I was jerked from my thoughts as a rocks glass slid into view with ice jostling in a double-shot of bourbon, sloshing dangerously close to the rim... Had the damn bartender spilled a drop of my Maker’s Mark, I would have demanded a complementary shot, which he wouldn’t deny me once I batted my eyelashes. I would have given him a piece of my mind if he refused, and he would have to continue to serve me with a smile. Under that dim light, I surveyed the bar as my eyes were drawn to the distressed wooden door, which was ushering in a circle of girlfriends, strutting in their high heels. There were five flaunting women, all laughing obnoxiously as if they had already had a few rounds of drinks. They were dressed in an array of colors, patterns, and styles, yet a sense of uniformity hung among them. Different hair-do’s, lipstick, and accessories were on parade; yet, as a checkered black and white pattern dims to grey with distance, so did this display of womanhood blend to a dull gray. Maybe I was just seeking some interior moral high ground—criticizing in order to deny the envy that choked in my throat at the sight of females enjoying each other’s company as I sat alone. Before I could further investigate my motives, I realized I had inadvertently stared a little too long, or perhaps too intensely, because the redhead glanced my way while the hostess attended to her brood. As our eyes met, my eyes burned with embers of embarrassment as if she had heard my unflattering thoughts. Grimacing, I looked to the left, pretending I was never examining the women in the first place. My eyes unwittingly took hold of a clean-shaven, well-dressed young man alone at the bar, about five empty stools down from my lonely ass. My seat may as well have been empty. It took a moment for me to realize we were indeed making eye contact, but my mind still lingering on the redhead. I then hurried into full retreat and looked ahead at the TV, only to realize I would have to feign interest in Nascar... This is just great, what woman watches Nascar at a bar on a weekday? After a moment, I realized the man at the bar had already been gazing at me when I caught his eye. Was he watching me the whole time I was analyzing those women? I shifted in my seat uncomfortably and my hand slid into the wet trail my glass had blazed . . . Oh right, my drink. I haven’t even touched it, and it’s already dripping with condensation. My bourbon is probably all watered down now. I wonder if it would be a bother to ask for a new one . . . No, I can’t. Too embarrassing. I’ll just have to remember to ask for it neat next time. I always forget that’s how I like it . . . Why did I even bother coming here for a drink in the first place, when it’s so much cheaper to buy the bottle next door? After all, Mom always taught me the virtue of “buying in bulk,” but I guess she wouldn’t look kindly on my hoarding of vices. I suppose I know the reason I find myself here instead… that bottle of bourbon wouldn’t last the night. This is my way of attempting to temper the never-satiated thirst of the bottle-burdened breast. I finally take my first sip, wondering at how the chilled bourbon’s warmth floods my chest like flames in an empty furnace. With my heart momentarily warmed, I keep at bay the loneliness that always crowds my mind in these crowded places. As a second wave of bourbon washes over my parched tongue, I notice out of the corner of my eye that the redhead was walking into the ladies room. Perhaps it’s the bourbon playing with my imagination, but I swear I sensed something ineffable in that fleeting gaze we shared earlier. I don’t know what, but her eyes betrayed some lingering pain that lie beneath her glamorous attire. I can’t put my finger on it, but I feel a sort of deja vu. At first, I rationalize thinking I am only desperate to make some real connection with another human being, tiring from the males smothering me with the sexual glint in their eyes. Then, it occurs to me: amidst her carefully crafted outfit, there was one element she forgot to coordinate with the rest of her ensemble—her emerald eyes. Hers were the gems that stood out in that sea of gray. I gulp the rest of my bourbon and quickly make my way to the bathroom, hoping I might somehow piece together this perplexing puzzle. Playing detective on a reconnaissance mission is far less frightening an undertaking than actually confronting another adult female in an attempt to befriend her. Walking to the restroom, I am praying it is furnished with stalls so I have a chance at interaction, or at least eaves-dropping. I pause just before entering. Noticing it was unlocked, I slowly begin pushing the door open until doubt wells up in my gut... This is so obvious! No one enters a bathroom creeping like this! So, I change course and hurriedly trot through to a stall. No one else is in the bathroom, but one stall is occupied. It doesn’t take master detective skills to figure out it’s the redhead. I sit on the pot and hope to get a few tinkles out to really sell my story, all the while using my brainwaves to communicate to the redhead... come on redhead, what’s your story? Give me something here... I just want something to make this night worthwhile, some real-life intrigue. It doesn’t take long for me to realize how ridiculously I am acting. I figure I manufactured everything within my imagination. Then, I hear it... sniffles... She is crying! I gleefully applaud my own intuition. However, my glee quickly fades into sympathy. Now I feel really idiotic. I am making this poor woman’s inexplicable sadness a part of my little game. Guilt ensues, emptying any warmth garnered by the bourbon and the intrigue. I leave the stall and wash my hands, debating whether I should leave her alone or try and offer a shoulder. She doesn’t need my sympathy. After all, she is here with her exuberant friend group. Then again, how good of friends could they be if they don’t realize she’s in here bawling her eyes out. Well, if I were crying in a stall, I would definitely want to be left alone. It’s far too embarrassing to be found out. Although, there was that one time in that empty church when I let loose my wailful, ugly tears. The elderly woman who discovered me there just hugged me without saying a word. It was powerful. I even considered for a moment that she may have been an angel. This is different though… she was an old lady, and that was a church. This is a bar. . . in a bathroom, and... well... me. Plus, I’m just not a “go-hug-a-stranger” type of gal. Although, maybe I could be . . . right now, this moment could be a new beginning for me. I can cast off this heavy cloak of social anxiety and throw open my arms to the true Christian Charity I’ve always longed to be capable of! What if all Redhead needs is some demonstration of Christ’s love to lift her up? What if she doesn't know Christ? What if God put me in this very bathroom at this very moment with this very woman for some cosmic purpose in His grand scheme?! I finish washing my hands, and Redhead seems to be waiting for me to leave so she can exit the stall, having gained her composure. I begin to worry whether I am now being an asshole because of my selfish desire to make some grandiose, self-aggrandizing, charitable gesture. At this point, I am pretty much holding her hostage in a bathroom stall. I figure I’ll give it just one more minute and powder my nose while I consider my next move. First, I picture myself hugging her like the old woman did me, not saying a word, only speaking if spoken to. That seems a bit much for a bathroom encounter, so I ponder gently placing my hand on the small of her back and asking if she needs anything. I know human touch is powerful. Jesus worked a miracle just by a woman pushing through a crowd to touch His cloak! God could surely work through a small gesture on my part. Still, this is far outside my comfort zone. My brain waves once again begin to plead with Redhead... Come on, let’s not end this night in a stalemate. Don’t you realize, God placed me here because of you! I wasn’t even going to come out tonight, but then my ex felt like reminding me again of why we are no longer together. What are you hiding? Her heels sharply click on the tile floor as she exits the stall with her head down, seemingly unaware of my existence as I stare with anticipation at her reflection. She looks up when she reaches the counter, and she begins touching up her eye makeup to hide that she had been crying. She doesn’t even look over at me, but I can’t have this night end like this. Not again. Every other time I’d been faced with some kind of ordained moment from above to make a connection with another woman, I cowered in fear and let the moment pass me by. Not this time, no, my begging hand reaches over and finds the small of her back, and I look at her as if she were the one who needs reassurance. She smiles, and at last she casts her eyes in my direction. I am lured into her enchanting, tear-stained eyes, whose color is as deep as the evergreen forests I played in as a child. Was that the deja vu I felt? I search that deep wood for what seems like an eternity as their branches wrap around me to share their secrets. Then, I realize it wasn’t branches pulling me in, but her milky hands, which she has tenderly placed on my face. I find myself racing into that dark wood as she brings her plum lips and presses against mine with strange vigor. I don’t understand, but for once, I don’t feel I have to. I do more than accept her lips’ embrace as I respond with equal vigor. I am shaken from my imagination’s grip when I hear a cough and a sniffle from the stall. She has a cold, and I suppose that’s how my story ends for tonight, unrealized promise.


