It was the fourth night in a row that I had heard the music. Never before had it played so frequently; usually it was on rare occasion, maybe once or twice a week, and particularly on the night of a new moon. Ever since my family had inherited the old piano as part and parcel of our new home, this strange and beautiful music had caused me many sleepless nights. Often when it would play, I would quietly slip out of my room and down the hallway to sit at the top of the stairs and listen. I knew not who played the music; nobody in my family was musically inclined, and they all lay sleeping as if they could not hear it. Deep down I knew and could not pretend that the piano played these haunting and melancholy melodies on its own, and this anomaly greatly piqued my curiosity. When the music would not play and I would sleep through the night, I would regularly dream of venturing down the steps into the basement to see who sat before the black and white keys, but every time I reached the bottom step, the music would stop and I would wake up alone in the quiet darkness. This particular night was the night of a new moon, so dark that scarcely any light came even from the windows. The weird and beautiful music rang clearly from the piano in the old spare room downstairs as I sat on the top step listening. I had been there enjoying the sound of it for what must have been at least an hour. The rest of the house lay completely still and sleeping; all except for me and this thing who played the piano. Never before had I gone down the stairs when the music played; only in dreams. However on this night, curiosity got the best of me, and I began to make my way down one step at a time. I expected the music to stop, although I hoped it would not. The descent down the stairs seemed to last forever; the music got louder as the darkness in the air grew thicker. I was almost to the bottom and the music went on, giving me high hopes that I would at last meet the Musician. There were three steps left; then two, then one, and then my feet met the cold concrete floor. Just as it was in my dreams, the music stopped abruptly, only I did not wake up. That is when the singing began. Very softly at first, in words I could not understand, it sang; a singular voice from the room occupied only by the piano at the end of the hallway. Whether the voice belonged to a man or a woman, I could not discern. It was simply otherworldly. The melody of this song was slow and eerie, rising and falling like the waves of the ocean, and floating in the air like a mist. As I made my way down the hallway, the melody came to a resolution, only to begin again accompanied by the piano. The song was so strangely beautiful; I only wished I could understand the words. I had to meet this great musician whose song could move the soul like this. I was almost to the end of the hallway; the song was louder and clearer than ever before, and it was only just on the other side of that door. I reached for it, turned the knob, and pushed it open. The music stopped instantly. The inside of the room was pitch black, darker even than the hallway. After a moment, my eyes adjusted slightly, and I could see the piano against the back wall. And there was the Musician. On the bench before the instrument sat a tall, thin shadow-figure of a man, only it did not sit facing the piano; it faced me. I could not see if it had eyes, but I could feel its gaze matching mine. I stood paralyzed for a moment, and suddenly realized I was rudely intruding and interrupting the song. I closed the door and began to back away. The song did not resume. I started to hurry back towards the stairs, but I did not make it before I heard the door to the spare room creak open behind me. Stopped in my tracks, I turned around to look. I could not resist. At the end of the hallway, the door had been pushed open only a crack,and from the darkness within was a pair of glowing yellow eyes staring at me. Only a second later the door slammed shut and the music resumed playing. I listened from the top step once again, and for the first time heard the grande finale and end of the music. It was the vast final storm of the sea before the death of the wind and sky and eternal calm over the waters. Alone in the total darkness and complete silence, I retired to bed to sleep, and did not dream that night. Never again would I hear that beautiful song, though I’ll be damned if I ever forget it. Never again would the Musician bless the keys of my piano with its brilliance, nor my soul with its tune.


