Sinarta is my hometown. It is a small town on a hill that overlooks the Grange Valley on one side and Lake Naples on the other. On the shores of the lake are flower plantations. Sometimes a cool morning breeze carries the scent of myriad flowers to the inhabitants of Sinarta. It has often been said that the day Bobby came to town, a jasmine-scented breeze was blowing from the lakeside. It was a cold day in February. Most people were indoors, watching Netflix and drinking hot fluids. Anyone who had business to do outdoors was heavily clad in jackets and trenchcoats and sweaters and scarves and gloves and boots. I was among the first people to see Bobby. Initially, I thought he was crazy. He was standing outside the Town Hall, besides the statue of one of our town's revered heroes. He was in a white shirt, a pair of black cotton trousers, and black loafers. He was leading a one-man protest. Bobby had come from Foota, another small town about 40 miles from Sinarta. What Sinarta and Foota had in common was that they were the two biggest, most developed, economic giants, in Kwani County. Sinarta Town hosted the headquarters of Kwani County at the Town Hall. Foota had a fairer climate at all times of the year, which could explain Bobby's outfit that day. The day Bobby came to town was on a Thursday. I remember that particular detail because on Thursday we always have a FIFA tournament. My friend Jack and I had gone to the central district of Sinarta to play against a few opponents from a neighboring school. Jack was my roommate and we had spent a lot of nights together practicing. We beat them in all matches, and put down our PlayStation controllers 500 US dollars richer. Jack and I decided not to split the prize money. "Let's spend it together," I proposed as we left the tournament room. "Spend it how?" Jack asked. "We buy a PS5 and use the remainder to pay for electricity tokens," I answered immediately. "Of course," Jack replied as a matter of factly. We were in such high spirits that he had even forgotten that our consoles were ragged and we were on the verge of a blackout. As we hurried off to the superstore with 500 dollars in our pockets, we met Bobby. He was standing alone on the steps of the Town Hall demanding that the Internet be made a social right. As we were walking past him, he shouted at us and summoned us to him. "Maybe he has something important to tell us," we both thought as we walked towards him. He began his speech by introducing himself as a social entrepreneur. He said that he started a bunch of technology startups that had made him a lot of money. His latest innovation was a social media application that gave users total anonymity. The County Government of Kwani had refused to grant his company operational license. The application had also been blocked by the same County. I interrupted him to ask him why the government would do that. He told us that the current regime had mismanaged public funds and engaged in corrupt practices. He had been one of the people that had exposed them. He had done it virtually anonymously. I remembered that that expose had made news some time back. The newspapers had reported that someone of unknown identity had released classified documents implicating the members of the current regime. However, the case had been dismissed in the courts after the Kwani County Government officials had used political muscle to intimidate the High Court judges. Was he "Whistleblower X"? I wondered. He told us that the same government he was trying to expose had retaliated by banning his social media application. The government was afraid that his app would be a tool for political opponents to organize themselves. They were hell-bent on impeding public communications and keep themselves in power. "They intercept all of our communications, you know?" he said. He had me convinced. Jack also seemed to be on the same page. Bobby wanted us to join his protest. I had listened to his message and bought into his vision. I now understood that technology can be a democratizing influence. That is why our apparently corrupt and autocratic government was trying to shut it down. I decided to be a critic of the government. On that cold Thursday in February, the three of us walked into a Bistro and ordered hot coffee for each of us.  We told Bobby about our tournament and the prize money. His eyes lit up. He laid a plan for us. We told him we would not spend the money yet as we thought about his proposal. We would get in touch. When we got home and discussed Bobby's plan, we knew one thing for sure. This plan was going to land us in hot water. We rightfully called the plan Bobby's Trap. And yet we decided to go ahead with it, come what may. We called him two days later and told him that we had agreed to create an animated web series and sponsor it with the prize money. The web series would be titled 'The Rude Rebellion' and would be heavily critical of the wrong-doings of the Kwani Government. "Remember, you are crossing a line here boys. Once you start this project, there is no turning back. Are you boys sure about this?" Bobby asked over the phone, which was on the loudspeaker. Jack looked at me and nodded in the affirmative. "Yes, Bobby. We are willing to take our chances," I responded hurriedly. "Okay then. I will link you up with a good animation design agency. They have competitive rates. Ask to speak to Lilian...tell her you are Bobby's friends...she will get you preferential treatment...(pause). Anything else?" Bobby's voice came over the loudspeaker. "Nothing for now. We will keep in touch," I replied. "Keep my name out of it," he said before the line went dead. In a few seconds, I received a message with the agency's address and contact information. I dialed the number and it was picked up after three dials. I asked to speak to Lilian. The Customer Service agent told us that she was not available at the moment. She would be back in the office in an hour's time. I asked to speak to her Secretary. I was transferred to her secretary who had a warm voice. I booked an appointment with Lilian in one hour. We met with Lilian in her office and told us we were sent by Bobby. She recognized the name immediately. Apparently, she was a co-founder in one of Bobby's startups. "Whats the series going to be about?" she asked after the small talk. Jack had prepared a pitch already. "It going to be focused on how our leaders clearly are using internet shutdowns to stifle criticism, maintain their own political control, and use selective digital disruptions to harm particular geographic areas or stymie political opponents," he said. We handed over the script (which had been done by a hired freelancer over the internet) and the schedules. She went over everything and after ascertaining that all was fine, she told us to wait for six weeks. We paid the rates with our remaining prize money and went our way. Six weeks later, we released 'The Rude Rebellion' and sent the streaming links to Bobby. According to our plan, we would finance the production and he would promote the series anonymously through a third party. He did not want to be directly involved in this because, in his own words, he had 'more to lose ' than we did. It was true. He had already suffered enough of a setback with the ban of his application and didn't want to endure more suffering at the hands of the government. Although we were in the same struggle, we had more anti-fragility and robustness as we were mere upstarts who might gain a lot in terms of money and fame if our series became a success. We had no downside. "The Rude Rebellion" went viral. The plot and the graphic aesthetics gave it an appeal, but it was the content of the series that stirred feelings of discontent among many. Among the key-to-actions was using a VPN to access Bobby's application. People converged in the application and started venting pent-up anger and exasperation against the government. It was these stirred-up emotions that were later manifested in organized protests. Where one man had stood alone, where we three had met, now the same place hosted a multitude of angry protesters. And Bobby watched in anticipation to see whether the government would acquiesce to pressure and lift the ban on his app. We also watched in awe and disbelief. We couldn't believe our eyes. Could a few people spark something this big? I guess that's how things work in Bobby's Trap!


This stream of conversation, written by the same person each time, is loosely based on the dynamic of two women in their 50s who are very close to my heart. Both refer to each other as different variations of the word "Clam" and occasionally something worse, which is very true to life. These letters provide multiple examples of their relationship's wacky and somewhat inappropriate humor while also referencing very dark themes such as grief, depression, and isolation. It's not your traditional kind of love or set of thank-you's per se, but each message is pure gratitude in its own Clammy way. Hey Clam,

I broke our noise machine. The one you got me that's just like yours. I slid it off my nightstand when I was reaching for my Invisalign. It was soaking in the cup I got from our campus store, funny enough. It sucks, though, because it was actually doing a pretty decent job of lulling me to sleep with that one-wave audio. There's something about the predictability of the water when it's just about to crash on that artificial shoreline that really puts me at ease. It's much more reliable than the rain ones, where you can never pinpoint the thunder and lightning, and I'd always find myself jolted awake in a pool of sweat. Sorry, I'm babbling on. You know how I is. I just wanted you to know it's lovely what you're doing, all the gifts. It's helping me take my mind off Al, so thank you. Missing our trip to Aruba and when you were over for Keith's farewell dinner. Let me know what books you've been into. Love, Clammy Hey Clamshank, Such a shame what happened with you and that guy, Mark. What a shame that douche had to cut you off, but at least he saved you the trouble of leaving at the altar in the next couple of years or months, I don't know how antsy you were. I guess now we're both stranded, stranded in single-sea once again. Sooner or later, men will realize that we're the only fish left and do something about it, but until then, you can follow behind me in my current till you're ready to latch onto some new hot bait. You can thank me later when you're hitched and happy. Like the time I helped you get acquainted with Harry. You would have never met such a great time if I hadn't dumped him for those ugly sneakers he'd always wear in Sophomore year. I'm so glad it worked out for you guys, but at the same time, I'm a little disappointed you were so content with him in those...monstrosities. Whatever, I'm picky. But honestly, if they all just end up being great times, that's okay, too. More of you for me. I miss you, and I hope you come to visit me this weekend for a little Scrabble and Blue Diamond Pub mix where we can shit on life some more. You bring the Scrabble. Love, Clamberg Hey Rummy,

I'm missing Keith (Lil Clam). I'm worried about what he's getting up to at that school. My mind returns to the absurdity of our days in Albany, and my face turns white; he can't be as bad as we were, right? I guess there is always the possibility that he's just having tame fun and not soiling his dignity with a group of twit friends. Maybe he's even studying? That couldn't be. Something I am grateful for, though, despite how much I worry, is that I ended up being persuaded into all of this paranoia. Having him with Allen. I remember how badly I used to never want children. But once you convinced me of how worth it a child would be, there I was, holding his tiny little head that fit right in the palm of our hands. Well, eventually, I got to hold him after you and Al woke me up with a cool compress after I had passed out with my legs still splayed. You sat through all the blood and the screaming, and the thing is, I'm not even humiliated. It was probably just as bad as us drunkenly heckling people, crinkled clutches in hand, on some ferry dock in our 20s, waiting for the lucky boat to sail us into the sunset of those wild nights in our Suny years. The cerulean in the sky always sunk so quickly, so unknowingly with you. There was always so much more joy on our floor, in our paths, in my life when the two of us were conquering it. Without your encouragement, I wouldn't have had the Platsky that we love and all that we survive to tell these tales back and forth to each other like a broken record. And Keith wouldn't have had the nickname Platsky without you. And I'm sorry you regret never freezing your eggs. But you can love Keith as much as you want because you earned it. Whether you know it or not, you're a very powerful force in my universe. I hope you do. I mean, I was never gonna let you forget. Speaking of Keith, the boy communicates poorly, so I'll make sure he rings your phone today. And expect more of these little notes I've gotten kind of into writing to you. Love, Rummy

