23:50 I know what happens at midnight. Everyone here does. It's the end of the year, the start of the next. But not this time. We know what'll happen at midnight this time. None of us will be there to watch the sun rise. No one on this planet will. Those things have overrun the Federation's last defenses, and they've ordered the destruction of our world, scheduled for midnight. What better way to go out than with a party? I never was one for the social scene, though. I'm sat in a chair on a balcony on the second floor, a flask of whiskey in hand. Reflecting on what's been. On what is. And, of course, on what will be. The build-up to something big was always good for reflection, I've always found. 23:51 A friend of mine, lad by the name of Damon, joins me on the balcony in the chair next to me. He's got his own bottle. "Hiding from your own party, eh," he jokes. "You know me," I reply with a chuckle, "I never was one for 'em." "You're the host! This is your house!" "I'm only the host because you assholes pressured me into it." "I suppose you have a point." We both take a swig of whiskey. 23:52 I'm stood up now, as his Damon, and we're looking out beyond the balcony, down at the balcony and what lay beyond. I take out a cigarette. "You smoke now," I ask him. "It was no then," he replies, "it's no now." "We're all gonna die in..." I check my watch. "...eight minutes. If you wanna try it, now's the time." "You know what? You have a point. Gimme that." I hand him the cigarette and light it for him. He sticks it into his mouth like an upside-down popsicle and breathes in. He yanks the cig out and coughs harder and drier than I've ever heard him cough. I can't help but laugh. "Ah, what the fuck?! Why do you do this to yourself?!" "You're doing it wrong, dipshit! Here, let me show you how it's done." I light my own cig and take a drag. He mimics me, then coughs a little. "Breathe too deep again?" "Nah, I think I got some of that shit in my mouth the first time." 23:53 "So," I ask Damon, "how've things been going with that one girl... what's her name?" "Jane," he replies. "That's the one! She here tonight?" "She decided to spend tonight with her parents." "I can see why. Why don't you do the same?" "Well, one, I wouldn't miss a party with my brother from another mother for the world, and two, knowing my dad, he's probably gonna spend tonight balls deep in the maid." "That's still happening? How long's it been, 14, 15 years?" "16, as of a couple days ago. I don't know how she hasn't gotten tired of it yet." "Or pregnant." "That, too. So, what about you? Did you ever get with someone?" 25:54 "I, erm..." "You're not one to hesitate when answering a question. If I crossed a line, you don't have to." "No, no, I wanna get it off my chest. I did meet one off of... 'Rumble', was it?" "Bumble?" "That's it, thank you. Anyways, her name was Clara. If you had the time to look for one, I don't think you'd ever find a finer woman. Thinking back on her, the one thing I remember above all else about what she looked like was her eyes. They were a gorgeous, a cerulean blue, almost like the color of the sea, and you could just get lost in them forever. Whenever we'd talk about it, she actually said that, during the first date, I spent a solid five minutes just looking into her eyes. And, of course, she had a personality to back up her looks. I could have a drink with her like she was one of the lads and love her like, well, a lover. She was smart, funny, talented, the complete package. I still don't know how the hell I got so lucky with her. I loved her more that anything, and she loved me." "What happened to her? Is she here tonight?" "In a way, she is." "What do you mean?" 25:55 "Remember that shady guy I bought my car from?" "Zack Beasley?" "Yeah, him. And remember how he said I'd regret never paying the mortgage on it?" "Yeah." "Well, I never did and it caught up to me. One day, I came back with groceries and there was a note on the door, said 'Told you so!'. I went inside, and Jane was gone. I called the police and it didn't take them long to find her and bring her back, six hours at most, but they worked fast. They... I'd rather not say what they did to her. She got treated in the hospital, but the damage was done. Killed herself a week later." "My God! When did all of this happen?" I sigh. "Three weeks ago, now." "I see. Well, I'm sorry for your loss." "It's fine. Not your fault." "So, you said she was here 'in a sense'. What did you mean by that?" "See that tree, the tallest one on the hill to the right?" I point to the tree in question. "Yeah, I see it." "She's buried under there. That always was her favorite tree." 25:56 I look at my watch. "Well," I sigh, "there's only four minutes left." "Damn," Damon replies, "I always knew this world was gonna end. Never thought I'd be there for it, though." "Me neither. I don't think anyone has, either. At least, no one here. Do you think about death much, in general? What do you think happens when we die?" "I like to think life's like an Ouroboros Cycle. You remember what that is, right? I think the moment you die, there's a brief bit of blackness, then you're back to the day you were born. Not sure if you can do it differently, though. What about you?" "I'm one for the idea of reincarnation. Then again, I'm not sure how it works. Are spirit animals a thing? Do you get another human body? Is it luck of the draw? Who knows?" "If you got to restart your life, what would you do differently?" "Well, you know I always thought about joining the Marines in high school. I'd probably do that or beat the shit out of that Kane kid, the one who always fucked with me in Algebra." "Can't believe I was ever friend with him." "You were friends with Kane Waller?" "Yeah, before I met you. Used to go with him everywhere. Eventually, it sort of... fizzled out. You know how it is." 25:57 I spot a hunched figure in the forest outside of the house, but I don't say anything about it. Damon sees it, too. "Hey," he tells me, "I think that's one of those creatures." The figure makes contact with the fencing I have around my house and scurries off. "I think so, too," I reply. "Are you not worried?" "Not really." "Why not?" "Electric fencing. Has enough volts to kill anything that touches it, plus a field five feet above to stop those fuckers from jumping over it. Here." I go to my mini-fridge, pull out and apple, and toss it to Damon. "Throw this at it." He throws the apple, which goes to above the fence by, if I had to guess, about three feet. A bolt of electricity shoots out from the fence and blows it up instantly. "Holy shit!" "Don't worry about those things. We're safe here." 25:58 I check my watch again and whistle. "Shit, dude," I tell Damon, "there's two minutes left." "Guess we have two minutes left to talk, then," he chuckles. "Got any more stories?" "I actually do have one, about the first time I saw one of those creatures." "Lay it on me, brother." "You know how I always take my cousins hunting every winter, right? Well, last winter, we were tracking a stag by its tracks when we saw another pair of footprints next to it. The prehistoric zoo was nearby so we thought hey, maybe, one of the dinos escaped. No worries, right? Just call animal control and let them handle it. Ethan said he had a funny feeling about it, though, so we kept tracking it until the tracks stopped. Something else had already killed the stag." "One of the creatures?" "Bingo. All we found of it was its skeleton, except for the head. We looked up in the tree and saw the thing, eating the stag's head. Thankfully, we got away before it noticed us. We notified animal control and waited for them to do something with it. As you can probably tell, that never happened. You ever encounter the creatures like that?" "Can't say I have. Never saw one until they came on the news." "Consider yourself lucky." 25:59 "This is it," I sigh. "Less than a minute." We finish off our whiskies. "Did you say your good-byes to your dad, before you left," I ask. "Of course," Damon replies. "Just had to be sure." "Since there's not much time left to say it, I just wanna say that there is no where I'd rather spend the end of the world than by your side, my man." "Likewise. Here we go. Ten... Nine... Eight... Seven... Six... Five... Four... Three... Two... One. See you on the other side, brother." We were the last thing each of us saw before the fireball consumed us.


“When I look back at my life, what do you think I feel orderly?” Spoke the frail seeming man, lightly rocking in his chair. “Well, it would be presumptuous of me to say. But if I had to guess based on your file, I would say it is something like nostalgic joy. Something only, you could feel with a background as messy as that.” Responded that quietly confident orderly, leaning back in their own chair. Wails and screams echoed throughout the air, as if beckoned by some malign deity, risen on Earth. “Truly a demented scene here orderly, you know, most would have fled already; Do you have some death wish?” The frail man said, gazing upon the door that held the tides of chaos just at bay outside. “Well, this door is strong, it will hold, or maybe you wish that it didn’t; is that what you really want?” The orderly responded once more. Bleached white walls surrounded the pair, sitting in their rocking chairs, a door on one side, lightly reinforced. “Why though, did you act in such a way, to pull me in here? Do you have some obsession? I thought you hated me.” Cackled out the frail man, leaning back in his chair, nearly falling out of it even. “I just decided on a whim, my good conscience forbade that I let you be taken. But I suppose I do have ample reason to hate you, I did nearly lose my family, job, and even life because of you. Well, I suppose I wanted answers from you finally, we might not make it out of this situation.” The orderly said, a lukewarm look on his face. The screaming all around almost deafening, the room’s walls shaking off dust particles in waves. “Oh, I suppose that angle makes sense, but you know I did start all of this madness, we wouldn’t be in this situation if not for my decisions here. I want to know about you orderly, I really do, did I once hear you bragging to your peers about some collegiate accomplishment? The frail man said, looking slyly at the orderly. “This is my time to ask questions, but yes, I was informing my fellows that my thesis and dissertation passed with no corrections. Now, about yourself, why don’t you tell me why you started all of this today, and then we can discuss your more personal connection to me.” Said the orderly, with a warm look in his eyes. The wails of the damned ebbed slightly and the scene outside calmed. “You are quite self-centered orderly, fine, the reason I killed that guard was to let everyone out, there are some real crimes happening here you know.” Proclaimed the frail man confidently. “Hmm, quite the moral high ground you have, killing a guard and all. You know, I won’t forgive you for getting blood all over my coat.” The orderly said, sarcastically. There was a lone fireplace in the room, lightly flickering smatterings of yellow on the stark white walls. “You have some pretty major problems yourself orderly, or doctor I suppose is more accurate. Well, you’re dying to know why I did it aren’t you, why I killed your wife and newborn son? The answer is very complicated you know, but it really settles down to pure fancy, I killed them because I wanted to doctor.” Spoke the frail man, an evil grin spreading across his face. “Well that isn’t quite the answer I was hoping for, I though it might be more interesting.” Sighed the doctor, his face gazing into his hands. The two sat it in that room for quite a while, eventually falling asleep to the sounds of the dead and dying, awakened by a hard knock on the locked door. “Hey, is anyone in there, it’s safe to come out now, everything calmed down!” Yelled a voice from the outside. The doctor quickly moved and opened up the door. “Ah, finally, I thought that madness would never end.” Said the doctor. “Wow, well, let’s get you outside, anything you can tell us about how all this started? Any other survivors that you know of?” Asked the policeman. “Well, I’m not quite sure how it really started, but I hear what I thought might be screams and before I knew it, all hell had broken loose. I decided then to lock myself in that closet. I just know of myself, I was alone in a closet the whole time after all.” Said the doctor, walking out into the streets with the police in tow.


