It doesn’t take long for the children to find their way. They follow the ready-made trail, usually hidden by the warm arrays of leaves in their orange and browns. It’s funny how these trees, appreciated whilst they’re green and living, are so magnificent once their leaves fall and die. It’s almost poetic; the little children following the trail of death to find home. And they will find home with me. Under the solace of the branches they will be safe and sound, warm and snug around the campfire. They will come to their Wendy. It’s interesting isn’t it? The lies these adults will tell to keep their children from misbehaving and wandering off. “Go to sleep when we tell you or the Boogey Man will get you!” or “Santa won’t bring you presents if you keep behaving that way!” or “Don’t get lost in the woods or people will find you. They will hunt you. They will rape and kill you.” All these silly lies. There are no horrors out there for children. Children are blissful creatures, to be cherished by all those around them. There is no greater delight than sitting, watching these dainty pixies frolic in the sunlight. Take children out of the equation and there will be no laughter in this merciless world. Silly adults, no one would dare do anything to harm the babes. I can hear them getting closer. How delightful! Those delicious dead leaves crunch under their little booties like the bones of the defeated. I love that crackle you get, it’s like candy for the ears, alike to a passing breathe of someone close by, sounds of the living. I heard a story a long time ago, it’s an old tale, older than your own ears. He told me about this place. It’s so far away and you can only get there by thinking happy thoughts. It’s such a wondrous place. There are mermaids and pirates and Red Indians and such beautiful creatures. There are children there too. Lost children far from home who need looking after. Poor children. If only they had their Wendy. There’s laughter in these woods once more! Joyful joyful noise! I always did love laughter. It tickles the belly and it resounds in your head long after. He always made me laugh. He had such a way with words, he could tell a tale and it was like you were there! I was helping him fight a blood thirsty tiger in the depths of the jungle. I was swimming with him in that long forgotten wreck. I was watching him interact with those Indians, turning them red as he burned down their village. I was watching as my father’s hands gagged my mouth and defiled my young body. He said it was a part of life. Children get hurt because adults need it. Adults need to take a child’s innocence because they, themselves have lost it and are jealous. They need that act of gratification because there is nothing that can compare to it. I won’t let them do it. No one can harm the babes. Oh I hope these children will be more grateful than the last few that came by. They wanted to leave so soon just when I was getting into my story. They said that their parents would be angry if they didn’t leave right then. I told them not to worry; they’ll be safe with me. I gave them more tea and they soon settled down and enjoyed the rest of my story. I’ve recently realised that I tend to talk a lot, it’s my fatal flaw or “hamartia” if you like. He always told me that it was going to get me into a lot of trouble one of these days. He said that if I didn’t let other people get a word in that they’ll want to cut my tongue out and chop it to pieces. I quickly tightened up after that, but only for a little while. I can’t help it, I like to talk and if I don’t talk then who will? And I have so many stories to tell, the children love it when they sit around and listen to the stories of their Wendy. I should get the tea on! I can’t expect them to arrive here and not have tea ready for them. The sleeping bags are all neat and tidy, surrounding the camp fire so that they shall be warm while they sleep. It’s getting cold out and I don’t want them to catch a chill. The children are always so polite, they say their pleases and their thank you’s and they sip at that tea so delicately. They’re so delicate, like little birds; little birds with their breakable necks and hollow bones, that sing so beautifully. There’s nothing quite like a child singing. That’s what my father said when we used to go see the choir sing on a Sunday; all those little children singing so sweetly in their robes. I wasn’t allowed to sing because singing is an act of the innocent and I was a sinner, so guilty that I had to be punished. I sang though, as each blow dented my little body, I sang. I sang till my lungs burst and my throat burnt. I wasn’t good enough, but the children are and no one shall harm the babes. They sit so serenely on their sleeping bags, little legs crossed and hands in their laps, like little angels. They can see the tea brewing on the fire and I’m sure they are delighting themselves in the smell. They look up at me with their big seeing eyes as I pour them their tea and they take their sips so tentatively. I can’t help but beam at them, my little angels. I watch them for a while in silence as they chatter among themselves, their sweet voices filling the forest air. Uneasiness begins to creep over them and I take that as my cue to start talking. “Children, did you ever hear the tale of a boy called Peter?” They nod their little heads, their hair bouncing like leaves in the wind, “Would you like to hear a story about my Peter?” Again, they nod and they take another small sip of their tea. “My Peter was such a joyful little boy. He came to me when I was seven years old, a lonely only child with no friends my age. He found me and he saved me. He came from a land so far away that the only way to get there was to fly and he flew so majestically. The very first time he came to me, he flew all around my room, darting towards the corners only to pull back at the last second. It was so exciting watching this mysterious boy with pale blonde hair and clothes made from leaves dance around the room.” I notice the children snuggle deeper into their sleeping bags, getting more comfortable to enjoy my story. “He finally came to a halt and stood right in front of my bed, hands on hips, brazen as the day. He was so big back then, his shadow came to a halt just under my tucked up chin and I looked up at him, grinning. He pinched the tips of my toes with his little twig like fingers until I giggled and pulled my knees up to my chest, like this.” I go to demonstrate and I watch as a few of the children copy, “He smiled and sat on the edge of my bed and looked at me. “’Why are you smiling like that?’ He said. I couldn’t believe this was real. He was so beautiful, children. Such childlike benevolence radiated from him, I felt like he was ethereal. I didn’t want to touch him for fear of him disappearing and I daren’t speak for fear of waking my father up. ‘Why won’t you speak?’ He said, “Cat got your tongue?’ This made me giggle even more, I had to bring my hands up to cover my face. ‘Are you a mute? Did you get your tongue cut out?’ I shook my head rapidly. ‘Well then, I guess I’ll just have to make you talk.’ At this, he lunged at me, taking his twiggy fingers and dancing them over me, tickling me. I couldn’t take it and laughed so hard my belly ached! It was wondrous! Even after he stopped I still felt the tingles of his fingers on my legs and arms, little scratches that bled like the tears of laughter that fell from my eyes. I yelled at him to stop and he smiled smugly and disappeared in a flash, leaving me in my dark room with my awakened father’s footsteps looming.” The children’s eyes were drooping, they were feeling sleepy but there was still more tea in the pot so I shared it round, giving each little boy and girl a smile as I did it. “Peter came back multiple times after that night, and after he got me talking, I never stopped. I confided in Peter and in return he told me such magical stories about the land where he lived. Let me tell you my favourite: In the depths of the forests where Peter lived was a humongous tree house. It housed a group of children, Lost Children, and they lived there and they frolicked and played in the surrounding woods. These children, although lost, were free. There were no adults around telling them what to do, no chores or lies from their parents. There was just a Wendy. A Wendy was a lady who looked after them but never annoyed them. She made them dinner, kept the tree house clean and she told the children stories and tucked them into bed at night. The Lost Children were so grateful to have a Wendy like the Wendy they had. She was the best, loving and caring, like the mother they always wanted. This Wendy had magical properties that made the Lost Children love her even more. She had the power to keep them young forever. Never will they grow old into adults and learn to lie and hurt people. They will forever be blissfully innocent. “That story stuck by me, children. Peter talked of this Wendy so fondly and warmly, it was easy to love her even though I had never met her. That was the magic of Peter’s stories, children, he transported you to places you had never been before, he could make you love or hate people you had never met before because of the way he told them. You could so easily get lost in Peter’s stories, I know I did a couple of times, always so disappointed to know I was back. I always asked him to take me with him, back to his home. We tried once; he stood with me by the window, the dark night looming ahead of me. He held my hand whispered in my ear, telling me to think happy thoughts. I thought of his Wendy, of the Mermaids of his lands, of the pirates and the Lost Children. He then kept hold of my hand and told me to fly… “I can’t quite remember what happened after that, children, but after that day I never saw Peter again. He had left me. We jumped and then darkness… he’d disappeared. We’d been through so much and he’d gone, and I knew why. I wasn’t his Wendy. But I can be his Wendy, children. I can be your Wendy, so just lay down by the fire dears. Listen to my song and let it relax you.” As I sing, I watch them close their eyes. This part is always sad, saying good night. I had to say good night to Peter, as he closed his eyes. The boy who never sleeps forever reigns on awake in my dreams. And so will these children. I tuck them in and kiss each one on the forehead and then I sit and listen. I listen out for the forest sounds of birds chirping and little animals scurrying around in the undergrowth and just when I need it too, it all goes silent. So silent that I can only hear the breathing of those beautiful children around me. “It’s okay children, nothing to be afraid of,” I whisper, “No bogey man to get you out here. No bad people to come and rape and kill you. Just me, I’ve got you.” I can hear their breathing start to slow as they slip deeper into their sleep. “I’ve got you and I’ll forever be your Wendy. Go and join Peter in your dreams.” Their chests move slower and slower as the tea begins to take its toll on them. “You’ll forever be innocent, my children.” Then, nothing. They fall into the deepest sleep they will ever have, among the dead leaves of the trees. And I swear, they have never been so beautiful.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #Weekly Challenge **Prompt: Set your story at an .** **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** Include the sentence - *"There were worse ways to make a living."* **(You must include if/how you used it at the end of your story.** This week’s challenge is to set your story in an amusement park. You’re welcome to use the setting creatively (it’s encouraged!) as long as it is the main setting of your story. Be sure to **follow all post and sub rules**. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required (you’re welcome to change the tense). You do not have to use the linked image. *** # Last Week: - **Winner:** by u/rudexvirus You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 3pm EST next Monday.** Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **3pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 1pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read the stories aloud and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and/or listen to the others! Everyone is welcome and we’d like to have you, we absolutely love new friends!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied **Note: There has been a change to the crit caps and points!** **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10 - 15** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **10** pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I’ve never felt a coldness more piercing than the wind at the remote research site in Antarctica. Five days by myself conducting my first solo research expedition. It was my chance to prove that I have what it takes to endure the cold and gather samples of existing, or possibly new, organisms from a frozen lake nearly four-thousand meters under the ice. In fact, there were several worksites currently active alongside me, all with new researchers eager to produce some sort of rare find and be given a permanent position. We were positioned a few miles from one another, extracting samples from the same underground frozen lake. I had 2 days to collect samples, as we expected a white-out blizzard on the third, of which I would then hunker down and analyze my findings thus far. After that, a couple more days of sample gathering and then we’d be evacuated. Excited, doesn’t quite embrace the absolute joy I had for this opportunity. My first day went by smooth enough. I maintained the worksite, only losing a couple tarps when the winds picked up, and I inspected the excavation hole that was drilled by the research center when they deployed me. The hole was drilled by a mechanical boring drill, plunging deep into the glacier crust. Hot water and steel broke past the frozen layers and took quite some time. The greasy contraption that did the hard work lied a few meters away from my worksite. It wreaked a powerful gag inducing stench. The hole in the ground was large enough to fit my whole arm down, luckily there’s no need for that as they provided me with a pulley and sample collector to lower down. All that remained of my worksite was some wire fence to keep the wildlife out, a tent that’s seen its fair share of expeditions, and me. A shivering, kind of know what I’m doing, fake it ‘till I make it; me. The first day was a success. Not successful as in I retrieved any usable samples or anything. I *did* stare far too long at an elephant seal, who was snooping outside the northern perimeter, but I mean a success as in I’m still alive and didn’t lose anymore tarp *and* I had a better idea of how to use the equipment, at least. Once I covered the pulley system, extraction site, and remaining gear I ducked into my tent for the night and began preparing dinner. The first night I had imitation potatoes and, in quotes, “salisbury steak consumable dinner tray”. In fact, every night I was blessed with that meal. If not just the potatoes after the first night. That night I was woken by howling winds. The entire tent was shaking, and the sounds of loose rope were flogging the sides. There wasn’t supposed to be a storm until two nights from now. It was hard to sleep to say the least. The sound conjured all sorts of nightmares from my restless mind. The thoughts of unimaginable things lurking outside my tent. I imagined that elephant seal coming through the wire fence and greeting me through the opening of my tent. Seals are fine and all, until one just, flops into your room. I held my sleeping bag tight and closed my eyes. The next morning, I inspected the perimeter and fastened any loose tarps and rope. It wasn’t until I looked at the worksite that I noticed the tracks in the snow. They had been lightly covered after the wind and were very faint. They were probably mine from yesterday. I shook any doubts- I had work to do and samples to catch up on. I can’t be empty handed when they return to retrieve me and the supplies. I yanked the covering off the hole and pulley system and was immediately taken aback from the smell. The smell that I noticed on the drill had come from the hole. A stench, like decaying flesh. A sweet smell followed by bitter iron and rot. I pulled me scarf tighter around my nose and began to work. I pulled out a few ounces of dirt, water, and small fragments of rock. The pulley’s small engine block struggled a few times, so I was sure to let it warm up once I started it and let it cool after each use. Light flakes swam around the water sample like a snow globe. The dirt was clumpy and black, and the rocks were small and fragmented. Sharp and dense, though few rocks were the size of marbles and granulated on touch. I kept the remainder of the samples contamination free and set them aside for tomorrow, when I would look at each sample under a microscope and record my findings. My hopes were low, and so were my test samples. I needed more. I dropped the pulley a few more times that day but was only able to pull up more water and ice, all the same. My second night of sleep, or lack thereof, will always resonate with me. I was awoken yet again by violent winds. The sides of my tent flailed wildly, and the sounds outside mimicked that of rubbing metal and screeching animals. The sound was unbearable even after hiding under my pillow. I heard a crackling, low pitched splintering growl from the direction of the worksite. I sprung out of bed assuming the worst, that my worksite had been destroyed or something fell onto what samples I did have. But I when I flung open the tent entrance, nothing. Literally nothing. No storm, no wind, only the stars in the sky and a single light from behind the tarp covering the worksite. The silence of the arctic wrapped itself around me. And the horrific stench pierced the freezing air. I secured the flap to my tent and laid back in bed. I grabbed a book to read but only held it closely as I stared at the entrance of the tent, inevitably fell asleep. When I awoke the next day the air was still, and snow fell silently. The storm should have arrived, and perhaps it did, but the high winds were absent. I made my way to the worksite, bumping into the drill now covered in snow. Peeling back the tarp to worksite I started the engine block to the pulley and let it warm up. I wrapped another scarf around my head attempting to block the stench from reaching my frozen nostrils. I should’ve been in my tent looking over what samples I did have, but I needed more. I dropped a clamp and swab down the hole into the ice. It takes roughly 15 minutes for it safely reach the bottom. I paced around for a while trying to keep warm and I noticed the area around the hole. The ice had cracked in three different spots. Little fractures were visible, crackling off the cylindric hole two inches in width. I averted my attention to the pulley which was still dropping. It had been twenty-two minutes. I stared at the remaining line on the spool and there seemed to be plenty to spare, but how far down could this possibly go? I decided to let it run. I thought this was the break I had been waiting for. Maybe I would pull up a new microorganism, a fossil from some long-forgotten ocean dwelling species or- *new* species. When the line ran out, I pulled the joint to snap the collection tray on the other end shut and pushed a button, opening the swab. After a few moments I switched the motor in reverse and began pulling the samples back up, refilling the empty spool with line once again. I began prepping what samples I had collected for transfer back to my tent when the line from the pulley snapped tightly, halting completely. The motor made a god-awful screeching noise as white smoke erupted from the top, then suddenly began pulling normally again. The line must’ve gotten caught on something. I checked the temperature of the motor and placed some snow on top of the block to cool it down. The weather outside had been slowly picking up after my couple hours in the extraction site, and it was zero visibility outside. I placed my hand into the snow outside the opening of the tarp and felt around for the safety line attached to my tent, so I could find my way back. I yanked it above the snow, and it hung fastened in my hand, the other end disappeared into the wind and snow. I turned my head back to the pulley as the motor shut off. The sample had been retrieved and dangled above the open hole. I placed the swab into a sealant and opened the collection tray. From it fell, what seemed like, black straw. Thick strands of black, still wet from water, but bristly and stick-like. I felt like I had something worth investigating and began to get excited; imagining myself being appraised for discovering a new species of seaweed. But Christ, the smell must be from whatever this is. I closed the extraction site and made my way to the tent. Holding the safety line I walked what seemed like hours in the blinding snowstorm. Sure that I grabbed the wrong rope, the tent finally unveiled itself through the white haze. Once I made myself comfortable, I began setting up for sample inspection. I was so excited I nearly dropped it on the ground. I opened the sample container and instantly filled the tent with the smell of decay. If this wasn’t a plant, it might be from a carcass on the ocean floor. The winds from outside began to grow violent again. I placed the sample on the microscope tray, then turned to warm water for a cup of tea. I could hear the noises from outside like the night before. Howling and screeching noises from all around but my excitement for this new find distracted me plenty from worrying about the wind. I peeked into the microscope and saw- movement. Lots of movement. And not one shape of cell, but many. I grasped for air suddenly when the entirety of my tent was lit up from outside and the sides began to unravel slightly. The wind became so violent that I hadn’t even noticed the sound of a helicopter. A member of the response team burst through the opening of the tent and was startled I was even in here. “Hey, are you okay” “Y-yeah, I’m fine but, extraction isn’t for another 2 days what are you-“ “Were leaving. Now! In the chopper-“ He pointed out of the tent with his assault rifle and shouted again. “Now!” I grabbed the remaining sample from off the collection tray and slipped into my snow suit. We ran out of the tent and into bursting spotlights. I was helped into the helicopter and we began lifting off the ground before I could even put on a seat belt. As we lifted, the chopper blew snow off the worksite, and the tarp for the worksite as well. The cracks I seen earlier had grew so big that the machine used to drill the hole had slightly fallen in. I was informed that something had gone wrong. I was the only person alive from the five teams dispatched. One site had broken completely open, swallowing the worksite and scientist entirely. Another had sent a distress signal and when the response team arrived, they couldn’t find her. Instead what they found was a ten-foot trail of blood leading into the excavation hole, the entire inside coated with frozen blood as if she was dragged down. The response team quickly noticed the smell from the sample I had grabbed. It was confiscated immediately and I was told I’d be given credit for the find but would not be informed about any further research on the sample. When asked if I wanted to do another expedition, I declined. I took a cozy desk job instead. And though it’s been years since the incident, I still have dreams about the violent winds and I’m woken to the smell of decay.  Written By C.T.