“What are you doing?” “Hm? Oh. Just throwing rocks.” In the middle of an uninteresting forest clearing there stood a person beside a pile of rocks. They had just reared up with a rock in-hand and chucked it uneventfully into the air, a melancholic look on their face, when another person had wandered by to see what was happening. “Throwing rocks?” “Yeah. I’ve got these rocks, see?” The person nudged the knee-high pile of rocks, sending the top few spilling to the ground. “So I’m throwing them.” “But...why?” “Why what?” “Why throw the rocks?” “Why not? What else would I do?” Another rock flies into the air, a little lower than the first. “I mean, it’s just a little odd.” “Throwing rocks is odd?” “Isn’t it? In a certain sense.” “Which sense?” “Well, in the sense that you could be doing something else. Something else with those rocks, even.” “Like what? There was a neat pile of rocks, so I’m throwing them. You wanna try?” “No, thank you. I’m still working this over.” “Not too much to work over, I don’t think. Haven’t you ever skipped a rock before?” “Well, sure. I’ve *skipped* a rock plenty of times, but that’s entirely different than just throwing them.” “Is it?” A third rock. This was the highest yet, and got an admiring nod from the rock thrower. “Of course. There’s a point to *skipping* rocks. It’s enjoyable.” “Does something have to have a point to be enjoyable?” “I think so.” “I’m enjoying myself.” “I don’t see how. There’s no point to just throwing rocks up and watching them fall down. At least in skipping, you’re trying to get the highest number of skips.” “Must the point be quantifiable? Can’t the point just be that it’s enjoyable?” “I...suppose." “Sure you don’t want to try?” A silence. Two more rocks thrown, neither of them as high as the third. “You know, I think I will give it a try.” “That’s the spirit. Take your pick.” The second person chooses a decent sized stone from the pile, testing the weight. “What are we aiming at, anyway?” “Nothing in particular. Just throwing.” “I see. So...what if you hit someone?” “I’d apologize, I think. Nobody wants to be hit with a rock.” They both threw their rocks at nothing in particular. The second person’s went a little higher than the firsts’, and they both nodded in appreciation of the good throw. “I think I get it now.” “Do you?” “I think.” “I’m glad.” Another tandem throw, nothing comparably impressive about either. “Say, what’s the point of this story?” “Story?” “It’s a way I like to think about things. If someone were writing this as a story, what would be the moral of it? What would be the point to reading it?” “Well, did the writer enjoy writing it?” “I...don’t see why not. Sure, I suppose they did.” “Will the reader enjoy reading it?” “They might, but they may feel annoyed that there wasn’t a point.” “If they enjoy it, then that’s the point. Doesn’t need to be anything complicated.” “But what if they don’t enjoy it?” “They might not. Not everything’s for everyone.” “Well sure, but what would be the point if they don’t enjoy it?” “How many people are reading this story?” “I don’t know, I haven’t really thought that hard about it. A thousand, say.” “Did one enjoy it?” “I guess out of a thousand, at least one would enjoy something pointless, yes.” “Then that’s the point.” “I don’t follow.” “If one person enjoys something, even if the rest find it pointless, it has meaning to someone. That’s the point.” By that point, the pile of rocks was just about gone. Only two remained. “So you could say it’s like throwing rocks at nothing in particular?” “Exactly. Somebody else may not like it, but as long as one person does- there’s the point.” A final throw for each. This was the least impressive throw so far, for both of them. “Well, that’s done. What will you do now?” “No idea,” the rock thrower answered.


It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. At least, that’s what Christina thought, based on how her sister had described it.

The manor was an elegant, yet greying, umber color. It had tall, fortifying green front shrubs, and inside of those shrubs was a courtyard worthy of a duke or duchess. Bronze benches decorated the edges of the inside, with meticulous designs engraved.

Holding her sister’s ashes, Christina’s mouth fell open. Her fingers trembled against the cold pewter urn as she walked slowly towards the newly-planted tree in the center of the yard.

It was a red oak, one that would grow to be the centerpiece of the carefully-plotted land. Aretha, Christina’s sister, had always wanted one, but the lords of the house had refused her every time, claiming that it would simply look gaudy. Finally, only after her death, would her wishes be granted. Christina’s eyes teared, already rubbed to the point of pinkness, half of her jaded with anger towards the lords of the house, for their mistreatment and hypocrisy. The manor was just a shell of nobility, but Christina knew the truth.

Aretha had been sent to the manor when she was two years old, for she’d been awarded board and education from the “most pristine, heavily-awarded” scholars in Canada(this had turned out to be a red herring, even so, because Aretha’d forever been indebted to them). From the moment she arrived, she was taught Latin, German, enrolled in math and history courses, and given severe lessons on her manners and demeanor. Basically, she’d been put on a pedestal by these scholars and criticized for her every imperfection. Christina couldn’t imagine spending a day in that lifestyle.

After she graduated from the rigorous education program, she’d entered an internship with a history professor. She’d written a novel, The Backside of West Civilization in Northern America, as boring as it sounded.

And then their mother had died giving birth to Christina. Their father committed suicide only days later, ending a cowardly life with a death that left his two daughters alone in a bitter world that had no room for them. According to her, Aretha ended up moving to Quebec City, after a nasty set of arguments with the lords of the mansion. She was seventeen at the time, but heavily educated and driven, so she ended up with a job as a secretary for a translation company that helped with international trade deals. She had to leave Christina by herself for most of the infant’s first years. Christina barely survived the first two years of her life due to malnourishment. Aretha couldn’t provide the proper care for her, understandably, and all of her cries for help ended in no success. Not to mention, her monthly taxes from the wealthy family that had raised her. From their mansion on the hill, they just continued to stack their wealth, devoting it to perfecting the empty house and attaining fruitless knowledge that would only inflate their egos even more. Yet Aretha persisted, raising her baby sister with the best of her ability. She rose to a prominent position in her company, slowly making Christina’s future brighter.

