’t look joyful, as it once had, it was now a smile of gratitude. The photos were in color when I was born and Mom and Paul held me in both their arms, holding me up in my pink blanket with expressions of such expectation and pride. My eyes water again and – “Sarah?” A hand softly touches my shoulder. I spin around. A tall, older man stands in front of me. He wears a black beret and a gray cashmere coat. The coat matches his neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He’s wearing sunglasses – or maybe they’re those prescription glasses that turn dark outside? He’s wearing a red scarf. I nod. “Yes, yes, I’m Sarah. And you must be James?” He nods. “Jamie. Everyone calls me Jamie.” “Oh! Okay. Jamie, then.” There’s a paralyzing silence, but it lasts less than a minute. Jamie rubs his gloved hands together. “ It’s chillier than it looks. Would you like to head to Cherry Street Pier and grab a cup of coffee?” “That sounds perfect.” We walk side by side in silence. I glance at Jamie, but he stares straight ahead. We get to Cherry Street Pier and wander past the art exhibits to the concessions. Jamie gestures for me to order. “Uh, I’ll have an Americano with light cream and that’s it.” Jamie grins beneath his sunglasses (are they sunglasses?) and turns back to the barista. “I’ll have the same.” We sit at a small round table for two and look at each other. I can’t quite tell if there’s a physical resemblance or not because of his damn (possibly) sunglasses. I smile nervously. “I’m not really sure where to begin or where to stop.” He nods. “Well, I’ll start. Yes, I dated Kimmie Hart for about 7 months in 1979. But I never, ever knew she’d gotten pregnant.” I stare at him, but in my mind all I can think is Kimmie? You called her Kimmie? My entire life, I’ve only heard her called Kimberly. “Right. And I was born in 1980. I wonder why she never told you.” He shrugs. “I guess – after a relationship ends, would you tell someone something like that?” I’d never asked myself that question. I didn’t have a ready answer. The barista calls Jamie’s name and he comes back with our coffees. I begin shaking a bit and I don’t know why, which makes me more nervous. Jamie takes a sip of his coffee. “May I ask what Kimmie died of? In my mind, she was always fit and healthy.” I nod. “Yes, she was. She died in a car accident. She was blindsided by a drunk driver twenty years ago.” Jamie is silent, then takes another sip of his coffee. “That’s a shame. Tragic.” I drink some of my coffee. “So, other than your name, I really don’t know much about you. I mean, what career path did you follow?” He raises his eyebrows and looks relieved I threw him a softball. “Architecture. It was always architecture. “Huh.” I shrug. “And my degree is in Environmental Design.” Jamie lifts his coffee cup. “Well done!” He puts his coffee cup back on the table and looks at me. “Did – did your mother ever tell you about me?” I shake my head. “No. No, she never did. I always thought Paul – my step-father – was my real father. It was shortly after Mom died that he told me. I don’t know why, so don’t ask.” “So –“ Jamie speaks slowly. “She never once mentioned Jamie Collingwood?” I look at him. I feel that he so much wants me to say yes. I can’t want to lie. “She may have, and I just don’t remember.” He nods. He knows. “That’s okay. No doubt she didn’t know what to do about the – situation.” Jamie gives a deep sigh and leans back in his chair. “I want you to know that I loved Kimmie. I really did. Well, as much as anyone that age knows what love is. And I always remembered her and wondered what path she’d walked on in life. It sounds silly, but I’d look up at the moon some nights and think, ‘Maybe Kimmie is looking at the same moon at this same second. Maybe she’s wondering if I am, too. I really did love her.” Suddenly, Jamie’s face drops, and his shoulders begin to shake. One of his hands is still on the table. I place my hand over his. He pulls off his glasses and looks up at me. His hazel-green eyes are a perfect match with mine. We both see it. We both know it. And we both tear up. Jamie pushes his chair away from the table and steps over to me. I stand up and he embraces me in his strong arms. As if I’m a baby bird he never had the chance to nurture.


“Hey Andrea, stop standing there and come help me with these curtains! Giacomo’s annoyed voice snaps me from my daze. Blinking quickly, I look around. I’m standing on a stage. On the stage, lit with bright lights from every direction. I’ve gotten distracted by the elaborate theatre once again. How long have I been standing here? I look down at all the empty seats, and remember. The concert! I’d run to the theatre as soon as I’d gotten out of the conservatory this evening, passing horse-drawn carriages and small shops, making my way through the busy lantern-lit streets of Genova. From where I’m standing, I can make out the chatter of the crowd that is quickly gathering outside the doors. The most anticipated concert of the year is going to start soon, and I still have to help Giacomo set up the wretched curtains. “It’s always the same story with you. Do you want him to play with this in the background?” He asks, lifting one end of the fabric and shaking it in the air. I shake my head quickly and run over. As I help Giacomo fix the curtains, I feel an icy breeze blow on the back of my neck from one of the open windows. I shiver, rubbing my hands together as we walk off the stage. The devil’s violinist . That’s what the newspapers called Niccolò Paganini. For the past month at the conservatory, the only topic of conversation had been tonight’s concert. Walking to one of my lessons one day, I’d heard one girl talking to another. “Paganini creates such astounding music on the violin. His style is so new, and I hear that he fills his music with such unusual techniques and tricks, such as imitating roosters, donkeys, and dogs!” “Really?” Her friend had asked incredulously. Other students had pitched in, and the hallway had become a mass of excited voices. “Yes, and once, he broke three of the four strings on the violin while he was playing, on purpose, to show that he could play the whole piece with only one string, like nobody else can.” “Did you know that Paganini sometimes plays so fast, like twelve notes per second, it’s impossible for the ear to keep up! There must be something supernatural about him. Just look at him and you’ll see.” Don Conrado, my violin teacher, always tells me to sing with my violin. “Devi cantare con il violino! ” He says that if I were to hear the great Niccolò Paganini play in the theatre, I would understand. I’ve read that Paganini was born almost 50 years ago, here in Genova on the 27 th of October 1782. Not only is he the greatest violinist, but he is also a guitarist and composer. He has only ever published a few of his works, because he wants to keep the rest secret, and there is a rumor that he got his magnificent talent from the devil. I wonder if that’s true. Backstage, I turn to Giacomo, who has just finished shouting at some poor crew member. “Do you know what they say about Paganini and the devil?” I ask Giacomo. He just rolls his eyes. “I heard that Paganini's mother made a pact with the devil, and traded Paganini’s soul for his incredible playing abilities, so that he could become the greatest violinist there ever was.” I continue, excited. “I heard that he even encourages these rumors about him. Sometimes, he lies in his bed for a full day before a concert, not moving, without food or water.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you believe all this superstitious nonsense. He’s talented, and that comes from a lifetime of practice, not the devil!” Giacomo says, exasperated. I scoff and walk away, making my way around to find a spot to watch the concert, which should start soon. The concert had sold out, and quickly all the seats are filled. The rumors about Paganini must have a positive effect on him, with all the people who swarm to his concerts. However, forty minutes later, the concert hasn’t yet started. The musicians in the orchestra are complaining, and the audience seems quite restless. “Where is Paganini?” A gruff voice booms from the crowd. “Please, everyone, be patient! He should be here anyti-” Giacomo’s voice trails away, as excited cries rose from outside. I peer out of an open window and see an elegant black carriage slowing to a stop outside the theatre, pulled by four black horses. A thin figure dressed in an all-black coat slowly steps out from inside. “Paganini’s here!” I whisper. The theatre is deathly quiet, and I can feel the anticipation growing. The curtains part, and out steps the devil’s violinist. He is wearing a black vest on top of a white puffy shirt, with black trousers. He has long black hair, and a pair of small, blue tinted glasses, which I remember being told had been prescribed to him to help with the glare of the lighting. He is so pale and thin he resembles a walking corpse. Pausing at one end of the stage, he looks at the audience, bowing exaggeratedly multiple times. The audience erupts into wild cheers. Satisfied, Paganini slowly moves into the center of the stage. He places his violin onto his shoulder, and then, dramatically raises his bow.