\[UR\] It is a difficult task, that of dressing well, especially for exceptional occasions. It requires not only a sense of aesthetics and a good eye for detail, but also a perspective on how one is seen by others, a perspective no mirror can offer. One must be able to look at himself through the eyes of work colleagues, friends, and even by passers. That morning, Mr. Pearson made sure to dress at his best. Once showered and donning his undergarments, Mr. Pearson moved to his spacious albeit sparsely furnished bedroom, opened his wardrobe and meticulously inspected the hanging garments, pulling a brand new cotton shirt he had bought the week before, at his favorite grande boutique: the piece was white with thin pink stripes, traditional Italian collar and double French cuffs. For the cufflinks, he chose the model with a hexagonal shape in sterling silver and mother-of-pearl. A frivolous excess, to be sure, but one he could risk; you only live once after all. Covering the well-groomed shirt, his bespoke navy blue double-breasted suit, confected at a small *sartoria* tucked away at Via Solferino*.* The man who sold him the suit was an older gentleman at the time, probably long dead by now. Once Mr. Pearson entered the shop, out of curiosity rather than any compulsion to shop - although this was still his heyday, when money was not an issue – he was intrigued by the many pictures of men in colorful suits adorning the walls of the humble atelier, atypical for the Milanese style, and ended up spending four hours discussing cloth and cut with the owner. After only two fittings and three weeks, the gentleman had delivered Mr. Pearson the best bespoke suits he ever possessed, and for a quarter of the usual price. The navy blue one was the last remaining exemplar after almost a decade, but still fit him perfectly. For shoes, Mr. Pearson went with a pair of brown leather brogue boots. A gift from his now ex-wife for his 60th birthday, the year before. Mr. Pearson looked at himself in the mirror. He imagined his suits with epaulettes and thought to himself he would have made a fine admiral, like his father had wanted. He looked at the dresser to his right and saw, next to the stack of bills and promissory notes, coiled around the half-empty bottle of Four Roses like a beautiful and exotic viper ready to attack, a green *Hermés* polka dot tie. Perhaps even a fine statesmen, he thought. In another life, maybe. Mr. Pearson combed his hair, strapped on his golden-rimmed watch, and walked through the cloud of sprayed perfume in a careful way, so that every single molecule of the *eau de toilette* covered his body like a veil. He then moved resolute towards the large window in his living room, turned the now old, squeaky handles with his right hand and opened them completely. With his two hands, Mr. Pearson grabbed the outer edges of the window, cufflinks making a clicking sounds against the glass, and with his right brown leather brogue boot Mr. Pearson stepped up the window sill, then, in a somewhat untrained and careful movement, brought his left leg up. Standing on the ledge, Mr. Pearson buttoned his suit, pulled it down to fit the shoulders, and with a swift movement left his whole weight fall forward.


The first time she saw him was in his live stream. He was cute, funny, and a bit melancholy, like a prince from a classic fairy tale. She couldn't help but do the same again, her favorite thing: she used her skills to keep the camera in his computer on twenty-four hours a day without him noticing so she could see everything he was doing at all times. She saw him once again turn off his live feed, remove his makeup, and bare his frightening acne-filled skin, messy, shapeless hair, and dull eyes. There was nothing cute about it. But she kept sitting in front of the computer screen staring at him moment by moment, watching him take off his clothes, expose his body, change into pajamas that couldn't cover his bottom, get under the covers, and then stare at his phone and lose sleep. The light from the phone shone on his expressionless face in the darkness, making him look ugly and creepy. He flipped through the contents of his phone, tossing and turning. It was as if he was obsessed, because even though he looked extremely sleepy and kept rubbing his eyes hard from time to time, he still refused to put down his phone until the sunlight from the next day outside the window gradually entered his room, and then he finally gave in and closed those eyes. Still sitting motionless in front of the computer, she watched his sleeping face disappear behind the blankets from time to time, and then reappear half an hour later. She saw his eyeballs fluttering behind his eyelids. He was beginning to dream, she knew. She began to speculate about what was in that troubled dreams. What she looked forward to most was his weekly live broadcasts, the only time he would respond to the camera. She always arrived at his live stream on time, but never said a word to him, never revealed the secret beneath his heavy makeup. She liked to watch his cute face smiling at the screen, talking, upset every now and then. He never had more than ten people in his live room, and she was never absent. There were times when she was almost the only one left in his live room and he would continue his conversation, smiling. This would sometimes make her feel terrified. Anyway, she watched him finish his broadcast, remove his makeup, go under the covers in the dark, and then stay awake all night staring at the phone until the next morning. The same thing over and over every day. Her computer screen is always on 24 hours a day, and it's him and his messiest room on the screen. She is too different from him. Her room is organized and she doesn't allow any surface in her room to get dusty. If there is anything in common between them, it is that they stay in their rooms almost twenty-four hours a day every single day, eating, exercising, sleeping. He had no reason to go out, or dreaded going out. She was there just to see him, and therefore no longer had the intention of going out either. Yet that's not all there is to the story. She saw that he would always lose his voice every now and then in the darkness of the night after doing everything listlessly every day. At first she felt curious, she didn't quite understand why he would cry. It was only after watching many of his live shows that she gradually understood the source of his melancholy, his pain and his endless sense of deep loneliness. Gradually, she understood his past. Her curiosity about his helpless crying gradually turned into empathetic heartache from the beginning. She heard his cries in the darkness of the night emanating from the unsearchable face. She felt her heart tearing at times. She listened to every word he poured out into the night; listened to his deepest desire to be heard, to be understood, and to be seen; listened to his depressing memories, his helpless complaints, his rage, his despair. In his chest, which was repeatedly and strongly heaving with emotion, she saw her own heart. Finally, she fell deeply, for him. She wished she could give him everything he longed for, while doubting that she could do so. Doubt, she thought, where in her life had she ever doubted herself before? She felt afraid. She even felt more and more strongly the deep guilt for prying into his life without his consent for the very first time in her whole life. But what choice did she have not to do so? She knew he wouldn't love her, ever. If he knew the truth about everything she did, he would probably resent her, fear her, run away from her, and disappear from her world forever and ever. And now she longed more and more deeply than ever to see him and feel him every moment, so it became more and more difficult to take her eyes off her computer screen, and every time she peered at him, it always brought her stronger and stronger remorse, pain, guilt and insecurity. Finally, one day, the very first time in her whole life, she turned off the computer screen. Never once before had she turned off the computer screen she had used to spy on countless people. She thought doing so would cause her to fall into some dark abyss and meet her death, but now, she actually never wanted to turn it back on ever again. Gradually, for the first time, her oft-darkened room slowly became clear to her eyes. The dark, immaculate furniture gradually took shape. She stood up and drew back the curtains that had never ever been drawn once. She still missed him immensely, missed his smile, words and melancholy, deeply heartbroken for his tears and torment. While he didn't even know she existed at all. Did he not know? From the first day she peeked into his life, from the first time she listened to his agnony, he could feel, in the darkness, between all his emotions and the inmost passions of his soul and some vague, obsessive presence in the dark, there's a link that he had longed for. He was healed. For the first time in a long time, he and she walked out of the room together.