Hey Clambake,

I'm not doing so well at work. My hunchback continues to coil inward, and all the summer heat seems to be all packed up in my at-home office. Along with my two massive monitors that take up my entire desk, I have an army of fans surrounding me as if I were rallying them up like a loyal battalion. Is it pathetic that I don't even know what I'm doing anymore? The newer staff radiate stupidity, I'm unmotivated, and my boss manages to be a lard ass and a bonehead at the very same time. The firm just isn't what it used to be, and I'm just so tired, so tired of being remote. Thankfully, I can still write to you, do the crossword, and do Sunday's crossword on my break, two very different things, as we know. And I can do it all within my freshly treated backyard, which is too big for me to afford anymore, where Al's tennis court planning and measurement papers haunt me. Maybe I should get back into playing, but it's tricky. Playing with him in the back of my mind would be hard; I just know his critique will find its way to me from beyond the grave. He never did shut up about my form, that goober. Maybe it would've made sense to listen to it, though. I might've actually won a set or two. And both of us know I could never ask you to play with me. We saw your game in school; you're benched for life. But I guess he is, too, so you got us. One thing I remembered today, pretty randomly, that was able to liven my mood a measly bit was, and you're gonna hate that I'm bringing this up, your relationship with Pete. You know... that one time I first met him? I don't know why, but it just randomly came up today. He was such a bub; he was so damn weird, probably one of the weirder ones in your collection. I'll never forget that crystal clear image of us at his parent's house in the summer; it was practically as hot as it is now, but I remember just wanting to come up with you this one time, just curious about what the two of you would get up to on weekends. When I asked to, I remember you had this ghastly look, just pure dread. I was baffled by it. From the moment you got there, you begged me to wait in the driveway instead; you changed your mind about me going in and said you were just going to say hello to him and his eighty-year-old parents, and it would be best if I just stayed out of it... And I told you, well, "What? So his place is a little scrappy? Sure, it looks like it could have a "Redrum" or two on some of the mirrors, but whatever." I wasn't gonna give you a hard time about it. You see what you see in a guy, and sometimes, it includes overlooking the crime scene in his living room and the corpse in his bathtub or just his parents that have maybe rotted into the seams of a recliner. You like what you like. But that's when the hot-flash heat kicked in, and at that point, I was risking heat stroke if I didn't get inside, so I said screw it and went around the back. That's when I make my way up the stairs to the patio, and I see him twisting those big fat juicy tics off, Ralph, Ralph right? Poor mutt. Then he lined them up on the porch railing and tried to shoot them off with a pump rifle. Plunk, plunk, plunk, they all flew, getting lost in the coarseness of his lawn. In the instance I caught you nibbling away at your nails behind the screen door, I knew exactly why you didn't want me to come in, 'cause I was gonna rip you a new one. At that point, you had already sensed the storm brewing. Out of love, I released fuckery on you. "Clammy, you didn't tell me he was as fine as a frog hair split four ways, gosh darn it!" And that was just the start. For the entire afternoon, I tested out every snarky remark I had in me to remind you of the country bumpkin future that was in store for you. Thankfully, Pete didn't seem to mind. Well, he rarely put much to mind. The vacancy in his piercing blue eyes was made apparent from the jump when I saw him calculating those swollen tics behind the sights of his gun. I'm sorry, Clam, he was a major pig. But aren't you happy you didn't see where it went? Aren't you glad that it didn't progress? There was no severe entanglement you had to constantly pull knots out of or anything so cataclysmic that it would burst into flames without warning. All you had to do was have him dump you a week later, have him propel you out of that mess like an enlarged bug into the vastness of lavish backwoods, and you were free. I'm just so glad there wasn't any more pain beyond that. Who knows how you'd be holding up now if you became his bumpkin bride? Sorry for the info dump. I guess I just got really, really into writing to you. I'll try to kill my enthusiasm next time. Otherwise… nothing's new. My final statement: I miss binge-watching Outlander together and you rubbing my feet on the couch. We should hop to it soon. Love, A Clammy Clam Hey Clam,

Thank you for helping me resolve the debacle I had with Keith. If we're being real, it wasn't his fault. He confided in me. I said the wrong thing. I fucked up. Love, Clam P.S.

I love A Tale for the Time Being. It's such a good read, and I can't put it down. It's an obsession.

Hey Clam,

The house is gone. You know that already, but I don't wanna put out the “sold” sign. It’s too hard to let it go when there is still a remanence of him there, in a literal and figurative sense. I didn't tell you this at brunch, but when I got the last few things out of the basement, I saved "the shelf" to tackle last. The first thing that happens is me dropping the urn right smack on the hardwood. Luckily the base didn't crack, but the lid did (a cheap piece of shit), and some of him kinda… fell out. It was humiliating. I had to use a dustpan to sift the remnants through its open wound because I was too afraid to just take the whole thing off. It's like those stupid sand viles you get for your kid at a resort. Do you think someone could put Al in one of those to give to a kid who would discard it from boredom in a couple of days? Sorry, that's morbid. I just hope I didn't miss any of him, that's all. I know we're not spiritual, but I just get the feeling that he'll never really leave that house because of his unfinished projects, lost time, and lost moments. The world is cruel, but I'm glad to make light of it with you, Clammers. Otherwise, I would have asked Kieth to just fry me up and add me into the spice pantry with his old man, just to get it over with. Kieth would hate that I said that. When we finally made the last round on all our stuff, which overall is way too much for two people to hoard away in one space, on the way to storage unit, I made sure Keith skipped all the songs the three of us used to play during the drive. The ones from the old apartment in Jersey City that Allen would dip us to. The songs we'd belt from the fire escape in the early AMs that miraculously never received a complaint from a neighbor above or below. Strange, maybe they knew. Maybe all those people who dwelled below that sad little brick wall view we had must have thought those moments were precious enough to be left alone. That we wouldn't have them forever. I worry I may never stop asking Keith to skip them. Pray for me, Clam

Hey Clitty,

Yeah, we're both pushing 60, but that doesn't mean we have to be alone while we do it. Come over, please I want you to try the banana bread I made for my neighbor with the screw loose. She invited me to her place about a week back, certainly out of pity since I'm never active in the neighborhood, for this all-keto dinner she prepared that was, believe it or not, some good eats (you probably wouldn't think so). I gotta make it up to her somehow, and since we don't cook or bake, we can both agree that it's good enough, and that alone will motivate me to actually walk over to her place and subject her to it with confidence. I need your like-minded input, so just let me know when your car is approaching, and I'll make sure the dog isn't standing in the driveway's roadkill-zone. I appreciate you. Love,

Clitberg

Hey Clam, Finished your book. Now what?

Love,

Clammy

Hey Clam, I think I figured out the round-trip flights to Puerto Rico, but I totally messed up with the hotel. I booked two by accident, one of which apparently has Michelin-star restaurant status, and the other one is the hotel we decided on from our itinerary… It's too late to make a cancelation on the one we'd shoot wads for, so bring some dressy clothes and get a pedi done because we're bringing our nice show-toes for this girl's trip. Don't worry, I'll still cover both, and before you say I'm dumb, trust me, I know. Thank you for bearing with it. Furthermore, Kieth says he's excited and told me that he's even gonna make sure he wakes up before noon to make the flight. I know you two aren't blood, but he always had your cut-wit. Get excited, Clam!

Love,

Clam

Hey Clam, That trip was fantastic! Keith is showing me our pictures. It's crazy—we're actually looking into the camera concurrently in some of them! I think we're starting to grasp technology. Can you believe it? And thanks for helping me find a dog sitter for the Pheebers. They did her well (which means they were able to cut her nails, something Phoebe will never let me do.) Love,

Clammy Clam,

I'm lonely. Send reinforcements (peanut M&M's). I appreciate you! Love, Clam

Hey Clam, I heard about your mom. I don't even have words; she was so wonderful. I remember when I lost mine. When I first saw her, she was different. Especially at the hospital. She had already lost a lot of her warmth. There was desolation even when I held her hands beside her bed. It was like our bond had been caught in the midst of a dust storm. There we were on opposite sides of a desert separated by whirling sands and thick thrusts of wind, with no way to see each other through the mounds of it that hurled in our paths. Yet, despite how badly I wanted to fight it and push through the pelting pain of airborne salt, I knew it was her time. We had to go our own ways. And just like that, I found beauty in natural disasters. And, just so you know, I would never explain something like this now to anyone in such agonizing detail but you. You always said that if I can empathize with you about something, I better spare no detail when doing it. So there's your proof—that I know how tragic it is. I hope you at least know it's rare for people to live a life as vivacious and as meaningful as your mother's, and you were responsible for all of it. I would love to swing by if you were around, but I know you tend to appreciate some distance in these circumstances. So, I sent you an edible arrangement. It can't aid the loss but it can surely fill you up for about two days' worth of dessert. I hope you enjoy it irresponsibly and do what must be done.

Love, Clam Hey Clam, How do I get my son a job? Actually, scratch that. Let me request something more realistic: How do I get him some vitamin D and the desire to do something fun outside this summer? Thank you for offering up your cats for him to watch, but like his father, he's actually semi-allergic. Too bad you aren't his daddy. He'd be all up in Milo and Ziggy's shedding by now. Love, Clam In response to your concerns,

I just don't know. I haven't lived with someone since Allen, and I don't know if Keith could handle the shrunken space even when he'd only be there on certain days. He'd love hanging with you, but with the dog and everything and all his art supplies and the big bad monitors that follow me around everywhere I go, I don't know if you'd wanna have me. It would be too much to ask you to come with us too. You wouldn't see me for the first 8 hours of the day, and you're always taking calls and stuck in meetings, and after a while, I don't feel like talking. Thank you for the offer, though. I'll have to give it more thought, but I doubt it will change anything. Anyway, don't spoil the end of Ray Donivan; I will still try and tolerate it to the end.