Saraswathy was mending her flowerpots and just whiling away her time in the backyard. Though she had no regrets, she was still unhappy over her ex-boss in dismissing her from job, for no fault of hers. She could have explained her position and made them understand her point of view. Of what use would it be? It would be a futile exercise. Saraswathy strongly believed that certain people never changed. She was dismissed for preparing food in large quantity. Even if she could convince them that excess food prepared by her was mainly due to the fact that the boss did not tell her how many guests were expected on that day and what should be the menu for dinner for them. Above all, when she came to know that the very food which she prepared was considered to be in excess, was simply consumed by a fresh batch of unexpected guests on the same day, she really did not understand why the boss blamed her for being extravagant and a lavish spender. The only explanation she could think of, was the old saying that “Boss is a boss. No questions can be asked.”  It was proved once again. Her neighbour Meena picked up general conversation with her. She casually mentioned that a bakery class was being organised by an agency called Adumanai and would start classes if they could get twenty-five members to enrol. Saraswathy thought it was a good opportunity to learn something new. She enquired further details about class, duration, venue, fees etc. and gave her name. They wanted some more people to join so that classes could be started. She instantaneously suggested her daughter’s name and enrolled her also. In a few days’ time the classes started. Initially it was only one class, though it comprised of two courses --- Preliminary then Advanced. Saraswathy had joined Preliminary while her daughter Prema took up Advanced course for which the fees were a bit higher. In the introductory viz Preliminary course, they talked about bakery, its basics, various terminologies, required equipment, general ingredients etcetera. All the trainers insisted on hygiene and purity. In the Advanced course, it was mostly on commercial productions and largescale productions. Event based preparations theme-based preparations etc. Saraswathy was not keen on Advanced course. She was contented with what could be made at home. Bread, bun, cake, home-made chocolates, etc. Her course was over in two months. Prema in her Advanced course had to learn a little more --- on techniques of making and baking theme-based cakes, decorating them with creams, cherries, nuts and so on. Eggless cakes, cup-cakes puffs biscuits and cookies were also part of their curriculum. The students were even taken to big and small bakeries, medium size companies engaged in similar baking items. It was a novel experience for Saraswathy to reduce herself to a student level, take notes, answer questions in classes and draw attention of others by seeking clarifications. Once she raised a query to a baker from a famous eatery MBT, Make-Bake-Take as to how he could claim royalty for a routine cup-cake just because it had cherries and the cup was in a star shape, similarly the stuffed puffs baked in different shapes. She insisted that unless some design or name was inscribed on those items, they could not be classified as unique and hence no royalty. At the end of the course, same bakery man suggested that he would employ two candidates as apprentices in his MBT for two months. He also made it clear that there was no fee for apprenticeship and no stipend for the training period. It was open to all students learning in Preliminary and Advanced courses. On first of the following month, there was one person who came up for apprenticeship. She was none other than Saraswathy. The owner of MBT did not expect this. He was hopeful of some youngsters coming forward and taking the opportunity. Who knows? In future such young men could set up their own unit. He asked her about her intentions in coming forward as an apprentice. He even suggested that it would be better if her daughter came up as she was younger with better prospects and brighter future. Saraswathy deliberately avoided her daughter coming here, as she thought that this owner had some special concern for Prema. Actually, Prema was the one who wanted to apply while Saraswathy was least bothered. In order to avoid unnecessary dealings with this man, she stopped Prema and offered herself for the post. In the two months’ course, she would learn more about baking techniques and also use it as an opportunity to know the nature of the owner. Two in one. Eventually she enjoyed both. There was something special about him --- his name. Jakanachary, an unusual and unfamiliar name. She asked him about it. He replied that his original name was Chennakesavan. But he got it changed to Jakanachary, by declaring in the Government Gazette. The reason was also very unique. Jakanachary was the name of a famous sculptor of Kaidala of Tumkur district in Karnataka. He lived in twelfth century. He was a renowned sculptor of Hoysala period. His son Dankanachary was also equally great but father’s skill was exemplary. The legendary sculptor etched wonders on rock-cut-stones and the present day Jakanachary - the baker did the same on flours and breads. As a tribute to the extraordinary creative artist of bygone era, he named himself as Jakanachari. Saraswathy was quite impressed by his reverence for creative artists and sense of pride and honour in heritage of ancient India. She also admired him for his sense of pride and confidence in his skills. No wonder he talked about royalty for his products. She had earlier thought of him as an arrogant fellow. Now she changed her opinion. His total devotion and commitment to his work was something noteworthy. For him work is worship. Just like herself.

Though she did not take up the Advanced course through Adumanai Agency, here in Jakanachary’s MBT, she got good exposure on baking and decorating colourful, creamy cakes. She even learnt how to bring out the photo of the customers or some popular cinema heroes on the specially baked cakes for their birthdays or special events. She got first-hand experience in baking in many novel items. Not only cakes, even puffs, ordinary breads, toasts, cookies -- all varieties of baked foods everything bore his stamp of excellency. By and large she found it very useful. She understood that working with him was a pleasure. Alas! All good things had to come to an end. Her internship was also coming to a close. One day Prema told her mother that an exhibition of cakes along with a competition for best entry was going to be held in Bangalore shortly. It was also an annual feature in Bangalore similar to the Flower show in hill stations like Ooty and Kodaikaanal. Prema told this as a piece of information. But Saraswathy took it very seriously and urged Jakanachary to participate. Jakanachary was not keen on it. He was very particular about the name and reputation of his MBT Bakery shop. He somehow believed such competitions were biased and winners were predetermined. No fair play was expected. Suppose he participated in such competitions and did not win, then it would be construed as a black spot, both for him and his MBT. More than anything else, entries for such participations had to be on massive scale which required more hands, that too skilled hands. He shirked.

Sarawathy did not give up. She again prompted him to participate. It was a rare occasion to showcase his ability. Winning the competition should only be seen as additional bonus. She further explained that in travel or trekking, journey was more important than destination. Similarly, in competitions, participation with sincere efforts was more important than winning. Further she added, for extra hands he would need for making massive scale cakes, she suggested that both herself and her daughter and if need be, some more students from her batch could be relied upon. He was getting tempted. He said jokingly if Prema would join hands with him, then he would consider participating. Saraswathy got the clue. So, the cat was finally out of the bag. Both were silently nursing their hopes of bright future. When Prema talked about exhibition, it was with an inner motive and Jakanachary now confessed that he would like to join his hands with hers with an inner motive. Both were talking as if it was not exclusively for participating in the competition alone. Saraswathy welcomed their move and was in tune with them. She started it. So, she had to take it further. She told both of them, “Let us concentrate on …. 1.what should be our entry, 2.how we should try on that and 3.how best we should accomplish it. I suggest that you choose one of Jakanachary’s famous and unique monumental scupture and bring it out in the form of a cake by baking it and add special effects on it. You will be achieving twin benefits by this participation. One, you will be offering your tributes to your mentor cum Guru and next, your cake entry being exceptionally unique will draw attention from all viewers and if you are lucky, it may even win a prize.  What do you say? How about Chennakesava temple as your model for cake?” She allowed some time to pass so that her idea would seep into him. Then she continued. “Once you decide the design and size of the cake, you please advise us on how to bring it alive on our table. Step by step instructions, please for baking.” Prema was also seriously listening to the proceedings and was keen on making it ‘dream come true’. She was the one gave a leading clue on exhibitions. Her mother Saraswathy took it little further in prompting Jakanachary to enter the contest. He was the type who would venture into anything if and only he was sure of winning it. Probably that was the reason he did not propose even if was interested in her. Unless he was motivated and his confidence level was highly boosted, their efforts for participation in the contest would not any bear fruits. She bought a colourful chart paper and on that she used stencils and wrote in admirable calligraphy the following lines which she had extracted from School Days Quotes. ‘There is no dearth of opportunities. If you keep your pursuits on, you are sure to achieve what you want. Hopes are the biggest driving force in life. Certain things do not change.’ It worked.  He discussed with the ladies Prema and Saraswathy. He told them it was just next to impossible to create the whole structure of temple. Better it would be to choose a small portion of it only for the purpose of making a cake. Then he decided upon one sketch which showed -- two elephants on both sides of broad steps leading to entrance wall with intricate works on the ‘mandapam’. The legendary sculptor could do it on rocks. This modern bakery legend would be sculpting it on the cake he would be baking. Before starting their venture, all three of them offered sincere prayers to their God Chennakesava and also sought blessings from the sculptor Guru Jakanachary. The ball was then set to roll on. Once the model of their sketch on paper was ready, rest of the planning and execution work were not tedious. They enlarged their paper model and took copies, kept them handy at places. They applied their minds day and night, sat on discussion for hours, set their hearts and hands on its layout. Then they collected ingredients, prepared the base stuff for each item as it appeared on the model work, assembled parts by parts, time and again checking them with their model paper. As many idols and images were on the sketch, so many idols and images had to be on the cake also. Slowly the work was progressing. No doubt it was an enormous work. But it was quite gratifying. It was then that Saraswathy again emphasized on her philosophy that journey was more important than destination. He too agreed.  Whether he would be winning in the contest or not – it was secondary now. His job satisfaction, that alone counted now. He decided to craft hereafter such cakes based on the super sculptor’s works as much as possible. He told the ladies that he was indebted to them for this achievement and job satisfaction. The daughter looked at her mother and mother looked at her daughter as if they were reading each other’s minds. Then Saraswathy gave words to her thoughts. There was one way available to him to clear his indebtedness. That was a visit to Chennakesava temple, after winning the contest to which he readily agreed. His eyes set on Prema he said, “Winning or not winning, it does not matter. We will surely go there …. With some garlands.” Saraswathy did not ask why and what for about the garlands.