The crowd is in awe of his playing! It’s spellbinding! Paganini plays with such passion and tenderness that some of the spectators burst into tears. Some ladies in the first row of the audience reach for Paganini, others dramatically fan themselves. Now I understand what Don Conrado meant about singing with the violin. Paganini has perfect intonation, and his compositions are so melodic, it’s astonishing. As the concert progresses, the level of energy in the hall rises. The audience is mad with amazement. Some ladies dangle from their boxes, waving their handkerchiefs at Paganini. He alternates between very complicated virtuosic pieces where he shows off with ferocity, snapping many of his bow hairs, and more melodic pieces, which he plays in a beautiful singing style. As he plays, he twists his body across the stage. Now I understand why some people call him “rubber man”. Now, Paganini plays the Capriccio No. 24, and I start to see him as demonic. He certainly does look possessed as he plays, shaking his head so much that his hair flies across his face, while his fingers fly across his violin. Whenever Paganini plays a complex passage, screams erupt from the crowd. I see a man in the audience transcribing Paganini's music by ear onto manuscript paper, so he can have a copy of Paganini’s compositions. A lady faints from the intensity of his playing. I look at the orchestra and see the jealousy across many of the violinists’ faces. There are so many tricks Paganini adds to his playing, that make him and his playing seem magic, creating magnificent sounds that haven’t been heard before, which he seems to do with inhuman ease. As the concert comes to an end, I watch Paganini while he dramatically ends his piece and looks up, his eyes staring back at me. Frozen in my seat, I can’t move. He smiles sardonically for an instant, before looking away and taking a deep bow. “Well, that was dramatic.” I whisper to myself. I’ll never know for sure if the rumors are true, or if it’s all silly superstition. But one thing’s for sure. Niccolò Paganini is hauntingly talented. They call him the devil’s violinist, and for good reason.


Everything is random, until it isn’t. Chantey knows this all too well. That’s why she’s sitting alone in a diner with her brown eyes glued to the front door. Every minute she’s checking the time on her phone, and nervously tapping her feet. As she looked over her shoulder for the fourth time, she ran her fingers through her permed dark hair. Her nerves were so on edge, Chantey nearly jumped out her skin when the waitress said, hello.            “Can I get you anything?” A young black waitress asked with her hands on her hips.            Chantey’s eyes darted back and forth between the waitress and the front door. She cracked a partial simile and replied, “I’m just waiting on somebody.”            “My boss said that rent has to be paid on these booths. So, you have to order something, or wait outside,” the waitress said pulling out a pen and flipping open a pad.            Chantey sighed as she looked around the greasy spoon restaurant and noticed that every booth was filled. Customers licking fingers and smacking lips as they enjoyed Herb’s Louisiana Catfish. She had picked this place because it was way out in Brooklyn. Far from her college campus in Queens, so that no one would recognize her or her protégé. Chantey picked up the sticky menu and said, “Just give me some fries and a coke.”             The bell chime at the front door went off and in walked a tall, lanky, man, wearing blue jeans, a white t-shirt, Converse All-stars, and fedora hat. His white skinned looked like he was in desperate need of a tan. When Chantey saw him, she stood up and waived to get his attention. He quickly made his way over to the table and slid into the booth across from her.            “What’s up Tey?” Corey said locking eyes with her.            “It’s about time,” she said sitting on the edge of her seat. Chantey eagerly asked, “Did you get it?”            Corey’s face curled into a smile, “My word is bond. If I tell you there’s cheese on the moon, go get your crackers.”            “Whatever boy,” Chantey replied with a chuckle and dismissive waive. Then she reached out with an open left hand and said, “Come on with it.”            Corey reached into the small of his back and pulled out a folded manila envelope. And just as he was about to place it in her hand, he pulled it back and asked, “What you got for me?”            Chantey shook her head. She reached into her backpack and pulled out a freshly typed paper that was neatly stapled. As she slid the paper across the table she said, “I almost forgot. One lit term-paper breaking down, The Catcher in the Rye and its significance on 20 th century literature.”            Corey took the paper and thumbed through it with a smile. He nodded while saying, “Cool, cool.” Then he handed the enveloped to Chantey. “Here you go. I hope you know what I had to go through to get this for you. If the administration found out, I’d be expelled.”            “You have any idea how long it took me to write that paper. We even.”            “It’s not that. I’m just saying. Since you’re an aspiring journalist and all, I hope my name stays out of this.”            “You’re a source. I would go jail before I would reveal a source. Your secret is safe with me.”

           “Cool. Just let me know if there’s anything I could do for you in the future,” he said gently touching her smooth dark-skinned hands, “And I do mean anything.”            Chantey glanced up with a smirk, “I like my men tall, dark, muscular, and handsome. You only got one out of four. Sorry honey.”            Chantey took the envelope and went straight to the editor of her school newspaper, Justin Copeland. Justin was a graduate assistant, and was the one who gave out the assignments. She rushed to his office and pounded on the door before letting herself in.            “Justin, you won’t believe what I got,” Chantey announced, barely able to contain her excitement.            Justin stopped typing and turned around from his small desk that faced the wall. He adjusted his black rim glassed and hooked his long blonde hair behind his ears. Offering Chantey a seat next to him, he gave her his undivided attention.

           “I was able to get my hands on these reports,” she stated as she handed him the envelope. “Three woman who went to coach Franklin and reported they were sexually assaulted by a member of the football team.” While Justin read through the pages, he asked, “How did you get these?” “A true reporter never reveals her source,” she answered with a smile. Justin finished reading and exhaled loudly. Shaking his head, he handed Chantey back the paper. “Chantey, you were supposed to be writing an article on the life of coach Jim Franklin. Highlighting his accomplishments for his twenty years at the university. Not digging up unfounded dirt on him.” “But Justin, he knew what happened to these girls and he buried it. We have to follow up. Report it,” she pleaded with her words and her eyes. “You have a redacted report. So you don’t have the names of the alleged victims or the accused. The details of the alleged act are generic. Do you have any other sources, other than the person that gave you these reports?” “No,” Chantey replied with her head hanging down. “You have to have at least three confirmed sources for us to publish anything. Look, I applaud your effort. But Chantey, this is a small school newspaper. Not the Washington post. You’re not Bob Woodward, and this isn’t Watergate. Coach Franklin is the most powerful man on campus. He’s beloved. He’s well respected and connected. And he could kill this article before it’s even printed. And, he could have both of us kicked out of school for even suggesting he had anything to do with this. My suggestion to you, forget about this,” Justin said holding up the files. “And get back to writing your original article.” Chantey sat there with her legs crossed, dejected. She had on a cute pair of black legging that accentuated her curvy body. This caught Justin’s attention. He licked his lips before casually placing his hand on her knee. “I’ll be more than happy to help you get back on track. I’m free this evening. Maybe you can come by my place later and we can work on it together,” Justin smoothly offered with a sly grin as his hand inched up her thigh. Chantey grabbed his wrist and pushed his hand back as she rose to her feet, “I think I got it. But thanks.”

           Chantey quickly exited his office and went back to the dorm. She was use to men coming on to her, but not to having her ideas dismissed. Determined, Chantey pushed Justin’s words and actions out of her head. She walked in her tiny room, and was relieved that her nosey roommate was out. She took a seat at the small desk and placed the reports side by side to look for any clues. There wasn’t much to go by. The reports were generic. Just a date, time, the accusation, and the name of the Amanda Lewis. The secretary who logged the report. She racked her brain on where to start. Then it hit her. She grabbed her things and went to the athletic department. One the way, she stopped by the cafeteria and grabbed a hand full of onions from the salad bar. She messed up her hair a little, and rubbed the onions on her eyes. Pulling a hood over her head, she went through the lobby and to the desk of Amanda Lewis.