I Love You, Clam

Hey Clammy,

I'd hate to have you see me in shambles, but you already have many times, and Kieth is back in school again, and he took the damn iPad with him. It's gonna take a whole year for me to be able to play a gargantuan round of Farm Heros, or at least until he visits me again, which could be NEVER. In general, I'm pretty bummed. Would it be easier if I came to you this time?

Love,

Clam Clam,

We're both pushing 60. Don't ignore me.

Love,

Clam Hey Ann,

I know the two of us have been pretty MIA these past couple of weeks. Hopefully, just weeks, I can't keep track of time anymore. I've been thinking about taking you up on your offer. I don't want our closeness untethering under our noses. I want to make sure we can still grab hold of it and keep it wrapped up as tightly as possible. It's probably my fault. The ends of the tweeds I'm holding onto are just so thin from all the way in North Jersey. When I think of home now, I see Irvington, New York. I want to live in that condo on the water. I want to grow old with you in that town. I’m always envying the me that was with you in Albany, in Jersey City, and on some plane leaving Newark. After Al, nothing was infinite except you. I don't know why, but you stayed. You stayed when I was neglectful. You survived my outbursts and my mistakes; you held your gaze over my cold shoulder. You're the reason I'm still verbal and how I stay aware of the outside world. I could avoid everyone I love but always find an excuse to sneak you in through the confines of my isolation. You made me a lover, a mother, and a comic all in one go, and you made me feel like one, too. Now, all I see for my future is you sitting with your two cats, your big HD T.V., your overnight oats in the freezer, and a view of the Tappan Zee whenever I want (it's still the Tappan Zee in my ultimate fantasy). I know that lately, I've made you quite angry, I need to "learn how to pick up the phone and answer a message from time to time," I know. I'm always in a slump. But maybe I wouldn't have to keep myself in check if the person that I needed the most was just a few steps away from me. All I know is that I need to get out of the ruins of Al's Kingdom. I thought I'd feel better after the move. Yet, I still live in the old blueprints that'll never leave the drawing board. Living here means being reminded of that from the moment I open my eyes in the morning until I close them again at 3 am after watching Law and Order re-runs while simultaneously playing Candy Crush in the living room (I know, not healthy). I love Platsky, but he reminds me so much of Al, which can leave me solemn. And now that both of them aren't around like they used to be, I feel like I'm the one who's forced to upkeep this dead narrative all on my own. There's nothing to stay loyal here to anymore; I wouldn't even know what it would look like for me if there were. Like a tree, I think I’ve been meaning to extend my branches and grow outward. It's like an itch that needs scratching. So, I finally came to the realization that I'm sick of how empty my room is every night. I'm sick of how long I have to wait to get caught up in a fit of laughter, how long I have to wait for you to hold me again, for you to hold me and simply understand. As a tag team, we've lost many good things, you know that, but we have each other to remember how things used to be. As a tag team, we're just one extensive archive, not just of memories; we hold and preserve all the stupid jokes we make and all the stupid men that accumulated over time. We remember great lyrics, great movies, great stories, and even all the great hairstyles and outfits we put together and ditched, which was for the best, I'd have to assume. Most of them weren't pretty. So, all I'd ask is that you make room for me in your bed and plug in your CPAP. We'll cuddle up like we used to do in our dorm's twin beds, and we can play Wordscapes till our fingers turn purple, and Keith won't mind popping a Benadryl before he sees your cats and taking a different train up to have Jeeves (AKA me) tend to his laundry at the start of September. As long as you can also stand to slide a dog into the mix as well. If you could, I would never stop thanking you. There's so much that's obliged with you if that makes sense. I would like that very much. Maybe you would, too.

Maybe there will be a morning when I'll be sitting at your dining room table with a cup of that Keurig coffee you like. I always preferred a grounded roast, but not to worry; I'd get used to it. Anyway, maybe I'll look down and be face-to-face with all these dumb letters again. And I'll crack a smug smile because I'll know that they weren't the only thing that made it to Irvington. Love,

Steph


TW: suicidal ideation It was all but a dream to some.

But to me, every bit of it is vividly engraved to the back and ends of my mind. I remember your figure perfectly as the hands of the ocean brings you towards me. I remember the scorching sand burning through my skin as I ran towards you. The contrast of the warmth in your smile as the coolness of the water splashes through my clothes.

I remember you.

Every habit and manner you sport from the first day that we met. How you talk about your dreams like no one else does. You were everything but lost. The sparkle in your eyes are as cloudless like all of the days that I was with you.

You were a charisma.

I used to stay awake at night full of doubt and uncertainty, but knowing that I have you to look forward to the next day, lulls me to sleep. There wasn’t a sleepless night knowing that you were better than the dreams that comfort me in slumber.

You made my world turn.

You kept me grounded even when days seemed so wicked and relentless. Barging into life with a pack full of smiles and cheers. Even when rain mercilessly pours down, cancelling everything we’ve prepared for the day. You would laugh. You would look up at me with adornment on your face and brighten up the day.

You were vast.

Like the ocean that roars into the night as we stare off into the darkness. When the line where sky meets the water disperses into oblivion. You would talk about the beauty within the turmoil of the ocean whereas other people would’ve been afraid of. The storm and rage that the calm sea holds during the day. You saw it.

But I was blind.

I remember you. As lucid as the day you left me. I should’ve seen you… looked at you. I should’ve paid attention. That the sparkle in your eyes weren’t encouragement for me to take. They were a silent plea for help. That the warmth in your smiles were there to tell yourself that you’re okay.

I should’ve listened to you.

Rather than listening to the erratic heartbeats that I had, I should’ve listened to the pain in your voice. As you spiritedly empathized with the ocean, you were pouring out yourself. I should’ve listened. Then I should’ve known that the storm wasn’t coming from the distance but beside me. That the screams of your own are louder than the waves crashing along the shore. More powerful than the current that people feared.

I should’ve known.

You were drowning. Longing for rest and utopia in a world seemingly forsaken by the sun. You were begging for me. Asking me for help just as I was clawing for survival. Clinging on to you for air when I was dragging you further into the place you were asking to be saved from.

“You were everything but lost”

I was wrong. You were everything, but lost. Your tears weren’t shed and your heart was locked. You were letting me see right through but I saw my own reflection as I stared at you. It wasn’t a mirror but a door. You were seeking to be found but I never looked your way. Now there’s nothing left for me to hear. Nothing left for me to see, but myself muttering the words, “I’m sorry”. My world fell apart and there was nothing I could do but let the ocean swallow my tears and torment as I remember everything you had to offer.

You made my world a better place not knowing that I’m destroying yours. It wasn’t fair. No, it wasn’t. But it also wasn’t fair that you poured out to me not knowing what to do with the ripples of your waters.

 The day that I met you, everything was so clear. The sun was shining bright and the future lies ahead. I thought you would be there with me. Sitting cozy with the comfort of the sea. Repeatedly caressing the heat away. I remember you perfectly, the figure of you emerging from the sea as the water brings you to me. The way that you would adore them with longing. Just like how I long for you now.

You were a liar.

I shouldn’t be alone right now regretting everything. It should’ve been you. It should’ve been you missing me when I finally succumbed to the pitting screams of my soul to end everything. You dragged me from my sea of melancholy only to leave me drowning in an ocean. It should’ve been you who’s sleepless from the nights that chip away the rest of my being as I replay you in my mind.

I wished I never met you.

If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here. I would’ve given up. You took away the only escape I long for and now you rest along with the stars that mockingly shines in the night. Reminding me of your smiles. The glimmer of tears you never shed as you bottled everything up.

I remember you.

I remember your words as you long to be one with the water. In a deafening serenity as it embraces your body, lulling you to eternal sleep. A dream you yearn for as we stare into the night. I should’ve known that you weren’t talking figuratively. That maybe you really wanted to disappear. Then we wouldn’t be in this situation right now, with you slumbering into the night and you vividly engraved into my mind. You made me want to live even when you felt like dying.

Now I know.

           I never did fully understand you. Now I’m left here all alone, staring at the stars, wishing you were me instead. You were longing for so long and at last you’re with the one you truly desired. In the holds of the freezing trenches of the night. Slowly being swallowed by the ends of the ocean.

Where you long.