For what it’s worth, Mr. Hawaii already saw the Lugar hanging through my hoodie from the window. No fooling him. The police were on their way even before the convenience store door *ding-donged* my arrival. Hey, it was my first time, for whatever that’s worth, shoot me. The closed-circuit television captured me in black and white glory. Hood up. Hands in pockets. Total nonchalance, like back before I was allowed to listen to Slayer and Mom would lead me through the great glass gates of Targets and Home Depots. For what it’s worth, she did all the talking then. “Got one of those slushie machines?” My voice didn’t even crack. That was the first trick. Confidence. Mr. Hawaii’s fists pressed into the counter as he eyed me. So much hair. It tickled his knuckles and crawled up his arms into the half-buttoned vacation shirt, like back when Mom almost got tackled by the mall security woman with gorilla arms. After that, we had to drive the entire length of her collection of Joan Jett CDs before stopping again. If it’s worth anything, that’s when I first learned what cunt meant. Waiting on Mr. Hawaii’s response, my kneecaps wobbled in my jeans, the scabbed one catching denim. It was too late to turn around and abandon the plan now. Fortunately, he broke and raised his plump finger at the corner of the store. “Over there.” Don’t turn your back, Mom would say. But, for what it’s worth, this wasn’t Herman’s Hardware Supply where the aisles stretched into the ceiling. This was Konnor’s Kwick Mart where convex security mirrors were nailed to the wall. Mr. Hawaii watched me watch him from the glass. “What’re these worth?” My hand patted my empty back pocket like it was looking for a wallet. That was the second trick. Mislead. “One ninety-nine. Large.” His head ballooned in the mirror as I reached for one of the plastic cups. Cherry-red slush *glug-glugled* from the machine, like back last winter when Mom fell face-forward into the motel parking lot. Her blood melted the asphalt snow into dirty clumps of brown tar. For what it’s worth, the hanging flap of forehead didn’t even make me vomit, even when she told me to press it to her skull so she could super glue it shut. I let the slushie machine shudder to a stop. The thick flavored syrup didn’t even climb up to the brim. It was the least I could do, if that’s worth anything. Mr. Hawaii hadn’t moved. “Hey, if I worked here, I’d never stop drinking these.” My smile was big enough to show teeth. That was the third trick. Befriend. For what it’s worth, that got Mr. Hawaii to raise an eyebrow. The gun slapped against the bottom of my stomach as I walked past the great wall of chips. Flammin’ Hot BBQ. Sour Cream and Onion. Nacho Cheese. Charbroiled Bacon Burger. Each bag, a three-course meal, like back when Mom was too sick to get out of bed, and I got to eat from a motel vending machine for a week. For what it’s worth, it spit out two snacks for the price of one if you held down the “A” and “B” buttons at the same time. After that, it was back to pre-packaged salads and granola bars. Mr. Hawaii unfurled his fists to tap the counter, looking feverishly out the window. This should have tipped me off, but for whatever it’s worth, it didn’t. I was too busy flipping through the bags of chips like they were porno mags. “Hey, what’s your favorite flavor?” I asked. His shoulders sagged. Again, the eyebrow raised. For what it’s worth, he even stopped drumming his fingers against the counter. The corner of a single dark blue bag poked out from the back of the shelf. Hey, Cool Ranch, that’s one I’ve always wanted to try. Pulling it free, all the chips in front fell to the floor. Salt and Vinegar. New York Style Pizza. They scattered at my feet. My scabbed kneecap stung as I knelt down on it. “Shit, sorry. I got it.” For what it’s worth, most of the bags fit in the crook of my arm, but as I stood back up my head knocked a glass jar of queso to the floor. The congealed cheese splattered over my shoes sending the broken lid rolling down the aisle. If it’s worth anything, the gun didn’t go off. Mom would be rolling in her grave. Mr. Hawaii *tick-ticked* his tongue. “Alright,” he said, the edge in his voice was gone. “What do you think you’re doing?” Did I do it now? Mom never let me watch this part, like back when we stopped at the gas station surrounded by palm trees and desert. The first time I heard a gunshot, for what it’s worth. She almost caught me trying to shove an ice cream sandwich down my pants when she came up behind me. “Car,” she said. That was the signal. My jeans strangled the frozen treat against my thigh as I shuffled outside and around the corner to where we parked. Mom started shouting at the attendant. Her voice made it all the way into the car, muffled by concrete walls and tempered glass. I leaned forward to adjust the passenger’s seat. And boom! The Fat Boy popped open like a blown out diaper. “Eh?” Mr. Hawaii asked. The gun stayed deep in my hoodie, if that’s worth anything. “Look, just bring whatever you want up. Okay?” His shaky mannerisms evolved into confidence. I snatched the blue bag of chips and stumbled to the counter. The condensation from the slushie trickled down the sides of the cup, pooling against my thumb and finger. Mr. Hawaii reached into his back pocket, looking down his gold-tinted aviators at me. Did I do it now? He slapped his thick wallet on the counter, too big to stay folded shut, and fingered out a slick black card. The register *beep-beeped* as he entered prices. A single large slushie, one ninety-nine. One bag of family sized potato chips, two forty-five. For what it’s worth, he answered my question. “Cool Ranch.” He took his slick black card and swiped it through the machine. “That’s my favorite too.” A package of Newport menthols ruffled in his breast pocket as he crammed the card back into his wallet, like this morning when Mom died. Her half-smoked cigarette had rolled beneath the crack of the bathroom door while I watched Good Morning America on the box TV. She’d fallen asleep on the toilet before, but wasting a cigarette? She never wasted anything. I knocked first, for what it’s worth. Each round louder than the last. By the time Robin Roberts sent everyone to a commercial break, I was jimmying the lock open. Too still to be asleep, her body lay cradled in the small gap between the tub and the toilet. The cord from the motel’s courtesy hair dryer wrapped tight around her bicep. I didn’t know CPR, but for what it’s worth, I pulled her free and mimicked what Dr. Greene did in reruns of ER. Glass from a broken syringe sliced into my knee as I straddled over her and hammered her chest with the heel of my hand. “You hear me, kid?” Mr. Hawaii ripped the printed receipt from its box. “Said, there’s a homeless shelter two-blocks up.” He pointed his plump finger in the same direction as the slushie machine. “Let me give ya the address.” If it’s worth anything, my knees stopped wobbling. Mr. Hawaii scribbled something down on the back of the receipt in black marker. The dark ink bled through and smelled like bad gasoline. “Tell ‘em Steve sent ya.”I shoved the receipt and the chips into my hoodie with the Lugar. Did I do it now? I didn’t, if that’s worth anything. I mumbled thanks and left. Didn’t even make eye contact. Walked right out into the parking lot and kept going. Mom would have been so disappointed. Taking a large gulp of slushie, a chunk of cherry flavored ice melted down my throat. The cold trail left behind crawled up the back of my jaw and into my temples. My eyes slammed shut to try and override the inevitable brain freeze, like back when Mom laughed at me for biting straight into an ice cream cone. The jolt of pain from the frosted vanilla bean made me drop the treat with a *splat*. And if it’s worth anything, Mom never bought me sweets. I cried harder than Mom laughed. Dots of ice cream stippled the bottom of my overalls and Buzz-Lightyear sneakers. Mom knelt over my broken cone and held her own sprinkled covered one up to me. She didn’t even hesitate, for what it’s worth. “This time don’t eat it all at once. Okay?” she chuckled. “It’s not going anywhere.” “You. Stop.” a voice commanded. A shadow, too skinny to be Mr. Hawaii’s, appeared beside mine. “Turn around. Hands where I can see ‘em.” For what it’s worth, I didn’t let go of the slushie as I turned. Held it up in the air like a holy grail, condensation dripping to the ground. The voice belonged to a woman in brown starch. Neat and ironed. A cop uniform. She didn’t have gorilla arms, if that’s worth anything, but one of them was raised at the elbow. Hand on holster. “Got a call ‘bout a possible robbery,” Ms. Starch said. “You causin’ trouble?” Her uniform was tucked in tight. Not a single wrinkle. My knees shook. “No. No. He paid,” I said, reaching into my hoodie. The receipt would be proof of that. But for what it’s worth, I didn’t know the outline of the Lugar was visible. The slushie splattered on the cement sidewalk first. My body followed, legs crumpling beneath the weight of my torso. Someone yelled “shit.” It may have been me. I slammed into the sidewalk like a broken toilet seat. Loose gravel embedded into my face and shoulder. A warm pain drooled from my hip, spilling out onto the concrete and into the pool of slush. The Cool Ranch chips were decimated, for what it’s worth. Popped and crunched beneath my gut. No chance of saving them.