Milk Run Somedays, I really enjoy these so-called ‘Milk Runs’ to the Mars colonies. A Ten-hour flight there and back with an overnight layover at one of the luxury hotels under the dome. Easy peasy job; even a cadet could do it in their sleep. I made my run, delivered the twenty-four tons of cargo at the spaceport, and had a nice dinner at the little café overlooking the city. Life was good. The Martian government was doing a great job building more domed cities to make it feel more pleasant now like Earth used to be before overcrowding became a problem. I had to laugh; I love those commercials that say, “getaway for the weekend, only twelve hours away and enjoy a leisurely weekend under the dome, and have a picnic under a real tree with real birds flying overhead and a freshwater swimming pool, and water parks.” Ah, what a beautiful view they show on the news vid feed. Hell, it makes me want to move here permanently. I just finished my morning breakfast, and the space weather news was saying something about an apparent macro-sized proton star that may be moving through our solar system this week. Ugh, I love it when they say ‘May Be’ or ‘quite possibly could.’ It usually means they are not sure what they are seeing, just wanting to add some drama to space travel. Add a little excitement for the newbies, lol. Well, it’s time to get going. Maybe if I get lucky, I can get some cargo to pick up to return home with and have a nice payday. People back home love to buy Mars Made items. I must admit that most of the Mars Made artwork is pretty awesome. Being here on Mars seems to bring out the creative side in others. I was lucky to pick up ten tons of ore to take back home, and four tons of Mars Made clothing and manufacturing goods. Heck, I might make more on the return trip. Yes, I might be fortunate indeed. Back on the ship now, doing all the preflight checks. I see a flashing message from the spaceport. I tap the screen to read the news. “New Message from Jezero Spaceport to all outgoing ships: Be ADVISED: Some minor gravitational anomalies have been detected by our survey satellites between Mars and the asteroid belt. BE ADVISED:” Ok, so I need to make a slight gravitational adjustment for the flight home—no big deal. Thirty minutes later, I get another message: “BE ADVISED: Phobos orbit has been altered by the gravitational anomaly. Advise course correction by twelve degrees positive and three degrees negative on the Z axis for flights to Earth. BE ADVISED:” Ok, Done, let’s go already. I want to get home while I’m still young, you know. I make the adjustments, and I get the green light to go from Jezero spaceport. Alright then, let’s go home, I said into the microphone. A voice said through the comm set, “CREST21, you are cleared for takeoff. Good Luck and Good Flying. Jezero Spaceport out.” About time, I muttered to myself. Jeez, three hours sitting and waiting for them to clear me to go home. Jeez! Launch. I never get tired of that sudden jolt of raw power during a launch. I switch the display to the rear camera view. Watching the city getting smaller and smaller, and then the planet’s curvature getting smaller. What a view. So far, so good. No problems. I might take a nap; I still have ten hours of flight to go. I check all my instrumentation. Everything looks good. The flight plan looks good. Right on course for Houston One spaceport. I check once more for gravitational drift. Everything is in the ‘green.’ I’m good to go. I head to the galley and grab a bite and a cup of coffee. I wake up suddenly, and the screen is filled with the image of the Earth. I am confused. Did I fall asleep the entire ten hours? Suddenly alarms start going off, warning me of incorrect approach angle and descent speed. I quickly made the adjustments needed. I listen to the comm set. Funny, I don’t hear anything. I switch to Lunar one base signal. Nothing. I tried New Delphi, but nothing. Ok, now I’m starting to get worried. If I can’t get my radio working, I can’t land. I did a scan on all emergency transponders. Nothing. What the hell is going on? Did something fry my radio while I was out? I look for my coffee cup. Where the hell is it? I noticed a blinking light on my navigational system. I touched it to open the navigational computer. The computer said: A course correction was adjusted due to a micro-singularity explosion caused by a collision with a macro brown dwarf star. A possible temporal discontinuity may be experienced. Do what?? I had to rerun it three times, just to be precise. Ok, now what am I going to do? I sat there for a few moments, letting all this information sink in. Computer, what is the current Earth time? The computer replied, “Based on ship time or solar earth time?” Say what? Now I am confused. “Computer, is there a difference between ship time and Solar Earth time?” The computer answered, “Yes. There are five hundred years, three months, and eleven days difference.” I sat up, leaning forward to the computer, and asked, “Which is behind?” but I already knew the answer. The computer answered, “Earth solar time is earlier than ship time by five hundred years.” The computer stated, “According to Space Travel Law established over three hundred years ago, ship time, you are not allowed to land on Earth or make contact with anyone from Earth. You are ordered to impose a self-destruct protocol to prevent any timeline contamination or paradoxical event. Self-destruct procedure is clearly outlined in the event of a temporal displacement. The self-destruct protocol has been initialized. Please press---” Computer off! I shouted. What the hell! I thought. I will not blow myself up today or any day if I can help. Damn it! Not happening. I lean forward and say, “Computer, is there anywhere on Earth I can land and live without affecting the timeline? The computer quickly responded, “Inside a volcano would not affect the timeline. However, it is doubtful you would survive.” Dammit, computer, I don’t want to die! I want to live! Is there any other alternative to this scenario? The computer promptly responded, “Recreate the event, and reversing your flight plan should place you within your former timeline.” Well, you’re no help, computer. No way I can recreate a micro singularity collision with a macro-sized brown dwarf star! Computer, are there any other alternatives to this scenario? The computer replied, “Working, working, working, working.” The computer answered, “You have enough food, air, and fuel to travel up to four-point eight light years in any direction. However, there are no known habitable planets within your life support range”. “Computer, that is so NOT helpful.” The computer responded, “This is why Self-destruct protocol is required.” Computer, can I ignore that protocol? The computer responded, “Yes, you can ignore it; however, I cannot. Once you begin your descent, I will initiate a self-destruct.” My mind was racing now. I damn sure didn’t want to die, and the sound of drifting through space till I die did not sound appealing either. There had to be a way out of this scenario. I get up from the command console and head to the galley. As I head down the corridor, I think this will probably be my last supper. I might as well enjoy it. I ordered a steak with a loaded baked potato and a glass of red wine for my last meal. As I’m eating, my mind drifts. I know it’s not an authentic steak from a cow, it’s not a real potato dug up from the dirt, and I know it’s not a real glass of wine made from pressed grapes. It’s all synthesized from a computer program using power from the engines. Eating this food got me thinking. The early terra-formers had problems with food supplies. They didn’t have the fuel or space to carry perishable foods, and that’s how the food replicators came to be, and then the synthesizers became the standard on all space-capable ships. Granted, a synthesized part wasn’t as reliable as a manufactured part, but still, they were good enough to get a job done. That’s it! All I need to do is replicate the circuit boards and modules that contain the self-destruct protocols and replace them in the main computer. HA! I had a plan! I started pouring over all the manuals for the ship’s main computer interface. I bet I read every day for almost a month till I found a loophole. The self-destruct protocol was in one module in the navigational array system. Just one! Upon further reading, I found the new protocol module could be replaced by the previous version, which the synthesizer could replicate by an override command. However, there was one tiny catch. It would have to be done under a complete system shutdown to replace that module. Full system shutdown! No power, no life support, no lights, nothing. The estimated time for replacement, and complete reboot, is three hours. Three hours in the dark, no heat, no circulating air. No lights. No Air. No Heat. Ok, now, how can I do this faster? What all do I need to ensure I can get this done and land? I need a self-sustaining portable light, air to breathe, and a quicker way to replace that module. I frantically searched the upgrade and replacement manuals and found I could replicate the entire board and remove and reinstall it in less than three minutes. My GOD, I had it! I could do this! Ok, today is the day. I replicated everything I felt I would need to replace one little module. I sat down at the central console and initiated a complete system shutdown. The computer went through all the system checks for a shutdown, and I turned on my lights and got my screwdriver bits ready to remove the system board. Complete system shut down. Man, it was strange not hearing the hum of the ship engines and air circulation. Within five minutes, I had the board replaced. I reached over and turned off the light unit I had made. My God, it was beautiful! The Earth was glowing with its own radiance. Almost no city lights on the planet. No clutter of satellites in orbit. It was peaceful, serene, and beautiful. I sat there for about ten minutes, gazing at the planet and burning that image into my mind. Ok, time to go. I got to find a new place to live. I pressed the system start button. Praying everything came back up correctly. After five minutes, the computer came on. It was running through all its diagnostics and full system status. Then came the question of the full engine start sequence. YES, I thought, omg, yes. Yes, computer, full engine start, please. Thank God! I can feel the engines powering up! The navigational computer is showing no destination entered. I click on manual flight mode. The computer speaks and says, “Automatic navigational control has been turned off. Navigational beacons can not be found. Would you like assistance with manual descent?” “yes, please,” I respond. “Computer, can you give an approximate date based upon historical data for the planet below?”. The computer replied, “Working. The estimated date for North America based upon archived data is circa eighteen eighty-two, March twenty-first.” Wow, just after the civil war. So, I need to find a place with fresh water, not close to people, not too cold, and not too hot. It has to be pretty secluded, with plenty of wildlife. Jeez, I wish now I had more attention in history classes. “Computer, where can I land that has few people, close to a freshwater lake, not too cold in winter, and not too hot in summer, fairly secluded, with ample wild like for hunting for food?” The computer responded with, “Working. Several hundred Pacific islands are uninhabited, with plenty of freshwater lakes and abundant aquatic life. New Zealand would be an ideal location meeting all your requirements.” From what I recalled, New Zealand was an excellent vacation place, but too many mountains. I didn’t want to live like a hermit. I decided to do my own manual search, starting near what I knew to be Texas. As I zoomed in around the Texas coast, the Lake Charles area in Louisiana was looking better and better. Moving closer, I found a place near a decent-sized lake near the center of Texas, but not too close to Dallas. I wanted to avoid the railways. I had the computer overlay the current metropolitan areas of Texas with the visual map of Texas on the screen. I found a place that would be reasonably secluded for the next three hundred years. I had the computer do a complete background search on the location. I just smiled when I read the report. The area was supposedly ‘haunted’ by spirits, according to the local Indian legends. Perfect. It looks like I found my new home. I was going to live near what would become a state park some three hundred years in the future. As I made my descent, I saw a lot of beautiful land. Lakes, rivers, cliffsides, lots of woodlands, and lots of open farmlands. This would be perfect. The nearest settlements were a reasonable distance away by horse, over a day’s ride in all directions. Perfect. I found a clearing close to a small river with cliffsides nearby. I had the computer check for future settlements, and the computer found none. So, I landed. My first night was amazing. Clear skies, clean, fresh air. Almost intoxicating. I saw lots of wildlife near the river at night. Yes, this was a good site. After a week, I decided it was time to find a way to hide my ship. Too bad I didn’t spend the extra credits to buy a cloak. I never thought I would need one. I wasn’t dealing with the different militant factions, I didn’t sell contraband goods, and I wasn’t a pirate. Now I need to hide my ship. Man, this was turning out to be more complicated than I expected. I had three choices. One, just dig in and get it done. Two, just walk away and leave no trace, or three, move to some mountain area, and live like a hermit. The following week, I spent my time looking at options for housing, where to build it, and how to hide the ship. I didn’t want to dismantle my ship, just in case I might need to get away for some reason. I had the computer search the database to see if there was a way to build a droid to help with the heavy lifting. The computer found four options. Man, this was getting out of hand. I had the computer build two droids, two loaders, and one excavator. I had decided to make my house on top of the cliffside out of stone and wood. Build a stairway to the river, then halfway down the cliffside, to the left of the house, excavate room for a hanger for the ship.  The hanger was the primary task at hand. It took almost a month to excavate the hanger and transport the rock to the top of the cliff for the house. I had to make two more droids for that. Once the hanger was up to specifications, I moved the ship inside and had the droids seal the entrance. It was now only accessible by the stairway and hidden by a holographic doorway. The droids worked day and night building the hanger and then the house. By mid-summer, everything was finished. I hid the loaders, the excavator, and three of the four droids in the ship’s cargo bay. I finally decided to see what all I had in the cargo bay. When I opened one of the crates for the ore, I just had to laugh. Gold. Gold ore. Somehow, whatever happened to send me back in time, turned the ore into gold. Now, it looks like I don’t have to worry about anything. Now I can buy five hundred acres of this land and not even have to worry about it. Hell, I might even buy the whole state. Hahahaha. Oh well, so much for maintaining the timeline. Life is good.