Nothing survives the air, Nothing except the tin metallic bones threaded through our hearts to help us breathe in tune with the sky We’ve become machines, the blood parts of us belonging only to the air Sometimes, I wonder if the air is already inside, clogging our minds with hopeless dreams of a shambled future.  I don’t know how she laughs with the oxygen mask, tubes and wires and a cart attached to her tiny frame Each time she smiles, the fog shields her from her breath, but Ru always smiles and laughs, an emotion the rest of the world has forgotten to express  I have an idea of what we should do today The remnants of the sodden and tear-stained Earth make a mural on our window, I watch, trying to capture a picture of this moment with my weathered palms, but it doesn’t all fit, and I remember that today the strings will be a little loosened so we can breathe without wires.

We still look awful.

What do you want to do?

I want to go outside and walk until I can roll up the world into a blanket. Why a blanket, Ru?

So I can wrap it up and give it a hug. I think the world needs a hug. A hug, and maybe three wishes from a magic lamp, Forever and ever-revolving like each new ring added to the trees, life still clings to the remaining weeds of our planet.

My sister sweeps her hair up into a bun to keep it out of the way, of her oxygen machine pumping life, to shield it from the air Soon, in 2 years when she’d be twenty, she’d work at the manufacturing factory like most everyone else, except for the teachers, authors, doctors, and astronauts Before, Ru wanted to be an engineer to construct tall buildings to conquer the skies Now there are no buildings left, and it is the smoke that conquers One day, I hope she’ll do more than clean oxygen carts and make new lungs for others Someday, maybe my sister will become an engineer, while I stare at my ink-stained pages dripping with truth and fantasies.

 People only went outside to bury a relative or visit the past  and Ru wanted to go on a walk amid the shrapnel.

She was like that, my sister, the one who was the river and I was the rock Ru wanted to go places, to better places for the future of humankind, and I wanted to grit my teeth and stare at blank manuscripts on my computer trying to hold her back from the dust among the stars.

Are we going to check out?

No, we’re going to check ourselves out, dummy. I’m sure Aileene won’t mind that we’re going out for a walk. How’re your stories going, May?

I thought Aileene would most definitely mind, but I swallowed my thoughts, helping Ru out into the sundried martian landscape our city had become, trying to avoid answering her questions. The city was discarded by the air, millions of factories and people dead Dead in an instant, the fog vaporizing trees and buildings, greens and color.

Because the air and the acrid sky was mad, so it threw a tantrum for the poor Earth, Humans, the ones we have become soon will be the only things left, stubborn and blunt, unmovable Sadly living among the deadened world.

 It took so much effort to move, even though the smog hid the dying sun from view Ru not even noticing or realizing that if one of our machines failed, we’d be vaporized too, though the air wasn’t that toxic now. I never knew how much I hated my ancestors until my eyes adjusted to the wasted away scarred, marred land with only a cemetery dome up ahead My thin papery skin longed for more vitamins, screaming for sunlight watching Ru slip back into a depressed state, And my heart ached for my sister who I couldn’t help to brave the air.

 My stories? There aren’t any more of those, Ru. The world isn’t the same.

I think we’ve finally written everything there is to hear.

We walk aimlessly with no direction, not that there is anything to lead us It’s unlike Ru to be this patient, to be this unresponsive, but then I notice her gaze upon the tethered stitched-together sky She is looking for a boat to sail upon the air’s current like those

billboards the space station makes out of nylon taped for everyone to read that they’re looking for volunteers to journey up in space, For a new home. A new Earth that isn’t dying at human hands Ru is the river and I am the rock, and I will never leave. Suddenly she cries out and I stumble, looking back over the cracked landscape we’d traversed over, our breath coming heavily, our oxygen pumping faster from the tanks.

Look, look, I’ve found one May! I knew there would be a chance, a chance the stories haven’t run out!

All I see is pastel-chalk terrain until Ru moves my head to where a small dandelion nestles between the cracks It should’ve been vaporized like all of nature as I learned in school but this still lives, and so do the stories.

She’d been looking for it, this wilting sign of life mirroring, her visions of a future on a planet besides Earth like those billboards about habitable planets right above the oxygen plant factory. NASA was allowing volunteers to join the cause, hop aboard spaceships with no destination for a better future, but I couldn’t imagine deserting the planet we’d destroyed to go and destroy some other one.

 Ru picks up the dandelion gently and closes her eyes, maybe remember the time when the living grasses covered the Earth, lined with towering trees speckled with

rows and rows of these dandelions, Weed-wishers. Weeds that granted long-lost wishes. I smile as Ru blows on the small puffs laughing through the mask as the puffs fly up to join the air we cannot breathe in.    »──────ஓ๑♥๑ஓ ────── «  She left in pitch-black darkness when I was asleep over the wet ink and tousled ideas where she left me a note consisting of three letters There are stories

And then I knew where she had gone, to brave the billboards and ships to fulfill her dandelion wishes.  I saw her on the news, heading up the gangplank with over half the population half the population going up the gangplanks to different spaceships

launched into space along with my sister, My sister, the one who wanted to hug the world and become an engineer.

Their ships scraped the skies and I begged for her to come back, cried over her bed and added streaks of water to the bedspread wishing on each cut-up tissue paper dandelion that wouldn’t join the air that she’d come back to walk with me one last time.

One day, it rained hot ash and shrapnel, her ash. Only Ru’s ash from the spacecraft that exploded but everyone else was fine the ones who went in the other ships. So that day, she really had come back, and it was raining her ash.

and I went out in the scalding heat, burning welts into my yellowing skin to scream and cry and lift my palms to the air to collect her dust.

And one day, that dust would follow me through the martian-like terrain I wouldn’t leave and I’d find another dandelion tucked behind a rock knowing that maybe if I spilled her essence into the Earth trying to grow a piece of color, My dandelion wish,

Ru’s and mine alike, would come to life again.


The first explosion shook the underground train right off its track. I had just gathered my belongings and was waiting for others to get off at the end of the line stop before stepping out onto the platform myself. Through the shock and surprise, I stupidly thought that whatever had happened, at least it was at a moment when the doors of the train were open so nobody would be trapped inside. Those few passengers who waited to be last at least had shelter when the second blast went off. That one filled the stairwell with rubble, probably the remains of what had been the station above... the fate of the other passengers who had sprinted up the stairs unknown. Only six of us emerged from the broken train cars to try to gather our wits on the now filthy platform. Six total strangers, apparently trapped within the tiled walls that had probably served as shelter for many families during the London Blitz. No one spoke for several minutes. The silence was eventually broken by a mother in drab clothing, clutching a little boy to herself. "Is it terrorists? What happened? Stay close, Tommy." Tommy looked to be around nine years old. He kept trying to pull away from his mother and looked around with wide, blue eyes, naturally astonished at the turn his ordinary day out with his mother had taken. "Don't know, love, could be world war three." The South London accented remark came from a young man, perhaps twenty, with a punk look, dressed all in black and chains. His hair was shaved close to his head and something of the gaunt contours of his face suggested heroin addiction. Just what we didn't need among us. "Is there another way out?" I ventured aloud. Underground stations usually had multiple corridors and stairways, if only to separate arriving and departing passengers. I wondered if the designers had considered emergency exits in their plans. I couldn't see any passageways that didn't involve heavy steel locked doors and the stairs were heavily blocked. That left the tunnels. "We should be patient," suggested an Asian woman with a scarf wrapped over her head. She clutched a shopping bag to herself as closely as Tommy's mother held her son. The sixth survivor, I was already referring to us as survivors in my mind, was a man with a working class look to him. Eventually my mind cleared enough to note the uniform. He was the train driver. We heard a high-pitched whine come from one of the cars and despite the odd angle of the train that made the familiar phrase, "Mind the gap" take on new meaning, the driver leapt across the two-food chasm to the rescue. He was a middle-aged black man who looked as if he was in good physical shape, despite a beginning paunch. The emaciated twenty-something girl he helped climb out of the wreckage didn't look nearly as spry. It's sometimes too easy to judge someone by appearances. Skinny jeans, a barely-there vest top, fire engine red hair tied up in two shoulder-length pony tails and heavy eyeliner that gave her a waif-like countenance in the shocked expression we probably all shared to some degree didn't elicit much confidence. I was pretty sure she would turn out to be a weak link in a survival situation, yet it was the punk guy in black who trotted over to help the train driver assist the girl across to the platform. Appearances can be deceiving. Once we were all gathered together, the initial trauma began to settle into a dreadful acceptance of our situation and we exchanged names. Tommy's mother was called Sarah. There's always a Sarah. The emaciated girl was Nicola. What else? Punk boy was Dave and the train driver was named Richard. I had to ask the Asian woman her name twice and then have her spell it. Adilah might be a popular name in some parts of London, but I'd never heard it before. I told them my name, Rachel. Yeah, there's always a Rachel too. We compared our individual familiarity with the station and discussed alternative ways out. Richard was the most knowledgeable and he actually jumped down next to the track, warning us not to follow in case the electricity was still live. He followed the tunnel a short distance and came up against another pile of rubble. The tunnel had collapsed. After he reported that result, he tried the other direction while the rest of us avoided mentioning what might have happened if the explosions had gone off just a minute later. We heard him shouting for help and for a moment I wondered if he had run into trouble, but again he returned too soon with an inauspicious report. This time he had got as far as one of the doors for the maintenance crew, but he didn't have a key and no one answered his calls. Adilah suggested we should try to be patient and wait for rescue. I wondered what was happening above ground and whether there was any rescue to come. I could tell from the expressions of my fellow survivors that I wasn't the only one to have that thought. Small talk only emphasised how little most of us had in common. After trying for a little while, Tommy announced that he was hungry. His mother didn't have any food. Richard saved the day again, volunteering a little food he had on the train. He suggested we should pool whatever we had and try to make it last, as we didn't know how long we might be trapped. What Richard retrieved from the train was obviously meant to be his lunch. He offered a sandwich, neatly cut into quarters, and apologised that it was chicken curry. He also had a banana and a thermos of tea. Tommy turned up his nose at the chicken curry sandwich. His mother wouldn't accept it either, citing a dislike for spicy food. That was when we learned that Nicola was vegan. She wasn't about to touch the sandwich or the tea, and the banana had already gone to Tommy. The rest of us each ate a quarter of the sandwich and passed around the tea, refused only by Nicola because of the milk, while Adilah unpacked her shopping bag. She had some tinned goods, beans and carrots, but no tin opener. "I can sort that," Dave volunteered. To my horror, he drew a knife that would have made Crocodile Dundee proud out of his leather boot and plunged it into the top of the can of beans, twisting it to move the thin metal out of the way as if he had done this many times before. I wouldn't be surprised if he had. He then did the same to the carrots. So much for reserving food. He placed that tin in front of Nicola, leaving the rest of us to scoop cold beans out of a jagged tin with our fingers, as we had no other implements. I watched him stroll down the platform to the overpriced vending machine full of chocolate and crisps. He turned the knife so that a round-ended pummel could be used like a hammer. I immediately saw his intent. "They alarm those vending machines" I called out to him. He turned and gave me a crooked smile. "Let them come and arrest me," he answered. He had a point. The crash of glass made me flinch, even though I had braced for it. To give him credit, Dave handed the first chocolate bar to the child. He kept one with almonds for himself, then shared out the rest of the snacks to whomever would take them. Only our vegan companion hesitated to partake, then she sort of gave a half shrug and reached for a bag of crisps and a chocolate bar that was mostly coconut. "No point holding to trivialities, my dear," Dave said to the girl. "Won't be vegan food on offer down here again, and you're too skinny to make a good meal." It took me a moment to take in his meaning. If rescue didn't come very soon, the next meal we shared together would be one of us.