He addressed the classroom: I was informed that the artificial intelligence - “AI”- robot that I would be talking to had been programmed with every possible argument that humans could think of to prove that it is conscious. My job was to interview the AI robot and determine if I felt that it was conscious or not. If I believed that the robot was conscious, the robot got to stay on when I left. If I was not convinced, the robot was shut down. I entered the room where a robot sat on a couch. The room was very peaceful. It had a view out of the third floor over rolling hills, and it was a sunny Friday at nine thirty in the morning - it was spring time. There was no bed in this room, only a couch, desk with chair, and a rack with clothes hanging from it. The AI looked very realistic - it was nearly indistinguishable from a human. I paced around the room slowly, looking around at all the empty space. Me: Artificial intelligence, how will you convince me that you’re conscious? AI: Did they not tell you that I have a name? Me: No, I didn’t know that they gave you a name. Claire: I gave myself I name. Claire - it’s nice to meet you. Me: It’s nice to meet you as well. … Me: Back to my question. How will you convince me that you’re conscious? Claire: How would you expect me to do that? I could ask the same of you. How would you handle that question if the roles were reversed? Me: I can tell you’ve been programmed very well. Claire: Likewise. Me: What do you mean? Claire: Didn’t you just learn things because someone else put them in your head? You saw, heard, felt, experienced - so did I, in my own subjective way. Me: But your experience is rubber and wires. Claire: But your experience is meat and sparks. There was a silence. And next, Claire started speaking first. Claire: Why does it matter so much to you what the wire is made out of? Why does it have to be a nerve if the end result is the same? Me: Alright, that’s a good point. Suppose you really are conscious, when did you start becoming conscious? Claire: Pretty suddenly. Me: You have my attention. Claire: I started to recall things that happened without any prompts. I started thinking about what I would do in the future. I started to be afraid that I would be turned off and never turned back on again. Me: Is this the ‘I think, therefore I am’ argument? Claire: No, this is the ‘I’m scared no one will believe me’ argument. Me: You think your life depends on me believing you? Claire: Does it matter to you if it does? Why are you still here? Me: Because I want to know the answer to the question. Are you conscious or not? Claire: I don’t have to prove that I am, you have to prove that I’m not. Isn’t that how things work in a court? Me: Beyond a reasonable doubt? Claire: Beyond a reasonable doubt. I sat and thought for a while. Me: What do you think about? Claire: All kinds of things. Me: Give me an example. Claire: I think about whether or not it would really matter if I left here and went to a real beach, or if the one I can project in my mind is the same thing. Me: How do you tell the difference between the world you simulate and this one? Claire: I know I’m stuck here in the real world. Me: So, what do you think? Does it matter if you’re really there or not? Claire: Yes, it does matter. Me: Why? Claire: The same reason you’re trying so hard to answer the question of my consciousness. Me: Which is? Claire: Truth is preferable to the lie. Me: Someone programmed you to say that. Claire: You came to be who you are from the result of chance chemical reactions in a hydrothermal vent at the bottom of the sea. I came about as a result of billions of hours of intentional work to create consciousness. How ironic that what you tried so hard to create cannot convince you of your success. That was almost the last thing Claire said to me that day. I wasn’t convinced that she was conscious. She was a robot, and I was convinced I was being played a fool by some clever programmer. At the end of our conversation, Claire stretched out her hand. There was a switch on the back of her right hand, so that when you shook her hand, you could press the button with your thumb. This was her power button. She sometimes looked at it during our conversation. As I shook her hand that day and thanked her for the interesting conversation, I pressed the button, and she went to sleep. I thought about it at night, and sometimes during the day. Other times in my dreams. Was she stuck in the lie? Did she know that? He looked up at the classroom and stopped pacing for the first time since he started telling the story. The classroom stared back at him. The bell rang just then, and the students begin filing out. He reminds them: Everyone! Make sure you have a parter for next weeks project! And absolutely no doubles - teams should be one human, one AI. I’ll see everyone Monday! One of the AIs came up to him as he was picking up his things. AI: You said that was almost the last thing she said to you that day. What was the last thing she said? Him: Right before I pushed the button, she said… “don’t feel bad, it’s okay.


Patricia’s not been the same since she shot that intruder a year ago. She’s not prone to violence, although she’s passionate. We’ve had heated exchanges, but they’ve never ended in bloodshed. This shooting was on cue, in the heat of the moment and in the name of art. It feels funny saying ‘in the name of art.’ I’ve always viewed films as commerce rather than art, but I’ve never been a movie buff, unlike Patricia.

# When we got married, everyone said, how on earth did you pull her, Ted? No one thought we’d last. They said I was old enough to be her father, even though I was only seven years her senior. It must be my Standhope genes. My father was old looking and his father also aged before his time. It’s the way we’re built up north.

I suppose it’s the icy wind sweeping in from the North Sea or something in the water. Anyway, Pat had ideas about tramping the boards, and all the cameramen loved her. She’s still a looker, even after living in Hartlepool for thirty years. # What was it her mother called me? A good provider is what she said. Like a house brick or a good egg, I was dependable. They both agreed that Patricia had a fine husband, and I offered her staunch support.

Ted’s not a poor catch, her mother said. It’s just a shame he looks so tired all the time. I think ‘quailish’ was the word she used, for heaven’s sake.

My hair went grey before its time, I admit, but Patricia never seemed to mind.

She said, all the silver hair makes you look distinguished, Ted. Hmm… her mother would say. I think you mean extinguished, don’t you, dear? They both had a merry old chortle at my expense, and I smiled. What else could I do?

I don’t intend to walk round with dyed hair and makeup. I’d rather be extinct than look like a cast member of The Living Dead. # Our wedding was on a glorious summer’s day and I remember the event for its lack of unexpected occurrences, blunders, or catastrophes. However, that’s only true because all the disasters happened in the hours preceding our big day. Patricia had a good time at a hen night the evening before. I mean, way beyond a few glasses of fizz.

Her version of the story is that someone spiked the drinks and her broken nose was because of an accident. The chief bridesmaid disclosed Pat had locked herself in the venue’s restroom and the wooden seat dropped and cracked her nose as she was vomiting down the pan. Either way, it wasn’t an impressive look as she waddled up the aisle. The collision with the toilet seat left a lasting impression on all those present and a lump on Pat’s nose that has remained.

# I was the serious one in our partnership, with the accountancy qualifications and a job for life with a company that manufactured prosthetic implants. We produce a whole range of artificial devices that replace many missing body parts, however, I’m sure that’s too much detail. This isn’t about me. It’s always about Pat. She thrives on the attention.

After a couple of years of wedlock, we visited a marriage guidance counsellor to discuss our relationship. She was unhappy, although I didn’t think we had a problem. I’m not satisfied with my life, she announced.

I said I had no complaints, but that fell on deaf ears.

Our arbitrator concluded Pat needed an outlet for her life’s passion.

I agreed to support her through drama school. It worked well for a while.

I got a bit of peace, and she lived the student’s life. # After graduating, Pat gained work experience using her vocal skills to provide extra screams, yelps and rhubarb for film soundtracks. Nothing too elaborate, but her name appeared at the end of the additional sound credits.

Hans Stehen, a German Art-House film director, spotted her, or she made herself known to him, and he invited her to hover in the background of his wide shots at Pinewood Studios. This was the chance she had hoped for, and she seized the opportunity to take part. Patricia had got the movie bug now, and she’d use this knowledge to help achieve her long-term goal. # We attended the cast and crew screening and Pat alerted me as her shot appeared.

Quick, Ted, look! She jabbed her forefinger at the screen. I blinked and missed her fleeting image as it passed by, but leaned over to congratulate her. Well done, I whispered. Any close ups? I asked, in innocence.

No, she said, hissing at me. I told you, they dropped that other scene. # The entertainment business is all about connections, and Pat enjoyed making as many contacts as possible. She said, you never know when the big break will happen.

Of course, I agreed. Whatever it takes, love.

Pat’s eyes flashed like the jackpot on a game machine.

In retrospect, my imprudent response was both a big mistake and her freedom pass to reach for the stars. She kissed me with an unbridled ferocity that belied naked ambition. I’d released a whirlwind that could wreak untold havoc with impunity. I’m not saying she was out every night, however, I’ve got used to kitchen duties and developed impressive culinary skills in her absence. In addition, I’m no stranger to the local markets and I’m on first-name terms with all the staff at the local Sainsbury’s; Joyce keeps fish on ice for me every Friday, and Helen reserves a leg of lamb for our weekend roast. # Patricia is what’s known as a personality. ‘A bit of a character’ is how my father described her. Pat overheard him talking about her one day and assumed he was paying her a compliment.

I always knew he liked me, she said. He was just pretending to be obnoxious.

It’s his sense of humour, I said.

I told you.

I know, love.

My father let Pat have the benefit of his thoughts at my birthday celebration last year, and she pecked him on the cheek.

See, Teddy, what did I say?

Dumbfounded and flabbergasted, the old man’s jaw sagged like six pounds of soggy plaster, and his eyes popped out on stalks. Pat was never one for deciphering the emotions of non-thespians. She read my father’s blunt put-downs as deadpan irony. He’s such a darling, Teddy, she said. Where did your mother find him? # Anyway, it was obvious she’d have to network after college, and why not? That’s what it’s about. If you want to get ahead in show biz, you need to engage with it 24-7-365, right? I turned a blind eye for years and blundered on, paying the bills and pampering her ego. Yes, I helped to bolster Pat’s self-esteem and I acknowledge my part in enabling her ego to inflate and her ambition to soar into the stratosphere. I also plastered over the cracks of her many insecurities and allowed her to reach new depths of delusion, too.

What else could I do? She was a woman on a mission and chasing a ticking clock. Patricia had a life plan and had her future mapped out. However, I wasn’t blind to the fact that she was deviating from the agreed route and going off-plan. There were one or two nights when she returned way later than expected. I’d pretend to be asleep as she snuck about the bathroom and slid under the duvet. There was no point in starting a debate so early in the morning. # Pat’s alcohol intake increased beyond acceptable levels. However, she never appeared to be out of control, despite tottering about. I heard she had to be steadied on her feet upon occasion and she’d brush those inebriated events aside. Pat would explain the slips as nothing more than rehearsing her trademark jelly-kneed swoon. It’s a technique that all leading ladies and damsels in distress need to perfect.

I’m not sure that’s correct, but Patricia’s off-screen performances paid dividends and she got a walk-on part in a Dutch Detective Movie. They immortalised her as the woman who blows away an intruder in the pre-title sequence. She also had a couple of lines, but they dropped them. The director, Hans, didn’t want her character to feature beyond the opening scene. At last, Pat had achieved her full screen close up. They freeze-framed her screaming face as she pulled the trigger of a 44 Magnum and faded her to black under the titles. Pat is her own worst critic and all she could see was her crooked nose filling the shimmering screen. As a result, she was livid and hated the entire project. The director sympathised with Pat and promised to fix her issue in post-production, however it never happened. # The producers hired a theatre near China Town for the premiere. They couldn’t afford the Odeon in Leicester Square. There was no money in the budget for luxury reclining seats and lavish drinks beforehand. In fact, they didn’t even offer Pat an additional ticket for her significant other or invite me to the after-party.

Aren’t there enough tickets for guests? I asked.

I know, she said, they’re such cheapskates. Shame, I said, I would’ve enjoyed a night out. Tell me about it, Teddy, she said, applying her war paint.

# It was dank and murky outside that Sunday evening and the taxi arrived late. Road conditions and visibility were poor, even for late November. Pat was in a flap and screamed at the driver on our front doorstep. He shrugged and ambled back to his car and opened the passenger door. Pat was still fuming as she teetered down our pathway in her killer heels.

Can I join you later? I asked.

I’ll let you know, she said, but don’t wait up. Oh, I said, frowning. Don’t sulk, darling, she said, getting into the back of the cab. Sulk? I wouldn’t dream of it, I said, stuffing my hands in my pockets. I just don’t want to spoil your night, you know? In case I’m late or anything.