This is a **work of fiction**. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental \ The music was blasting, my ears were ringing already, and I was only at the bar. My musketeers had asked me to fetch them some drinks while they evaluated the state of the dancefloor and looked for potential dance partners. It was too early for me to party; I felt like shite, I could still smell Anne’s perfume in my sheets and in my pillow. I couldn’t bring myself to wash them, maybe yearning for her touch was my way of beating some sense into my own head. That woman had been in my life since I was 7 years old, and now, in every moment of the day, I always felt like there was something missing, no matter where I went and no matter what I drank. The waitress came back with 4 rum and colas, throwing me out of melancholy lane for the moment. I tapped my card, collected the glasses and snuck a peek at those beautiful green eyes of hers as I mouthed thank you, they seemed to beam with their own light. Back on the dancefloor, we were doing a poor job at balancing our drinks in one of our hands while dancing like proper dorks: flapping our arms like birds, doing the robot; the whole shebang. I loved the fact that we were happy to chill for once; when we were in our early years of university, it was all about women and it got boring quite quickly for me. We must have looked ridiculous together since we are extremely different. Raf stood at 2 meters tall, slim, with wild curly brown hair breaking free from underneath a stylish hat, and a huge nose. Loui was looking careless lately: he had left his black hair to grow out of control, almost reaching shoulder length, thick glasses framed his pale white face. He didn’t visit the gym that much anymore; you could tell he was ripped, but we had all seen him in better shape. Richard was out hunting tonight, he wore a stylish white shirt over some jeans and when he raised his hands to dance you could see the hypertrophy struggling to break the bonds of that expensive shirt, tattoos sneaking off to his forearms from the sleeves. I stood between Richard and Loui, my dirty blond hair was barely combed through and I was wearing a shirt that did a good job at hiding how much I had stopped taking care of myself lately. Richard was the first one to spot them: the blonde was hard to miss. She was probably under 25, and she was wearing a dark red dress that was too short for my taste, ending just a few centimetres from her bottom. She was petite, slim and slender, but the dress stuck to her like a second skin, shifting over her as she danced. It was mesmerising, I had to admit. The dark red tones of her dress matched her lip colour and contrasted with her porcelain skin. She was wearing a heavy layer of makeup that probably took a few hours to put together. I could still hear Anne’s voice: *‘If you want me with a proper face on, either shut up or fuck off. Would you darling?’* The dress reflected some of the dancefloor lights and made that golden hair of hers even more obvious. She was sipping on a cosmopolitan and talking with her group of five friends. I could already see ‘The Womaniser’ thinking about a plan of approach. Richard was an open book to most of us. We had known each other since we were in our early teens. Raf pointed towards Richard, as he moved towards the group of young women. He smiled; ‘Classic Richard’ screaming out as body language to those that could read it. Patience is a virtue and I was not in a hurry to turn this guys night out into whatever it was that Richard had on his mind. I had recently started to drink a lot faster, and hence, I was running dry, so I went to get another one for myself. Alcohol was starting to numb my previous melancholic state of mind and I felt like indulging myself. From the bar, I asked the green-eyed bartender for a whiskey double. She briefly made a recommendation of a brand they were carrying. I was happy to humour her, she nodded as she went for the bottle. From the bar, I could clearly see Richard perform his mating ritual moves nearby the group of girls, casually approaching. Not casually enough. Their faces went from amusement to annoyance to amusement again as he realised that he had been caught and went full dork mode again. ‘Your friend better stay away from Chloe, she is too much for him to deal with.’ I barely caught the last words over the loud music. I turned to see an attractive woman around 30, wearing a very light layer of makeup over dark caramel skin and what looked like pale brown eyes, yellow maybe, I couldn’t tell with all of the lights. Her lips were a shade darker than her skin. She wore a very simple black dress that clung to her shoulders by a single strap around her right shoulder, almost touching one of the two silver loops hanging from her ears. She was of medium build and looked like she hadn’t been skipping gym lately. Her expression was a mixture of contempt and irritation. ‘How do you know that I’m with that dork, lady?’ I smiled as saw Raf and Loui join Richard in what it seemed to be a native American rain dance. ‘Cause you’ve been laying everyone low with those 60s moves and we’ve been laughing at you for the entire night!’ She wasn’t quite smiling. ‘I don’t see the problem on making a bunch of, if I may say, very lovely women laugh at us. Do you?’ I offered her my most innocent smile. ‘Ha! Cheeky!’ It seemed that comment caught her by surprise, as her stern face lit up momentarily. ‘So, you’re with Chloe the cheerleaders, I take.’ I asked pointing at Chloe and her red dress. ‘It’s more of a hen party actually. She’s is getting married.’ *‘Jack, STOP it. Get up, please.’* I somehow managed to smile through the flashback of my brief, failed attempt at marriage. ‘Pleased to meet you, mother hen.’ I replied playfully, extending my hand. ‘Oh, would you sod off?’ She slapped my hand away, looking irritated, after a brief pause she turned her back on me. ‘Pardon me miss, I meant no offence, I was simply jesting.’ She looked away, without bothering to answer. I got the message loud and clear. My drink got here, I signalled the waitress to come close. ‘I’ve been a proper jerk to that lady I’m afraid! Whatever she’s having, get her another, and charge it here.’ She nodded and loaded the contactless payment platform with the proper amount. Whatever I ordered for her was cheap. I collected my drink and gave it a sip. ‘Holy moly miss! That’s some proper whiskey, thanks for the recommendation.’ I smiled at her. She smiled right back and made an ‘I know a thing or two’ gesture. I shook her hand and went back to the dancefloor, quickly setting my unfortunate encounter aside. It was only 1 am, I had plenty of time to have fun. ‘Somebody got rejected by an Indian goddess.’ Loui shouted at my ear. ‘She was already angry to begin with! She cannot take a mild joke…If you talk with her, whatever you do, do not call her mother hen.’ I said. ‘Hahaha, you can be such a twat sometimes Jack.’ He replied while smiling. We talked about the girl group for a few minutes, got the remaining musketeers up to speed. I grabbed Richard, who was looking a bit grim after discovering that his mark was already taken and invited him to join me for a legendary waltz. After we were done and we were all laughing at the poor show we were putting on, someone tapped me on my shoulder. I turned to see Mother-Hen, holding an empty glass and looking less angry than before. ‘My friend told me that you love nicknames.’ Loui shouted through the music, sharp as ever. ‘You can call me Daddy Rooster!’ the subtle Richard strikes again. ‘I see you’re all clowns!’ she replied. ‘Yup!’ we shouted in unison. That got her to laugh and she got closer to me so that I could hear her better through the blasting speakers. ‘May I return the favour?’ She raised her empty glass. ‘You may.’ I was short for words. I didn’t know where this was going, this woman was still feeling a bit off, and I wanted to be a bit cautious. ‘Tell her to get me a rum.’ Loui wasn’t done being an idiot. As we headed towards the bar, it got quieter and quieter. We could finally speak in a normal tone of voice. ‘Sorry, I overreacted before.’ She looked forward, trying to find a spot to order. ‘Don’t worry about it, you’re not the first nor the last lady I piss off by running my mouth off.’ She was walking in front of me; I got a brief look of the back of her dress, which was open just before reaching her lumbar back, showing a discrete tattoo in black ink between her shoulder blades. Her skin tone made it really hard to see clearly. We saw a spot in the middle of the bar and we headed towards it to order. ‘What are you having?’ she asked. ‘They have a lovely single malt here, the bartender will know what I’m referring to. Tell her no ice.’ I turned around and placed my elbows on the bar. 'My my, a bit young to take your stuff straight aren’t you?’ She playfully stated, her tone change was sudden and it seemed out of character. ‘Just old enough to appreciate my liquor bare.’ If she was game, so was I, god knows I could use some company. There was something wrong with this lady though, I could feel it, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. She nodded as she spoke to the waitress and swiped her card. She had a single ring on her right hand’s middle finger, a silver band and a black stone. Classy. Our drinks got here and we gently knocked our glasses together. ‘So I take that to keep things civil I’m going to have to call you by your name.’ I said, while taking a small sip, it was lovely. ‘My name’s a bit long, you can call me Shiva.’ She said, funny enough, an Indian goddess after all. Shiva was the male God of destruction, I could faintly remember. ‘Nice to meet you Shiva.’ We shook hands. ‘I’m Jack. So, how is it that you ended up in charge of the girl scouts over there?’ She smiled. ‘I’m their boss…’ Her face turned grim again. ‘I really didn’t want to come here.’ ‘How so?’ I could relate. ‘Oh you know they are just in the whole celebration mood. They want to drink till they’re fuzzy enough to not give a fuck and then go to this strip club down the road.’ I knew the place, it was one of my recent haunts, something that I wasn’t about to admit. ‘They’ve hired a boy toy for a private party.’ I did not know they had male strippers. ‘They just want to enjoy the view as he shakes his junk all around the place.’ She was clearly nervous about this last part, which made me wonder why. Her thumb kept turning her ring around her middle finger. ‘Well, if you are looking for an alternative, you are in luck! My friend Richard there happens to be a fantastic dancer.’ I said. ‘Is that the discrete one?’ She smiled. ‘That’s his surname, yes’ Her smile grew wider. ‘Yea I bet he wouldn’t mind.’ She kept turning the ring on her right hand around. ‘You two could have your own number.’ ‘Ha! It’s a work in progress. We don’t get much practise I’m afraid. I can barely dance while I’m sober so we only get the chance while we’re out!’ I replied. ‘It sounds like that’s not very often.’ Her expression turned neutral again. ‘Do you come here much? I haven’t seen you around.’ ‘No, I‘ve been a bit of a shut-in lately, but it’s good to go out with the gang again.’ I pointed at them. Raf seemed to take this as an invitation, as he decided to approach us. He faced Shiva, greeted her by taking his hat off, with his other hand, he took my glass and chugged my drink in one swift gulp. I closed my eyes, raised my eyebrows, gently shook my head and sighed with a profoundly sad expression. You don’t do that to a nice whiskey. I could have slapped him, except, not really, because he was too bloody tall. He smiled as he flicked me off and went back to the dancefloor. ‘Well… that’s one way not to drink whiskey.’ She said. ‘Yes indeed, but I’m not ever going to teach that twat how to drink for pleasure rather than numbness.’ I waved at the waitress, pointed to the glass as I mouthed another one. ‘Please, let me get this for you.’ She said. The waitress was pouring the whiskey into the measuring cup. ‘Under no circumstance lady. You’ve already bought me one.’ I held my card on my hand. ‘But your friend drank it! You didn’t get to have anything…’ Her tone turned melodic and playful again. She got closer to me. ‘Let me get this for you. Please. I probably make more than you do anyway.’ She said as she held my hand back with hers. I’ve always had a short fuse, and I’ve always been very aware of this fact. It has always gotten me into trouble. Even my mom was never able to understand how I could ignite so easily when I was being looked down upon. ‘How patronising of you!’ I tried to hide the fact that my blood was boiling under my skin with a very poorly faked smile and a mockery of her playful tone. I removed her hand from mine with more firmness than I meant to, as I signalled the waitress to ignore her. ‘Oh please don’t take it the wrong way!’ She replied sung with that bloody tone again, it was driving me insane. ‘I must be 10 years older than you! Just let me get you that drink!’ She said, putting her hand again on mine so that I couldn’t swipe the card. ‘Seriously Shiva, piss off, I don’t want you to pay for my booze.’ At that point, I was the one wanting to slap hands away. ‘Oh come on… Did the baby get offended?’ She got uncomfortably closer and she playfully grabbed my cheek. ‘Don’t be like my kid!’ My patience came to a sudden end. ‘Yeah, I bet you don’t need anymore else that just wants you out of their life.’ The slap made the heads of everyone in this side of the bar turn. There was a jolt of pain under my left eye. When I opened my eyes I saw her face lit with a fury that I did not expect. She drew her hand back again, her upper lip was drawn upwards and I could see her teeth showing. She hit me again, on the same side with her open hand. She was going for the third hit. I grabbed her wrist, gently but firmly. ‘Whatever the hell you got going on, love, you should really get some help… You obviously need it.’ I said. I let go of her hand, as I gently pushed her back, picked up my whiskey, drank it like Raf did, placed the glass down and headed for the exit of the club. She didn’t say anything, she just stood there. I only caught a brief glimpse of her face before I turned, a weird mixture of anger and embarrassment. My friends had been watching, they had seen what happened and they were coming to meet me. ‘What in the world did you say to that woman? It looked like you were about to have a little moment there. I blink and I see her properly slapping you.’ Richard looked worried. ‘You okay?’ ‘Yea, of course, I’m okay. It’s not like I’ve never got slapped before. To be honest I don’t usually mind getting roughed up.’ I joked while trying to make this less serious than it seemed. ‘We’re not taking you out ever again. You never keep your mouth shut.’ Raf said, barely standing. ‘Now we’re going to have to hit another club!’ I smiled, and a jolt of pain went through my right cheek again. She had some wrist power for sure. I put my hand on my face to find that it was sticky. ‘What the hell?’ I thought out loud. ‘Jack, you’re bleeding.’ Loui said. ‘Let me have a look at you…’ I tilted my head back so that we could shine some of the lights from outside the club. ‘How did she even draw blood?’ I wondered. ‘I don’t know but you have a nasty ass cut on your face mate. Maybe two? I can’t quite tell.’ He grabbed my face and made it face the light. ‘We’re going to have to get you stitched up to avoid this from scarring. This looks deep…’ ‘Oh my god there they are!’ We four turned our heads. Shiva and Chloe were out of the club, apparently looking for us. They approached us with urgency. ‘Coming for strike three?’ I said while they were approaching. ‘You crazy cow! You managed to cut me!’ ‘I know…’ She said after arriving, panting, a fine layer of sweat on her forehead. She paused for a moment and looked at her hands, which were bloody. ‘It was the ring. I’m so sorry I lost it there I…’ She didn’t finish the sentence, she looked down and her gaze fixed on her hands. ‘Apologies not accepted, now kindly piss off.’ I replied. ‘No, wait! I’m really sorry, may I please have a look? I’m a doctor.’ She insisted. ‘No, you may not. Seriously, leave me alone before I call the coppers.’ I was not impressed by her sudden remorse. ‘Look, the sooner you get that stitched up, the lesser chance you have of it actually scarring. I live in that block.’ She pointed at the building directly opposite to us. ‘I’ve got the necessary stuff to patch you up in the next 10 minutes. I’m a surgeon so I know what I’m doing. You can call the police afterwards if you want, call them now if you want. Just… let me fix this.’ *‘Please Anne, just… let me fix this.’* I looked at Loui, he was almost done with the fifth year of his medicine grad. He didn’t say anything, which meant that he somewhat agreed with what she said. ‘How much has she had to drink?’ I asked Chloe, she had just observed the encounter, silently standing behind her boss all this time. ‘She doesn’t drink at all.’ Chloe looked at us worried, and then to Shiva. ‘She did come back with two drinks from the bar once, but we checked. You know? Cause we like… we thought we had finally gotten her to grab a proper drink but no… they were both sodas.’ That was the first time I invited a woman to a flipping soda in a club. ‘Seriously, you should let her stitch you up. You can’t even imagine what she does to faces on a daily basis.’ Said Chloe. ‘I think I might have a slight clue.’ I pointed at my open wound. ‘So I take you’re less of a doctor and more of a plastic surgeon.’ said Loui, he was aiming for neurosurgery, elitism was something that just came in the package. ‘Yes, I’m a plastic surgeon.’ Shiva barely looked at him to respond before turning to me. ‘Just please let me help. Please?’ Her yellow eyes stared right into mine. \ We walked into the lobby in complete silence, we hadn’t spoken since we left Chloe and the musketeers waiting downstairs. We got into the elevator and we both turned and stared at the door. The elevator went up to the twentieth floor, the last one, it wasn’t a short ride. It was the only apartment on that floor, must have cost a fortune. She pushed her keys into keyhole and swung the heavy duty door open. I didn’t break the silence as I didn’t want to wake up some kids in the middle of the night with a bloody face. She turned the lights on, the lounge turned bright. The ceiling was quite high for an apartment, it was about 3 meters high and it had white walls with dark brown furniture, the floor was pale marble, it looked a bit like a futuristic palace. There was a single corridor making the way into the apartment. A single empty three shelved shoe rack marked the start of the no shoe zone. She took her heels off and placed them there, leaving her purse hanging inside the closet. Everything was in an immaculate state. ‘Could you take your shoes off please?’ She said. ‘Yes of course.’ I bent over to undo the laces on my trainers. A few drops of blood fell on the marble floor. They looked like how the dress looked on Chloe’s skin. ‘Ugh, I’ve…’ I said struggling to find my words. She turned around and she looked where I was pointing at. ‘Oh don’t worry about it, I’ll clean it later. Come to the bathroom, I got my first aid kit there.’ She looked nervous, but emotionless, cold, like a bonfire that’s just been smothered by a bucket of water. She moved into the apartment turning lights on as she reached the switches. I followed her after I had neatly placed my shoes on the rack next to hers. The corridor was long, I passed two rooms on my right hand, one of them had punk rock posters pasted on the door, Sum 41 and Green Day. I smiled, those were from my generation. The second room had a figure of a moon hanging from the knob and was open. I peeked in, and the walls were blue, a single cradle was in the corner that was visible from the door, and there seemed to be a mattress on the floor, which looked slightly out of place. ‘Jack?’ I heard her call my name. I hurried to the source of her voice, I passed two corridors to each side, I kept going straight and arrived at a huge, professional kitchen, the fridge was huge, and the induction cooker looked completely unused or very well kept, there was a high dining table in the middle of the room, with high stools, which reminded me of the ones from the club. At the furthest side, there was a baby chair. There was a half open bottle of wine on the middle of the table, and a dirty glass right next to it. I thought Chloe said she didn’t drink. A few dishes were piled up next to the sink, it had a faint food smell like the kitchen hadn’t been aired in a while. There were a few boxes from what seemed to be takeout piled in the trash and there were a few family pictures hung on the walls. Nice place. ‘Shiva, where are you? I’ve gotten lost in this small apartment of yours.’ I whispered into the corridor. She came from the corridor to the right carrying a little bag. ‘Oh, you found the kitchen, that works better than the bathroom. Sit on that chair would you?’ She hurried me back in, grabbing a stool and sitting next to me. She took the contents of the bag out, and methodically placed them on the counter. ‘This might sting.’ She cleaned the wound with some transparent liquid from a small bottle and some cotton. ‘It does sting like the devil.’ ‘Do you want to sit on the baby chair?’ She gave me a Mona Lisa smile. ‘Yes please.’ I could take a joke, even in this weird situation. She didn’t reply, her smile grew a bit wider before she started to study my cheek, she seemed worried. She gently tilted my head to the side and asked me to hold the position as she got way too close to my face; her rounded nose was close enough to be burrowing into my beard; her yellow eyes, centimetres from mine, not aware of my gaze; her chest was pressed against my arm. She seemed to be a lot more comfortable with this than I was. While trying not to think that this was the closest I had been with a woman that I hadn’t paid to strip for me in some time, I focused on one of the pictures hung on the wall. Shiva was wearing a full piece swimming suit, she was hugging a pale, blond, muscular man, they were on the beach and she was pregnant. ‘I’m so sorry Jack… I’ve done a good number on you, there are two cuts, almost parallel to each other.’ A few tears fell from her face into my beard. ‘Oh god, I’m sorry, I must look like a proper nut-job at the moment.’ She wiped the tears from my face and from hers with the back of her arm. ‘No worries…’ This was beyond awkward, I was still somewhat angry at this woman and I wasn’t quite sure that I had made the right decision following her there. She continued cleaning the wound, the cotton was turning reddish as she methodically and carefully pressed it against the cuts. ‘Okay, I’m going to need you to stay still. This is some very fine material and I don’t want it to snap.’ She grabbed the hook with something that looked like tweezers, the thread was barely visible to me. She spread my face with her fingers, now behind a silicone glove and she put the stitches down one by one. I decided to keep my pretty mouth shut and looked at the picture again. I noticed that there was a small boy climbing on her husband’s leg, holding onto his waist with both hands and wrapping his legs around him to push himself up, he had curly dark hair and his skin was a very light shade of brown. It was a lovely family picture. ‘Okay, we’re halfway through, you still there with me?’ She said. ‘Yea, just admiring your little monkey, he seems to have excellent taste in music. How old is he now?’ I pointed at the picture. ‘He’s seven.’ Shiva said, completely emotionless, focused on her work. ‘Pretty young to listen to Punk Rock isn’t him?’ I realised that was none of my business after those words came out of my mouth. ‘That’s his dad’s fault.’ She quickly stated, less neutral than she wanted to sound. ‘Sorry, I was thinking out loud. It’s no concern of mine.’ I did not want her to snap again. I pictured her choking me with the thread, very plausible indeed. ‘Don’t apologise, please… I’m almost done here.’ She tied another knot, but at the end, she dropped the tweezers, which ricocheted off the floor and went under the sink counter. ‘FUCK’ She shouted. ‘Shh!’ I tightened my whole body and pushed my open palms down in a “be quiet” gesture. ‘Jesus Christ, you’re going to wake your whole family.’ I was in no hurry to experience how wonderful it might be to explain this situation to her husband. ‘Shit, those things are slippery. I don’t have another pair, we’re going to have to get them from down there…’ ‘Seriously don’t worry about it, I’ll get the rest done at the hospital. God knows what’s down there, I don’t want to get the cut infected…’ This was getting weirder and weirder and I just wanted out of the house. This had been a really bad idea. ‘You’re right, I think Jonh keeps another pair in his nightstand.’ ‘No no, do not wake your husband up please.’ I pleaded anxiously. ‘He’s not here.’ She said in a neutral calmed tone. ‘Now shut it and wait till I’m back!’ A few minutes later I heard a loud noise. ‘Shiva?’ I whispered loudly into the corridor again. ‘I’m okay, I just fell down, wait there.’ I’ve never been the waiting kind, I headed to the source of the noise, to the left of the kitchen, and I saw her sitting on her side, in the dark, facing the door, patting her right thigh and looking in pain. I turned the lights on as I entered the room. ‘How did you fall?’ I offered my hand, she grabbed it and pulled herself up. ‘I must have tripped on something. Let’s get back to the kitchen.’ She seemed to want to get out of that room rather quickly, she was tight, nervous. I thought it was because of the fall, but then I actually looked at the room. I had not noticed the state it was in until that point. There were bottles everywhere, she had tripped on one of them for sure. There was no mattress on the bed, it must have been the one that I saw in the room with the cradle. The blinds were shut and there were two ashtrays sitting on one side of the bed, completely full of cigarette butts, everything else on them was glasses and mugs, some of them overflowing wish ash and more cigarettes. As I noticed this, the smell of home hit me: stale tobacco, marihuana, closed room and the sour-sweet smell from the dried alcohol in the bottles. The pictures in the room were taken off the walls and turned around and there were piles of books on both sides of the bed frame. ‘Seriously please, let’s get out of here, I got Jonh’s first aid kit right here.’ She waved the little purse in front of my eyes, capturing my attention. It was the same way a mother would wave some candy in front of their kids while saying ‘look what I got here’. By this time, Iw as already used to her forcefully playful and cheerful tone. Before she left, she opened the windows. We left the room without speaking at all, as she left, she closed the door behind her. I sat down in my stool, rested my hands on my lap, and she started working on me again. We remained in silence for a few minutes, this allowed me to unpack the night a bit. I thought about my own demons, and how much they might look like hers. She looked calm and serene while she dug into my skin with that hook. By the few last stitches, I was no longer angry. ‘He left with the kids right?’ I said as I looked her in the eye. ‘Yes.’ She tied another stitch and wiped her first tear away. \ If you've reached this far, thank you for taking the time to have a read. I really appreciate any feedback. English isn't my first language, so if I've gotten anything wrong: do let me know. Once again, thanks.