           Amanda sat up straight, flashed her pearly whites, and asked, “Hello. How can I help you?”            Chantey pretended to look nervous. She leaned in close and whispered, “Excuse me, but is it possible for me to speak with coach Franklin. There was an incident with one of the players I’d like to discuss with him.”            Amanda looked her up and down and shook her head. She reached into her draw and handed her one of those same report sheets. Leaning forward, she whispered back, “These boys are out of control. Do me favor and fill out this form. The coach typically takes meetings on Wednesday morning during the football season.”             Chantey filled out the form and handed it back to her. Then Amanda handed her a sign in sheet. Chantey noticed that the old sign in sheets were still on there. She needed a second. Thinking quickly, she coughed and acted like she was choked up, and asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have any water, would you?”            “Sure dear.” Amanda hopped up to fetch some water.            Chantey franticly searched through the pages until she found a date that match one from the last report dated, October 2 nd . She snapped a picture with her phone right before Amanda came back with a bottle of water. Chantey took the water, gave her the form, and thanked her immensely.            There were five names that signed in that day, but only one belonging to a female, Heather Tyson. Chantey went to the massive student center in the middle of the campus. There were kids everywhere. Some in the lounge area studying, other in the recreation center playing pool or bowling. Chantey made her way through the crowds and into the bookstore. There she saw her roommate, Caroline. Caroline was in the stacks putting up a fresh shipment of books. Caroline looked like she was still waiting for puberty to end with a face full of acne, and glasses thicker than coke bottles.            “Caroline, what’s up?” Chantey said strutting in with a big smile and leaning against the bookshelves. “I need your help with something.”            “I don’t know, Tey,” Caroline said with a shrug. “I don’t want to get into any type of trouble. I know how you are.”            Chantey wrapped her arm around Caroline’s shoulder and said, “Now would I let anything happen to my girl? I just need a little info. Help me out, and I’ll get you into the party that the Delta’s are throwing Saturday.”            Caroline smiled, showing braces that look like railroad tracks. “What you need girl?” “I just need you to pull up the ID to a Heather Tyson. I want to talk to her about a story I’m doing. That’s all.” Caroline went into the office and pulled up the info on Heather. Chantey studied the photo of the short hair brunette with green eyes for a minute. I know this girl , she thought to herself, but she couldn’t remember from where. Chantey scribbled down the dorm number and went to her place. She was knocking on her door thirty minutes later. “Hello,” Heather said wearing a large sweatshirt with a textbook under her arms. She looked at Chantey like she knew her. “Hi, my name is Chantey. I’m with the school paper. You have a minute?” “School paper,” Heather mumbled, “That’s where I remember you. From Journalism 101.” “Yeah, that’s it. I thought I recognized you too. You mind if I come in for minute.” Heather opened the door all the way and invited her in. She sat on one twin bed while Chantey sat on the other, “So what’s up?” Chantey was silent for a minute, as she was choosing her words carefully, “I ah…I was doing a story on coach Franklin. And I came across a report that you filed with his office.” Heather’s eyes were as wide as silver dollars. “Oh my god! How did you find out?” “It’s a long story. But I know that you went to him and he buried it,” Chantey said leaning forward and grabbing her hand, “You’re not the only one.” Heather withdrew. Her eyes began to water. She stood up and paced back and forth, “You should leave.” Chantey stood up and blocked her path. “I know how difficult this is for you. But you can’t let whoever did this to you get away with it. This happened to two other women. And unless we expose him, it’ll keep happening. Please tell me your story. Maybe I can help you,” Chantey said softly with compassion in her voice. Heather closed her eyes and breathed heavily for a few minutes. She mumbled to herself. Chantey placed a hand on her shoulders, trying to comfort her. Heather grabbed a piece of tissue and dabbed her red eyes. She sat back down on the bed. Collecting herself, her voice cracked as she said, “He invited me back to his place to work on a paper. He was very nice and mannerable. He fixed me a drink. I took a couple of sips and felt woozy. Next thing I know, I wake up hours later on his couch with my shoes off, and panties pulled halfway down. And I couldn’t remember anything. I went to coach Franklin and told him what happened. And he said I probably had too much to drink and forgot what I did. But there’s no way I would’ve forgot drinking that much or sleeping with that guy. Anyway, he said it would be my word against his. And he was from a prominent family. So he convinced me to drop it.” “That’s awful. Who did this to you?” Chantey asked on the edge of the bed. “Justin Copeland.” Chantey nearly feel on her face. She was stunned. Then she remembered that Justin played football last year as a senior. Incredible. And he just tried to lure her to his place. Chantey stayed the evening with Heather. And they both cried and hugged and talked some more until curfew. Later that evening, Chantey sat at her desk, typing away. She had written a magnificent story. But there was no way this story would never get printed with the coach and now Justin in the way. He needed to be exposed. Then it her. She had a plan. Chantey showed up at Justin’s office two days later. She had some tight shorts that hugged every curve she had. And she had on a low-cut blouse that barely contained her cleavage. She took a seat in front of him. Chantey was so hot that when she crossed her legs, she could’ve started a fire. She handed him her paper. “You were right. That report was bullshit. I’m back focus. Trying to get this finished. What do you think?” Justin damn near went cross-eyed from looking at her thighs and her paper at the same time, “It looks good. But you still need to clean it up a little. My offer still stands. I’m free in the evening if you want to come by. We can knock this out tonight.” Chantey smiled and cut her eyes at him. “You know what, I’m going to take you up on your offer.” “Cool. Here, let me write down my address. And you can come by tonight around seven,” he suggested.                                                * Justin was excited when saw that Chantey showed up at seven on the dot wearing the same outfit. Justin eagerly invited her in. He showed her around, then she followed him into his kitchen area. “Make yourself home,” Justin said as he pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. Chantey lips curled into a smile. “Can you do me a favor?” “Anything.” Chantey was rubbing her hands together. “I left my purse at my place. And my hands feel real dry. Could I trouble you for some lotion?” “Sure,” Justin went into his bedroom and grabbed a bottle of lotion from his dresser. He looked at his teeth to make sure nothing was in them, then he grabbed some tic-tacs and popped a few in his mouth. Excited, he skipped into the kitchen and handed Chantey the lotion. Then he offered, “I was going to have some wine. You care for some?” “Yeah. By the way. Do you mind if I use your restroom?” “Of course, It’s the second door on the left.” Chantey went to the bathroom and Justin pulled out a bottle of wine. He poured them both a glass. Peeping around the corner to see if she was coming, he reached into his pocket and grabbed a pill, rufilin. He dropped it into her drink, and it quickly disintegrated. Just as he finished, she came strolling back to the kitchen. He handed her the spiked drink while taking a sip of his own. Going into the living room, Justin turned on his record player and put on some smooth jazz. He went back in the kitchen. “This wine tastes good. What kind is it?” Chantey asked licking her lips. “Pinot noir,” Justin answered with a devilish grin. Chantey started blinking feverishly. She stood up and staggered, “I feel a little woozy.” Justin grabbed her arms and steered her toward the couch. “Why don’t you take a seat in here.” A few minutes later Chantey was out. Justin was rubbing his hands together as he stood over her. He ran into the bedroom and got a bottle of KY jelly. He slipped off his pants and applied the lubricant. Then he twisted her body around and began to unbutton her shorts. Just as he was about to pull them down, there was a knock at the door. Yanking his pants up, he stumbled over to the door and cracked it open. “Yes.” The campus police busted through the door and pushed him against the wall, “Justin Copeland, you are under arrest for attempted rape!” Confused, Justin yelled out, “What are you talking about!” “We talking about this you sick bastard!” Chantey said hopping to her feet and handing the police the spiked drink. Then she pointed to her phone that was propped up by the cookie jar recording everything. Justin bowed his head and shouted, “Fuck!”