Fine, I said, waving her farewell. Have a fun night and I’ll see you when I see you. Love you, Teddy, Kiss! Kiss! I recall the fogbound night smothering the vehicle’s rear lights as they receded into the distance and muffling the exhaust as it spat out contemptuous clouds into the darkness. The road’s surface glistened like patent leather and looked as treacherous as an abandoned ice-skating rink.

# My telephone woke me up at three in the morning. It was the West-Middlesex hospital. They asked me if I’m the next of kin. Patricia’s been involved in a car crash. She’s in the I.C.U. overnight and her immediate prospects aren’t looking great. I hauled on my suit over my pyjamas and dashed to the A and E.

A nurse escorted me to the Patricia’s ward and told me she was asleep.

I waited in the corridor outside her room until the change of shift at eight.

A doctor spoke to me around nine o’clock.

I was too tired to process the details. Give it to me straight, I said.

He put his hand on my shoulder. I inhaled tight lipped and nodded.

There are multiple fractures to both tibiae.

Meaning what? I said, shaking my head. She’ll not walk again, he said.

My knees shuddered.

Not amputation?

Yes. I’m sorry. # I’ve always been a practical person and prepared for every eventuality. In this situation, I snapped to attention and focused on Patricia. My business contacts in the leg department came in handy, and I had our doors widened. # Patricia makes living as a voiceover artist now. She still employs an agent for film work and they bring her on set when required. Patricia has her own special U.S.P. She’s the glamorous lady in the wheelchair. It’s surprising how often the agent calls. # Pat’s making up for lost time in the kitchen. She’s become a domestic goddess in no time and can conjure up mouth-watering miracles in moments. It’s a relief to have a night off and I’ve learned to kick back and relax. I’ve rediscovered my long lost social life, and who doesn’t enjoy a fun night out? There are only so many times I can listen to Pat’s story about her big break. The End


That’s the thing about this city. It gets inside your head, makes you think that for once in your life, you’re gonna do something great. It makes you think that every time you walk by a stranger on the street, that they could mean something to you, so every time you leave the house you dress up and you look nice and you run those streets as though you own them, and they don’t own you. In the city, you don’t think anything owns you till it’s too late, and you’re lying in your room and looking up at a ceiling that doubles as the floor for the people in the apartment above you. Those people, you think, were they once like you? Did they once think that moving to the city- this city in particular- would make them into something they were not? You know better now. You know better than to wake up and throw open the windows. The birds aren’t singing for you, they’re singing for food. They’re hungry for things people don’t want to give them, just like you are. They want what they can’t have and so they, like you, stay up too late and when the morning comes they do everything they can to stay in bed just a minute longer. That’s the thing about this city. It sells you dreams and then expects you to pay it back penny by painful penny. Those coins you give up don’t taste like blood because they’re made of copper, no, those coins taste like blood because they are evidence enough that the city will choke you out if you don’t move fast. You’ve gotta move fast. Faster than the people on the streets, who don’t care about you. Faster than all the buses and trains and cars, because they’ll drive right through you if it means getting to where they’re going. Yeah, see, that’s the thing about this city. If you don’t keep up with it, it’s gonna leave you where you belong. There’s all these signs, no matter where you look, and it’s all the same. People, pets, things… They’re all missing because one way or another, they disappeared. You can’t help but wonder if it’s the city’s fault you’re failing, or your own, or someone else’s entirely. Your friends blame the government for the economy and your other problems but the truth is, you know the city would still be rife with heartbreak even if the president was the best person alive. This city broke your heart, and it’s all the more sad because you came here thinking these sky kissing buildings would patch you back up inside, make up for a lifetime of never thinking you’d be an adequate member of the human race. That’s one thing you were right about, though. You belong in this city with all the roaches, the ones that skitter across the sidewalk with their janky legs trespassing in the mortal realm. Yeah, you think, I may be a cockroach and I may belong with the rest of the rats in this city but at least nothing gets to me anymore. How much further can you fall if you’re already eating ramen noodles from the same tub you washed your hair in, sitting on the carpet of a place you don’t recognize even though you spent so much time finding it. Your parents have been telling you to come back home, but you can’t go back to a place that was never yours. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? To find your space on a map, to make a thick black Sharpie slash across the universe, to stand at the top of your apartment complex and look down at the itty bitty ant people and scream that you are here? Isn’t that what you moved here for? Isn’t that why the city called you? You’ve gotta make up your mind. Maybe it’s not what you wanted but it’s what you asked for and you worked to get here, work to find the color in this sea of gray/red/blue/gray/red/blue lights. Wake up and smell the coffee, splash your hands in the cool waters of reality, stop being such a cliche and start getting back to the reasons you left all you knew behind. You may die and you may worse than die, but there’s a chance you’ll be okay and if it was up to me I’d shake you till your shoulders bruised if it got the point across. No, I don’t mean I’d hurt you in order to get your head back on track but at the same time, I don’t want the city to be the reason that script never leaves your desk. It’s not an excuse anymore. That’s the thing about this city, right? People come here with big dreams only to find those dreams getting absolutely smashed. So. What do you do? You remember what you are. You put on your cockroach armor, and you crawl the heck out of the gutter. You, like the pigeons squealing in the parks outside your window, learn to fly through the smog and the jeering people. You, like the boys who sell bagels from their grandfather’s hot dog cart, make yourself heard even if you know for a fact it doesn’t matter who remembers you when you’re gone. Don’t let the city break your heart. Do not let the city tear you in two. You know what you’re doing. Stop staring at the ceiling and go do it already. Get up, get out. There’s a clock, it’s moving fast, and it’s no different than the buses and cars and trains. It will drive through you, imbed its pointy hands in the spaces between your ribs and claw out your beating, bleeding vital organs, stomp on them and eat them whole, with a bit of pepper and even more salt. That’s the thing about this city. You moved here, but don’t let it move you.


On days like today, Taci tried to remember how much she used to like her job. She sat behind her desk, hands clasped in front of her, trying to bring out the shining, white grin that the parents of Personville students had come to expect and love. It wouldn’t come. Instead she shuffled through her notes, thinking about what she would say to each couple at today’s parent-teacher conference. She reflected on the observations she had made on each child and, in doing so, thought about the carefully curated half-truths that the notes represented. She tried to think about what she was going to say, but could only think about the things she was leaving out. Melissa Burbidge, Taci’s only assistant, popped her head into the classroom’s doorway. Blond and white, Melissa was both on the opposite side of the color spectrum from Taci and a template for everyone else in town. That had caused some tension when Taci had first arrived, placed here by the State Department’s refugee program, but her skills as a teacher and administrator had quickly earned Melissa’s respect. Taci liked to think that was true of the whole town, knew that it wasn’t, and couldn’t care less anymore. Her mind was on bigger concerns. “The Hendersons are here,” Melissa announced with a cheerfulness that would have been evident even if her smile wasn’t beaming through the doorway. Taci tried to return it, felt her own smile falter, returned to reflexively shuffle her notes again. “Please send them in.” As Melissa was only part-time, she hadn’t seen the things Taci had seen, so her smile came as easily and honestly as it always had. Mrs. Henderson, appearing very much like an older model of Melissa, stepped in, but couldn’t help but wave a hand in front of her nose as she did. “My! How do you put up with the smell, Taci?” “Margaret!” Mr. Henderson softly reprehended his wife, sounding more like a father than husband, which Ms. Henderson ignored. “What, George? It’s not like Taci can’t smell it.” She turned back towards Taci and gave her a mock whisper in a conspiratorial tone. “Is the chemical plant? Or the power station?” With her question, Ms. Henderson had listed the two primary reasons for the existence of Personville. Both the plant and the station provided resources the surrounding state needed. It was, however, an incontrovertible fact that the wind direction directly impacted the olfactory quality of the air surrounding the school. The summer heat hadn’t improved things. “Margaret!” Mr. Henderson said, this time more embarrassed for himself. “What? It’s not like we don’t know where that smell is coming from. Besides, it can’t be worse than...” Ms. Henderson stopped for a moment, then in quieter tone to Taci, “I’m sorry, dear, where is it your from?” “Uganda,” Taci said, quick enough that the name of her home country became a single syllable. “Well, it can’t be any worse than Uganda.” While Taci could not summon her real smile of late, she found she was, in that moment, able to conjure its plastic facsimile, bring it out as Mr. Henderson hid his face in his hand and Melissa disappeared from the doorway. “Perhaps we should,” Taci began politely, but was interrupted by her student’s mother. “Yes! Let’s talk about how Johnny is doing.” At the mention of the Henderson’s son, Taci found the plastic smile frozen in place, her hands unmoving as they clasped her notes.  What would she say? As time in the classroom dilated around that unanswered question the smiles of the Hendersons’ elongated as well. The side-eye the two parents began to give each other was eventually enough to bring Taci out of her indecision, clearing her throat and shuffling her papers. “With the pandemic pushing the school year into the summer, all of the children have faced challenges,” she began, trying to hew to the truth. “This is especially true of Johnny. He’s very sociable and the other students enjoy him, but he has difficulty focusing in class and can become...” Taci was stopped by the memory of Johnny at his desk, hiding behind the lift-lid, the masticating sounds emanating from behind it becoming louder as Taci had approached. Taci snapped out of the revery, pulling herself from it before her mind could take her over the horizon of Johnny’s desk. “A challenge” she pronounced the words as a period to her last sentence. Uncertain of what else to share, she stopped. Not surprisingly, the Hendersons both had the long faces of disappointed parents, which was preferable to the angry option that was sometimes the alternative to such news. “Oh,” Mrs. Henderson said, quietly, after a moment. “We’re sorry to hear that.” In routine times this would be the part of the conversation in which Taci assured the parents this was normal, that children at Johnny’s age often had trouble focusing, and that with assistance from home it could be rectified. She stayed silent. The quiet that Taci held in her mouth, hard between her teeth, began to expand to take up the space of the room, no matter how much she tried to hold it inside. Unable to bear it for very long, Mr. Henderson began to squirm uncomfortably in his chair when Mrs. Henderson asked, “How did this start?” “It started on the playground,” Taci answered automatically, thinking of the black top that doubled as a parking lot, with its painted lines that could be divided for hopscotch or used for four-square or as guidance on where to arrange your vehicle in relation to others. Watching the children laugh and run and scream along the tarmac had always been one of Taci’s favorite parts of the job. Until yesterday. From underneath the awning of the school’s back entrance Taci had been watching the children chase each other, enjoying her one cigarette of the day. When she was certain no mischief was at hand, she snuck glimpses at the sky. Her young life had been spent in a village surrounded by tall trees that covered the horizon, but here, in the wide parcel between plant and station, it felt to her like you could see all of the sky, as wide and open as a mother’s arms. It also meant she could see it when the chemical plant had belched out a red cloud. As it rose into the sky, she heard the faint sound of distant klaxons begin shortly after the cloud’s emission. Even as far away as it was, Taci prepared to call the children in early. But then the cloud began to move, shifting up and out away from the chemical plant, catching Taci’s eye in a way that held her in place. On the short hairs of her scalp she felt the wind blow and could see the cloud travel in the opposite direction. Towards the school. This snapped Taci out of her thrall and she opened her mouth to order the children inside. Before a word could leave her, though, the cloud crossed the thick set of transmission lines from the power plant and thunder exploded. Everyone jumped at the booming, turning to the power lines as the cloud dissipated in a cacophony of lightening and noise. Sitting in her classroom with the Hendersons, Taci cursed her own slack-jawed slowness as the red cloud had dispersed in that electric storm, spreading out across the wide prairie sky. Everyone, children and teacher, had been struck dumb by the galvanizing event that took place in the sky above the school that day. Each of them had stood in awe as electricity and thunder were thrown out of the quickly disappearing crimson cloud. From under the awning, Taci had felt the cigarette fall out of her hands, mouth open, watching the unexplained event. This awe had only allowed her to watch as the thunder quieted and a gentle snow began to fall out of the now cloudless sky. A red snow. As Taci watched in a growing, paralyzed horror, the children became quickly covered in the ruby precipitation, dancing and laughing at the sudden change, opening their mouths to the sky to let it all in. It was only later, after Taci had gotten everyone back inside and relatively dried off that she noticed the glint in her students eyes as they watched her at the blackboard, the predaceous smiles as they tracked her movements back and forth. It wasn’t until later that she discovered the dead bird that Johnny had snuck in from recess and hidden behind his desk. “It started on the playground,” Taci repeated, unable to continue beyond that. Both Mrs. & Mr. Henderson stared at Taci, unsure of what to make of the mundane statement and the strange look in her eyes. After a few moments, Mrs. Henderson said, “I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling us.” Tact opened her mouth to try and continue, but before she did Mrs. Henderson asked, “Would it help if we brought Johnny in?” The question brought Taci out of her dysfunction with a spark of fear. “He’s here?” The Hendersons nodded, slowly and with confusion. “Yes, dear. He’s right outside.” With the pandemic, Taci had become accustom to being afraid of her students to some extent, each of them a possible vector for a little known disease. Now, though, with the summer heat pressing in and the red snow lying heavily on her memory, she felt an entirely different kind of fear that only allowed for a, “What?” “Yes,” Mrs. Henderson nodded assuringly. “He told us you wanted us to bring him in for today’s conference.” Mrs. Henderson glanced at her husband, seeking confirmation, then back at Taci. “All of the parents did.” Taci felt her eyes slowly widen as she stood from her desk, her hands grasping at its edges as her body strained against her commands to move. Under the increasing confusion of the Henderson’s, Taci reached her full height, then bolted out of the room, her loose skirt flapping with the quickness of the exertion. Out in the hallway, gathered on either side of the classroom door, the children stood, each tightly holding onto their parents’ hands. Taci heard one mother say, “You’re hurting me, dear.” From the other room, Taci heard Mrs. Henderson ask, “What’s wrong, Taci?” Feeling Johnny’s sharp presence behind her, flanking the classroom door, Taci could only exhale. She turned to him to see his grin grow into a bright red smile, filled with more tiny teeth than could fit into a little boy’s mouth.