Now it was only black. Christina couldn’t imagine a future without her sister. There was no way, no possible course of action that Christina could see herself taking without her sister. In her eyes, her summer internship was as good as dead, her Chemistry bachelor useless. “Cristina Grelett?” Christina heard her name called across the lawn. She stiffened, clutching the urn even closer. Her fingers were numb from grasping it since they’d come here from the cremation center in Montreal, but she didn’t care. After all they’d done to her sister in life, Christina would fiercely protect her

in death.

“No harm intended,” A taller, slim man with greying hair said. His expression reminded her of the janitorial staff at her sister’s workplace; almost disgusted, but reluctant to complain. He seemed as though he’d been waiting a very long time for her. “Yes, sorry, the drive was longer than expected,” Christina said, “Are you Mallion Steed?” Aretha had mentioned the name countless times as she recounted their life story to Christina. Aretha had always hoped through these stories to instill in Christina that she could survive anything; that it was in their bones to pull through adversity. Mallion Steed was mentioned often with a curse or morbid insinuation. Christina kept a neutral face through her desires to both slap him and laugh at him in memory of her sister’s rare stories of pranks against him.

“I am Dr. Steed, yes,” he said, smiling and revealing very small, even teeth. Christina wondered how he ate with such small molars. “Two PhD’s make me a professional, I’m sure.” “Doctor,” Christina said, keeping a grip on the urn.

“How was the funeral?” Steed said in a syrupy tone. Christina swallowed down the contents of her stomach that threatened to reappear.

“We didn’t have one,” she whispered in a crystalline tone. She cleared her throat. “Just came from the cremation center.” Her head unconsciously darted down, eyes looking through the urn.

“Ah, I see,” he said, “Well, there is a breeze out here. Would you like to come in?” No! Her instincts screeched, making her hesitate.

She was cold, it was true, but she’d rather walk over coals to warm up.

Finally, though, she said, “Yes.” Curiosity about her sister’s childhood home overtook her urge to run away as fast as she could. Christina also wasn’t sure that saying ‘no’ to this man was the best idea.

“Come in, then,” he said, “Oh, we plan to leave the urn with the tree. You may rest it there; our staff will organize it to your liking.”

Her unease only grew, but she let it down, her fingers clammy and feeling empty as she placed it delicately. Her hands rested near her sides, half-way into the pocket of her jeans. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Steed said diplomatically as they entered the house through the front staircase.

“Thank you,” she said, adjusting the left side of her hair, which was pinned up in braids. Aretha would’ve been proud of how well she’d done, especially considering her hands hadn’t stopped shaking. That said, she probably would’ve just done Christina’s hair herself. “This is my academic partner, Dr. George Buondy,” Dr. Steed said.

“3 Phds in Sociology, Psychology, and Anatomy,” Dr. Buondy said, “Naturally, I was your sister’s neuroscience professor.” He was also tall, but with fiery auburn hair and more stomach than Steed. He spoke in an oily tone, sounding as though he wished to know her secrets. “Educator,” Dr. Steed corrected, “We were an unusual program. Aretha did get an excellent education, though.”

He gestured grandly, indicating the magnificence of the place. “I’m sure,” Christina said, looking down the long hallways, each door adorned with gold trimmings. Side tables held orchids, and various portraits embellished on the walls. In the center was a watercolor of both men, looking dignified as they sat in a garden for tea.

Christina cringed as she imagined what a child would do here. There was no evidence Aretha had lived here, which made it even harder to picture.

“Are you looking for a portrait of her?” Dr. Buondy asked, “She always refused one. Strange, isn’t it?” “Not for her, I suppose,” Christina said, “She’s - was - never one for the spotlight.” Another lump formed in her throat as she registered the past tense. “Too true,” Dr. Steed said, “We almost never managed to open her up and get her to talk about what she was really thinking.” “Always very observant, not too talkative,” Dr. Buondy said, sounding almost analytical. “She was never one to take back her words, though.” “Right,” Christina said, understanding how Aretha would constantly have feelings of animosity towards the doctors. “Well, would you like a tour?” Steed said into the still room. Christina looked up at him. Even at twenty-four, she couldn’t understand “grown-ups.” What would make him think she’d like a tour? She was here for her sister. “Yes.” What? Christina argued with herself, thinking that she owed it to her sister to know everything Christina could about her.