Girl was a big fan of Taco Bell. She was also a big fan in that she expelled copious amounts of air into the atmosphere on a daily basis. Fast food is gassy. Don’t blame her, though; she was a casualty of convenience. Fast food in general has everything a financially dependent teen needs; it’s super cheap, vaguely edible and dangerously addictive. In regions like South Asia, most Mexican food is sold as fast food (with flagrant disregard for the region’s doubtless interesting culinary history and culture), so Girl was already lost in a sea of indiscriminate sauces and refried beans by the time she reached her seat. You are correct in assuming the stereotypical loneliness and lack of social interaction, but she didn’t care (or so she thought). What she did care about was the food on her garish plastic tray and as she consumed it, it consumed another bit of her life. She loved her tacos and nachos and burritos and rice bowls much more than any human being, so alone in the oppressive décor she stayed. That is, until a predictably hot and humid afternoon in May. Girl was sitting at her favorite corner table with the L-shaped plastic seat and dealing with bean-sweat in spite of the relatively frigid air-conditioning. She twiddled her thumbs nervously while chewing her last bite. The tray in front of her was completely devoid of food; all that remained was a mass of greasy paper and empty sachets of Fire sauce with silly things written on them. She belched with unabashed satisfaction and checked her watch noisily. A quarter to three. She had entered at one p.m., so she complimented herself on her timing and her freakish metabolism. Fifteen more minutes and she could propel herself to the toilet. All the industrial deep-frying had not been kind to her stomach lining; she considered a switch to rice for a couple of months would help. A hundred milliseconds before she got up from her seat, she saw Boy. He walked in like a superstar, glistening forehead moving in time to the chart-topping hit blaring from the cheap loudspeakers and eyes fixed on the menu he wasn’t really reading. Girl stared at him with more than interest, and her heart stopped dead when she heard his timid but measured voice. “May I help you?” “Yes, I’d like a burr-” “What would you like on it, sir, *Extracheesevegnonvegsmallormedium*?” “Uh-” “Any drinks, sir? *CokeFantaMountainDew-*” Boy held up his hand. A tiny vein pulsed in his forehead. Our Romeo was about to lose his temper. The cashier noticed this and tactfully stopped in his tracks. “Can. I. Give. My. Order. Please.” “Yes sir, I am sorry. Go ahead?” “All right, please listen carefully.” Boy took a deep breath as if preparing for an important speech. His quiet tone turned authoritative; here was a man in his element. Girl could not breathe from the torrent of romantic feelings crashing into each other in her carb-fueled brain. She ignored the loud gurgling in her stomach and walked to the counter where she stood behind Boy and listened. “Okay. I need the wrap to be lightly toasted; it helps the contents sit better inside it. I noticed the other day that you guys have been adding a lot of beans and meat to the burritos lately, so please go easy on them; maybe three-fourths of a normal serving. I know you haven’t got new stocks of spicy salsa since last week’s truck strike, so it’s alright if you don’t use your reserves. Here’s what you can do; just use the topping sauce you put on your spicy loaded nachos. The reddish one with a bit of cheese in it. Not too much, just enough to give me a little spice without an overpowering heat. I’ll get that from the upstairs tissue drawer in which you hide the fire sauce sachets when your stock is low. Don’t worry, I will only use two and will pay for them if you want me to.” He took a quick breath and steadied himself once more before resuming his address. “Rice just a bit past half-cooked, all right? The beans are already mushy enough; I don’t need more gooey rice on top of it. Add the cheese from the quesadilla counter and the vegetables from the crunchwrap area, because even though you preach standardization of your raw materials, some things are very marginally superior to what you use for other items.” He grinned widely at the cashier, who was now trembling like an autumn leaf. “I’ll pay cash. Two hundred and thirty with a little box of sour cream, I believe?” The man at the counter restarted his now short-circuited brain, stopped shaking and took the money dazedly. Boy leisurely walked over to the pickup area and set a timer for three and a half minutes. The cashier disappeared into the kitchen for a few seconds and then walked out. He smiled weakly. “Your order will be ready soon, sir.” “Thank you so much!” Boy wiped his now sodden forehead with a tissue and busied himself with a small glass of water. Girl gave herself a few seconds and regained her composure. Maybe she could initiate something. She decided to try and catch Boy’s eye before his food turned up. She stood in front of the cashier and gave her favorite order; a soft taco, a plate of loaded nachos and a side of cheesy fried potatoes (Fiesta potatoes, discontinued at time of writing). She would combine them into a fully loaded semi-crunchy, semi-gooey creation; it had a good balance of flavors and textures, she found. She paid up, stood next to Boy (whose food hadn’t arrived yet) and slid her bill across the garish counter. “May I have an extra bowl and three packets of mild sauce, please?” “Sure, ma’am!” Boy frowned and looked over. Another connoisseur? He got a smile and a wink in return and was surprised. A fellow fan!? *Ding!* went his alarm. He smiled at her as he received the burrito; she pointed towards the corner table questioningly. He was overtaken with a sudden fear but with an effort, he nodded and walked over. In two minutes she joined him. The first few minutes were unsurprisingly awkward. Boy looked around and at the ceiling as if he had never seen man-made buildings before. Girl was also too shy to make conversation and decided to attempt to break the ice by preparing her meal. She looked up, said, “Give me a couple minutes, will you?” and began her work as Boy watched on in silence. He was beginning to like Girl very much indeed. But Girl was not looking at the ghost of a smile slowly moving across his face; she was busy meticulously preparing her creation. She carefully opened the taco shell and separated out just the lettuce with a practiced hand. She deftly introduced a spork to the potatoes and scraped off the cheesy yellow topping; in a few seconds all of it was in the taco shell. In went the peppers from the nachos and one packet of mild sauce. She finally looked up at him, smiled and assembled the remaining lettuce, nachos and oddments into what she called a ‘mishmás’; it was a relatively authentic name for the brand and she liked it as an appetizer salad. Once complete, she looked at him quizzically. For the first time in his life, Boy got the hint, realizing he had been invited to eat with her. It was time to appreciate their creations. He got up, went upstairs as quickly as he could while looking languid (at least, he thought he was being languid) to get the two fire sauce sachets from the secret drawer. There were only two in there; he assigned cosmic meaning to that fact. He walked back downstairs, sat down, dabbed at his forehead with a paper napkin and put his sauce sachets to the side. He gave his burrito a cursory check to see if anything had torn or was awry; everything was fine. Finally, he looked up and locked eyes with her. “Cheers.” That first bite was to them what- How does one explain it? We’ve all had that moment before. When you see a mountain for the first time, when you hear the first few seconds of music you know will change your life or when you meet your first partner; there is something indescribable about the electricity and emotion that goes through you. You seem powerless to behold anything else but also grateful that this moment is even happening. There is disbelief and mild confusion but also a profound happiness, the depth of which cannot be comprehended. Even though this was probably the thousandth time our two characters were eating their creations, it still hit them the way it did the very first time. Between chews, Boy decided to speak. “Do you remember the first time you ate here?” “Of course I do, man. Don’t you?” “Yes, obviously I do. But what I wanted to know was what you ordered.” “Ah, well, I got the crunchy taco thing, a rice bowl, a free-fill soft drink, and-” Boy chortled. “Free-fill!? How could you? How could you fill your stomach with a million glasses of those sugary, gassy-” “I didn’t know!” Girl glared at him and then laughed. “I didn’t use any sauce either. I thought the sachets were ketchup or something. But I didn’t know! And besides, it was good enough to make me come back the next week, so I was hooked anyway.” Boy laughed hard for twenty seconds, complete with lots of snorting and wheezing. Once he regained his composure, he smiled. “I’ll give you that. I just had a rice bowl with the fire sauce and I realized I never wanted to eat anywhere else every again. Especially not at home.” Girl was surprised once more. “Oh, what? Really!? You too?” Boy had a wise, weathered look on his face. “Yeah… It’s obviously why we even bother living with being addicted to this stuff. It’s not like we’d look at all this greasy and unhealthy food for happiness and fulfillment if we had households and families that provided the same thing, right? This place isn’t about the menu or the sauce. It’s where I come to feel at home. Because home isn’t that.” Girl was moved and felt a connection she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. “Yeah. I guess… Actually, let’s not talk about it. No need to ruin this place with reality. And besides, we’re here at this table eating together, right? One could even say we’re *dos guisantes en una vaina*.” She looked up to see Boy’s face overcome with emotion and a strange joy. There was a minute of silence. Then he said, “I believe the more accurate expression is s*er uña y carne*.” And the rest, as they say, is flatulent history.


"Don't try Blake. What's done is done." I argue, wiping tears away from my face. "Alex. You're not li-" "It's clear as day! You cheated on me. At least own up to that." I shout, flicking some stray ginger hair away from my face. "Alex. I didn't cheat." He deadpans, running a frustrating hand through his brown hair. I hate myself for thinking he looks amazing. "I caught you redhanded Blake." He rolls his eyes. "Maybe if you listened to what I had to say." "You want me to listen so I can get my heart broken? Is that it? For you to tell me it's nothing, or maybe that I got it all wrong?" I screech. "You do have it wrong." "Yeah, I do," I mumble, "I had you wrong all this time. You're not who I thought you are." He groans. "Alex, I love you." "Yeah, it looks like it." I grab the heels the girl left on the floor and shove them at Blake's chest. "I hope you had a swell time." I snarl. He scoffs. "I didn't want her to walk around the house with shoes on. I know you hate it when I do that." "How nice of you to think about me when screwing someone else!" I accuse, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "I didn't screw around with her." "Yes, you did!" I accuse, dropping the heels to the floor. The heels are Louboutin's. She must be rich. Why am I even jealous? Anger flares in me. "You can pack your stuff up and get out." "And where am I supposed to go? This is OUR house and I haven't done anything wrong!" He defends, his green eyes darting between me and the door. Is he expecting her to come back? "I don't care where you stay. I think the streets are calling your name anyway." He chuckles.  "You're always jumping to conclusions. I can't believe that you immediately thought I was cheating on you." "Are you trying to gaslight me?!" I accuse, jabbing at his chest. He catches my hands swiftly and drops it back to my side. "I'm not doing anything. I'm trying to get you to notice how insecure you are." "How insecure I am? Gee, how am I supposed to feel when a stunning blonde babe walks out of OUR apartment?" "I get where you're coming from but-" "But what Blake? What are you going to say?" "But... I didn't cheat. I'm telling you I love you." "And I love you. But, you've broken my heart." He groans. "You are beautiful. I only have eyes for you which is why-" "Which is why you cheated on me?" I bawl, tears crawling down my face. My nose instantly becomes blocked and I breath through my mouth. He holds me in his strong, muscular arms. The scent of mints drifts through my stuffed nose, mixed with the smell of expensive cologne. I sob into his chest, annoyed with myself for letting him comfort me like this. Annoyed that he's seeing my cry over his stupid mistake. "I didn't cheat on you. She was here because-" His phone blares on the coffee table. We stand still and silent, the sound of his heart beat in my ears. I pull away and glare at him. Anger curses through me when I glance over and see 'Amber' on the screen. "She's calling you? I bet she's trying to ask if you got rid of me." "Alex, calm down. God, you're so beautiful." I blush at the compliment before realising what's happening. "Don't. Why the hell did I fall for that?! Don't you dare try and distract me. Calling me beautiful isn't going to cut it." "Alex. We've been dating since we were 15. This is 10 years of a relationship. Do you really think I'd throw it away?" No. "Alex?" "No." I finally answer. He wipes at my face. "Will you finally listen to me baby?" I nod and follow him as he leads us over to our cream couch. The fake fireplace cackles menacingly in the background. I turn towards him and let him take hold of my small hands. He holds them up to his mouth, kissing my ring finger before putting our hands down in between us. "Explain yourself." "O-" "But before you do, just know that if I feel like you're making me look like an idiot, I'll slap you and leave." "Such a feisty redhead." He muses. I glare at him even though a small smile slips out. "Blake, stop wasting time and explain." "Amber is a jeweller." "Seriously? Is that your excuse? What was she jeweling? Your arm. Maybe in between your le-" He cuts me off by pressing a finger to my mouth. "Shush. She's someone I called to make an engagement ring and she just happened to deliver it today." I gape at him, my eyes widened in horror. I shouted at her and practically chased her out of our apartment. It's almost laughable. He pulls a box out of his back pocket and I still. "Will you do me the honour of marrying me?" He drops onto his knee and holds my hand out. I burst out laughing. This will be a story for everyone to hear. 'How'd you get engaged?' someone would ask. I'd reply saying: 'I accused him of cheating with the jeweller who came to drop the ring off. I chased her out the house and almost kicked Blake out, all for him just to get down on one knee. It's romantic right?' "Blake. I don't know what to say." I mumble. "Yes?" He offers. "I don't think I could possibly say yes after how I acted." He slips the ring onto my ring finger. I hold my hand out in front of me. Diamonds are embedded around the outside of the ring with a rose gold diamond in the middle, stealing the spotlight. The ring truly is amazing. "Do you like it?" "I owe Amber a thank you and a huge apology. It's beautiful." "I'll call her back here." Before he can grab his phone, I take hold of his hands. "I'm sorry. You're right, I instantly accused you without getting to know the full story. I guess I really am insecure." "It's alright. It was funny watching you get possessive over me and kick her out." I grimace. "I really did lose my cool. I love you." "I love you." He pecks my lips lightly and presses down on my stomach. "Maybe you can call Amber tomorrow." I offer, unbuttoning his shirt. "I guess Amber can wait..." He lands a kiss on my nose. "I love you Blake."