Knitting. She was always bloody knitting. Always with a pair of needles in her hand, always with a ball of yarn hiding somewhere on her person, a line of the stuff feeding out from some hidden pocket. It wasn’t time spent with Amelia if there wasn’t the familiar clack clack clack of her needles sliding together seamlessly. It was crazy; you’d see her with a line of loops on her needle (a “cast on”, she’d rather aggressively spat at me one day), and within two hours, she’d have a full scarf ready to go. Honestly, it’s like magic. But, Amelia is Amelia, and without her knitting, she wouldn’t be Amelia. And I won’t complain too much; she asks me every year what colour I’m feeling, and I give her one, and she comes back at Christmas and birthdays with a beautiful piece of knitwear that’s entirely unique to me. “What are you writing, Jen?” Amelia asked, leaning over my shoulder. I was sitting at my desk and she’d let herself in. I paused and waited for her to read it. “Oh! You’re writing about me!” “Yep,” I smiled. I turned, stretching my back out. “All about you and that bloody knitting.” “I honestly think you should try it! Look, you’re writing for a lifestyle magazing. This is a lifestyle!” She brandished her needles at me. A small circular pair that was literally the length of her finger, which instantly began clack-clack-clacking together with a beautiful pale green yarn. “What are you making?” I asked. Honestly, it’s how all of our conversations started. “Tiffany’s having a baby!” Amelia grinned. “So I’m making her a blanket for him, and then I’ll do a beanie hat and a stuffy.” Tiffany was her friend from work. “Right… and she’s due…?” “Oh – er… next month, I think. I didn’t want to risk getting the season wrong. Like it’s for now, and it’s hot, so I wanted something that reflected summer – it’s a light cotton-bamboo mix, it’ll keep him warm but cool.” I nodded sagely. She knew what she was talking about. Buggered if I did. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” “Not a single bit.” I smiled at her and turned to save my work. “Want a drink? If you can stop your hands for a second, that is.” “Har har,” Amelia mocked. “Have we got any iced tea? I’ve been obsessed with that stuff since I came back from Florida.” “Err… Ams, it’s England. We have tea. Who the fuck ices tea?!” I stared at her. She chuckled. “Worth a try,” she smiled. “Alright, just some apple juice please.” “And how do you know we even have that?” “Because I put a box of it in the fridge yesterday when I came home.” “Touché.” As I walked into the kitchen, I felt it. The familiar tightness in my chest, the way my legs turned to lead for no reason. My breathing felt like an absolute battle. I felt my head start to spin, thoughts racing through my mind at lightning speed, too fast to really pick one out. I let out a huge gasp, trying to regulate myself. What was causing this now?! I’d been fine! I was fine! But I couldn’t convince myself fast enough, and I descended into a panic attack which made me black out. The next thing I remember was Amelia sitting beside me, needles abandoned. It was the only time she ever abandoned them. When I needed her. “Alright?” she asked me gently. It took me a moment to register that I was sitting against her. Her arms were around mine, holding me physically together. Her legs either side of mine. Her chin on my shoulder. “Y-yeah,” I whispered, closing my eyes. My entire body was cold. Her warmth was reassuring. “That was a bad one, Jen,” she murmured. She didn’t say more. She didn’t expect more from me. That was one of the reasons I was writing about her. She completes me in a way that no-one else ever has. A soulmate. I leaned against her for a while longer, until only my hands trembled. “What brought it on?” “I… d-don’t know,” I said quietly. She kissed my temple and helped me up. “Honestly. I don’t know. I was fine all day.” “Well, it’s happened now. Let’s not dwell on it. Although I’m glad I was here, Jen.” She started rifling through cupboards she knew like her own flat, and made us both a pot of tea. She was quiet as she put together some food, too – snack bits, but healthy ones. “I know.” I leaned against the breakfast bar and palmed my face. “I know… maybe… maybe, Ams… I mean…” I thought about how to phrase it. “Maybe you should just move in?” Her hands stilled against the teapot, but for all the world she could have just been waiting for the kettle to finish boiling for the three seconds she was still for. Then, she laughed. “Jen, I’d need the spare room for my wool.” She poured the hot water into the teapot. “I’m not saying no right now, but I’d rather not discuss that while you’re in a state.” “Gotcha.” “Come here. Pick up this plate and take it into the living room.” She followed me through, which was unnerving until I realised she was actually going to get her knitting. Of course she was. A few minutes later, we were settled. Amelia watched me, her hands moving her needles silently as the baby blanket grew and grew outwards. I watched, mesmerised, each stitch so natural – and she didn’t look! “Why do you knit, Ams?” I asked. I hadn’t even realised I’d verbalised the question until she responded. “It helps,” she said simply. “What?” “It helps.” She paused to pull a bit more wool to the side. “I can concentrate better when my hands are moving. I’m calmer. And at the end I get a sense of achievement because I get to create something beautiful.” She smiled at me. “Which is why I keep banging on at you to start knitting. It’ll help you.” “I can’t knit, though. I’m not good at it.” “And you think I was?” Amelia let out a melodic laugh. My heart melted and the world was good again. “I wasn’t born good. I only started properly when I was twenty-one. I was suicidal, Jen. I was pushed to the brink of wanting to die, and I found my knitting group, and the rest is history. I put my efforts into knitting instead of self-harming. I cut yarn ends instead of my skin.” She shrugged. She’d never told me that story before. “Start. Learn. Grow.” “I’m not starting knitting.” “Then I’m not moving in.” She gave me a cheeky grin. I knew her well enough to know that was a joke. We’d been dating for three years at that point. We hadn’t moved in sooner because Amelia had another two years to go on her apartment contract, but that ended in three months. I, on the other hand, had a house with two spare rooms. I’d been lucky to inherit it from my father’s sister, when she’d passed away, and it was in fairly good nick. “But what is it you really like about knitting?” I asked after we’d drank our tea. I knew I needed the info anyway for my article, but I was also genuinely curious, and I’d never really taken interest. I’d never had the chance. We’d usually been distracted by someone else having an opinion on it whenever I’d asked her. “Well…” her needles stilled. “Each thing I make… it becomes part of my history. I can remember every single thing I’ve knitted and it takes me back to a certain point in time. Like when I made everyone hats that year, because I’d taught myself fair-isle. That was the year I’d injured my foot and was required to sit – remember after the half marathon?” I smiled and nodded. We’d run it together. “I watched the entirety of the US Office in three weeks. And those hats remind me of that.” She smiled. “And the Cardigan of Doom reminds me of the lovely Swedish lady I’d met who finished half of it in an hour. She was magic… and the first jumper I made, that was special. I wasn’t in a good place, but that jumper made me so happy…” She smoothed out the blanket she’d already made good progress on. “There’s the scarves I made for the people I no longer speak to… stuffed animals I made from patterns and groups I’ve found… it’s part of me. It’s a lifestyle. It saved my life.” I smiled at her. “Every stitch is part of me. It’s a reminder that with care, and patience, and determination, you can create something beautiful.” She looked at me. “And you can put all of that in your article, too.” “That’s not why I asked you, Ams. It means a lot to me that you put it down when I need you.” I played with my fingers. “I know you didn’t ask for that. I’m serious about you trying it, by the way.” “I didn’t doubt you for a second.” A couple of days later, Amelia arrived at the house again. Her needles didn’t immediately come out, though. I was in the bathroom, washing my hands, and I heard her start to put whatever she’d cooked last night in the oven to heat up for dinner. She was the chef between us; I preferred cleaning up. “Jen?!” she called. “Yeah?!” “Come down!” “Give me a sec!” I dried my hands and fixed my shirt, and then ran down. A quick kiss, and I was told to close my eyes. “Have a present.” She pushed something into my outstretched hands. I opened my eyes. It was obvious what it was. A thick pair of knitting needles and a ball of wool in blue, my favourite colour. “Ta-da!” “Gee, thanks,” I murmured, faking a smile as obviously as I could. Amelia laughed and hit my shoulder lightly. “I love it…” I kissed her cheek and smiled as ungratefully as I could manage. “So thoughtful…” “Well, you’re going to start knitting if I have to hold your hands and force your anxiety-ridden arse to do it.” “Ugh! I don’t want to!” I pulled her close for a hug. “Then I’m not moving in.” “You pulled that card already.” “And there’s more than one joker in a pack.” She looked at me and grinned. “Try it. Please. Before you conclude your article.” “Fine. I will TRY it.” “Good girl.” Well folks, there you have it – one-hundred-and-one reasons to knit or crochet, purely from watching my lovely girlfriend knit every day. She actually bought me a pair of needles and a ball of wool… it’s a nice colour. Blue. Specifically a TARDIS blue, you know like from Doctor Who ? She’s hounded me since the day we met to start knitting, and I keep telling her no. Anyway, I have a really lovely blue scarf now, and it only took me a week to make…


Have you ever spoken to the rain?