                                                       The End


(This is a fun, if a bit dark, alternate history short story written up off the back of a game of 'Hearts of Iron 4', in which I played as Ireland and really leaned in to how silly it got. I tried things and made an awful mess. It's not intended to be serious, or to reflect the real personalities of people named in the story. It isn't remotely realistic or historically accurate. About a 5 to 10 minute read!) How did we get here? James Larkin could only ponder this as he watched the last of the Irish air corp's enormous strategic jet bombers lumber into the air, heavy with their deadly cargo. If you had told him as a boy that something that heavy could fly, he would have laughed at you. They were setting off for what was once Iceland, now the northern extent of the fascist 'Resurrectionist Ireland'. Before, it had been part of Larkin's Irish People's Union. Better times, Larkin thought bitterly. He absent mindedly brushed a finger across the patch covering his ruined eye. In a few weeks, America's eastern seaboard would awaken to German carriers and fighter planes; the Italian navy would bombard the coast, and Axis troops would land their forces - probably sending what remained of the Irish army in with the Hungarians and Romanians as cannon fodder to establish a beach head. The lads would be cut down on the Jersey shore, in the name of Der Fuhrer. How did we get here? 1936. Tensions rise in Europe, as Germany re-militarises the Rhineland. In Ireland, the annoyance this causes the British leads to mirth, but serious people are concerned. James Larkin and Eoin O'Duffy represent opposing sides in the debate over what we should do - join in the Communist revolution (the Soviets, not being fond of the British, would be sure to protect us, and to fend off the fascists); or throw our lot in with the Reich, following the seemingly growing list of countries going that direction. Of course, there was also De Valera, and his tired brand of conformity and pandering to his Catholic idols. An Irish people yearning for identity, and seeking strong leaders to help liberate her northern province, appealed to the Communist and Fascist factions for promises of freedom for their northern cousins. In the end, in spite of the German Reich's successes in demanding territory across Europe (or perhaps because of it), the Communists won out. O'Duffy would be a thorn in Larkin's side for years to come, the threat of a Nazi sponsored fascist coup always lurking around the corner. The revolution was really a peaceful referendum for Ireland, but De Valera would never been seen again. James Larkin began planning to retake the north from Britain. The years that followed saw rapid development. As the Communist state machinery was erected, from Soviet youth schools to political commissars and ideology training centres, Ireland also rose to the challenge set for it by Stalin's USSR: "grow strong". The introduction of widespread conscription, limiting of export trade, and reduction in luxury goods being manufactured, was coupled with massive increases in military infrastructure. Research was directed towards producing infantry and artillery weapons; submarines and destroyers were designed, and dockyards built; fighters and bombers crept off small production lines, but accumulated nonetheless. Russian research and material support helped, but Ireland's scientists found themselves extremely well funded and given free reign to work on anything that would help us to fight. Scientists fleeing the Nazi party would find refuge in Ireland also, aiding our efforts. In time, the Irish armed forces stood around 300,000 strong - enough to make a contribution. Landing at Molotovsk in 1938, they marched through Russia to volunteer with Communist China in the struggle against Japan and her puppet Chinese statelets. They acquitted themselves well, but ultimately had to retreat and return to Ireland due to the harsh conditions and short supply in the eastern theater. And then, on the eve of the USSR's acceptance of Ireland's membership of ComIntern in 1939, war broke out between the Allied and Axis powers. Poland fell, then Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxembourg...and France. As the Germans turned their sights on Denmark, an increasingly desperate Britain could not tolerate a strong Communist threat to her west. In a move nobody saw coming, they sent a diplomat named MacDonald with an offer. Join the war on their side, he said, and they would return Northern Ireland to our control. Larkin was stunned. It was his mandate for taking power, and it would simply land in his lap. There were only two problems. First, ComIntern would not take rejection lightly (joining the British in the war against the Reich would surely count Ireland out, as Germany had signed the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact with Russia). And the bigger problem: for the past 3 years, Larkin's people had been smuggling weapons in to the British Raj and Turkey, fuelling communist insurrectionist movements in India, and hoping to trouble British north African concerns from Turkey. To join the British war now might be suicide; a Britain without the manpower and resources of the Raj and Africa would be in real trouble. After much debate, Larkin elected to accept Britain's offer - then immediately betray them and complete the joining of ComIntern. The Irish felt no sorrow for this betrayal against the old enemy. Once their troops were removed and ours occupied their forts and coastal batteries, Britain would not dare try to retake a strong, unified Ireland; especially while at the same time trying to wrest control of Africa from the Axis. Much less would they try anything once India rose up in defiance. And as an added bonus to getting what Ireland wanted, "Unkle Joe", as Larkin had come to think of Stalin, would surely be pleased to see more Communist countries born from the ashes of the bourgeoisie. Having had so much success in coming to power and building Ireland up, having delivered the north to his people, Larkin supposed that his luck was about used up. This was confirmed in several ways. The insurrection in India was wildly successful, very swiftly removing Lord Linlithgow and his garrisons from power. However, the new India then decided that their best course to continue fighting the British would be to declare for the Axis. In joining Germany's Reich, they effectively closed themselves off from helping ComIntern - indeed, they would end up fighting against it. Turkey, taking their cue from the Indians, did the same. Ireland did join ComIntern in the end, though their apparent mismanagement of the outcomes in India and Turkey did not help. Who could have predicted that the Indian hatred for Britain was stronger than their love of the worker, or that the inheritors of the Ottoman Empire would be so easily swayed? In spite of her weakened state and desperate position, Britain declared war on Ireland in 1941 and began bombing. The effort was small, but enough to do damage and cause many casualties. People questioned Larkin's judgement, but spirits were kept high - and we fought back. Ireland's scientists had made much of the materials provided by Mother Russia, and by 1942 could build and fire simple rockets. From each of the four provinces, their vengeance weapons rained down on the UK, as many as four per day hitting somewhat random locations. Ireland was effectively cut off from Soviet supplies by the British navy, meaning the arms production which had now grown the army to over 400,000 halted in its tracks. Fuel reserves were low, so Ireland's fighters, bombers, submarines and destroyers had to greatly reduce their operation. Motorised troops became foot infantry again as trucks were mothballed. In late 1942, the Axis breached the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact, and went to war with ComIntern. Ireland, (together with the USSR, Mongolia, and some place called Tannu Tuva) was now at war with all of the Axis and Allied powers simultaneously. As the Soviets fought Germany on the east front, and the Allies tried to gain a foothold in Africa, Ireland could only sit back and watch. In one piece of good news, shortly after going to war with nearly everyone (but especially the British), a small Irish force had managed to go off shore before the British blockade descended, landing on Iceland. Iceland had declared for the Axis, and as such it was a valid ComIntern target, and lightly defended. Iceland was taken with minimal casualties, and supplies could be moved home by air. Ireland would survive the British blockade, albeit with severely reduced growth. For the next several years, the war raged in Europe. The Americans had joined in 1941, throwing their forces time and again against an impenetrable coastal defence in France and Italy. Without strong UK support, and with the war in Africa all but lost, things looked grim for the Allies by the mid-40's. Casualties stood at over 8 million, though this was dwarfed by Soviet losses. The Reich lost people too, but enormous industrial output and manpower from captured territories fuelled their divisions. African resources were increasingly reaching them instead of the Allies, as the UK and France were squeezed out of Africa. Japan entered the war and worked its way south through the Philippines and Dutch East Indies, eventually taking isolated Australia and New Zealand. In Europe, the front lines moved little, and losses mounted. It was a war of attrition, lives the currency which would buy victory. 12 years in to the war, in 1950, all that remained of the Allies was Canada, the USA, and the UK. Distracted by their western front with Japan, and having bounced off French and Belgian shores for perhaps the 10th time, the USA was powerless to assist when German forces, using Italian naval power, stormed the beaches of Britain. Paratroopers captured towns and villages, while tanks rolled through the cities, a blanket of fighter and bomber cover atop their positions. The UK had endured through so much, but capitulation was inevitable. Ireland had fended off small British and American attempts at landing and capturing our island, but serious questions had to be asked about determined Axis landings from British shores. In the end, the German forces returned to Europe, leaving an occupying force in the UK and concentrating on fighting Russia. Ireland, freed of the UK naval pinion, was now entrapped by Italian boats. At least the bombing stopped. Irish rocketry had matured and come in to its own, and the rocket bombardment was redirected to western Germany. Jet engines were discovered by 1951, and Irish designers created a strategic bomber with enough range to bomb German factories and infrastructure. When the Italian navy relented, moving off to fight elsewhere, the majority of the Irish army set off to join the eastern front in the fight against the Axis, landing once more at Molotovsk. They found the front line much further east than they would have hoped - a huge German salient extended to Yaroslavl. Worse, they discovered that several years of stagnation in terms of arms production left them with obsolete equipment, particularly the artillery which simply could not compete. Their anti-tank was not up to par either. German panzer divisions pushed them back time and again, and the massive air power of the German Luftwaffe meant they could not hold a position for long. The Irish fought bravely, throwing themselves in wave after wave at German positions; even the Russians thought they were crazy. They briefly retook and held Moscow before a vicious counter assault threw them out of the city. Eventually, the tattered rags of the army returned home, hoping to rebuild and fight once more. At this time, another of Larkin's secret plots came to fruition. Irish scientists, with Russian research and some stolen nuclear material, had been working on nuclear bombs. Nobody knew that the fancy new power plant in Castlebar was spinning off a deadly side product, something which could smite a city like the god of the old testament himself. In early 1952, two bombs were prepared: Fear Saille and Buachaill Beag. They were loaded on to a pair of bombers, and the high command saluted them as they took off on their path to glory. Frankfurt and Hamburg were the targets. The devastation was immeasurable. Rather than weaken the German resolve, it led them to make an even harder push to their east. Larkin's generals reported on Christmas day 1952 (a day that had been renamed "Irish freedom from oppression day") that a Soviet collapse was expected imminently. On the 26th, it was officially confirmed. A communication was received from what was probably the last standing outpost of the Russian military. Their message simply stated "All is lost. The revolution has failed. Europe and the world are Adolf's playground. I can only say that I will go out with a grenade in my mouth, and a Nazi throat in each hand. Good luck comrades." In Dublin, Larkin convened his generals and began to plan for the defence of our shoreline. The room grew unusually quiet, and Larkin sensed spaces opening up around him. Eoin O'Duffy held the pistol. There was a bang, a flash of light, and then darkness. The bullet had destroyed his left eye and maimed his face, but Larkin survived. In the end, the Irish people's gratitude saved him from execution - making him a martyr might have ignited a deadly civil war. O'Duffy's moment had finally come. Resurrectionist Ireland rolled its flags out everywhere, and a people now worried for their survival embraced, on the surface at least, fascist ideology. It struck Larkin how easily the extreme leftist tools of state could be turned to the use of the extreme right. On release from hospital in June 1953, Larkin was given a token post in the military, and never found himself in want of company - fascist thugs became his shadow, everywhere he went. In the end, the Germans were welcomed ashore when they arrived some months after the coup. Much to O'Duffy's annoyance, the officer in charge of their forces declined to meet him, instead asking to have Larkin brought to his ship immediately. Boarding, Larkin felt sure he would not walk off again. The man who had ordered two nuclear detonations in German cities could surely find no forgiveness in the jaws of the wolf. Ushered in to an unexpectedly plush cabin aboard a German warship, Larkin met SS Oberst Gruppenfuhrer Sepp Dietrich. "Herr Larkin. Komm her. Sitzen." Dietrich came close, handing a glass of whiskey to Larkin, and stared intently at him, taking in every detail of his face - showing no awkwardness at pausing to closely examine a wrinkle here, a laughter line there, the protruding scars under the eye patch. Finally, he spoke again. "So good...to finally meet the brave, powerful man responsible for Hamburg. And Frankfurt of course. But for me...mostly Hamburg. Mein schwester...my sister was there, and her children." Larkin swallowed. What might these sick SS have devised, what ways could he be made to suffer? Whispers and stories told of secret camps behind their lines where unspeakable things were done...what if they were true? Dietrich chuckled menacingly. "No need for concern, Herr Larkin. No, it is I who should be sorry. Mein Fuhrer has guided me, and made this clear. He taught me that I should be sorry...that we were not strong enough to stop you." He slammed his drink on the table, causing Larkin to nearly drop his own. "The might of your little nation is unquestionable. And now it will serve us. You will work with O'Duffy to disarm the divisions that were most loyal to you. We will send what remains of Irish forces to fight elsewhere. You will use your subtle expertise to ignite a coup in Canada, and another in Mexico - fascist coups, this time, Herr Larkin. And above all, you will send your verdammt bombs down the throats of the Americans. Finish your drink and get off my ship." Larkin swallowed his whiskey. It was excellent. It is 1953. Irish jet bombers are gathering in Iceland, preparing for their first sortie over the eastern seaboard of the US. They wait only for the signal that the skies have been cleared by the Luftwaffe. James Larkin, with his remaining eye, watches the last bomber dissolve from a dot in to nothingness as it fades from view. In a few days, the USA will be engulfed in flames, and the world's best hope for freedom from the Reich's grip will blink out and slip away. "I brought us here", thinks James Larkin.