Back at the house, Madeline found herself replaying the conversation with Billie over and over. Reclining on the sofa in the small, cluttered living room, she thought through every expression, every word, every hesitation, analysing them all. Though she was glad to have an ally, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d shared too much too soon. Perhaps her time with Liam had made her soft. The clattering of the letterbox startled her from her thoughts, sweat pricking at her skin. She was halfway to her feet on reflex before the conscious part of her brain reminded her that she was expecting this. With a deep breath, she tried to calm herself, forcing coiled muscles to release their stored tension and waiting for her heart to stop thumping against her ribs. Taking the time to move quietly and carefully, she made her way to the front door. A scrap of white paper waited for her there, staring up in stark contrast to the dark, drab doormat. She quickly scooped it up to read the scribbles that covered it: a grid reference and a time. After hurrying to consult her map, she found it led her to a church a few miles away. The time was shortly after dawn. Her only recently calmed heart started racing again at the thought of the meeting. There was still so much she was uncertain of — so much to figure out about her new ally. Soon she would get her chance. Until then, she should make sure to eat and rest. She had to be on her top form. The evening passed slowly, and the night even more so. She spent the time playing out different scenarios for the morning meeting until she finally fell asleep. Then, the same scenes infiltrated her dreams. She watched herself ambushed, attacked, welcomed, embraced. Hundreds of possibilities flicked behind her closed eyelids as she slept fitfully. When dawn came, she was ready and waiting by the door. As soon as the first rays of the sun crept over the horizon, she set off. A brisk wind chased her through the streets, blowing away the sluggishness of a restless night. As she walked, the sun crept higher, bringing with it the pale pastels of a new day. By the time the sky had faded to blue, she was almost at her destination. After a quick circuit of the block, Madeline approached the church. The majority of the stained glass windows remained surprisingly intact. Perhaps, even in this world, people still somehow felt bad about vandalising a place of worship. The heavy wooden door at the front stood enticingly ajar. But she knew better than to use the obvious entrance — especially for a meeting with a relative stranger. Keeping her head swivelling from side to side, she crept around the edge of the building. There were two smaller entrances — one on either side — but both were locked. That just left the rear of the building, where the graveyard was situated. There, overgrown grass blossomed with weeds and wildflowers alike. In some places it was so long it looked ready to engulf the headstones and markers that littered the ground. Turning back to the wall, Madeline found one final doorway. Though it was shut, all it took was a firm push for it to creak open. Wincing at the sound, Madeline stepped through. Inside, she found an array of gardening tools, clearly unused for a long while. Rusted shears lay next to trowels and watering cans in an organised mess, while a muddy shovel, rake, and stepladder stood, propped up against the wall. Amidst it all stood a pair of wellington boots, encrusted with dirt from their last outing, never to be worn again. Madeline carefully crept past, lifting each foot over the items to place on what little of the floor remained clear. Once she was past the assortment of equipment, she picked up the pace a little down the stone corridor, checking the rooms as she went. When she peeked out into the main section of the church, she saw Billie waiting in the pews. Their eyes locked onto her from where they sat, leant back with legs crossed and a lazy smile fixed on their face. “Don’t worry, I can wait,” they called over. “You finish scoping the place if it’ll make you feel better.” Suppressing a sigh, Madeline tried to ignore the heat rushing to her face. Regardless, she wasn’t going to let herself be embarrassed into making a mistake. She continued searching the rest of the building, though not making as much effort to be stealthy. When she was done, she returned to where Billie waited. “All done?” they asked. “Satisfied this isn’t a trap?” “Not entirely,” Madeline replied. She narrowed her eyes in exaggerated suspicion, making Billie guffaw with laughter. “You should be more trusting. I think we both know I’ve had ample opportunity to kill or rob you, and have I?” “I like to think I’d have been able to stop you,” she replied with a nervous chuckle, before turning more serious. “But trust doesn’t come easily to me these days. And nor should it.” “I suppose you’re right,” Billie sighed. “I just wish you weren’t.” The two of them remained silent for a moment, contemplating what their lives had become. It was Billie that broke the stillness, standing to stride across the aisle. Madeline couldn’t help but flinch at the sudden movement. They glanced back at her. “Come on, I’ve laid out some stuff in the vestry.” Taking a deep breath to soothe her nerves, she followed. In the other room, strange robes lined the walls, hanging from metal railings. But what really interested Madeline was what covered the floor. A map was laid out, similar to her own, with all manner of locations marked and further notes scribbled on sheets of paper. She glanced over at Billie. “When did you do all this?” “The planning? I’ve been doing it since I lost my… friends. Laying it all out like this…” They gestured to the covered floor. “I did that before you arrived.” “Did you sleep here? Or travel at night?” “Neither,” Billie laughed. “I just move fast is all. I was eager to be here.” Madeline *hmphed* to herself, wondering how her companion could have possibly beaten her here by that much. It wasn’t like she’d slept in — or dawdled. Pushing the question from her thoughts, for now, she surveyed the maps and notes. Until something pulled at the back of her mind. “So, friends?” she asked. “What about them?” If Madeline had been a little less suspicious, perhaps they’d have gotten away with the forced nonchalance in their voice. But after over-analysing every inch of their conversation yesterday, she wasn’t going to let it slide. “I told you who I was looking for. It only seems fair that you do the same. Otherwise, how will I know if I find them?” Billie remained frozen, micro-expressions flicking across their face betraying an otherwise calm exterior. Madeline watched on silently. When she was satisfied that she’d made them squirm enough, she interrupted their internal struggle. “Look, you don’t have to tell me yet. Clearly, it makes you uncomfortable. Just remember, trust goes both ways.” Billie nodded. “Thanks. It’s just… not everything is mine to tell. Something I can say though, while I was with a group, I’m really only looking for one person.” “Oh? And who’s that?” “My brother.” A faraway look entered their eyes as they glanced down at the floor. “Older or younger?” “Older, but not by much. His name’s Joe, and he looks similar to me, only around twice the height.” A smile curled at their lips, perhaps at some remembered joke or taunt. “Just like you and your kid, we separated to escape the Poiloogs. We had a prearranged meeting location and time all worked out. But he wasn’t there.” Madeline reached out to squeeze their shoulder, before thinking better of it and letting her hand drop. “I’m sorry. Losing family that’s… I can only imagine.” Billie shot them a strange look. “What do you mean you can only imagine?” “Well, I suppose I lost family at the beginning of all this. Or I just never found them. But that was a long time ago and—” “No, I mean Liam. Strikes me that we’re pretty much in the same boat.” “Oh, I see,” Madeline said, her cheeks flushed. “Liam isn’t my son. Or brother. He’s just… I just found him.” “So you found a strange child, took him with you, and looked after and cared for him?” “Yeah,” Madeline replied lamely. Billie shrugged. “Sounds like family to me.” Before she could stop it, a giggle bubbled up from inside her. Then another. And another. Shaking her head at her own stupidity, she gasped for breath between the laughter. Of course, Liam was family. Her only family. What else could he be? But just as the happy realisation sank in, so too did the loss of him. As the laughter wracking her body turned to sobs, she felt two familiar arms wrap around her.


Sorry, new Title: Roads and the Ring. "Maybe. Maybe this was this way. Maybe it was the other way around. No one could fool the decision of the heart." At least one could see the direction of the heart. The decision of the one road, it was: If you follow this way, you will never come back. The decision of the one road, it was: If you follow that way, you will always come back. "One could follow the way that the past was dead, but remembered. One could follow the way that the past was alive, but distant as the present." Before the decision of the road, one took the decision of the Way. It was: For where you walk, you're in your way. If you strive or mistook one direction, maybe it was this way. Maybe it was the other way around. No one could fool the decision of the road. "The decision of the Wise man isn't to fool himself or the people he share his life with. The decision of the Wise man is simple. Follow the Way, even if there aren't roads and you have to go barefoot." Walk on in your way, breath your spirit. "It's the way of the earth, to make the sun set once a day. It's the way of the human, to be awake and bath in the Sun's light." It is the way of the sun, to have his rays blocked by the moons and planets. It is the way of the sun to bath the unliving. "Until life arises and could stand, and praise and breath and meditate. That was part of the way of the sun. A way of living is too, a way of the sun. Breathing is our necessity." It's the way of the moon, to receive the sun light for us. It's the way of the moon, to cast it's shadow upon us. It's the way of the moon, that lead to comfort us from the warm sun. It's the way of the moon, that lead to many deaths and cycles. "Their wedding made the winds and the sea. Therefore, as i breath the air, i remember. My tiny lungs, in this tiny universe, my tiny mind in my tiny body couldn't not follow the big decision that i was to took." The way that i never come back, as the rays of the sun. Or the way that i will always come back, as the shape of the moon. "The way that i will consume everything within my approach, warm it, burn it, and interact with it - the planets and comets. Or the way that i will always be there, within my own spot, touching and colliding with the things that are across me, and simple being there. Casting shadow that moves. I will act on the space within my range." The decision is now more clear. "Expansion will lead to smallness, And stagnation will bring movement, And the wedding between the sun and the moon, Settled as the sun and the moon were kissing the sea." "A ring is two roads together." I took the ring and held it. I would gaze at it and invest all my spirit in this ring. My spirit was getting stagnate as i held it. What a heavy ring. I feel down. I am setting, as the sun. I will marry the sea, not the moon. "One will marry daughter, not mother. This is not the way." "One will marry mother, not daughter. This is the way." I threw away the ring in the sea. The seas unfolded. In a rampant, they got me my silver ring back. This ring is yours, mortal, i could hear the sea say. Please hold it, he is not a burden, but a gift. The sea remembered me. The obstacle is the Way. "Like a wave, i go swin in the sea to kiss the moon." Stars were bright in the blue night.