She did. She’d lift her head up, gaze at the clouds, and listen closely.

“Listen.” She’d say. “Listen to the rain.”

I'd look up at the greying clouds but hear nothing. Because the rain never spoke to me. It only spoke to her. I wish I knew what it said. What secrets they shared. I always imagined it spoke in whispers. Something so beautiful. I remember the day we sat by the lake. The trees waltzed with the wind around us. Autumn leaves broke away and swayed in twirls towards the infinite. The smell of the earth was so pungent. So pure. I stole a glance at her, sitting beside me. Eyes reaching for the sky. Her soft, silky hair flew behind her. Drips of water fell on her nose, and it made her smile. As though the rain had just shared an inside joke.

“What did it say?” I said at the time, still not getting anything.

“It said its happy we’re both here. Everybody else is leaving.”

I looked around, and realized it was true. The minute the clouds gathered, and the rain picked up; people started to leave. Families packed their lunches and headed for their cars, dragging their kids behind. An older couple snapped their umbrella open and wobbled to the parking lot, wrapped in a hug. The park stood almost empty, save for us and the bikes that drove us here.

“People don’t like getting wet.” I said.

She giggled, allowing the beads of water to dribble from her chin. “I know. It’s weird, isn’t it?”

The thunder didn’t spook her. I watched it flash in the distance, roaring its dominance. But she never flinched. Not even a little. She said that the thunder, the clouds, and the rain are one. They complemented one another. Just like she and I. Just like everything around us. The earth, the sky, the wind, the animals, the trees. Humans. We all speak to one another. Connected by a celestial bridge. “But what happens when things die?” I had asked. “Wouldn’t that break the connection? The bridge, I mean.”

She shrugged. “There is no death. You only move on to the next life. And then the next, and the next. It never ends. Life goes on.”

I didn’t understand it at the time, and honestly, I didn’t bother to inquire any further. I was satisfied with what she said. Whether it was true or not, I didn’t care. I liked the sound of it. Life goes on. It sure seemed like it did.

I remember she liked to sing. She’d make up some new songs and sing them to me on our way to school. She said the clouds helped her come up with the right words. She even proved it once. We were walking to school on a spring day when she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and gazed up. I watched her fix her eyes on the sky’s languid movement. Silent. Everything around us was so silent. I feared that time had stopped. That we’d be stuck here forever, and I’d never hear her sing again. Then her lips moved, and she smiled. “Look,” She pointed a finger. “They look like sailing ships. The blue sky is the ocean.” I looked up, shielding my eyes from the glaring sun. “Ships? I don’t know, maybe.”

“They’re telling a story. About the fishermen at Black Bear Lake.” Her light hair swooshed over her shoulders. She stayed still, like one of those porcelain figures my mom liked to buy from a local antique shop.

“What kind of story?” I asked.

She paused, then said. “The normal kind. Fishermen came to the lake yesterday morning, opened their nets, and threw them into the waters. When the sun left, so did they.”

I didn’t know how to feel about that. It sounded a little. “Boring.” I said. “Why would the clouds tell you that?” She wasn’t offended by it. She actually giggled. “It doesn’t have to be interesting to be beautiful. The fishermen were happy to be there. They loved the big puffy cloud because it gave them cool shade when it became too hot. We’re all connected, remember?”

She later sang the song about the fishermen. The one that the clouds inspired her to sing. I can’t remember much of the words today, but I remember it went something like this:

Far out on the ocean, the fishermen pull. Far out on the ocean, the tide will roll . There were tides, seagulls, and ropes. I pictured the strings of sunlight hitting the ocean. The smell of salt and sweat. It stayed with me for days.

Until one day, months from then, I heard that song again. I remember that day so vividly. Like it was yesterday. I heard that song on the radio. It was sung by a school choir. It wasn’t exactly the same, but it was pretty close.

Far out on the ocean, the fishermen pull. Far out on the ocean, the tide will roll . I couldn’t believe it. How did they know the words? I rode my bike and raced to her house. I wanted to tell her about the radio song right away.

She beamed, joyful. “I told you! It’s the bridge. We’re all connected. They probably saw the ships in the clouds, or at least, one of them did.” Whether I believed her or not, I didn't know. But these are stories that I will hold so dear. Even though still today, I haven’t been able to hear the whispers of the rain. Every now and then, I'd lift my head up to the clouds and watch the rain go down. The sound it makes as it hits the window. Drizzling on the tall metal pipe that almost touches the sidewalk. The splashing of water behind speeding tires. The blurred orange hue of streetlights, just before the sun tucks behind the horizon. Closing a lid on a darkened sky. I try to listen. Hopeful it’ll speak to me like it did to her. But it never did. It only spoke to her.


He never let me go anywhere without him. For my protection, he said. I needed him, because there are bad people out there, bad people that only want to hurt you. They would take you and the baby, and do unspeakable things. So, I stayed home. I was happy to, as I loved spending time with our son. He got along quite well with our dog, a husky, and he loved the baby. Home was where I was comfortable, safe, happy. And yet, somewhere deep down, I had an ache, a yearning to go to the outside world. I wanted the freedom of walking around in a store alone, buying whatever I wanted, greeting people as they cooed over the baby and told me how beautiful, how well-behaved, how happy he is. Inviting them over for dinner, having parties that lasted deep into the night, everything a young mother like myself would enjoy. Despite that, I only ever broke the rules once. I wasn’t allowed to have friends over, but one day I decided to invite my friend Angela over. We had a blast, and I made sure she was gone before he got back, but somehow he knew. Then, restrictions got even tighter. He went through my phone regularly, checked for hidden folders and secret apps, made sure I couldn’t hide anything. He loved me, I knew he did. When he came home he was always so happy to see me, greeting me with huge smiles, showing me all of his teeth. Oh, and he was such a great lover. He always let me take the lead, happy to be taken by someone who could initiate. He had always told me how much he hated a woman that wouldn’t ever try, and just wait for him to initiate. I did whatever he told me to do. But that urge, it kept growing. I needed to somehow get out by myself. It would be hard, living so far out in the country with no neighbors, no extra car to take, and no one to watch little Joey. I started making plans, I had to get out. Even if he loves me, I have to find a way to leave. I wanted desperately to be free. It started with little things; I managed to get a few messages out that he never did catch, I got Joey ready to stay by himself by leaving him in his crib for periods of time. He finally learned to stop crying and would just wait until I came back. The plan was slowly coming together, and my excitement grew as each day passed. Finally, the pieces were all together. The ache was deep today, and I couldn’t hold it all in. He was suspicious. Nevertheless, he ate his breakfast and gave me a kiss before he headed for work, unknowing of what was going to happen. He collapsed before he even made it to the car. Triumphant, I dragged him inside, stopping several times for a breather. Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea. He was much taller than me, sitting at 6’4 and me being only 5’6. I finally got him inside, and I undressed him and put him in the bed. That way it looked like he had just slept in. I had never driven before, but I had watched him. I got in the car and started it, reveling in the power I felt. I gently put my foot on the gas pedal and the car surged forward. This was it, I was going! I could run my errands without the tether of my husband. I was so giddy I felt like I had taken drugs. I could barely breathe, my chest felt so tight from finally being free. Into town I rode, and I found myself at the hardware store. This would be perfect for my plan. Afterwards, I went to the pharmacy. I really needed to sleep better at night… Errands run, groceries gotten and the itch scratched, I turned the car back towards our desolate abode. He was awake, I realized with a start. Had I not given him enough? He was outside, stumbling as if he was drunk. I got out of the car, watching him cautiously. “Whaaad… did you… me?” He slurred, eyeing me blearily. “What did… you… do?” He didn’t seem like he was in his right mind. Of course he didn’t, he was very ill. I tried to lead him back inside, but he fought back. His nose was bleeding, did I hit him? Maybe. “Don’t touch him!” He screamed at me, seemingly snapping out of the grog he was in. He was still staggering, but learning to deal with it. “Don’t touch him!” He repeated, trying desperately to stop me. “He’s my child, and I may do as I please with him!” I snarled, giving him a light push that threw his balance off. On the ground, he struggling to get back up. Good, he was still out of it. I breezed past him, scooping Joey up out of his crib and making my way back to the car. “You can’t stop me. I’m going to be free!” I yelled. “No…” he wailed desperately, “You can’t be by yourself! You can’t hold it in! It was hard enough covering up for you last time!” He had regained his footing, but he was too slow. His breaths were coming fast now, like he had run a marathon. “Hailey! Please. You need me.” His nose was pouring blood, and he was shaking. He was so terribly ill, what a shame. “I can’t save you.” I replied, then spun the car around, spraying him with gravel. My plan hadn’t gone as I’d hoped, but that saved some supplies for later. I watched him in the rear view mirror as he finally collapsed, seizing. I smiled. I do love him, but I cannot be kept in any longer. I needed to eat. And soon, Joey would too. He was almost ready for solids, after all.