When I heard Aunt Maisie’s warble on the voice-mail I groaned. Although she and Uncle Leland are no-fuss visitors, the type who’d welcome a cheese sandwich at my kitchen table, I suspected they had an agenda behind their impromptu visit in late spring. They’re good friends with Genevieve’s family. I wanted an excuse for a knock-down belly-busting barbecue. I was in the mood to coax a T-bone steak to perfection on my shiny new thousand-dollar deluxe grill enthroned on the deck that I had lovingly refurbished most of the past year while Genevieve was working long hours at the city hospital. I wanted to bask in the admiration of friends and neighbors for completing the big deck/barbecue project. Instead, my aunt and uncle just wanted to hang out in the breakfast nook. Whatever. “The Crown Vic blew a gasket this past winter and we had to junk it,” Uncle Leland said, accepting with a sigh the mug of tea I handed him. “Hoo-eee, it’s an uncommon delight to be riding in luxury again.” I wished Genevieve was here to help carry my end of the conversation while I sliced and buttered. “Musta been a rough winter,” I said, “getting to and from work by dogsled.” Leland was a bookkeeper and Maisie worked part-time for the municipality. They also did odd jobs like Christmas shift at the post office and selling fishing worms to summer vacationers. They laughed appreciatively. “Good ole Pete, you haven’t lost your sense of humor here in the big city.” Leland looks like a garden gnome dressed like an accountant. He has that spry, mischievous aura and bulbous features. Maisie has apple cheeks, an unexpectedly sharp nose, and a mop of yellow-gray hair. Looking at them, you’d never guess they’d lost their only son to meningitis two decades ago. “We saved a passel of money, is what,” Maisie said. “And I lost ten pounds, toning my muscles as I tromped through waist-high snowbanks.” She patted her thighs proudly. “You know how he loves to drive, but not so much in winner,” she said, dropping the T in “winter” and thus making the harsh season into a positive. Typical Maisie. “You don’t realize how much you pay Royal Dutch every week until you decide to quit driving a gas guzzler,” Leland said. Yes, the company has rebranded to Shell, but these two keep calling it “Royal Dutch.” “We’re doing our bit to save the environment,” Maisie said, accepting the sandwich plate. She glanced at the clutter I had to push aside as I set down her plate. “What, is Genevieve away for a bit?” “Ye-es,” I said carefully. “We’re…” I thrust a plate at Leland, who took one glimpse at my desperate face and helped man-to-man with a digression on the price of cheese. “So, you saved up for a car?” I asked once we were safely past the topic of Genevieve. “Or is that a rental you drove up in?” Leland’s eyes shifted to Maisie and back to me. “Started to… but then I realized we had a chance to double our money!” He grinned. “Ever hear of N.F.Ts?” I blinked. In between rebuilding the deck and trying to placate Genevieve, I’d been researching NFTs, eventually concluding I didn’t feel comfortable jumping on a bandwagon whose name I could barely pronounce. (Come on, when’s the last time you heard “fungible” used in a conversation?) “So you got into NFTs…,” I said, “whose idea was that ?” I’d decided to stir up this lovey-dovey pair. The best defense is a good offense. If the family sent them here to talk to me about Genevieve—perhaps to advise me to take her back—I would instead get Maisie and Leland quarreling. Nothing like questions of money to provoke a squabble, right? Their spats were legendary in the family, with not much crockery surviving from their wedding set. Maisie chuckled. “Well, he started it… but, okay, I kept feeding it. I cut out articles for him... found a book. We might live in the boondocks of upper Maine, but we stay up to date.” “So, what priceless artwork did you buy the NFTs for?” I said. “Not some pixelated gorilla, I hope.” Leland nudged Maisie. “See, Pete knows all about ‘em. I told you he would.” He winked. “Sounds like you’ve been dipping into the alternative markets, too.” I shrugged; I play my cards close to the chest whenever I can. Something else that used to drive Genevieve nuts. “Problem is, the wiffy,” Maisie said. “Wi-Fi,” I corrected her gently (as nephews have to do). “Rhymes with hi-fi and tie-dye.” “You know what she means,” Leland said, loyally. “The WiFi’s pretty slow out there, and liable to interruptions. We know our limitations, so we went to the city to find a financial advisor.” “Joe and Betty’s girl was getting married,” Maisie said, “so we caught a ride with them—they were glad to share the driving,” After a digression about Joe’s cataracts and Betty’s breast and the wedding, Maisie said, “We stopped at the first place we saw that offered NTFs.” “NFTs,” I corrected. She waved this away and they sailed merrily along with the story, scarcely missing a beat. “It was an NFT on a painting by… who’s that guy?” Leland said. “You see his work everywhere…” “Oh-oh-oh-tip of my tongue! He does gorgeous work, gorgeous ,” Maisie said. “You know the Christmas cards we send out?” “Ah, Thomas Kinkade.” I recalled the pink and yellow hues of a saccharin Christmas. On the plus side, Kinkade was extremely popular so that meant high demand. I seemed to recall he had died… which would also work in Leland’s favor. Moreover, there was some scandal attached to the artist… that would also make the NFTs more valuable. But on the negative side, Kinkade was extremely prolific—the NFTs issued for his kitsch would be a dime a dozen. With all the swings and roundabouts of volatile prices, I figured Leland would pretty much break even. Leland nudged Maisie. “You see how polite this nephew of ours is?” he said to her and she murmured agreement. “I can see it in your eyes, Pete. You know the market for NFTs turned real soft… “Soft as a moldy peach,” I said, “especially for over-exposed artists like Kinkade, whose pictures are printed on every coffee cup and roll of toilet paper this side of the Appalachians.” Maisie looked like she’d been slapped. I suspected I’d never receive another Kinkade card. For a fleeting moment, I recalled Genevieve’s face the time—the one time—I dared comment on her choice of tableware. Her tastes, like my aunt’s, ran to the cozy and sentimental. I’d told Genevieve that I preferred not to eat my sardines on toast in the middle of a flower bed of lilies and forget-me-nots… and started nuclear winter. Why had things blown up for Genevieve and me? I studied Leland’s profile. He didn’t share Maisie’s style. Any reference to their décor was self-deprecating. Somehow they’d been able to negotiate a truce, these two. Maisie picked up her cup and said, “Would Genevieve be able to say hi if we drove by the city hospital, do you think?” “No way,” I said. “They’re too busy to spit.” Maisie was veering toward the subject of Genevieve and me. “Don’t tell me you lost your shirt on the NFTs,” I said, figuring I could keep distracting them by asking about their lives. The worst they could say was, “Mind your own beeswax.” But Leland had no false pride. “Ten cents on the dollar,” he said. “Ouch!” “Yep. So much for buying a new set of wheels.” Leland ran his fingers through his few strands of gray hair. I stared at him. I would never have admitted getting fleeced, not even with family. It seemed unmanly. Genevieve would have kicked me to the curb. Or would she? There was Maisie, placing her hand over Leland’s knuckles like she was wrapping her palm around a golden scepter. “The radio people came around to innerview him. My Lele here became a local celebrity.” She beamed. “They ran the piece a few times.” “And the worm business picked up,” Leland said. “Folks kept dropping by to ask if they could see my famous painting. And they’d buy a cup or two of worms.” “But the publicity meant we got targeted by identity thieves,” Maisie said. She dropped her voice ominously. “The nerve of some people!”  “The scum!” I said. “But the joke was on them,” Maisie said. “I’ll say!” Leland crowed. “We hadn’t a cent left to steal.” His expression darkened. “Boy, did I feel like a fool. Seems like the whole country knows…” “Well, so what?” she said. “Isn’t this what they mean by radical honesty? People learned from your experience. Takes a brave man to offer himself up like a life lesson.” I sighed in commiseration. This spring I was voted the worst-dressed teacher at the school. Genevieve had left me and I still hadn’t figured out the washing machine. “Yes, it takes guts to face the public,” I said. “Wish I could charge tuition fees at the School of Hard Knocks,” Leland said. “See? He even made it funny,” she said. He bristled. “Funny? It sure wasn’t funny…” “Oh, Lele, you didn’t mean it to be funny but, in a way, it was.” I nodded. “That’s the best kind of funny.” “And then there was that heckler,” he said. “She wasn’t a heckler,” Maisie said. “Sure seemed like one to me.” Leland gave a shudder as if remembering the encounter. “She was from out of town; you could tell by how fast she talked and how odd she looked. No sir, she was no Mainer.” “You say ‘odd’ like she had two heads,” Maisie said teasingly. “She had something up her nose—” Maisie hooted. “You say it like she had a cucumber stuck up her nose!” This caused a gale of hilarity while I sat blankly, waiting to hear about Leland’s brief career on the lecture circuit. From the description Maisie wheezed, I realized it was a small diamond nose piercing the “odd” stranger had. I made a mental note to wear my nose ring the next time I see them. I’ll help broaden their horizons: that’s what a good nephew does. “So she heckled you,” I said. “Then what?” “She challenged this and that, things I’d done, answers I’d received from authorities.” He polished his big-lensed glasses, which had fogged up when he’d been rolling with mirth. “I had all the paperwork, right there.” “Oh yes, he’s a real bloodhound,” she said. “Used to be a forensic accountant,” he said. “That gal thought she was going to take him down—but he turned it right around.” Maisie made a motion like she was steering a bus. “The library asked me to give my talk again,” he said. “There’s big interest in ID theft out here.” “We checked out some of the other library lectures,” Maisie said. “Lele, I said, let’s try that yoga class. He’s been having high blood pressure, what with the broken-down car, the worthless NFTs, and then getting his identity stolen.” “And don’t forget the septic tank problem,” Leland interjected. She patted his hand. “Any other man would be a puddle of stress hormone…” “Yeah, and she kept going on about yoga…” He smirked. “What choice did I have?” “High blood pressure—the silent killer!” she said. “Our doctor gave him some meds but also said, exercise and meditation.” “The problem with yoga class is,” he said gravely, “I sometimes fart.” She blithely ignored this. “It’s been very helpful. We do it every day now.” “So… your library lecture was a bust, but you discovered meditation and improved your health,” I said. “With all the swings and roundabouts, you came out about even.” I reflected… maybe I should try yoga. Genevieve was always saying I was too impatient and stressed. I pictured my aunt and uncle stretched out on yoga mats, possibly laughing too hard to get up from the “half lord of the fishes” pose. “Oh, no, the lecture wasn’t a bust,” Maisie said. “The chief librarian’s sister from New York was visiting,” Leland said. “Works for a big publishing house. She was the heckler,” he clarified. “She came to my next talk—” “The back-by-popular-demand version,” Maisie said, grinning. “Came up and talked to us afterward. Said she knew an agent who needed this kind of book, ‘What To Do When You Lose Your Shirt.’ She asked Lele to make an outline.” “An outline?” I replenished tea all around and collected the sandwich plates. I sneaked a glance at the stove clock. There was still time to call Genevieve and invite her over. She loved—loves, I guess—Maisie and Leland. She calls them the real deal, salt of the earth, and the family she never had. Yes, we were officially broken up, but I still had a box of Genevieve’s books. I could say Maisie and Leland were asking about her and by the way, I’d found some books. “Come on over and listen to their latest escapade,” I’d say. “The agent said if I provided enough detail they’d write the book for me,” he said. “I looked them right in the eye and said, ‘thanks, but I’ll take care of that myself.’” Maisie leaned closer to me. “Pete, a little bird told me you resigned from teaching recently. That’s good news for us—we’re hoping you can help us out.” I choked on my tea. I pictured telling Genevieve I had landed a freelance assignment. This was sort of in my area: English literature. And I wouldn’t have to deal with overcrowded classrooms and belligerent students. Moreover, it might be good to hang out with a couple of experts. Experts on marriage. I could use a few pointers. They were obviously used to dealing with the swings and roundabouts and coming out together. THE END