Prologue It's difficult being the funny guy.

The guy who is always down for a good time, ready to be the life of the party.

"Hey Johnny!

Sing us a song!"

Or, "Hey Johnny! Moon those girls over there!” Or, my personal favorite, “Hey Johnny!

You got the blow?”

I smile.

I laugh.

I perform.

Like a monkey trained to do tricks, or a circus freak. Don't get me wrong - being the life of the party is better than not being invited at all.

In fact, more often than not I enjoy myself.

But sometimes...sometimes I think it would be nice to just fade into the background.

To be on the outside, tapping on the glass, waiting for the apes to do something cool. That's hard when you live a life like mine. I'm blessed, really.

I have a career I love, a partner I adore. But there is still a void. An emptiness to fill. With religion. With drugs. With alcohol. With sex. With money. With adrenaline. With more emptiness.

Thankfully, I’ve learned how to keep my mask in place. I hope it holds. One “Have you seen my purple tie? The Armani one?” David enters the room wearing nothing but a towel, lovingly places the tie around my neck, and kisses my cheek, then disappears back into the en suite of our master bedroom. I love David. I hate award season.

It reminds me of my mom. Every year since I was eight she had been my date for awards ceremonies.

Even at 15, hormonal and madly in love with my young ingenue, it was my mom on my arm for the red carpet. Now, at 35, this is the first time I will attend an award show without her on my arm. Not that she was June Cleaver or anything.

Maybe if June Cleaver had trouble with day drinking and made a habit of bringing home strange men...but she was my best friend.

The one who gave me my first drink, then paid to have me sent to rehab after my fifth DUI. The one who helped me key the car of the first boy who broke my heart - then found someone else to blame for it.

The one who would walk through fire if what I needed was on the other side of it.

David is great.

He has never been jealous of my mother, but I know deep down he is excited for his red carpet debut.

He has this kind of effortless charm and swagger that makes him somehow youthful and wise simultaneously. The cameras will love him and the fans will eat him up. Maybe his presence will overshadow my mom’s absence.

If another reporter asks me what it’s like to go through award season without her I might take out my grandfather’s pocket knife and slice through their carotid artery.

And as if all the stress of my mother’s passing wasn’t enough, I am tonight, for the first time, nominated for an Academy Award.

I take the purple pocket square from my dresser and tuck it into my suit pocket.

I had it made from the dress my mother was supposed to wear tonight- keeping a piece of her close to my heart - for luck. Boy do I need it. Two We arrive at the Dolby Theatre around 6:00.

Our driver steps out to let us in, but before he does, I turn to David. My eyes fill with tears as I confess. “I can’t do this.” David places his hand over the pocket square on my chest, looks into my eyes and says, “Let’s go bitch.” He always knows how to lighten the mood. I give him a kiss, then steel myself for the shutter of cameras and the onlookers calling my name.

I put on my mask - my boyishly handsome grin - and step out of the vehicle.

My AppleWatch reminds me to breathe.

I get it, now leave me alone The first reporter to greet us is from TMZ - my favorite… “How are you feeling tonight Henry? Your mother’s absence is heavy on all our hearts.” No Shit Sherlock So much for David being a good distraction. I reply. “Man, you know...I just can’t stop thinking of how proud she would be in this moment.

I’m sure her ghost is standing right here in front of us posing for the camera.

There’s no way she would let a pesky nuisance like death cause her to miss being here with me tonight. Here I’ll pose with her.” I strike a Charlie’s Angel pose - one that has become somewhat of a signature for my mom and I - and as I do, I almost convince myself that I feel her back against mine; smell her perfume in the air; hear her laugh echo down the carpet. But as quickly as the moment comes, it passes. It’s just me, alone, performing while the tourists tap on the glass. Every other interview goes about the same.

I recycle the same three or four comments about my mom so that different reporters have different sound bites, but my heart isn’t in it.

The truth is, my mom really carried the bulk of these interviews. I never realized how much of it until tonight.

When we finally make it inside, I excuse myself to the restroom.

I don’t worry about David.

He will be happy to play social butterfly and brush elbows with some of the movie greats. As for me - I need to escape. Three I stare at my reflection. My tan skin. My perfect teeth. My hair cut just-so. My clean shaven face. My double chin.

My crow’s feet, subtle, but noticeable. I look like my mother. Except for my empty, gray eyes.

Her eyes were always full of life. Suddenly a bead of sweat drips down my back. I try to blink back tears, but they roll down my cheek. My chest tightens.

I feel a rush of blood to my head.

I’m going to pass out. I shouldn’t have come.

I should have made an excuse to stay home and just accepted an award via Skype or whatever it is they use to make that happen.

That’s if I even win. I reach for my pocket square.

Wrapped inside of it, is my secret. I’ve been clean for almost two months now, but I held on to an insurance policy. Ten blue pills, marked 100 on one side and OC on the other.

Hello old friends. I use a complimentary bottle of water to wash Three of them down.

I splash water on my face, pat it dry, and leave my solace for the hustle and bustle of the lobby. Four I spot David standing outside the doors to the theatre, waiting patiently. The fire in his eyes is quickly doused when he notices me.

He knows me all too well and quickly crosses over to where I stand, just outside the restroom. “You OK?

I’m sorry I lost you for a bit.” “I’m good.

Really.

Just nervous.” As soon as the oxy kicks in I’ll be good as gold. We find our seats.

For the first time, I am seated on the front row, a privilege reserved for the nominees of the “big” awards -Best Actor/Actress, Best Film, etc. As I sit, the effects of my little blue friends take hold of my senses.

My muscles turn from rocks to molten lava.

I am warm all over in the most wonderful way.

My eyes become hooded, my breathing slow and relaxed. Thoughts of my mom, the awards, the anxiety, all are covered with a warm blanket as the world fades away. Five I snap back to reality with David’s elbow digging in between my ribs. I must have dozed off, although I don’t think my eyes were closed.

“Hey babe - you’ve got to pull yourself together. Your category is coming up in 15 minutes.” I know that’s not accurate.

I am certain that several of the winners before the Best Actor category will overstay their welcome on stage and require the assistance of the orchestra to make their exit.

That means it will be closer to 30 minutes.

Just enough time to go top off my high. I excuse myself to the restroom while a seat filler takes my place on the front row.

As I walk down the aisle I can feel them.

All of them.

The producers, the actors, directors, screenwriters - all formerly friends - staring at me.

They hate me.

No matter how often people assure me that my mother’s death was not my fault, I know better.

And I know they do too.

If I hadn’t been at that party…if I hadn’t fallen off the wagon…if I hadn’t driven to her house…then she wouldn’t have died in a car wreck, driving me home. By some miracle, I make it to the restroom without becoming a puddle on the floor in front of my peers, but by the time I arrive, breathing has become almost impossible. I take a bottle of water and pour it over my head, drenching my bespoke suit.

I reach for my pocket square, but my hands are shaking so badly that the pills go flying out of my pocket, scattering across the vanity and the bathroom floor.

I gather what I can from the sink and swallow them dry.

I am unsure how many I took.

Was it two?

Four?

I fall to my knees, desperate to grasp onto all that is left of my salvation.

How many are there?

I took three…then, maybe four more…So only three more pills.

I find one near the drain and rescue it from a fate of sewage and dissolution. The other two are inside the stall.

I try to crawl toward them.

I know I’m moving, but I don’t seem to get any closer.

I find myself feeling an ungovernable rage.

Get over here you fucking bastards! My stomach cramps, like having a knife plunged into it, then twisted. Without warning, I wretch onto the pristine marble floor, then fall into the remnants of my lunch, face first.

I’m suddenly grateful for my depression and lack of appetite.

I didn’t have many cookies to toss. I crawl through my self inflicted quagmire towards the toilet, but before I reach it my stomach is again seized with pain.

I groan and attempt to will myself to move forward.

I am frozen.

In fact, I have somehow ended up on the floor, looking upward at the lights.

I can’t breathe.

I reach to loosen my collar, only to find that my tie is already missing.

As is my pocket square.

I drop my hands to the floor beside me, to find them both, soaked in my own putrid vomit.

I’m sorry… This is my last thought before I lose consciousness. Six I can see myself on the floor.

Covered in bodily fluids.

I see David come through the door, grasping something behind his back, then run to my side, kneeling in the filth.

He pats my face.

He feels for my pulse. He goes to the door, calling for help, then returns to my side.

He continues to feel for a pulse, then cradles my head in his arms, defeated.

It’s at that moment, I realize what he was holding in his hand as he entered.

My Oscar.

He must have accepted for me when I didn’t make it back in time.

And now, I’ll never make it back.

I should be filled with a myriad of negative emotions - fear, regret, guilt.

But I feel nothing. That is until I feel a hand in mine.

My mother - in her favorite Valencia gown - is standing beside me.

As David watches the medics work to revive me, I turn to her. “What should I do?”

I ask. “Baby.

You already did it.

There’s no going back.” She goes to the door, propped open by a paramedic and holds her hand out for me to join her.

“I guess I should have known I wasn’t long for this world,” I say as I take her hand. “You and me both baby,” she coos as we exit the restroom, and into the unknown of eternity.