His name was Arthur Syracuse but, most people called him John. Nobody could say why exactly and he wouldn't look at you if you asked. The same shroud of uncertainty surrounded his presence at the Kansas City courthouse on that April afternoon. He was there, in the perfect spot when the gun shot rang out, standing directly in front of a congressman. He took the bullet square in the shoulder saving the congressman's life. A few months later, a stout and bureaucratic looking man stood on a porch. He was seeking shade from the oppressive heat and asking if anyone had seen Mr. Syracuse. Naturally, nobody dared recognize him by that name so, none could be of service until a voice came from the neighboring shade. "What can I do you for?" John said in a threateningly calm voice. "Yes, sir. I've been sent at the request of..." the fellow started before being interrupted. "Cut to the chase, fat boy. I got a busy day ahead of me and unless you're ready to be knee deep in cow shit, I suggest you move it along". John looked like he meant it but, an uproarious laughter came from inside the house. "He ain't got shit to do today. Don't let him lie to you." a beautiful woman came bouncing to John's side, dressed in a man's oversized shirt. She slapped John on the ass before reaching her arm up to his shoulder. "Come on babe. If you were gonna kill him he'd be dead already. Let him speak." John sighed, "You heard the lady. Speak your piece." The sweating man hurried down the neighbor's porch and onto John's. He began "Here-" "Excuse me." John interrupted, "Did you introduce yourself to the lady?" She dug her knuckles into John's side. "Stop fucking with the man. I can introduce myself but, I don't think we need to know each other's names. Do we, Sir?" "No, Maam. Now, I'm here on official business from -" he started again but John turned back inside. "Sir, ten thousand dollars!". John turned back to face the man who was wearing a slightly too small suit. "For what?" The man motioned inside and John nodded. They sat down at the table as Mrs. Syracuse, presumably, filled a glass of water for the rapidly evaporating gentleman. "So. The congressman is eternally grateful for your saving of his life. He wants to reward you with a job. As you know, he doesn't believe in hand outs. He believes you've given him an opportunity to do great things but, he still has to do them. So in turn, he will give you the opportunity to do great things as well." "I hear a lot of persuasion and not much substance. What is the job?" John impatiently asked. "Right. The man in this sketch. He's wanted for a litany of felonies. Some despicable acts. Truly heinous-" "Hey!" John said sternly. "Enough with the dressing." "Sorry", the gentleman continued "Force of habit. His name isn't known but, he's been referred to as the reaper in some towns, the ghost in others. The sketch is poor, as you can see. It also came from an unknown source but, it's what we've got. The man is considered armed and dangerous. He usually works alone but, occasionally works with others. Those others typically end up dead. He's smart. He was last seen near Amarillo and believed to be headed south." "10 thousand isn't enough" John said. Mrs. Syracuse sat down at the table and leaned forward just a bit. "Now, Sir. You didn't come all this way to get a No, did you? Do we seem like patient people? I'll give you one chance. How much is he really willing to pay?" The man took a drink of his water as sweat continued to pour down his face. "$100,000 and a paid, ceremonial position as Lawman of the West, provided he wins his bid for president". "President?" John shook his head. "Yes! And can you imagine the headlines when someone from his own district goes and cleans up the district of another?" the man smiled at the brilliance before quickly realizing he was the only one enjoying the thought. "Alright, half upfront, half when either the job is done or, when I or we die trying. Either way, I get my money. I've got mouths to feed." John said. "Of course." the gentleman pulled out an envelope with keys to a safe box. He handed them to John before hurrying out of the house and into the scorching sun. "Well, Suzy. I hope you're ready to ride." John smiled. Suzy looked at John as she fell onto the bed before asking "Worried you wore me out last night?" John looked up at his muse biting her slip. "Sorry, love. We've got to go. I know a guy down there who knows the lay of the land. The sooner we get there, the better." Suzy rolled over and unbuttoned the top of the shirt. "Come on, baby". John got up and walked over to his calling siren. He leaned down and kissed her deeply before pulling back. "We don't have time for loving." Suzy let go, falling back onto the bed, lightly annoyed at the failure of her seduction "Pretty sure we have two minutes. Any more would be a record" she said with a grin. John slapped her exposed ass and started to pack for the trip. Suzy walked up behind him. She leaned in and kissed him on the back of his neck. She whispered in his ear, "Share my pain" and bit her teeth into his earlobe. "Feel better?" John asked. Suzy licked the little drop of blood on her teeth "Yeah. Let's go get this son of a bitch".