Standing on the turret of his tank, the “Shining Lance”, Sir Jerrod looked out across the dusty sun blasted plain. It was midsummer, and the land had not seen rain in nearly a month. Normally green fields were brown, the soil baked and cracked, the soft gusts of hot wind kicking up dust devils across the gently sloping valley. Looking along the line of waiting tanks, each decorated with unique heradly that had faded over the long campaign, Sir Jerrod saw the signal flags go up from the Lord-Commanders vehicle. “It’s time to advance, mount up!” “At your command Sir. Ready?” “Ready!” “Ok, spool her up!” Gunner Fio took hold of the crank handle at the rear of the tank and started to turn it. Driver Rik, hearing the sound from the driver's seat, began to feather the throttle, the engine coughing then roaring into life, dark smoke puffing out of the rear exhausts. Fio hopped up the back of the tank and went through the rear turret hatch to settle himself in the gunner's seat. Sir Jerrod got into the commander's position in the turret, standing for the time being exposed out the top of the hatch. He pulled on his earpiece, then his Sallet over the top. “This is Lead, test test test, you all receive?” “This is Driver, all received.” “Gunner, all received Sir.” “Ok, standby.” Sir Jerrod glanced with faded blue eyes across at the Command vehicle. This time he heard the command as well as saw the signal flag; “All units, this is Main, standby advance half speed; advance, advance.” “Driver, half forward towards the crest.” “Received.” The Shining Lance gently began to move forwards, it’s worn tracks digging into the hard dirt and kicking up dust as the tank slowly accelerated. Sir Jerrod looked out across the line, 33 tanks in total and 120 hand-gonners, all advancing in line. With all this dust, it would be hard to disguise their approach. The land before them gradually sloped down towards a shallow valley where a small drovers' path sided by low wooden fences ran across their route.Past the path the slope began to slope up again. At the end of the valley to their left, where the slope began to rise, was a small wood that ran up over the crest of the hill and beyond. From scouting the previous night, they knew that the Silano forces were arrayed on the plateau at the top of the slope, where they had set up a staging camp. Not the strong defensive position one would normally choose for such a thing, it was believed that they had chosen it for convenience, to speed their way inland towards the Eastern hinterlands where the frontlines were. Lord Commander Phelief had led his force on an exhausting flanking maneuver for the last three nights, a daring move aiming to get into the underbelly of the Silano forces and gut them, finishing this conflict before it really started. If successful, they would cut the main Silano force off from their reinforcements, but it was a risk; three days of travel had nearly emptied their tanks, the extra cans of fuel they had taken with them all empty. If this attack was not successful and they could not capture the enemy's fuel reserve, they would not have the fuel left over to return. Sir Jerrod knew that all strategy depended on the balance of risk and reward, but this particular situation made him nervous. But he could also feel this desperation fuel him, fuel all of them. They were like wolves, hungry, stalking their prey. “Loud wolves”, Sir Jerrod said quietly to himself, with a smirk. Tanks are not good for sneaking up on much. The Lord Commanders voice came on over the radio; “1st Company, veer left into the woods, 2nd and 3rd companies continue straight, then stop short of the ridgeline. Do not be seen”. “Driver, veer left”, Sir Jerrod instructed, “we’re heading into the trees”. “Received, Sir”. As the woods spilled out onto the plateau, they would be trying to use them to mask the movements of the 1st Company long enough for them to get into a flanking position. Based on the location of the camp, having 1st company in the treeline and 2nd and 3rd companies on the ridge, the enemy camp would be caught in the crossfire provided by the “L” shaped deployment. At least that was the plan. Most units didn’t like operating in wooded areas, but the tanks of the Dolmet Royal Army were better suited than most for such a task, designed for use in the narrow mountain passes and small meadows and villages of their homeland, the three man Galator model tanks had shorter gun barrels with good elevation and depression, making it easier to swing them around in confined environments, but it did come at the cost of power and range. As they drew into the woods, Sir Jarrod reached for the pintle mounted machine gun, and pulled back the charging lever. “Gunner, load HE rounds, don't stop visual scans”. “Loading HE.” Sir Jarrod felt the clunk and snap of the round being fed into the breach of the main gun. He wanted their first shot into the camp to cause as much confusion and panic as possible. If they could, they’d target an ammunition dump. Just not the fuel. The trees drew in around them, reflecting the sound of their engine back at them. It sounded deafening. He wondered what types of trees they were, they had lots of small teardrop shaped leaves on the branches that appeared a very light shade of grey. They all shook together in the slightest breeze, as if the tree was shivering. The Shining Lance was set to be on the very end of the line, the extreme left. It was custom that more experienced crew go to the far flanks, as they held a greater responsibility for not allowing the line to be flanked. One by one, as the 1st Company and it’s supporting infantry advanced through the woods, a tank would peel off right towards the treeline where it would lie in wait, a small squad of infantry going with each tank. This continued until the Shining Lance was the last tank to turn. Sir Jerrod noted just before their turn that they were about to go into a small open meadow in the woods. As they did, the brilliant sunlight of the open sky dazzled him, so bright compared to the dark closeness of the woods. It so dazzled him that for a second, he did not first see the Silano soldiers all around him, staring slack jawed at the tank that had apparently materialised in front of them. Then he did see them. “Shit”. One of the soldiers screamed “Alarm!” and picked up his weapon. Sir Jerrod swung the machine gun in their direction and loosed off a quick burst that cut the soldier down, the sharp snap of gunfire cutting through the relative silence of before like a knife. Suddenly there were some men sprinting away in all directions, others picking up their weapons and firing at the tank, rounds ricocheting off it’s steel flanks, Sir Jerrod furiously returning fire with the MG. “Gunner, fire at will!” The main gun spoke, the tank vibrating violently as the propellant charge detonated within the breach, propelling the 50mm shell out of the barrel at just over 800 meters a second. The shell hit the ground near a knot of men firing at them from across the meadow, detonating and throwing several of them back, the force of the shell and shrapnel tearing their flesh and fragmenting bones. That seemed to end the last attempt at resistance, the last of the soldiers disappearing into the trees. The whole action had lasted less than 20 seconds. “Driver, hard right and full speed towards the treeline, they know we’re here! Gunner, load AP. Main, this is 1/11, we have enemy contact in the trees, infantry only, repeat we have been engaged.” As they drove quickly out of the meadow and towards the treeline, he noticed buckets full of small berries left abandoned on the grass. A foraging party. Just their luck. The Shining Lance drew to the edge of the forest overlooking the plateau to find chaos. A camp of tents, trenches, foxholes and parked vehicles sat approximately 300 meters in front of them.Fires and black billowing smoke rose from various parts of the camp, and men ran back and forth, trying to set up defensive positions in the sparse earthworks they had set up. The first few enemy armoured vehicles had started up, chunky rounded things with hull mounted main guns, called Rondels. The tanks of 1st company and supporting infantry were already firing at the camp, and the Shining Lance joined in. A Rondel had targeted them, but fired it’s round a touch high, the shell screaming above them, ripping and tearing through the branches of the trees before disappearing to detonate far behind them. Sir Jerrod had hunkered back down into the turret, closing the hatch behind him. “Gunner, target at 105 degrees, approx 300 meters, aim for the gun port.” “Target in sight.” “Fire!” The tank rocked as the shell arced out. Gunner Fio’s aim had been true, and the AP round with it’s hardened tip had penetrated the enemy gunner’s viewport, detonating inside the vehicle with a hail of shrapnel to kill the crew. “Adjust right 15 degrees, second target at approx 320 meters, angled armour.” “Target acquired” “Fire!” The second shell fell low and hit the tracks of the other tank, breaking it. As the Rondel turned to acquire the Shining Lance as it’s target, the tracks slipped off and the vehicles exposed drive wheel and running wheels began to dig into the earth, stopping it from rotating. After a second, the crew began spilling out of their immobilized tank, just before another shell slammed into it’s other side, this one penetrating the armour and fuel tank, causing it to catch fire. Sir Jarrod could see that despite the initial damage they had caused, more of the Rondels were being crewed and turning their attention towards the treeline. A shell struck the Galator tank nearest to the Shining Lance which must have hit the ammunition, for the entire tank exploded instantly. The infantry who had been firing from near it were cut to ribbons by scything pieces of metal coming from the destroyed tank. “Gods.” Sir Jerrod could see the Rondel that had fired that shell turning to take them next. “Gunner, on him!” “Standby” “Driver, ready to advance.” “Ready!” “Sir I have him! “Fire!” The shell struck the Rondel near the gun mantlet, wedging for a millisecond in the joint before detonating, bending the barrel. Fio whooped at such a lucky shot. At that moment, 2nd and 3rd companies emerged from the ridgeline and opened fire, tearing into the exposed flank of the Rondel tanks facing the treeline. “Driver full ahead, now!” \- I wrote this all in one go at 4 in the morning after I had 1 too many coffee's.