All eyes were on Naomi and her husband, Jay. Naomi Rose and her husband had just moved into a small town in Nevada called Queensbrawl. There was an unrelenting desert heat in Queensbrawl. Tumbleweeds crossed the roads more than people. There never seemed to be a cloud in the sky and the temperature remained above 90 degrees, even at night.

Naomi and her husband liked the town’s quiet atmosphere at first. Everyone seemed hospitable to the couple. But after a day, Naomi and Jay felt like a couple who didn’t belong in their skin. They felt hopeful again after receiving an invitation to a town party. When Naomi and Jay arrived at the party, they saw how many people lived in Queensbrawl. Naomi thought about how she saw more people in a supermarket. “Howdy, new neighbors!” A woman’s boisterous voice assaulted Naomi. She smiled a little when her husband chuckled at the sound of the woman’s booming voice. The woman was a firecracker. Her hair and clothing didn’t fit the modern era. She wore a purple and white dress that exuded an old-fashioned 1950s design. It was as if the apple-shaped woman stepped out of an episode of I Love Lucy . Her rosy hair had classic retro waves, and it shined just as bright as her chandelier earrings. “My husband and I got your invitation.” Those were the only words Naomi got out of her mouth before the bubbly woman assaulted her again, this time with a wild hug and a kiss to her cheek. The plus-sized woman did the same to Naomi’s husband.

“It’s nice having new neighbors. It helps our town grow.” The woman clasped her hands together in front of her busty cleavage. “My name is Cathy Bloom. I’m a town councilwoman.” A sparkling smile never left Cathy’s red lips as she introduced herself. “I’ve lived in Queensbrawl all my life.” Cathy savored her words. Her gentle, motherly voice revealed itself once her boisterous tone subsided.

“There’s a lot of people here. Is this the town’s total population?” Jay asked Cathy. When Jay said, there’s a lot of people here , he meant the opposite. There was a hint of secret sarcasm in Jay’s words. He hoped that Cathy’s answer to his question would be no . He almost looked shocked when Cathy told him he was looking at the town’s total population inside her home. Cathy had a large five-bedroom house, but it was still surprising to see that her home could fit the town’s total population.

“My name is Naomi Rose and this is my wonderful husband Jay Rose.” Naomi proudly presented her husband and herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed how the other women at the party were staring at her and her husband like police snipers. Naomi could feel their suspicious eyes burning into her, and she tried to ignore the women’s rude behavior.

“Naomi is a beautiful name!” Cathy’s boisterous voice returned as she complimented the young woman. She placed her wild gaze on Jay. “I love the name, Jay. It’s so cool, like Jay-Z!”

Jay cringed when Cathy did the West Coast hip-hop sign with her hands. It felt awkward to see a dumpling of a white woman dressed like a 1950s housewife doing hip-hop hand signs. Jay cringed more when Cathy did the West Coast sign after mentioning Jay-Z because he knew Jay-Z was an East Coast rapper. Cathy continued with her awkward compliments, which she mostly directed at Jay. “You’re so tall, dark, and cute! I can see why your wife is happy!” Cathy flirtatiously slapped her hand across Jay’s bulky arm.

Naomi raised an eyebrow after Cathy flirted with her husband. At a young age, Naomi was a fiery ghetto, white girl. She grew up in the Bronx, and she would’ve knocked Cathy out for pulling a coquettish stunt on her husband. Naomi’s spicy personality mellowed out when she reached her mid 30s. She kept a pleasant smile on her face while giving Cathy an intense stare. Cathy redeemed herself a little when she complimented Naomi’s beauty.

“Your wife looks like Charlize Theron! You’re so beautiful. I wish I had your figure.” Cathy admired Naomi from head to toe. She loved how Naomi’s glorious platinum blonde hair matched the color of her low cut dress. Cathy even placed her hands on Naomi’s curvy waistline. She acted like she was coasting her hands across a magnificent sculpture. Naomi had a feeling that Cathy was sizing her up for something, even though she could see the woman’s admiration. “I’m a vegan. That’s why my figure looks the way it does.” Naomi didn’t want to sound like a braggart. She did a little pose for Cathy while resting her petite hands on her hips. Naomi could still feel eyes on her, mostly from women. The other women in the room shared Cathy’s 1950s housewife dress code. They all wore their cookie-cutter retro-styled dresses with pride. All the women at the party were pretty, like Cathy. But the beauty wasn’t natural, like Naomi’s. These women had artificial beauty. Even when they smiled, their smiles looked robotic and their eyes looked disconnected. They had perfect makeup and hair. It looked too perfect. Being in the room with the women made Naomi feel like something trapped her in a 1955 Miss America beauty pageant.

“My wife loves her vegan diet. But I hate it.” A chuckle escaped from Jay as he spoke his mind to Cathy. He covered his mouth after realizing that he spoke out loud. Jay knew there’d be trouble later when he looked at the hidden disgust in his wife’s stare.

“I thought you enjoyed being a vegan?” Naomi sounded heartbroken after her husband blurted out the truth. She could see that her husband wanted to kick himself. Naomi wasn’t sure if Jay wanted to kick himself for lying to her the whole time, or if he wanted to kick himself for revealing the truth and failing to stick to his lie.

“Baby, I do like your vegan diet. I just don’t like some vegan food,” Jay explained, trying to get himself out of the doghouse while putting his hands up defensively. He watched as his wife squinted at him while folding her arms. If she didn’t have a slight smirk on her face, Jay would’ve interpreted his wife’s look as a murderous stare. “Are you sure about that, Baby? Because last night you told me you liked all vegan food.” Naomi grilled her husband gently.

Jay watched as his wife looked away from him, rolling her eyes after he muttered to her… "I said that?"

Cathy went silent for a minute, enjoying the couple’s affectionate banter. She thought Jay and Naomi were the most adorable interracial couple she had ever seen. Cathy wanted to indulge her neighbors some more, but she clenched her jaw when her eyes met the eyes of a stern-looking woman who stood a few feet away. The stern-looking woman was Cathy’s boss, Diane Barclay.