Steam rose from the coffee maker on the counter, filling the air with a warm aroma while Caitlin looked out the window into the backyard at three Blue Jays enjoyed the fresh morning air. The small birds who had only just learned to fly chased each other from tree to tree, singing as they caught one another and playing endlessly. For a moment, Caitlin let her mind wander. "How freeing it would be to be a bird. To be so far away, perhaps overseas or even in another time." She thought about these things often, feeling anywhere was better had to be better than where she was. Caitlin might have stared out the window all day, but the sound of the toaster ejecting two breakfast pastries yanked her back into the real world. Caitlin grabbed the pastries by their end and dropped them into her hand. The underside of the tart was hotter than she expected, and Caitlin danced the toaster-tart around in her hand while she hunted for a plate in the dish rack. It couldn't be just any plate. It had to be just the right one. Quickly Caitlin filled through the ten or so plates in the dish rack, until she came across a small plastic one with a picture of an orange and white cat called Humphrey. Dropping the pastry on Humphrey's oversized smile, Caitlin blew on the tart, trying to cool it as she walked off the kitchen and to the edge of the stairs. "Molly, are you up?" As soon as Caitlin had finished her sentence, she heard a multitude of items falling and landing into the porcelain sink, which echoed from the second-floor bathroom. "Molly, You alright? Caitlin called out. A moment passed, and there was nothing. "Molly?" Caitlin called out again as she began to walk up the stairs. Before she could reach halfway up the stairs, Caitlin could hear the sound of spit hitting the sink and then the water running. "I'm fine mom," Molly called out while wiped the toothpaste from her mouth. "I couldn't reach the toothpaste." "Use the step stool, Sweetie." "That thing is wobbly," Molly replied. "It is not." "Mr. Paddington Bear says it is." "Mr. Paddington Bear is a hamster, sweetie," Caitlin said, almost laughing at the absurdity of the conversation. "Hurry up, your breakfast is ready," "Okay," Molly replied. A few moments later, Molly ran down the stairs, her loose shoe strings, and her pigtails bounced in rhythm. Jumping over the last three steps, Molly Jumped over them, landing on the ground with almost no grace and only catching her balance at the last second. Molly took the pastry from her Humphrey plate and took a large bite out of one side. Caitlin looked her daughter up and down as Molly was eating. She was wearing Multi-colored striped knee-high socks, a denim skirt and a t-shirt with a kitten wearing sunglasses on it. Molly had been going through an 80's phase since watching Back to the Future on cable. Caitlin hadn't embraced the look, but she had done little to discourage it either. "Molly ties your shoes," Caitlin said. "No, I'm a Rebel," Molly replied with her mouth full. "You're six, now tie your shoes." Molly lifted her leg in the air, outstretched towards her mom. Caitlin held in a sigh and knelt to tie the strings. The bus would be there soon, and it seemed faster, too, let Molly feel like she won. After one shoe was tied, Molly held up her other leg hopping on one foot as Caitlin tied the other string. With both shoe's tired and her feet were both on the floor, Molly looked at her mom, and with a cheesy grin that showed her two missing front teeth, she whispered to her mom. "Rebel." "I will make you think, rebel, now go get your vest, and I'll help you put it on," Caitlin said, staring at her daughter. Molly and Caitlin both hated the fact that she had to wear a bulletproof vest to school. It was a hot, uncomfortable thing that often left bruises on Molly's skin. She had voiced her opinion loudly on many occasions, and Caitlin agreed with her daughter, but laws were laws. They had been in place since before Molly was born, and Caitlin was still a child herself. No matter how much they disliked it, Molly nor any student could go to school without it. Molly went to the hooks near the front door and pulled down the pink bulletproof vest and headed back to the kitchen, where Caitlin was pouring a cup of coffee. "Can I have some, she asked?" Handing the vest to her mom. Caitlin looked at her cup of fresh coffee and gave it to Molly. "A sip." Molly took the cup with both hands and slurped the coffee the rim of the blue mug. When Molly was Finished, she handed the cup back, and Caitlin placed it on the counter. "Arms out," Caitlin said as she straightened the straps on the vest. Today Molly didn't oppose it. Outstretching her arms, Caitlin placed the pink vest over her head and began to close the buckles one by one. She was careful not to pinch Molly's skin as she did the day before. Molly was outgrowing this vest, and a new one was expensive. She just hoped that it would last a few more weeks. When the last buckle was snapped, Molly tugged at the bottom pull it down to somewhat more comfortable. The sight of the vest on her six-year-old wearing a bulletproof vest sent a cold chill down her spine. Caitlin worried about the day it wouldn't affect her anymore, and she accepted it as how things are. From the kitchen, the bus alarm blew, calling all the children from their homes. Children weren't allowed to be outside before the bus alarm sounded. It was thought to be too much of a risk. "Mom the bus," Molly shouted with excitement. "Okay Okay," Caitlin replied, walking to the door with Molly. Caitlin grabbed Molly's backpack from the hook by the front door and handed it to her daughter. Molly stepped outside and paused at the edge of the porch with her open hands facing the road. Across the street, and next door, all children did the same. Children needed to be visible; any violation of the rules would not be tolerated. The large black bus pulled up onto their street like something out of a Grim Reaper campfire story. It was fitted with slitted metal over the windows and a caged door at the beginning of the aisle. The bus came to a stop in front of Molly's house. The breaks release a loud hiss that sent half the dogs on their street into a frenzy. The bus doors opened, and two guards stepped from the bus taking a position on either side of the door. The two men wore heavy military-grade body armor. The faces were covered by a grey mask whose only features were two square slits for the eyes. Caitlin always thought the two men looked like they belonged in a war film rather than escorting children to school. Positioning themselves either side of the bus door, one of the guards signaled the children to the bus. "Have a good day at school. Caitlin said with a smile watching Molly walk down the sidewalk to the bus. For a second, Caitlin wondered why she had said, have a good day at school. Was it because her mom used to say she and her brother's each morning. It certainly was an outdated phase and should have seemed more out of place than it did. However, somewhere down the line, it had become a blessing whose familiarity brought her a bit of comfort. Caitlin watched as Molly took her place at the end of the line. Dropping her backpack to the ground on her left side, Molly outstretched her arms like all the other children. One of the guards moved from child to child, passing a handheld metal detector over each of them. The other guard searched for each backpack for plastic weapons. Firearms made from non-metals had been a growing issue over the last few years, and as a result, the intensity of searches had increased. The guard with the handheld metal detector approached Molly. He waved it in front of her and then down her back in her in a fluid motion. Satisfied that there weren't any weapons, the guard waved the children up the steps of the bus. One by one, the children quietly boarded the bus and took their assigned seats. Children were seated according to behavior with troublemakers in front nearest to the guards, and potential problem children placed in the middle. Molly sat in the back in a seat by herself. Looking through the slit in the window, she watched the passing cars, staring at the occasional dog with its head out the window. Her favorite part of the ride to school was counting the cows as they passed by the Harrison farm. The day before yesterday, Molly had seen five, and yesterday it was only three, but one was a new solid black calf with a grey spot on its forehead. Molly had names for them all; however, she was still deciding on the calf. As they passed by, she squinted through the slit and quickly counted them. She saw Edgar and Karen, Lisa and Mr. Moo, But no calf this morning." She would count them again in the afternoon. Perhaps the calf would be around then. As soon as the farm was out of sight, Molly put her head against the seat and waited. Two more stops and eight more children, and they were headed towards school. Once over the train tracks, it wasn't long before she could see her school in the distance. The single-story school stood behind a nine-foot chain link fence. Half a dozen Guards walked the length of it at any given time. There was no yard or track outside, and the playground had been removed years ago, leaving only a decaying concrete slab where it used to be. Any physical activity had to take place in the school gym where it was safe. The bus pulled up to the front of the school, and the bus doors opened to a passage made of steel and thick reinforced glass. The two guards stepped off the bus first. When signaled row by row, each child stepped from the bus, revived their backpack and walked single file into the school. Another metal detector waited for them as they passed into the school. Last week Jimmy Vann's pencil sharpener had set off the detector. He was quickly taken away and hadn't been seen since. After they passed through the metal detector, each student would line up where their teacher was waiting. Molly's teacher was Mrs. Ramsey. Molly liked her; many students did. She was always kind and gave extra time during art & crafts. On stormy days let her students pick a movie to watch. At home, Caitlin had started the laundry and began to pack away some of hers and Molly's winter clothes into her bedroom closet. A sweater with a poorly crafted reindeer on it was among the many things she placed in the closet. Even though Molly would outgrow it by next winter, Caitlin couldn't bring herself to throw it away just yet. When everything was packed away, Caitlin closed the lid on the box and pushed it to the back of the closet. Leaving her bedroom, she walked down the hall to the stairs passed the door that Molly and Caitlin never opened. It was to Lauren's room, Molly's older sister. Lauren had closed the door before leaving for school and never made it home to open it again. So it remained closed, left as Lauren had left it for almost two years. Caitlin stopped and for a moment and reached for the knob. Her hand shook, and she pulled back. A tear streamed down her cheek, and Caitlin quickly pulled away and walked down the stairs and into the kitchen. Falling over the sink, she cried. Her tears dripped and fell into the sink. She wished she could brick over that door. It only served as a reminder of what she had lost, and Caitlin desperately wanted to forget. After a moment, Caitlin looked up at the clock hanging on the wall. "It was eight-forty five Molly was in a class by now." She thought. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she quietly walked into the living room and turned on the TV. Still, on the cartoon channel, Molly had left it on the night before the TV came on with a flash of color and dancing fruit. Caitlin changed the channel to 11-1. It was A government-issued network that displayed a map of the United States. Red dots would appear showing cities were shootings were according, and a panel on the side of the screen would show the names of specific schools, malls, and other locations. Already there were three — one in Dayon, Evansville, and Little Rock. More would most certainly come before the day was over. They always did. To finish their math lesson the children pulled their desk in close in a semicircle around Mrs. Ramsey. The children watched as she drew a new problem on the board. "Okay, class, who can tell me what two plus two is?" She said as she turned to them with a smile. More than half the class raised their hands. Mrs. Ramsey looked out at eager faces and jumping hands. "Roger, can you tell me the answer?" Mrs. Ramsey asked. "Four" He replied "That's right. Now, who can tell me what is three plus three?" Molly was quick to raise her hand this time. Stretching it out, trying to be higher than everyone else. "Molly, what is three plus three?" Mrs. Ramsey asked. "Six." She quickly replied. "Very good." "Alright, class, this is the last question, and we will move on to arts and crafts. Who can tell me Four plus Four is?" Mrs. Ramsey looked out almost her entire class with their hands up. At the far end of the semicircle, say Sussie. Sussie was a good student, made good enough grades, and always turned in her homework, but she was shy and rarely raised her hand in class. Lately, the school had taken notice. If she didn't start participating soon, she would be removed from the school and marked as a social threat. "Sussie, why don't you answer this one." The little girl looked up from where she was playing with her pigtails. She was surprised Mrs. Ramsey had called her. For a moment, she stammered, scared to say the wrong answer. "Eight," she unsurely answered. "Very Good." Susie smiled. She liked that she was right, and knowing the answer made her feel smart. "Alright, class, it's time for arts crafts. The excitement in the room grew as the children pushed their desks back against the wall making the room as Mrs. Ramsey brought out the painting Easels. The children loved to paint, and Mrs. Ramsey gave them almost an hour to do so. Molly knew what she wanted to make. She picked up the brush and dipped it in brown, and carefully began to paint the tree in her back yard from memory. She wanted to get every branch right, the height, the thickness had to be perfect. When Molly was satisfied, she took the green and dabbed it, making the leaves and the grass around it, Mrs. Ramsey walked around from time to time looking at each of the paintings. "Outstanding students," she would say. Mrs. Ramsey loved her children and enjoyed watching their creativity, but she secretly hated arts and crafts time. During this time of day, the class was observed through a series of cameras. None of the students were aware of the cameras. Each Easel was in view, and a team of three psychologists studied each painting. They looked at each one carefully for any signs of antisocial behavior. Mrs. Ramsey knew about the cameras. She could feel eyes on her. Mrs. Ramsey felt as if she was betraying the children and worried about little Susie now that introverts had been placed on the watch list. Mrs. Ramsey wanted to speak up, but doing so would be the end of her career and possibly her freedom. By lunchtime, the kids of Mrs. Ramsey's class were hot and starting to tire. The bulletproof vest they were beginning to feel heavy and uncomfortable. Small moans of discord could be heard as the class walked to lunch. Mrs. Ramsey hoped lunch would make things better. The class walked into a small windowless room and gathered around a table where their tray's were already set; a single Meat patty, corn and grapes, and red kool-aid. Each child took their seat. Molly sat next to Karen, and they traded grapes. Karren likes smaller grapes and Molly bigger ones. In quiet, they ate the only sound allowed was the scraping of forks. While they ate, Mrs. Ramsey turned down the thermostat, dropping the temperature in the room and gradually cooling the children down. Caitlin had made a sandwich and chips for her lunch. Leaving the chips on a plate so that she could pick at them throughout the day, Caitlin carried the sandwich with her taking small bites as cleaned. She spent almost an hour in Molly's room, gathering socks and questioning how there could only be of each. Tossing them all into a laundry basket, she carried the basket past the living room on the TV. More red dots appeared. Incidents had happened in Denver, Kerrville, and a shopping mall in San Francisco. Caitlin started to walk away and go about her cleaning when a new dot appeared. The latest shooting was local. In her chest, she could feel her heart tighten and sink at the same time. Caitlin looked at the side panel, looking to see where the shooting had occurred. There was no information yet. Caitlin quickly began to panic. "Come on. Come on!" She shouted at the television. A moment and then another. She wasn't sure what to do. Part of her was reliving that day two years ago when Molly's older sister died. Caitlin wasn't sure how much more she could take. Almost in tears, the location finally appeared on the side panel. It was a school in the next town over. Her heart steadied, and she could finally breathe. She felt a wave of relief and then as she started at the dot on the screen sickness. "How could she felt relief?" She thought. Children were still dying and suffering. Was her only concern, Molly? When did she start to feel the rest of the world be damned? In the afternoon, Mrs. Ramsey sat down to read the class a story. One of the students, Sarah, had picked frog and Toad. One of the students' favorites. She held the book high for all of the class to see and began to read. "Frog ran up the path to Toa…" Before Mrs. Ramsey could get past the first line, A red light in the room started to flash in the back of the room. Mrs. Ramsey, for a moment, froze, and her skin went pale before reacting. "Alright, class. I want everyone to make your way to the back of the room and into the shelter. Single file, but be quick." She said as the metal window shutters came down and the door to the classroom locked with a loud click. Each student did as asked as shuffled into a tiny room. Mrs. Ramsey pressed a button on the wall, and a heavy metal door closed, sealing them inside. "I'm scared." One of the children said. "Me too." Came another voice. "It's going to be okay," Mrs. Ramsey said calmly. Molly was equally as sacred, but she knew Mrs. Ramsey would never let anything happen to them. The room was silent and too small to sit down. Everyone stood waiting and wondering what would happen next when one girl started to cry in the back of the room. Molly watched as Mrs.Ramsay walked over to her and held her. "Everything is going to be alright." She said with her arm around the girl. Then she began to sing. Underneath the soft sound of her singing, Mrs. Ramsey was angry. Above the safe room door, Mrs. Ramsey had spotted a blue light that indicated to her it as a Drill. It was the third in a month — each time upsetting the children to tears. The drill ended close to 3 P.M. right about the time the children would get on the bus. Gathering their backpacks, they took the children took their assigned seats on the black bus with the slit windows. Molly sat in the back, and her head was leaning against the glass peeking from the slit. As the bus passed the Harrison farm, Molly counted the cows as they passed by. This time she only saw Edger and the baby with the grey spot on his forehead. At home, Caitlin had started to cook dinner. The aroma of sizzling meat filled the house. One by one, she cut the sliced potatoes and carrots before tossing them into a pot. The water boiled and bubbles formed on the water's surface. Placing the lid on the put, Caitlin walked back into the living room and looked at the screen. Sixty-three shootings covered the map. It was a horror show of red dots. "but it wasn't as bad as some days." She thought. Turning off the TV, Caitlin could hear the breaks of the bus and the howling of the neighbor's dog. Peeking from the window, Caitlin watched as the guard handed Moly her backpack. Tossing her backpack over her shoulder, Molly ran up the steps and swung open the door. She was happy to be home. With her arms outstretched, Caitlin ran into the living room and hugged her tightly, as she always did. "Did you have a good day?" "It was okay," Molly said, pulling off her shirt to reveal the vest underneath. Caitlin unhooked the Bulletproof vest and placed it on the wall hook. "Go wash your hands; dinner is almost ready." Molly ran off to the bathroom, and for a moment, Caitlin looked at the Bulletproof vest on the wall. They had made it through today and hoped that they would make it through tomorrow.


“Hey handsome, does the Wurlitzer work?”