This Santa is a bit different. He brings two bags full, slung over his shoulder, and rather than using the chimney, bursts through our back door, unexpected. He leaves another knob-sized dent in the drywall and pries the trim from the doorframe as he forces his oversized load through the undersized threshold. And this Santa doesn’t arrive with a cheerful greeting, but a somber, “Hey,” followed quickly with a slightly less somber, “What’s for dinner?” The pan-fried chicken portioned for three now needs to accommodate five, since this Santa, even at 153 pounds, boasts a Clausian-sized appetite. Santa drops his load in the laundry room and proceeds to pester his mother with a series of questions about how the machines work, which detergent to use, the history of the dryer sheet and its rise to prominence, until she finally relieves him of his post.

“Hey,” I say, which I assume will garner some acknowledgment after he’s completed the pressing matter on his phone—but I’m proved presumptuous. I watch Santa shift his attention and begin scanning the room. He skulks, snoops, rummages—cupboards, closets, dark corners—nowhere’s safe. He sprints up the stairs, impressive for a jolly old soul, then down to the basement, before taking a second pass at the main floor. But what makes this Santa truly unique is his propensity to leave a house with less, and never more, than when he arrives. Year after year phone chargers top his list, but he’s not picky—pens, paper, cereal, snacks, small furniture, socks, pillows, bedding, speakers, batteries, and, of course, garbage bags. Garbage bags are especially coveted for their versatility as laundry bags, grocery bags, shopping bags, laundry baskets, dresser draws, suitcases, and least of all, garbage bags. To be fair, there is a decent chance we’ll be getting some of the stuff he swipes back, wrapped haphazardly, when the holidays actually do roll around. Once we settle in for the meal, I ask, “How are classes?” Santa is a man of few words. Scratch that. Santa is a man of few sounds, and I think I hear something that resembles, good . His answer originates as a subtle vibration in his chest that somehow bypasses his vocal cords and just happens to ride the passing current of conditioned air to my left ear before fading into the ether. “How’s Mrs. Claus?” I ask. The inside joke doesn’t register, but the question reminds him it’s been too long, eight seconds, since he’s checked his phone. My daughter has better luck. She asks Santa if he had Mrs. Silsmeyer when he went to Bradford West. It’s enough to distract him from his screen to begin searching the middle distance for a definitive answer. He returns with something that sounds like, maybe , before resuming his default position. My daughter accepts his answer and uses it as a springboard to rail against the chemistry professor for the next twenty minutes. I am her only captive audience since my wife has left her meal to cool while tending to Santa’s formidable mound of mentionables and unmentionables. This will be the third time I’ve heard of Mrs. Silsmeyer’s starring role as the Wicked Witch of West. Santa dismisses the story with the occasional huff and grunt, which is plenty to keep my daughter encouraged until I remind her that two bites are not enough to stay alive.

It’s no secret that Santa is a busy man and a popular guy, especially right after dinner. He’s engrossed in an urgent call, so much so, that my daughter and I need to repeatedly reposition him so we can clear his plate, his fork, his knife. his spoon, his glass, his napkin, and then wipe his place setting, his chair, and the floor beneath. When I begin washing the pots and pans by hand, Santa seems annoyed by the noise from the running faucet and intermittent disposal, and how it’s added to the rumble from the laundry room. The ruckus is forcing him to strain to hear his girlfriend. Graciously, he relocates to the den and closes the doors behind him. Santa reemerges just in time to find the kitchen spic and span, which I’m guessing is a rare sight from whence he’s come. I imagine he must find it all rather mysterious and magical.

With his laundry still not done, there’s time for Santa to make a pile by the back door of the goods marked for export. It’s a light load this time—one garbage bag with items we’ll only discover gone long after he has. There’s really no telling what’s in the opaque black receptacle, only that it bears no rhyme or reason. We’d be just as likely to find expensive electronics as a pair of dress shoes, or a box of Q Tips as a box of Bisquick—so random and varied, and in that way, reminiscent of the real McCoy.

Meanwhile, I’m busy tending to garbage bags of my own, that actually have, get this, garbage in them. I side-step Santa and his loot and shift sideways to tip-toe the hefty sacks through the doorway so as not to further damage the house on my way to the trash cans. When I get to the driveway, I see that his sleigh is blocking my path. It’s backed in close, anticipating a large haul. I call back for Santa to move it, but it’s my wife, with key in hand, who assumes the duties.

When I return from my chores, I find Santa, tired and weary as you’d imagine, parked on the couch, in front of the TV. And like the day I found out the truth about Santa, I balloon with shock and anger. I’ve had it with the laziness, the messiness, the disregard. This once loving, jolly, smiley, pudgy bundle who regaled us with songs and dance, overflowed with infectious joy and enthusiasm and provided such hope and promise of great things to come, year after year, is now reduced to something unbearable. I tamp my instinctual temper. I understand my pivotal role in this development and recognize my duty to set things straight—again.