Sometimes in Scotland, once dusk has settled, and the gloaming is illuminated by the backdrop of a thousand flickering lights. A low harr will roll in, it sweeps up off the ocean, silently hugging the coast and gently settling over the land. It was on a crisp night like this, that I stepped out to pick up. The distant crash of waves against the concrete seawall were only superseded by the constant hum of traffic in the distance, crossing that low, rickety bridge, which seemed tonight, even more than most, to hug the surface of the silvery moonlit river. The trees that lined either side of the road swayed above me, bending, and creaking, their leaves dancing in unison to private melodies. Stopping for a second in the middle of the road, I allowed myself to take a deep gulp of the cold evening air, before turning the corner, down and into the housing estate. Soon, the colossal tenement buildings had engulfed me on all sides, and before I knew it, I was darting through narrow passageways and past towering walls of smooth concrete, peering up in almost involuntary awe at their hulking silhouettes, backlit against the falling sky. As, far above me, sun-bleached Saltires hung like the rags of victorious battle flags, and the light from a cigarette perforated the darkness every few seconds, as the muffled voices in the sky began to argue. I craned my neck back looking upwards until I could look no further, as I passed down, underneath the towering twenty-story tower block, which had once been the shining centre of the scheme. A suddenly the manmade light faded away, and I was ejected out, and into the undisturbed peace of the dark, empty park. The edge of the park was lined by a sheer wall of trees that stretched out far in front of me, rippling back and forth as the North Sea continued its relentless assault on the city. The park had no lights and staring into the darkness was like looking out into deep space, the cold black night lapped at the warm yellow glow, coming from the lampposts that littered the estate. Pulling my hood down, I slipped my keys between my fingers and formed a tight fist with my right hand, as I quickened my pace, pushing open the rusted gate and making my way under the loving, low-hung embrace of the treeline. Thirty seconds later, and the night's conquest of the sky was complete, standing in pitch darkness, feeling the concrete underneath my tattered reeboks, I looked up at the sky. The stars were fighting a losing battle, against the all-consuming light pollution that spilled out from the city below. Instead of being awash with twinkling lights, the night’s sky was filled by the spinning layer of burnt yellow pollution that hung in the air, swirling menacingly over the city. Up ahead, I heard two men before I saw them, they slowly loomed out of the darkness, one was sat on a rotten wooden bench, while the other stood behind him with his back to me pissing. His frame swaying gently in the wind, as his piss absentmindedly dribbled down, the leg of his muddy bootcut jeans. I nodded my head in silent approval at his seated friend, as he raised a crushed Tennant’s can in an unspoken sacrament, our eyes locked together, peering at each other through the dark night air. We squinted, studying each other, then as his friend sloped unsteadily back to the bench, he turned away, his eyes lost again to some unseen conversation. A warm glow broke through the treeline, as the park began to recede, the plants and bushes which had thronged me moments earlier, slowly petered out as the foliage gave way to an abandoned car park. Filled now, only with the clamped rotting remains of what had been a Nissan. Abandoned to the elements, the sea air was waging a war of attrition against its bright blue body paint, which had begun to rust and flake away. I watched the streetlight bounce and reflect, dancing across the surface of the corroded bonnet, and, as I felt the smooth concrete underfoot, give way to uneven cobblestones, I exited the park and re-joined humanity. Just across the street, a brown, squat, ramshackle tenement building, sat unloved and isolated at the end of the block. Bounding over the road and up the stairs I waited at the door, looking through the small Perspex window which led to the close, I held my finger against the buzzer shouting ‘Malcolm!’ in faux exasperation through the intercom, and after waiting for a second, the mechanism clicked, and a flood of warm air rushed over me. Detailed ceramic tiles lined the walls and ceiling of the close, surrounding me in a kaleidoscope of tired grandeur. An imposing Victorian handrail ended in an extravagant flourish, as the thick granite stairs, trailed upwards toward the lavishly detailed stain glass window at the back of the building, through which, the weak yellow glow of streetlamps outside gently penetrated. Suddenly breaking the silence, the door to the first floor flat swung open, and Malcolm hung in the doorway, loose-fitting pyjama bottoms clung desperately to his waist, while an oversized visit Canada T-shirt, dwarfed his upper half. His pale sullen skin and huge green eyes reflected like a cat in the dim half-light. ‘Alright mate,’ he said, letting the words curl and drop softly from his mouth, he held out three boxes in his hand. Their familiar Eastern European font was a sight for sore eyes. ‘Come on now, only Slovakia’s best, for a most discerning customer like yourself.’ Malcolm said, his eyes dancing with a menacing glint upon seeing my barely contained desperation. ‘Sir you spoil me’ I shot back smiling, trying to recover some dignity as I pulled the crumpled notes from my pocket. ‘Always a pleasure' Malcolm purred while slipping the boxes to me, as he wrenched the fifty-pound note from my outstretched hand. ‘Alright Mr. Monopoly, fuck am I supposed to do with this.' He paused dramatically glaring at me. Before muttering 'well thanks I guess’ as he looked me up and down one last time, before smiling and slamming the door so hard, that the cheap wood board shook violently in its frame. The second the door was closed, I fell upon the packets like a starving animal, popping Three of the pills out of their packaging, at once. Desperately I tried to push them to the back of my throat, cursing myself for not bringing anything to help them down. Before coughing violently, as I nearly choked myself. Eventually, coughing triumphantly, I pulled open the heavy oak door and stepped out once again into the cool black evening air. Standing on the top step, I waited impatiently, turning in anticipation, before the familiar waves of relaxation washed over me. Like sliding into a hot bath on a cold winter’s night, I yawned allowing myself to feel my lungs flood with air, and as I sat on the cold stone stairs, relishing the breeze of another summer’s night, I know. At that moment, I know, know I’m not an addict, know that I'm brave, and know that I can be loved, for a perfect second, all that delusion is enough.


The room was still dark when he awoke. He did not open his eyes for a while; he just kept quiet in the bed, breathing in the stale but familiar air. He turned to the other side of the bed, not wanting to get up yet. It was still warm. He sniffed the pillow, hoping it would smell of her, and opened his eyes. It was the morning of Halloween. The curtains were drawn, and the room had a greyish hue. It had been like that for a while now. Grey. Sort of colorless. He wondered whether that was just how it was now. He got up and put on his favorite fluffy bunny slippers. The ones she had got him. If he did not have a costume, at least he could dress his feet up a bit. He wiggled his toes, making it look like the bunnies were wiggling their noses. He chuckled a bit, but the sound was just as stale as the air in the room. Just as grey as the colors. He went into the kitchen. There she sat. At the kitchen table, her computer in front of her, sipping coffee from a cup. She looked beautiful. Her dark blonde hair was still messy from the sleep, and she had dark circles under her eyes, but she was her. She was just as she had always been. Simple, beautiful. He sat down at the table opposite her. She did not look up; she just took another sip from the coffee. He poured himself a cup and took a sip. The taste was colorless. It did not even taste grey; it just felt like nothing. He thought of water, but water still has a taste of minerals and nature. This was just nothing. He quickly put the cup back down on the table. She got up and went into the bedroom while he looked after her, noticing her slumped shoulders and her red eyes. He wanted to go after her. He desired to make her feel better. He wanted to show her the love he felt, but he did not know how. "I'll be going out," he said. More to himself than to her, but she did not answer anyway. It was Halloween, the end of October, so it was cold. It did not bother him. The air was fresher, and the light was whiter. Still grey, but whiter. That is at least something he thought. He took some long, confident strides. Maybe this day it would be better. Perhaps this day, something would be different. He walked down the street, looking at all the different people. He always loved to do that, and it kept him occupied. He wondered about their routines and what brought them here on this particular day. He made up stories about the people he passed all the time. Maybe that guy with the round glasses and the tweed jacket is a professor. Perhaps he has a giant library at home and loves philosophy but also a good splatter movie. Maybe that girl with the jacket is an artist. The color of the jacket could be purple. She loves colors in her paintings as well as her clothes. She has a studio with giant windows and brick walls and plants everywhere. Or maybe real life is not as perfect. Perhaps the guy with the glasses is a high school teacher with a tired wife and a screaming baby. Maybe the girl with the purple jacket could not find anything else on sale. Or perhaps it was just his imagination, and the jacket was not purple but dark grey. No, he thought, she is an artist. He came across a flower shop. He always contemplated going in there. Every time he came across it, he thought about it, even though he knew it would not matter. But this day felt different, so he went in there. The shop was decorated for Halloween with carved pumpkins around the flower arrangements and tiny, decorative skulls in the bouquets. He looked around for a long time. Looked for anything that resembled purple. It was hard in the grey light and the Halloween themed items, but at last, he found a bouquet he felt could be purple. It was always her favorite color. He looked up at the cashier counter, but the lady behind it was talking eagerly with another customer. He felt in his pocket for change. There was nothing. But this was supposed to be the day. He was supposed to give these flowers to her today; he could feel it. He looked at the cashier again. She was still talking to the other customer. Surely, she would not notice one bouquet missing. He slowly turned his back to her and walked out of the shop. Now he was one big smile. He smelled the bouquet. It did not really have a smell, but still, this was the right thing to do. This would make everything okay again. The colors did not seem as colorless anymore. That woman's hat was definitely blue. And that tree was definitely green. And the bouquet he had picked was definitely purple. He thought of her and the warmness of her skin, the beauty of her laugh. He thought of her sadness as she went into the bedroom this morning. He just wanted to show her he still loved her. He looked down. Purple. Now his step was even more confident. He smiled at everyone on his way, but no one smiled back. Still, he kept a grin on his face all the way back to their apartment. He almost jumped up the stairs and opened the door so fast it banged against the wall. But he did not care. He was home, and he brought flowers, and everything would be as it was. But she was not there. His smile turned into a strained grin. Not as romantic as he had hoped, but he sat on one of the kitchen chairs, bouquet in hand, staring at the door. He still smiled a little. He sat there for a long time. One hour went by, then two. The bouquet in his hands was beginning to hang a bit. Maybe he should have put it in water, but it was too late now. And he wanted to give it to her as it was. Simple, but beautiful, like her. So, he sat still, eyes eagerly watching the door, ears intently listening for a sound, a footstep, or a breath. But everything was quiet. The night was beginning to show itself, and the whiter colors slowly faded to grey again. Finally, he heard something. Her laugh. Her beautiful, trilling laughter. Her known footsteps on the stairs. But he also heard something else; a man's voice. He heard the key in the lock, and the door swung open. There she was, in another man's embrace. He got up quickly. Their two bodies were writhing against each other as they stumbled through the apartment towards the bedroom. She was dressed as a witch, and he was a mad scientist. They did not even notice his presence. He dropped the bouquet on the floor without noticing it. As he stepped on it to run across the kitchen to the bedroom, time seemed as if it had slowed down. He heard her giggle, listened to his moan, but felt as if he would never reach the bedroom door. When he finally got there, she was on her knees, and he was looking pleased. "How could you?" He screamed at her. "How could you do this?" She did not react. "I'm right here! I'm right here beside you!" He screamed as loud as he could, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I'm right here, and I always will be." This time his voice was a whisper. "Please…" But they did not notice him. Maybe that is just how it is when you are dead. He could not be in the room anymore, so he slowly walked to the kitchen, and there on the floor, he noticed the bouquet. It was not purple. He wished so hard it was purple, but it was grey. As the moaning in the bedroom got louder, he fell to the floor. He was right here beside her as he always would be. Him stuck here forever in this grey purgatory. Her moving on and forgetting about him. He just wished she could see him. Just hear him. Know he was there. Or maybe what he really wanted was that he could not see her. Could not hear her. But he could. Her moans got louder as he fell further onto the kitchen floor, surrounded by the fragments of the grey bouquet. That is how he fell asleep, to the sound of her, on that first Halloween night since his death.