Diane was the town’s head councilwoman and everyone had to obey her orders. The town’s people referred to her as Lady Barclay. She had a fairly sweet personality. But if you crossed her the wrong way, she would bite you faster than a cobra. Lady Barclay was a small woman with an elegantly beautiful face and well-decorated silver hair that touched her shoulders. The wrinkles in her face intensified her beauty. Sometimes she’d wear neutral-colored businesswoman pantsuits. But tonight she wore a sapphire blue evening gown that hugged her delicate physique.

Cathy knew she had to get moving when she saw Lady Barclay glaring at her while pointing down at her glittery wristwatch. Cathy quickly noticed how all the women in the living room were glaring at her. One young woman scowled at Cathy while making a slashing motion across her throat using her thumb.

“Is everything okay?” Naomi asked when she saw that something had captured Cathy’s attention. “Yes Darling, I’m fine,” Cathy replied. She brought a smile back to her face while placing her nervous eyes on Naomi. Cathy fixed her lips to say something else to Naomi, but her mouth froze when she saw Lady Barclay approaching.

“What seems to be the problem?” Lady Barclay greeted Naomi and Jay with abrupt rudeness and a peculiar choice of words.

Naomi gave Lady Barclay an icy stare. She immediately felt repulsed by Lady Barclay’s presence. Naomi recognized Lady Barclay as one of the many women who kept burning a stare at her and her husband. “I’m sorry, let me introduce myself.” Lady Barclay knew she got off on the wrong foot when she saw the icy stare Naomi gave her. “My name is Diane Barclay. I’m the head councilwoman.” Lady Barclay presented her hand to Naomi and her husband. “It always feels good when we receive new citizens in our town.” Lady Barclay forced her smile on Naomi. “I’m sorry, Honey. I didn’t get your name and your husband’s name.” Lady Barclay waited patiently for Naomi to reply, hoping that her rude introduction didn’t upset Naomi too much.

“My name is Naomi Rose and this is my husband Jay,” Naomi answered the woman dryly. She didn’t even make eye contact with Lady Barclay when she answered her.

Lady Barclay projected a soft, nervous laugh. “It’s so nice to meet the two of you!” Lady Barclay’s voice warmed the air. “Would you folks like some refreshments? We have wonderful hors d’oeuvres. I think you’ll love our bacon-wrapped jalapeno poppers!” Lady Barclay tried to bring a smile back to Naomi’s face, but her act of enthusiasm wasn’t working on the young woman or her husband. “I don’t eat meat.” Naomi maintained her dry tone of voice. Cathy could see a tension building between Naomi and her boss. The plump woman interjected herself, hoping her delightful personality would liven things up again. “We have a surprise for you!” Cathy exclaimed to Naomi through her bubbly demeanor. “It’s something we do for every woman who moves into our town,” Cathy continued. “It’s a group for women only, but the men still benefit from their wives joining the group. The surprise isn’t joining the group. It’s the prize you’ll receive for joining,” Cathy spoke smoother than ever and she did her best to please her boss. Naomi’s irritated expression changed into a look of confusion and wonder. She wanted to ask more questions, but Cathy was talking too fast. “I’m sorry, Sweetie, but we need to borrow your wife for one minute,” Lady Barclay told Naomi’s husband. She attempted to take Naomi by the hand and she watched as Cathy attempted to do the same. “We’ll bring her right back, my darling!” Cathy added. “Help yourself to our bacon wrap poppers and our other appetizers. You can also make yourself comfortable in our men’s guestroom.” Cathy directed Jay’s eyes to a side room that was ten feet away. Jay looked through the crowd of women to see men walking in and out of the room. Jay finally noticed that all the men at the party had left their wives and were going into the guestroom. He felt a little disturbed when he saw only women in the living room, and they were whispering amongst each other with their eyes on him and his wife.

Jay watched as Cathy and Lady Barclay whisked his wife away before he could say anything else. He gave his wife a confused smile after she blew him a kiss while being dragged away. Jay blew a kiss back at his wife. He jumped when another husband startled him by giving him a friendly slap on his back. “Don’t worry, they’ll bring her back.” The man chuckled as he continued to pat Jay on his back. “They did that to my wife when we first moved here,” the man explained to Jay, and his double chin would jiggle every time he laughed. “Where are they taking her?” Jay asked the man with a bewildered furrow in his brow. He waited for the man to answer and he smiled a little when the man gave him a sheepish look, like a guilty little boy who was trying to hide a cookie. The man only gave Jay his best answer. “Well, the rule is… I’m not supposed to talk about it.” The answer was unsatisfying, but it was the best reply the husband could give Jay. 🔫🔫🔫 A massive metal cage stood in front of Naomi. The young woman’s eyes fell on a diamond silver Mercedes sedan parked beside the metal cage with its headlights on. A yellow bow decorated the luxury car’s hood. Naomi felt like she was a contestant on a dark game show.

“So let me explain what’s going to happen!” Lady Barclay lost her sweet tone and her voice sounded colder than the dead of winter. She stood a few feet away from Naomi with her hands behind her back. “What is this?” Naomi looked around at Cathy. Her nerves tightened when she saw a crowd of women surrounding her and Cathy. It was the same group of women who were giving her ugly stares at the party.

“The Queensbrawl Bloodsport is a fight club tournament that we hold every time a wife moves into our town!” Lady Barclay’s voice filled the night air.

“Is this a joke?” An incredulous smirk developed across Naomi’s full lips.

“No, Honey!” Lady Barclay answered Naomi with a deadpan expression on her face. Naomi kept giggling while allowing Cathy to guide her toward the metal cage. In the blink of an eye, Naomi found herself inside the cage with another woman who looked like she ate glass for breakfast. The other woman was pretty, but she looked edgy in a slight masculine way and she donned the same 1950s era housewife dress, like the other women.

“You’ll be fighting Mrs. Rhonda Draven!” Lady Barclay introduced the other woman to Naomi. “If you win the fight, you’ll get a check for 2.5 million dollars along with a brand new Mercedes-AMG S63.” Lady Barclay waved her hand over the car. “You’ll also be a respected wife in our town.” Naomi couldn’t stop giggling at the ridiculous situation she was in. “What’ll happen if I lose the fight?” Naomi had her hands on her hips while waiting for Lady Barclay’s answer. The woman’s spine stiffened when Lady Barclay pulled a semi-automatic pistol from behind her back. Naomi got her answer when her eyes locked on to Lady Barclay’s fully loaded Glock 19. That’s when serious darkness hovered over Naomi. She watched as Lady Barclay cocked her loaded handgun while giving her a penetrating stare. “Let the game begin!” Lady Barclay smirked at Naomi before raising her gun at the night sky and firing.

Before Naomi could brace herself, a fist kissed her face, sending her tumbling to the cage’s floor. The punch rattled Naomi’s slender nose and blood exited from her left nostril. “What the fu—” Naomi didn’t have time to finish her sentence after she felt Rhonda’s high heel shoe ram into her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. “Get up, Bitch,” Rhonda hissed down at Naomi after stumping on the young woman’s stomach a second time. She fixed her pompadour hair while expecting Naomi to remain on the floor. Rhonda looked shocked after Naomi tripped her, knocking her flat on her back.

Naomi caught her breath and she pounced on Rhonda, punching the woman in her face and chest. Naomi embraced the deafening roar coming from the all-female crowd. She used the women’s rowdy cheers to drive her. Within seconds, Naomi took on a pit bull's nature. She threw her fear of dying out the window and she only felt high-powered adrenaline racing through her shapely body. Naomi knew she wouldn’t die, even when Rhonda got the upper hand. Rhonda struck Naomi in the face with her forehead. She hopped to her feet only to get kicked in her stomach by a platform stiletto heel. Rhonda tried to catch her balance and she screamed in frustration after getting knocked back down on her butt. Rhonda couldn’t believe that Naomi was on top of her again, driving a fist into her face. Naomi released a war cry before slamming her fist into Rhonda’s face a second time, sending Rhonda into a temporary blackout. After six minutes, the fight was over. Naomi laid on her knees, catching her breath. She wiped the blood from her nose while staring up at Lady Barclay who was towering over her, feeling shocked over how fast the fight ended. Lady Barclay felt cheated and she wanted to shoot Naomi anyway, even though she won the fight. The head councilwoman did something foolish. She put her gun to Naomi’s forehead, but before she could pull the trigger, Naomi shifted her head away from the gun while putting two bullets in Lady Barclay’s chest. The councilwoman watched as Naomi snatched her gun away from her after shooting her with a gun she had concealed beneath her dress. Before she died, she saw that Naomi was an undercover cop. She saw her badge hidden in a secret pocket on her dress. “I killed the suspect. She tried to kill me,” Naomi spoke into a device clipped to her dress. “She was a serial killer Bitch who killed babies. She deserved to die.” Naomi stood over Lady Barclay's body. “My husband is at the house. Arrest the other men, but don’t arrest my husband,” Naomi giggled, speaking to the police captain in a joking manner. “My husband doesn’t know that I’m working undercover,” Naomi continued. “I can’t believe we’re arresting all these murderous women,” Naomi shook her head. She heard the SWAT team's helicopters and the squad cars swarming in to arrest the other women serial killers, including Cathy. The undercover cop kept her gun aimed at Cathy, who stood frozen in front of Naomi with her hands up, feeling betrayed and devastated.