Sprawled upon the couch, clicker in one hand, his phone in the other, oblivious to the storm that’s brewing, Santa scrolls and scrolls while I summon the nerve and my argument. I rehearse the lines in my head: things have to change, this behavior is unacceptable, you are better than this. I fill my lungs and part my lips. Then Santa turns to me. And speaks. Audibly. “You wanna watch the game?” He motions to the TV where he’s cued up the pre-game show to tonight’s match between the Sixers and the Nuggets, a possible preview of the NBA Finals and a matchup of the two teams my son and I happened to see the last time we caught a live game together. He says, “It’s the Nuggets. Remember when we saw them a few years ago? That was fun. We should do that again.” Then my daughter curls up next to him on the couch and he puts his phone aside to wrap his arm around her. Then his mother hands him a bowl of caramel corn and he thanks her and shares it with his sister. And then the dog lumbers over and plops himself down and my son begins stroking his fur with his foot. And I stand there, lips still parted, suspended in space and time, and figure that maybe I could find a way to believe in Santa again.


The cabin was surrounded by a vast woodland, beautiful and bright green in the summertime, filled with childhood memories of happiness and joy. It was winter now, and with grandma's death, the grandchildren gathered one more time at their childhood temple. The emerald green turned white, grey, and dead. Their trudging in the thick snow echoed in the still forest, robbed of vibrating leaves and animals. Everything was silent on the icy, misty morning they arrived at old grandma's house. Three cars gathered at the open area on the front, and three sets of cold feet trailed up to the entrance. They met, they hugged and looked around, sighing in the chilly air. "I don't think we've ever been here in winter..." The middle sister smiled, longing in her brown eyes. "It feels so weird without grandma." The older brother responded, and both siblings nodded slowly. There was an odd feeling in them. The ominous presence of the frosted forest looming over them. They pushed the sensation aside, though, telling themselves that everything felt different because they were different. They were adults now, their parents weren't there, their young loves are long forgotten, and grandma was dead. Unlocking the door, the house received them with a putrid scent, pulsing into their nostrils. "Oh... What's that smell?" The girl brought a gloved hand to her face. "A dead animal, maybe?" The youngest commented, shrugging as he stepped in first, but as soon as he was inside, another wave of thick, warm air wafted over him. "Uhg, what's that stench?" It didn't smell like roadkill. It was... Something he couldn't recognize. Looking back, the front door was closed, his brother and sister nowhere to be found. "Guys?" He chuckled nervously, thinking the other two decided to prank him. "C'mon guys, come in." The young man attempted to walk back to the door, but he couldn't move. He glanced around the empty cabin, his eyes shifting from a window to the next one. It was pitch black outside, and it was almost as if the darkness crawled inside, taking over the place. The man whimpered, his muscles tense, cold sweat running down his back. "Max..? Sadie?" A fear that he'd never experienced before climbed from his paralyzed legs to his chest. Tendrils of desperate panic clutching at his heart while warm tears carved his cheeks. He heard the wooden floor creaking under a heavy weight that drew closer behind him. "Guys?!" He cried out. "Please, open the fucking door!" The youngest brother wasn't sure if his shouting would be heard from outside. He wasn't sure if he was awake. Maybe he hadn't even woken up yet and was still at home, in bed next to his boyfriend. He hoped so, crying in his spot as a shadow grew behind and around him. The creaking sound becoming louder, and then it wasn't just that. He heard gurgling, a low, wet rumble that extended to his ears, making him shiver. Feeling engulfed in darkness and hot and sickly wetness, he couldn't stop screaming for help. And, in the blink of an eye, Max and Sadie opened the door. Bright light filled every corner of the house, and he was left alone, safe now with the others. "Finally!" Max exclaimed. "The wind closed it, and it got stuck. Can you believe that?" The older sibling asked him, examining the door and its frame before pushing it closed. "Are you okay, Brian?" The sister asked him, noticing his pale face and red eyes. "Yeah..." He could move again. "I'm alright. Just... Missing grandma, I guess...


# Chastity By Chandler Morrison  It was on their wedding night that the girl first saw the boy turned into a man, and it was a very ugly thing, indeed. She sits by the open window, a warm breeze tugging lightly at her hair, beckoning her out beyond the gently-rustling curtains and into the still of the night. If the fall were farther, maybe she’d listen. Instead, she wipes at her eyes, lights a cigarette, and looks at the man who lies asleep in the bed. Yes, the *man*, for that’s what he is, though he hadn’t always been that way. Not to her. No, up until this night, he had been a boy. *Her* boy. He’d been the boy on the playground, pushing her off the swings and yanking her braids, only to follow such acts of juvenile cruelty with a surreptitiously-passed note ending in “Check YES or YES”. Two boxes, one possible answer. That’s all he’d ever given her, and that’s all she’d ever needed. He’d been the boy who waited, because she told him she wanted to wait. He’d been the boy who never protested, never pleaded. Never tried to snake his hand where it didn’t belong. He’d been that rare kind of boy who was too bashful to even let his eyes drop anywhere south of the hollow of her neck, even when she was wearing a swimsuit or a snugly-fitted top. “Wait…not even *once*?” one of the bridesmaids had exclaimed that morning as she was helping the girl primp her hair. “You two have been together since, like, *forever*, and you’ve *never*…?” The girl’s responding smile had been one of both gleeful pride and diffident innocence. She looked at the bridesmaid’s reflection in the big vanity mirror, curled eyelashes batting bashfully, and said, “Not even once.” Hip cocked, holding the hair curler out to one side like a magic wand, the bridesmaid said, “But you guys, like, did other stuff, right?” The girl shrugged. “I mean, yeah, we French kiss all the time. And once I let him put his hand on my chest…over my shirt, of course…but that was just because I’d drank half of Alyssa’s beer at Jessica Tomlin’s party in tenth grade. Everyone had gone outside, and it was just me and him in the basement, and we started kissing and obviously it got a little out of hand.” She giggled at the unintentionally turned phrase. “But we stopped after a few minutes and went outside with the others.” “Oh my god, honey,” the bridesmaid said, her eyes wide, “How can you marry a guy you’ve never slept with? I mean, fuck, you don’t even know if he has a nice dick.” The girl blushed, and shrugged again. “I don’t know the difference between a nice dick and a bad one, so whatever he has will be just fine.” The bridesmaid rolled her eyes theatrically and said, “*Darling*, you’ll *know*.” She set the hair curler down, indicated a distance with two raised index fingers, and said, “If he’s not at least *this* long…” She paused appraisingly, then decreased the distance by an inch or so, amending, “Okay, *this* long, just to be safe…if he’s not at least *this* long, you’re going to have *serious* problems. Of course, girth is really important, too, and…” The girl put her hands over her ears and said, “*Lalalalalalala*, stop, I’m putting on my earmuffs.” Now, the girl looks over at her sleeping husband, thinks about the space between the bridesmaid’s fingers, and sighs. She holds the cigarette up to her face, glances once more over at the man in the bed, and feels fresh tears burn her eyes. How different it had been, just one day previous. How different *he* had been. He’d been her *boy*. In her mind, she sees that roguishly handsome prince, hair blowing in the wind, bouncing between the broad shoulders of a galloping white stallion. But that boy is not in that bed tonight. That boy is nowhere to be found. Now, it’s just the *man*. The great, oafish man, sprawled across the tousled sheets, the pallor of his flesh reminding the girl of long-curdled milk. Dense tufts of curled, wiry hairs erupt from the oddest and most unseemly places on his body. His toenails are jagged and untrimmed, and the heels of his feet are scaly and cracked with dead skin. The glossy sheen of oily perspiration in which his body is encased carries with it a pungent odor of overused athletic gear. A grumbling, sputtering snore-like noise emits periodically from deep within his nasal passages. “Do you even know how, like, um…how everything *works*?” the bridesmaid had asked, regarding the girl’s mirror-reflected face with troubled concern. “Do I need to give you the, uh…the *talk*?” It was the girl’s turn to roll her eyes. “Oh, *stop*, I know enough. I’m not worried. It’s going to be special and beautiful and perfect. This is how it’s *supposed* to be. It’s how Jesus intended.” “Please, spare me the Jesus freak shit. Let’s get real, here. There are things you need to know. You can’t just go bounding blindly into your bridal bed and expect everything to go as you imagine it will.” “I *won’t* be blind,” the girl said, “for the Lord is my shepherd.” Swiping at her eyes once more with the back of her hand, the girl looks out at the starless night sky, and she does not see God. She had indeed bounded blindly into her bridal bed, and things had not gone as she’d imagined they would. She did not feel shepherded. It had been inelegant, clumsy, and disjointed. Their clammy, naked limbs had tangled together like knotted seaweed. Her breath came out in nervous gasps, his in loud, heaving grunts. They fumbled about, twisting and groping awkwardly as they attempted to align themselves in the most logistically sound position for the task at hand. Each time he went to clutch some part of her, his grip was too tight, too cold. It was like being prodded and probed with kitchen tongs. And then, all at once…*the metamorphosis*. As soon as he entered her, he changed. Lying on her back, struggling for breath and squeezing her eyes closed in a vain attempt to shut out the revulsion twisting within her stomach, she felt her husband morph into a man. Gone was the sweet boy of her dreams. He’d been replaced by this maladroit mass of tectonically shifting flesh that ground atop her and pushed the air from her lungs. His face, prickly with stubble, was buried in the side of her neck, his breath bursting out in hot plumes like smoke from a steam engine. She could hear gurgling digestive noises bubbling within his stomach. She imagined all of his internal fluids, all that blood and bile, mucus and pus and diluted, befouled water…all of it jostling around inside of him as he fucked her. In that moment, the girl considered the possibility that she’d made a mistake. In *this* moment, watching him sleep while contemplatively dragging from the cigarette with awkward, unpracticed motions, she thinks to herself, *No. No, I’ve* definitely *made a mistake.* She looks back out the window, peering down to the ground just two stories beneath her, and finds herself wishing they’d taken the hotel concierge up on his offer to upgrade them to the bridal suite on the fifteenth floor. “That’s okay,” she’d said in declination, smiling up at her new husband. “We don’t need anything fancy.” He turns over in his sleep, snorts, and then lets out a protracted expulsion of gas. The girl cringes. She feels nauseated, and she can’t tell if the cigarette is making it better or worse. “You *know* I’d never touch one of those,” she’d told the bridesmaid when she’d held the pack out to her after she’d finished with her hair. Rolling her eyes, the bridesmaid thrust the pack into her hand. “Trust me,” she’d said. “There’s nothing like cigarettes after sex.” The girl doesn’t think this is what the bridesmaid had in mind. Trying to ignore the pain throbbing between her temples, she takes another dejected drag and holds the smoke in her lungs until her eyes burn and tear up again. When she exhales, she finds herself wondering, with increasing despondence, what else she may have been wrong about. She’s been married for a matter of mere hours and has only just lost her virginity less than thirty minutes ago, and already life is revealing itself to be a disappointment of seismic proportions. She wants to be angry…that, she feels, would be the appropriate response…but she’s unable to find anything at which she can direct said anger. Her parents, for not preparing her for what was in store? The boy, for not living up to her expectations? Walt Disney and Nicholas Sparks, for *creating* those expectations? Or herself, for allowing that omnipresent torrent of mystical hopes and dreams to sweep her off her feet and drop her down into that wretched, sweat soaked marriage bed? She suspects all of them had something to do with it, but the lattermost one guiltily hangs its head the lowest when standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the others in the lineup. Deciding it isn’t helping, she flicks the cigarette out the window. Her eyes trail after the yellow ember as it makes its descent before crashing onto the asphalt in a muted explosion of sparks. Then, her eyes flick over to the phone on the nightstand. It rests languidly in its cradle like a sleeping dog. Biting her lip, she thinks about her future. She doesn’t have to think for very long. Advancing on tip-toe, she creeps over to sit down on the edge of the bed, and then she lifts the phone and dials the front desk. “Yes, um, hello,” she whispers into the receiver, looking over her shoulder to make sure the man hasn’t been startled out of his slumber. “Yes, my…um, my…my husband and I…” She pauses, her mouth dry. She licks her lips, eyeing the open window. “Well, I’ve changed my mind. I would like to have that bridal suite, after all.