It was making noise again.Luna yawned and stretched. She slowly sauntered over to the cage they kept it in. Her humans had one thing right, keep the noisy fur ball locked up tight. The fuzz ball shivered, visible tremors riding up its body in waves. When Luna sidled into its vision it shook even more, vibrating out its own little earthquake. Luna smirked. She rubbed herself against the bars then carried herself away with a swish of her tail. It yowled. The noise sent hackles raising down her back. Luna shuddered. The hideous pest had forced its way into her domain for less than a day and it was already disrupting her nightly routines. Luna rushed the metal box they shoved the little rat in and shoved her claws through the bar hissing. The pitiful fuzzball fell back with a yelp and cowered at the back of its cage, small like a yarn of wool. Luna smirked a devilish kitty grin and turned away, full of pride. All that hissing had made her thirsty. Luna lapped from her water bowl. Water never taste so good. Luna just settled into grooming herself when she heard it let out another cry. This time more painfully pitiful than before. Luna tensed, but she continued her cleaning. She did not stand up until she was fully bathed and even then she took her time, drifting towards the crying ball as accidentally as possible. It will not know it drew me. Luna studied the creature in the cage. It lay there shivering and whining. When it saw Luna it timidly stumbled to its paws and cautiously shuffled over to her on giant paws, too big for it to know what to do with just yet. The golden flea bag stayed belly to the ground, showing its subservience. It did however let out a tentative tail wag. Three gentle thumps. Luna sighed. If the beast were to be here it might as well be her beast. Just as everything else in the house was hers. She stood nimbly on her hind legs and pushed at the latch holding the pup in its place. The door swung open. Luna nimbly stepped out of its way. A living teddy bear watchfully discerned a new world. The little creature wouldn’t be out of place on her girls bed. Her girl collected lots of soft little animals and couldn’t choose between them so they all slept in her bed. Of course Luna was her favorite and made sure her girl knew it. She would bat those stuffed competitors away from her girl every chance she got. This little fuzzball was much like her girls collected bears. No competition. Yet the new bowls, the new toys, the new baskets, all placed where her things were supposed to go made Luna nervous. And more than that it made her angry . And yet all of the malicious, devious little plans she had plotted in her clever cat brain that very day melted away when the fuzzball fell over its own paws again. Luna shook her head and with a swish of her tail she trotted out into the kitchen, through the cat flap, into her world. The sun was yet to come out, it was still the hour of the cat. On a more normal eve, Luna would have been out all night and only musing on the idea of coming home round about now. She had wanted to make sure the infiltrator didn’t move any of her things or pee on stuff. It would not pee on her stuff. Luna sprang to the fence and looked out onto the streets as the dusk lightened to a concrete grey. Other cats were just starting to trot back towards there domains. She could see stripe tail leaping his fence and vanishing off into his lands. Blotches stopped to look to her before heading off on his way where were you last night? Luna twitched her whiskers and blinked to convey a sort of nonchalance that only a cat could carry. Luna was about to spring off into what was left of the night when she turned back. Her cat flap had swished again who dared to use her door? Ahh. The cuckoo in the birds nest. She could go for a baby bird right about now. The pitiful pup stumbled on the steps. It was as if the pup had bars of soap strapped to its paws. The pup blinked and looked all around it, nose twitching. It’s eyes seemed huge, drinking in the sites and scents of the garden with big greedy gulps. The puppy trotted forward, eager to explore, when its paw touched grass (Luna suspected for the first time). The pup yelped and shot backwards, startled by the new sensation. Luna rolled her eyes and stood stretching, unlocking her powerful legs. She sprang down from the fence and stood opposite to the pup, patting the grass with her paws. The puppy stared at her wide eyed before trotting across the grass towards her. The puppy sped up and nearly knocked her over, a cheap van sliding on black ice. Luna sprung aside at the last second, hissing. The little fuzzball looked confused, it just sat there blinking before its nose led it on an adventure into the bushes. Luna had had enough of this. She sat and licked herself, disinterested (a cat as fine as her could never be too groomed). Fuzzball came and parked next to her. Luna shuffled to the side a little and fuzzball shuffled with her. Luna continued to groom herself, refusing to give the annoying yap any attention. The sun rose over the garden, illuminating everything within it with brilliant light. The puppy glowed like a fuzzy lantern. Luna’s own dark hair shone with a silver sheen. Luna stopped licking herself and looked up. A most beautiful sunrise was emerging on the horizon. Do you have a name? The puppy blinked. The girl kept saying Buddy. That must be it. They sat in the sun together, basking in its warmth. Buddy leaned against Luna. After resisting at first (mainly for show) Luna let him. ****** Luna learned to tolerate Buddy, with time. Buddy did have some redeeming qualities. As much as Luna loved her girl she was not big on ribbons and dresses, or tea parties all that much. Her girl had Buddy for that now and Buddy was too little and pudgy to escape a little game (several dozen little games) of dress up. Luna smirked as Buddy let out a little pitiful whine, looking to her for help. She always left him. Buddy also provided a get out of jail card to Luna for ‘walksies’. Her girl, in addition to inflicting humiliating dresses and bonnets on her, also attempted, more times than she should, to take Luna out on a leash and call her ‘doggy’. The humiliation! The one time her girl succeed in her attempts to ritually abuse her person, Luna had seen all the other cats snickering at her from fences. She had never lived it down. Now Buddy went on ‘walksies’ and he actually enjoyed those much to Luna’s befuddlement. But it got her out from her girl’s grip for a time and Luna was grateful for that. Luna enjoyed having time to be more cat. She had many important things to do after all and although she had many talents she could not be everywhere at once. Now Buddy could entertain in her absence. Her appreciation of his innate ability to occupy her people did wane one night. It was her worst night as far as Luna was concerned. She had come in a little after supper to grace her humans with her presence a little more before heading out to run her nightly errands to find Buddy in her spot. The dirty sneak! The treacherous hairy beast had taken her spot draped across her girl’s lap at family time! Luna bristled with rage. But, she would not let the cat snack get the better of her, oh no! Luna slunk around her owners legs, on her best charm offense. Wide eyed and positively adorable, Luna rubbed against her people and ‘meowed’ in her best baby voice. Her man reached a hand down and scratched her ear absent mindedly. Her girl did not even look up, fussing over preciously putrid Buddy. She squealed when Buddy stretched in his sleep, delighted by even his most involuntarily pointless movements. Luna paced back and forth, her meows becoming more shrill. Her man said something and her woman stood up and threw Luna out of the room, sounding angry with her! Luna yowled at the indignity before stalking off, offended by her humans disrespect. Buddy would regret this. ****** Luna had enjoyed tormenting Buddy while he was young. She would pounce on him out of nowhere, sending him skittering into his little crate, pin his tail to the floor until he was squirming so much than when she let go he went flying like a little furry bullet. The best times were when he knocked into the wall. Her favorite way to torment the pup was to play ‘lets ignore Buddy’ where she would simply ignore him. That game was very effective. Buddy, if nothing else, was very attention hungry. Of course, when he got bigger, Buddy was a little harder to torment. By Summer, he had doubled in size and towered over her, like a winters sun. He made her squint in pain. His barks were like the roars of a lion, deafening. And he always had something to bark at – her humans, the postman, the television, birds, shadows. Every time Luna prowled in the garden, intent on her prey, be it bird, mouse or leaf, Buddy would slide in like the great clumsy oaf he was and bark up a storm, scaring her prey away. Luna had taken to hunting away from the house now. Buddy was consistent with him attempts to annoy her. The great yellow freak seemed to be under the impression they were friends too (an impression she certainly never perpetrated). For some reason the pup had insisted on calling her Moon Paw from an early age and it stuck. A lot like Buddy himself, her large, clumsy shadow. He followed her everywhere, always sniffing. The sniffing irritated her. All that snuffly noise and his nose was so wet! Whenever Buddy confronted her with his snout, she shied away. No dog nose would be leaving damp patches on her fur! But it wasn’t just the nose Luna had to worry about – Buddy liked to lick. Buddy licked plates and tables, stains and hands, bones and – Luna. Whenever Buddy managed to catch Luna of guard (which was a rare occasion that Luna was embarrassed by) he would give her a great big lick, messing up the fur she had worked so hard on getting to lay j ust right. Luna would reward Buddy for his crass actions with a swipe of her paw. When he was a little puffball she would crack him on his nose with a rewarding Fwhack but now he was older the shaggy fiend would spring back, paws lay wide, butt in the air lets play! Luna would stalk off. ****** It was a sunny afternoon and Buddy lay in the garden, head lay his paws. He was moping, Luna knew. For the first time the house was empty and Buddy wasn’t out too. It never bothered Luna, she had always been left in the house and loved every second of it. It was truly her domain in those moments where she could go anywhere . Luna slunk over to Buddy and sat near him, watching her yellow nemesis with large eyes, bright jewels like sapphires. Buddy turned his head away and huffed. He didn’t enjoy being in the house without their humans, Luna knew he was needy and hungered for attention. Luna licked her paw a few times then glanced back at Buddy. He looked brown in the shade, with just slight flecks of sand along his rump. Luna twitched her whiskers and then walked over to Buddy, curling into his side. Buddy raised his head and gave her a large lick on her face. Luna tolerated this. The sun shifted position in the sky above them, puling away the shadows. The two friends basked in the afternoon sun. ****** Luna slept a lot now. She slept a lot these days. In little nooks and crannies around the house. The top of the stairs. Beside the couch. A nice bush in the neighbors garden. Luna slept and dreamt of when she was young and lithe, a huntress. In her dreams she could catch anything in her jaws. In her waking moments Luna’s paws ached and her senses were dulled. Her nightly excursions became shorter and shorter until she just went out at sunset and returned when the sun came down. She liked to be in the house more now, preferably in her own quiet place. Buddy’s face appeared over the top of the couch, like the sun appearing over the horizon. He wore a big doggy grin and drooled on her head. Luna mewled pitifully. She didn’t have the strength to put Buddy in his place now. Buddy forced his way round, Head and paws pushed into her little space. Lets play! He barked. Luna mewed and turned away from him. Not now Buddy, I am tired. Buddy barked more, prodding her back with his paws – Play! Play! Luna sighed and shakily got up onto her paws, joints creaking. Fine. Buddy pinned her easily. Ha! I win! He grinned. Luna began to heave violently. She was never one for rough and tumble, but she would indulge Buddy from time to time throughout their lives together. But now she couldn’t anymore. Buddy nudged her with his nose. what’s wrong Moon paw? Tired. She replied between coughs. Buddy whined and lay next to her. They curled up on the rug in front of the fire. ****** Buddy bounced up and down by the front door, impatiently barking and whining. His humans were very mean to him today. Not only had they left but they had taken Moon Paw with them too! Buddy had been left alone for ages and ages. He’d worried at the rug with his teeth just to vent his anxiety. Buddy heard the car door slam! My humans! And Moon Paw too! Buddy couldn’t wait to pounce on Moon Paw, but he’d do it gently. Moon Paw had been tired lately and when Buddy had nudged her gently with his nose this morning her eyelids fluttered gently before closing again, she dozed fitfully. Sick? Buddy had asked, fully of worry. Moon Paw had mewed quietly in response. Then their humans had put Moon Paw in her own crate and taken her away. He hoped she hadn’t been taken to the funny smelling place with the mean four eyed human who took his unmentionables. Buddy whined at the thought. If that awful human had taken Moon Paw’s unmentionables too he would chase him and then look after Moon Paw. Curling up beside her and giving her a big lick to cheer her up. His humans came in and Buddy could smell the sad on them. It was a damp, cold smell and it meant his humans needed him. Buddy bounced around them barking happily cheer up! I’m here! The man patted Buddy on the head before walking by. His girl had sprung a leak, steamy droplets falling from her eyes. Buddy sprung up and kissed her It’s okay! I’m here! His girl giggled, then more water leaked from her and she flung her hairless paws around Buddy, and made his fur damp. Something must be very wrong. Buddy stood there for as long as his girl needed him. When she sat by the stairs he sat too. His girls face was red and blotchy. She sat, stroking his fur. It was only as the shadows crept in, as his girl started to fall asleep and the woman shook her awake, gently leading her upstairs that Buddy wondered Where’s Moon Paw? The TV was blaring and the man sat staring at it. Buddy went up to him and rested his head on his knee Why do you smell of sad? Where is Moon Paw? The man scratched his ear and kept watching the moving shapes. Buddy wandered the house looking for Moon Paw. He found her crate, empty. It smelled like Moon Paw, but it also smelled of… Sick Buddy sat and whined. A few nights had passed. The damp smell of sad was still on the skin of his humans and Moon Paw was nowhere to be seen. Buddy eventually understood that his humans smelt of damp because of Moon Paw. Because she wasn’t here anymore. And Buddy smelt of sad too. ****** Buddy pushed himself through Moon Paw’s door to the garden. It was smaller than it used to be and Buddy struggle through with a huff and a grunt. On the other side he shook himself and drank in the nights scents through his nose. Out here he could still smell Moon Paw. He had woken one morning and all of Moon Paw’s things were gone. Her cat bed, her toys, her food bowl. Even her scent was starting to fade. Buddy surveyed the garden. All this would always be moon Paw’s. Buddy walked over to their lake. The pool in their garden that they had played by so many times. Moon Paw pushed him in once when he was just a pup and Buddy had pushed her in when he was bigger. Even now he had bark laughed. The moon shimmered in their lake, a great white face floating on the water. Moon Paw’s face . Buddy howled. Don’t worry! I’ll look after them! For a moment the moon winked at him.