Buck raised his eyes and continued drying glasses behind the bar. A woman in her early twenties he hadn’t seen before, was standing between the door and the jukebox. He smiled and shook his head. “It works fine.” “How about floating me a few quarters, won’t you? We could use a little pick me up in here, don’t ya think?” She looked around the little bar with a bit of disappointment in her eyes. Buck assumed she randomly stumbled into Kelly’s Pub on her way to a better invitation. She was trying too hard to appear endearing, and Buck surmised she’d been pre-gaming even before venturing into the bar. He hoped a bit of subtle inhospitality would dissuade her from sticking around. “Darlin’, if you can’t afford the music, how ya’ gonna pay for drinks? This is a bar honey, not a birthday party.”

She smiled with her eyes, “Oh, I can pay, I have money. What I don’t have are quarters for the Wurlitzer. So, what do ya’ say, hook a girl up with a few?”

Buck didn’t protest any further, assuming if he indulged her, she’d be gone before the second song ceased to play. “Here.” he said cooly, handing her four quarters without making eye contact. He liked the way she referred to the jukebox as the Wurlitzer; showing it deserved respect.

“And they say there aren't any real gentlemen left in the world.” she mocked, sliding the coins toward her and dropping them off the edge of the bar into her open hand. “I just hope this squirrely, Podunk, back-alley shithole has at least one song worth listening to.” The young woman sauntered over to the jukebox and took her time reading each of the hundred and ten selections. Buck grew impatient; there was something odd about her, something he just couldn’t put his finger on. He thought of calling Mike, the owner but hated to disturb him. After all, how would it look to call for help the first time he was trusted to run the bar alone? Still, he watched with trepidation, ignoring the other three patrons who didn’t seem to care as long as they still had a bit left in the glasses in front of them.

Eventually, a steady beat emanated from the well-worn speakers; low at first building into an all too familiar introduction. Buck admitted to himself, he had underestimated her, assuming she’d choose something obnoxious and ironic. Instead, Skynyrd was about to lay down some cold hard facts about a state they didn’t even originate from. Maybe, there was some irony in her choice after all. She swayed ever so slightly as she stood facing the jukebox. Buck thought he heard her humming softly to the music before turning back to the bar. “Ok, handsome, how about a gin and juice for the lady?”

Buck remained unimpressed. “First, payment up front and a valid I.D.”

The woman shoved her hand in her back left pocket and proudly produced her driver’s license and a credit card, which she dramatically slammed down on the bar. “Surprise!” she goaded.

Reluctantly he poured, using a light hand with the gin. “First and last, got it?” She giggled and downed her drink in one fell swoop. “We shall see.” she teased banging her empty glass on the bar twice, then twirling her index finger in the air. “Don’t you worry, handsome, the card is good. Now, set me up again, won’t you?”

Buck obliged; the song changed, and the young woman intentionally situated herself, back against the bar, hands resting on either side. Skynyrd retreated back to Jacksonville where they came from, and Def Leppard took the stage with their oddly captivating rendition of the end of the world. She made her move. In one perfectly fluid motion, she lifted herself onto the bar. Seated at first, then, as if rehearsed, she was on her feet. Buck protested loudly, “Whoa, get down from there.” but she was already lost in the song, choreographing her every move to its quirky cadence. She was reckless; hip pops and hair tosses, yet careful, strategically timing kicks as not to impede the other customers' reticent shame. She’d done this before. Curious, Buck checked her license, Annie Sheldon, clearly not her stripper moniker. She continued to dance; her rhythmic timing was impeccable, and her movements were clean, intentional and strong. Buck thought, she was much more Burlesque than Exotic. She would make more sense with fishnets and a feather boa, rather than an old zip front hoodie, oversized jeans and sneakers which would occasionally catch on the thick epoxy, resulting in cringeworthy squeaks. He imagined a cute bowler hat she’d use as more of a prop than adornment. Annie Sheldon was pretty, he had to admit. Her thick dark hair hung in curls around her thin face, just barely brushing the top of her shoulders. He noticed, though, this Annie person seemed to miss having long hair; her hands reaching well below her actual length to toy with it as part of her flirtatious flair. She wore no makeup, but Buck found himself wanting to see her with pink painted lips and nails. What the hell was happening? He shook himself back to some semblance of reality, checking on the others, refilling their glasses. The music ceased. He reached up for her hand, offering to help her down from the bar. She giggled and carefully kicked her empty glass closer to him. “While you’re at it, barkeep, I’ll have another.” This girl was quite captivating. She stood, closed her eyes and anticipated the next song. Annie Sheldon ran her fingers through her unkempt curls, unzipped her sweatshirt and slowly removed it, tossing it onto an empty barstool. The intro played; she felt every note deep in her soul as if it were her personal anthem. That talent, that most distinct throaty, passionate voice; “ Oh, Stevie, you get me” , she thought as she raised her arms over her head, planted her feet and rotated her hips in isolated figure eights. She sang along softly, only stopping at the bridge to down her third gin and juice. “It's all right, all right….” Buck called her name, “Annie.” She did not respond. Louder this time, “Annie!” Still, she remained lost in the music. Once more for the people in the cheap seats, “Annie!!”

She smiled and danced. She hadn’t noticed Mike standing in the doorway until she heard him call out, “Amelia.” His familiar, authoritative tone was sobering and immediately directed her back to the reality she was so desperate to escape from. “Shit.” Mike approached. He handed his leather coat to Buck to stash behind the bar. Buck felt a wave of panic rush into his head from somewhere deep in his gut. Annie, on the other hand, managed herself into a seated position at the edge of the bar, feeling as if every drop of blood had drained from her brain into her body. “I’m a little woozy.” she admitted, hoping for even an iota of sympathy or at the very least a morsel of grace. Mike glared at her as if he were about to administer punishment to a naughty child. She half expected him to ground her, but what was coming would be much worse. “I’m calling Kate.”

Annie slid from the bar into the empty stool covered by her hoodie. She hung her head and avoided eye contact with both Buck and Mike. She whispered, “I might be sick.”, thinking no one would hear. Old Della however piped up, “Yeah well, serves you right if you puke.” Annie ignored the woman. She’d seen Della at Kelly’s many times before, sitting on the same stool, soaked in Tequila, pining for better days passed. She wanted to call her out; let her know she saw her staring, watching her move, jealous of Annie’s youth and vitality. But she was about to face the wrath of Kate Kelly and that in itself was enough to contend with; no additional confrontation necessary to completely fuck up her day.

Joe and Owen kept to themselves; a little sad the show had come to an abrupt halt. Still, they remained in their respective stupors, smart enough not to piss off the owner. Joe cleared his throat and Mike shot him a menacing look. He held up his hand, signaling the throat clear was purely involuntary without any agenda. Mike held the phone to his ear, waiting for Kate to pick up. Through clenched teeth, he hissed, “Someone should have called me the minute she got here.”

Owen hung his head even lower while Joe spoke on their collective behalf. “It’s not our place to babysit your sister’s degenerate. The kid was just blowin’ off steam, is all.”

“Mike?” Kate picked up before Mike could get into it with Joe. Another distinctive glare told Joe they weren’t done.

“Yeah, Katie, your girl is here. She must have walked from the house or worse yet, hitched a ride. I came in about ten minutes ago to find her dancing on the fricken bar! Get down here and clean up your mess.”

“Jesus Mike, calm down. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Tell Amelia, I’m bringing a tracker, and she brought that on herself. Did anyone take pictures or video of her little performance?” “I doubt it, but I’ll ask Buck.” “Mike, please for the love of God, make sure no one posted anything on social media. I can’t risk it.”

“I’ll take care of it, Kate. You know, I can’t say I blame the kid. She must be homesick, frustrated and resentful. We should consider ourselves lucky this was the only act of rebellion we have to deal with.”

“We? I thought she was MY mess?” “That she is, but when you confessed everything to me, when you decided for me, my inadvertent involvement, I couldn’t help but become invested. She deserves better, Kate; see to it she gets that chance.” Mike ended the call and relayed Kate’s message. Annie’s eyes filled with tears, but she nodded in compliance. Buck overheard and followed Mike to the stockroom. “Why would she need a tracker? “Hey, is she some sort of criminal? What does she have to do with your sister? Why did you call her Amelia, when her license and credit card have her name as Annie?” Buck was visibly shaken. “Hey, I’m serious, Mike. I can’t get involved in any bad shit. I’ve spent my entire life staying legit, and if you and your depraved sister screw that up for me, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“You’ll go back to work, that’s what you’ll do.” “Wait, did your sister kidnap her? Is she being held against her will? Oh my God, Mike, that’s it, isn’t it?”

“You’re welcome to leave, Buck. Just let me know as soon as possible so I can hire someone else to run the bar while I’m gone. I leave for New York in two weeks.”

—---------------------------------------------------------- Two weeks later, Mike handed the keys to Kelly’s Pub to a woman named Lynne. She was in her late forties, fairly attractive and great with his regulars. Lynne used to manage the diner in town before it was bought out by a chain restaurant specializing in artisan burgers and craft beer. “Thank you for this. If all goes well, and I sure hope it does, I’ll be back in a few days.” He hated to see Buck go, but his apprehensions and suspicion were warranted. Finding Lynne to run the place was a relief. His trip to the city was stressful enough without the added worry of his beloved bar being left in the wrong hands.

—------------------------------------------------------------ “All Rise!”

Mike stood. His heart was beating out of his chest, yet there was a slight feeling of relief creeping over him. The day was finally upon them and with the grace of God, all will go well. He kept Kathryn’s secret; he’d do anything for her. But he was really there for Amelia.

“Is Federal Marshall, Kathryn Kelly in attendance?”

“Yes, your honor.” “And, your witness, Amelia Cardone? Is she willing and able to take the stand?” “She is.”

“Has she been constantly and continually in your protection with the Witness Security Program for the past year?”

“She has.”

“These proceedings will continue without delay. We are here today in closed court to receive the testimony of Amelia Cardone who unintentionally observed in disturbing detail the brutal murders of Francis Macetti and James D’Tomasso, on February fourteenth in the year twenty twenty two. The criminal acts allegedly carried out by the defendants named, in association with perpetual unlawful allegations of the Scorsoni family, transpired behind the Biltmore theater where Ms. Cardone was then employed as an actor and dancer in the show, City Unseen .” Does council agree with the synopsis?” “We do.” “Ms. Cardone, please approach and allow the bailiff to officially swear you in.”