"I know it sounds stupid," The man said. The bar wasn't busy, but he still had to raise his voice a little to compete with the clamor of small talk, 90's alternative, and Monday night football that filled the place. He took a shot of something clear and winced, then wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his crisp, blue linen shirt. "But I just don't feel the spark anymore." "The spark? Bullshit dude, life's not the fuckin' Notebook. How long you guys been together?" The bartender asked. "Ten years." She clicked her blood-red ballpoint a few times before sticking it in her shirt pocket, right below a nametag that read “Rebecca”, then grabbed an expensive-looking bottle of vodka from the shelf. She gestured toward it with her free hand. The man nodded his head in affirmation. “Ten years? Dude what do you think, it’s gonna be honeymoon shit forever? Do you love her?” "Yeah I love her, of course I love her. It's just that things aren't the same now, you know? We don't even talk anymore. At least when we used to argue, I felt something." He tapped on the rim of his beer glass anxiously while she poured him another shot. "I'm sorry, I know you're in here all the time. What was your name again?" "Tim." "Tim," She said teasingly, "Are you telling me you wish you and your girlfriend argued more?" "No, of course I don't want to argue more, but she gives me nothing. We never do anything. It's a hassle just getting her out of bed these days." Cheers erupted from the corner of the dim room, a small group of college students celebrating a touchdown. One of them stumbled to the bar and set his empty glass on the counter. He waved his hand to signal that he was ready for another. “One sec, hon.” Rebecca went to serve another cheap, watery pour from the complicated looking ten-tap beer tower at the other end of the bar. It’s getting late, Tim thought, looking at his watch. He wondered if his wife would be waiting for him to get home. She probably hasn’t noticed I’m not. "Maybe she's depressed. When I get depressed I don't feel like doing shit." Becky's voice cut into his thoughts as she reappeared in front of him. "I'm sure you shower, at least," Tim said, sardonically, "She doesn't even take care of herself anymore." "Did something happen? Someone die or something? Like, you said things used to be good, right?" "I wouldn't know if something did happen. She doesn't tell me anything anymore. But yeah, they were great. Really great. I’d do anything to get that version of her back, you know?" Becky’s gentle, rosy face took on an expression of grave seriousness. “Then what are you waiting for, man? Go get her.” Her expression broke and she launched into hysterics. “I’m sorry, dude, you set yourself up for it. I always wanted to say some dramatic shit like that," She said, dabbing away the tears that had been formed by her laughter and making an effort to gather her composure. “Seriously though man, you want my advice? Just talk to her. If things aren’t gonna work out then they’re not gonna work out, but you say you want it back, so just try,” This time, the look of seriousness was more genuine. “You say you work a lot, right? Maybe what you need to do is take a little time off and just be with her. Spend some time together." Tim looked at his drinks contemplatively. "See if you can find that ‘spark’.” Becky added, mockingly. "You're right, honestly. I haven't been the greatest partner either." "Not trying to bust your balls or anything, but think about it. You are literally sitting in a dive bar complaining that your marriage isn't fun anymore while your wife is at home by herself. Go fix it, dude." "Yeah when you put it like that, I do kinda sound like an asshole, huh?" He chased the vodka with the rest of his Pabst Blue Ribbon. "How much do I owe you?" He asked, putting on his black jacket. "Just gimme ten." He laid a twenty on the bar. "Thanks for being real with me." "Anytime bud. Good luck." Tim crossed his fingers in the air behind him as he pushed open the frosted glass door and walked out into the orange-pink glow of the setting sun. The soles of his oxfords clicked against the cracked sidewalk on his way to the old grey Buick, where he fumbled with the keys for a moment. He drove carefully and methodically, sober enough to know that he'd had too much to be behind the wheel of anything. The lights were off when he opened the door to the townhouse that he shared with his wife. He flipped the switch, bathing the room in bright white, and called out. "Honey?" There was no response. He took off his shoes and left them by the door, and hung up his coat. Flies whizzed past him as he made his way down the hall, loosening his tie. He swatted at one unfortunate insect who made the mistake of landing on him, splattering it's tiny body against his shoulder. Inside the bedroom, his wife lay facing away from the door, her stringy, matted hair beginning to fall out. "Hey sweetheart. Sorry I'm late," He said, gently. He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it in the clothes basket. She didn't move as he crawled into bed next to her. Her blue, grey, and yellow skin was falling off in places, and maggots wriggled in the open wounds. "I've been thinking," Tim whispered into her decaying ear, "I love you, and I know things haven't been so great lately, but maybe that's my fault. How about I take next week off and we can spend some time together?" "I'd like that." He whispered back.