Detective Merry Giftsleigh puffed on his mistletoe pipe and watched the hidden compound at the base of the jungle volcano. Artificial Christmas trees littered the ground inside the fence, plastic melting under the Hawaiian sun. Mixed among them were tangles of Christmas lights higher than an elf’s head, next to heaps of discarded lawn reindeer and uninflated snowmen. It had been an hour and he hadn’t seen a single guardsman or guardself on patrol. Slapping away a mosquito, Merry decided that was long enough. He extinguished his pipe and crept up to the chain link fence. Some quick work with wire cutters and he was into the compound. Merry finally got a good look into the two largest buildings in the compound. Warehouses, doors open to reveal further Christmas paraphernalia. Bins of loose tinsel. Barrels of eggnog. Ugly sweaters draped over every surface. And most of all, thousands of unopened presents, nearly pouring out of the warehouses. This went far beyond the candy cane fraud that had put Merry on the case. “Well, I’m cocking my gun,” he said, drawing his mint shooter. He crept down the alley between the warehouses, heading for the helpfully-labelled “Administration”. Up on the rooftop, a faint *click, click, click* was his only warning. “Rudolph’s antlers!” Merry cursed. Why did he always forget to look up? Merry dashed for the end of the alley, a staccato chatter chasing him. He ducked around a corner just before the shots caught up with him. A glance at the ground confirmed his worst fears. The madman was firing black licorice. Santa only knew where they’d found it after the Gifteva Convention’s ban. There was a brief pause as the guard reloaded his astringent ammo. Merry ran for the administration building. He slammed the door shut just in time; the next volley rattled off it. He toppled a filing cabinet in front of the door to gain more time. The office was filled with Christmas cards, piled on every available surface. But Merry Giftsleigh’s attention was drawn to the dartboard behind the room’s only desk. A calendar was pinned to it, turned to the current month. December 25 was lined up over the bullseye. Merry jerked in shock as a dart struck Christmas. It came from the office chair behind the desk. Leveling his mint shooter, he barked, “Hands where I can see them! Turn around slowly.” “Oh my, Detective Giftsleigh. I didn’t expect to meet you here.” The chair swiveled around, and Merry froze. That familiar, cute button nose of evil. “Nutmeg Frosting,” he grated. “I never thought even a former elf would go so far. How could you? Christmas supplies ruined-” “Ho, ho, ho,” Nutmeg cackled. “You think that’s *all* I did? Stole some decorations? No, Giftsleigh. Did you not see the cards, and the presents?” Merry raised a Christmas card so he could read and keep an eye on the Arctic’s Most Wanted elf at the same time. “This- this is addressed to Santa. It calls him a… How could you?” “I’m afraid Hawaii isn’t sending cards to Santa this year.” Nutmeg grinned. “Or rather, the ones he’ll get will be *altered*.” “No!” “Yes!” Anti-jolly fervor burned in Nutmeg Frosting’s eyes. “Every child in Hawaii is sending a nasty letter to Santa this year. They’ll all end up on the naughty list. The few that wrote early, well, you saw their gifts on the way in.” Merry’s aim shook. “You won’t get away with this. “I already have. Hawaiian Christmas will be yet more ruined.” Someone began battering at the door. “Give it up, Giftsleigh. You’ve lost.” Merry grit his teeth, desperate for a plan. Then it came to him. Circling the desk, he slapped handcuffs on Nutmeg. The ex-elf was a master criminal, but the restraints would slow his escape long enough. Booting him out of his chair, Merry took the seat and lit up his mistletoe pipe. “What are you doing?” Nutmeg growled. Merry rolled his eyes when he saw Nutmeg already fiddling with a lockpick and put his feet up on the desk. “Having a smoke.” Cracks appeared in the door. “You’re mad.” Merry puffed to get a decent ember going and picked up a Christmas card. He held it over his pipe until the flame caught, then threw it onto the desk. Onto the pile of slanderous cards. “No!” Nutmeg, arms free, lunged for the flames. With a kick, Merry scattered the burning paper across the room. “Pity I can’t bring you in, Nutmeg, but I’ve foiled your schemes again. Most likely see you next December. And, you filthy traitor,” Merry tipped his cap, “Merry Christmas.” The door broke open as Merry hopped out the back window. Nutmeg’s cry, “Happy Holidays! Happy Holidays!” pursued him through the jungle. Carols to his ears.