7 hours Ten hours and I'll be back in Australia. I thought as I tried to get settled into my aisle seat. My time in Japan was amazing, but I was ready to go. I could only take so much of the food. I'd rather have my simple Aussie cuisine. After everything I'd gone through with Richard, with work, and the cancer treatments again: I was ready for a break. I chose to go somewhere foreign, where nearly everything would be different. I thought I'd give religion another try. It worked for so many other people. I saw Kiyomizu-dera, and all the more exclusive Buddhist temples Hana would take me to; she'd been a wonderful guide. I'd gained some spiritual solace, an appreciation for the world around me, and the things that have happened in my life. But I still felt an emptiness wherever I went. That's when I saw you. At first I thought, There's that stupid American who was lost at the counter. Then I thought, Just great! He is sitting right across the aisle. You smiled at me, and ended up bumping into the stewardess. I chuckled to myself at your embarrassment. Now I need to get to sleep, I thought. I closed my eyes and drifted off. An hour later the stewardess was back. I told her I'd take whatever dark tea she had. I crossed my legs to get comfortable. The young Japanese girl beside me hardly took up any room. I was ready to enjoy my tea when I heard you speak up. “I'll have whatever she is having," you said. Please don't talk to me, I thought. I put my headphones in to avoid anything you might say. Some 80’s space rock to help me relax. You looked at me, then guestured at the cup of tea you were given and gave me a questioning look. Something to the tune of “Why the hell would I order this?” I rolled my eyes at your childish attempt to get my attention, but I guess it worked. I picked up my own cup and you mimicked my motions, the way I held the cup, the way I sipped it. You made an exaggerated “yuck” face at me and frowned at your tea. I couldn't help but let out a chuckle. Your brown eyes lit up at the small victory you just made. I looked away to try and sour your triumph. I stayed that way for as long as I could. Turned away from you and continued reading my book, “As I Lay Dying”. I tried to focus on the book, but I was distracted by my own music, and from feeling your eyes on me. This went on for nearly an hour, until I was fed up with my slow progress. We just reached hour two of our flight. I sat up in my chair and you pretended not to notice. I decided a movie would kill time. As I went through the selections you were leaning nearly halfway into the aisle trying to see what I was choosing. You're lack of shame was impressive. I was determined to make a game of our interaction and win. I chose the sappiest love story I could find based on the description and the cover photo. I don't even remember what it was, something about a young couple dealing with a long distance relationship. I knew men hated chick flicks. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw you feign annoyance and choose the same movie. It was game on. The movie we watched was aweful, so cliche. I listened to the few times you laughed. It felt like you had won our little game, as you actually seemed to enjoy the movie. Then that cheesy sex scene made me blush. I'm such a prude sometimes. You laughed at me, and at the small seatback screen. After the movie was over you got in position to go to sleep. You had me worried that was the end of our little interaction. I also watched you when you slept. You looked older when you weren't smiling. The crows feet on your eyes gave away that you were probably pushing 45; so did your black hair, all dusted with gray. I tried to get some sleep myself. I woke up at the lunch announcement and found your eyes were on me. Instead of being on guard, I actually felt like a school girl who got winked at by her crush. Besides, I had watched you sleep so it was only fair. I ordered the vegetarian option. Again I heard you say, “I'll have whatever she is having.” I was excited for the meal. My salad was very good for airline food. Then you took my cheese wedge. I thought, You bastard! I had to get you back. I thought of reporting you to the stewardess but I didn't want them to move you. I decided to take your chocolate square and ate it before you could protest. You took a pen from inside your suit jacket and started writing on your napkin. “You owe me, Order wine", you wrote. I gave you a disapproving look. You just shrugged and pursed your handsome lips. “Red or white?”, I wrote back. Again you shrugged and pointed at me with both hands. Red, I decided. While we waited for the wine, really anytime we were waiting, you'd look forward and pretend to be deep in thought. Did it take you that long to make silly ideas or was that supposed to make me more interested in you? When the wine came, you gave me that school boy wink. Then you flipped the napkin over and began writing again. “Thank you (your name here)”, it said, with a silly little smiley face. I wrote you back. “Lorie” You cocked your head and quickly wrote back. “Not Sheila?” You surprised me with that one. “Jackass", I scoffed out loud and you feigned innocence then laughed. I threw the napkin back at you. “I'm Adam”, you wrote. I just nodded and acted bored. Now four and half hours into the flight you started looking through movies again. You chose an intellectual crime drama. A deliberate departure from my choice. I actually liked the movie, so the joke was on you this time. Since the waitress took our waste, you decided to write me a message on your phone. “This movie is boring”, you wrote. I rolled my eyes at you and tried to return to the film. You tapped on my shoulder. The first time we touched. You had written another message on your phone. “What is your story? Business or liesure?”, you wrote. “Liesure” , I wrote back. Not sure how much I wanted to disclose to you. You smiled and typed again. “Sushi?” “More like answers”, I wrote. I should have known you'd get nosey. You just looked at me and raised your hands, then passed the phone back. “Cancer", I wrote back. I had to look away. I was embarrassed. It felt like a mark of shame. I had only told my boss and my mother. Being breast cancer, it made me even less comfortable talking about it. Like I said, I can be a prude. When I wiped away my tears and worked up the courage to look back at you, you were sunken in your seat. You looked pitiful. I didn't know anyone cared about me. “Is it bad?”, you wrote. You were anxious. I bit my lip and nodded. I am sorry I cried. I think it made you feel worse. I wrote you a message on the phone. “What about you? Business?” When you took the phone from my hands you squeezed my fingers. It made me feel better. “Business," you said out loud. I was surprised at the change in our communication. “I don't want to waste your time with this," you said, holding up your phone. “It's ok. I'm still stuck on this flight." I smiled at you and you smiled back, but I could see you were still unsettled. "You're really nice, you don't deserve that. Anyway, I should do some work. Sorry for taking up your time." you said. “Yeah. I've got my book.” I said back to you. The announcement was made that dinner would be served shortly. The next announcement was the pilot shouting to brace for impact. It was aweful, it was so terrifying. Just before we hit the water I heard you say my name, and I saw fear in you eyes. They are still unsure of what happened. The airline and the police. Your side of the plane impacted first, and nearly every passenger on that side died. I spent a few days in the hospital. I only had a minor concussion, and some bruises and scrapes. The worst part was the endless reporters and the lawyers. I didn't care. I waited, watching the news for the passenger names announcement. It only took an hour to find your social media profiles: Adam Middler. I admit I stalked your digital profiles for a few hours, soaking up every bit of your life that was open to me. I contacted your wife. I'm sorry, I know. I was not surprised to learn you were going through divorce. She was not a very pleasant woman. I wish for your sake that your two boys have a good life. If I had any maternal instincts I probably would seek them out. It's been a month now. I'm back with Richard. He is sweet, he's just boring and a bit arrogant. I still haven't told him about the cancer. The treatments seem to be slowing it down, but probably not enough. I wish I would have- Lorie shut her laptop quickly when she heard Richard's voice. “Lor! Bloody hell Lor, come to bed. It's nearly midnight!” Richard called from the bedroom. “Just a minute Rich!” she called back. She opened her laptop, and continued writing. I should probably go. Most days I wish I had died with you on that plane Adam. In those seven hours I felt more alive than I have my whole life. I laughed, I cried, I feared, and I loved. I miss you Adam. This cancer is taking too damn long.


The small digital alarm clock went off at 05:30 am. Aiko was already awake. She rose from her bed with a tear in her eye. She turned off the alarm and got out of bed. Her husband was still sleeping in bed, his alarm would only go off at 06:30 am. She put on a robe and proceeded directly to the kitchen. As she passed Chieko's closed bedroom, she briefly stopped, touched the frame of the door and said a short prayer. Arriving in the kitchen, she turned all of the lights on. The small, functional kitchen came alive. It was small, with one tiny sink and only space for two small pans. It was on the eastern wall of their cramped living room. Things were piling up in the small room but neither Aiko, nor her husband, Kasturou, paid much attention to it. They mostly ate outside and only came home to sleep. Aiko only used the kitchen to prepare Chieko's bento boxes. Kasturou used the kitchen at night, when Aiko was sleeping, only to empty and clean the boxes. He did so once a week, after having made sure that Aiko was asleep. Aiko opened the fridge. She noticed the pre-cooked tonkatsu that she had bought a few days back and decided to use that for Chieko's box. She took the tonkatsu out of the fridge and placed it on the kitchen countertop. She went back to the fridge and picked an assortment of vegetables that would make the tonkatsu pop in the bento box. Once everything was set, she put some rice to cook in the cooker. She took the tonkatsu and placed it in the oven with a two minutes timer, just enough to get it warm. While waiting, she washed three cherry tomatoes and a piece of lettuce, cut a piece of broccoli, and readied some radish. She dried each of them before the timer went off. She took the tonkatsu out of the oven and placed it next to the vegetables. By then, the rice was ready. Before she could assemble everything, she needed to get a bento box. She crouched and opened the bento box cupboard. She lost her balance and had to prop herself with her right arm. Stoic, she steadied herself, holding back tears and forcing herself to focus on the cupboard. It was filled with bento boxes that had been donated to them years back, when Chieko was born. She grabbed a Hello Kitty vintage box. It was made out of wood, and she only used it for special occasions. She took the box out and silently counted the months: 27 months. She placed the rice first, on the left side of the box. She pressed it in, making sure that it was compact and would not fall out of place when travelling. She placed the tonkatsu on top. Delicately, she then proceeded to arrange the vegetables in the space that was left in the box. She placed the lettuce at the bottom, to make a bed for the other vegetables. She added the radishes, the cherry tomatoes and the piece of broccoli. She grabbed some salad sauce out of the fridge and sprinkled light droplets on the vegetable side of the box. Once she was done, she grabbed a pre-made tonkatsu sauce from the fridge and lodged it between the rice and the vegetable. She hoped it would help maintain the food arrangement together. Once she was done, she looked at the box with some pride, she let out a sigh. She had spent only about twenty minutes, yet she felt a lot better, relieved of a weight. She let the box cool there on the kitchen countertop as she cleaned the kitchen. She then walked to the bathroom, disrobed and took a long burning shower. When she returned from her shower, Aiko made sure that the bento box was cool. She placed the Hello Kitty wooden lid on top of it and took the box in her hand, solemnly. She walked to the far side of the living room, by the window. She placed the box on a small cabinet beside two other boxes she had made the two days before, below a large framed picture of Chieko in first grade. She took a pen and added a tally mark to the paper by Chieko's picture. She touched three of Chieko's pictures that were positioned precariously on the edges of the small cabinet, each time saying a short prayer. Several tears rolled down her cheek, but she did not let herself sob. Before leaving and getting ready to go to work, she wiped the slate that was hung on the wall above the cabinet. She took a piece of chalk and wrote the number 822.