She also didn’t want to leave whatever remained of Aretha yet. She knew she would never be back, and she couldn’t say goodbye yet. “Well, there’s not much down here besides the ballroom, the lower studies, the kitchens and servant dorms - well, what you really want to see is your sister’s old room, correct?” Dr. Buondy seemed eager for her response. “A general tour is fine,” Christina said.

“Are you sure?” Dr. Steed said, “The emotional pressure, and curiosity to see how your sister used to live -” “No, I’m sure,” she said. Reluctantly, the doctors started at the end of the hall, in the ballroom. They gradually warmed to the tour, explaining the architecture and color scheme with dignified tones. They also talked about previous balls they’d held, and how Aretha had loved them.

“Aretha had never mentioned balls,” Christina said. “Well, I imagine she was trying to convince you that we were the devil,” Dr. Steed said, “Which we aren’t, are we now?” “Of course not,” Christina said, ignoring the rising anger in her that they would insinuate something like that about her sister, who was an optimistic soul. “We can probably skip the studies,” Dr. Buondy said, “We have a lot of private information in there, research and all that.” “As most philosophers and scientists do,” Dr. Steed said, in an attempt to be modest.

They scooted her past the next few rooms, subsequently, and passed the central staircase again. They reached the kitchens, where the setting was purely white; it made Christina’s dark skin stand out even more. She shivered uncomfortably as they left, entering the dining hall. “We mostly ate here,” Dr. Buondy said, “She had atrocious manners when she came here.” “Never put her elbows on the table by the time she left,” Dr. Steed said, “We think we did a fine job of teaching her manners.” “You did,” Christina said, biting her tongue. Snideness wouldn’t accomplish anything. “Well, our servant’s dorms are hardly of any interest,” Dr. Buondy said, “Let’s go upstairs, shall we?” “Of course,” Christina said, “What is upstairs?” They walked back to the central staircase, the expanse making her slightly lightheaded. “A parlour,” Dr. Buondy said, sounding proud, “The bedrooms. Even a small studio, where Aretha studied tap.” “Very nice,” Christina said, climbing the stairs with them.

They showed her the two hallways that were split by the staircase. They went left first, entering a large door.

“Oh.” Christina said. It was obviously her sister’s old room; it was a little girl’s room, clearly. The hot pink walls matched the four-poster bed, and a white desk with a vanity stood against the left wall.

“We never redecorated for her,” Dr. Buondy said, “She was hardly in here, anyways.” “She always was busy doing something,” Dr. Steed said, “She liked the other children a lot - the children she saw at playdates, and balls. We do have a refined neighborhood here.” “And she loved charity work,” Dr. Buondy said, “Was always doing something.” “Even after she left,” Christina said, “She was always working, or taking care of me, or volunteering. I doubt she ever slept.” “That must’ve been hard for her,” Dr. Steed said sympathetically. “Especially after the baby,” Dr. Buondy said. Christina did a one-eighty as she met his eyes. “What?” “She had a baby shortly before she left to take care of you.” “Wait, she had a baby? How?” “She was pregnant for the last nine months,” Dr. Buondy said, “And then your mother died, and your father.” “So what happened?” “She was preparing to leave anyway, with her child,” Dr. Steed said, “She chose you.” “So where is her child?” “No, Christina, you don’t understand,” Steed said, “She gave us her baby so that she could raise you. She sacrificed her own child for you.” Christina felt her eyes blur for the infinite time that day. She was so tired of the rug slipping

underneath of her, for a lack of more eloquent speech. The only truth she could accept was her sister’s, and now that was being challenged to the extremes. Yet Christina knew they were telling the truth. She didn’t know how she knew, but it must’ve been true.

“So what happened to the child?” Christina choked out. “We gave it up for adoption,” Dr. Buondy said remorselessly, “We have no place for a baby here.” “We raised Aretha from her infant years, but we didn’t have the resources for a newborn,” Dr. Steed tried to explain, trying to sound human. “I - you did what?” “Unfortunately, the baby passed away in the orphanage,” Dr. Steed said, sounding like he was trying to be sorrowful, but coming across as a snake. “It died? ” Christina asked, horrified, her voice barely above a squeak. “Yes,” Dr. Buondy said, “Shortly after we put it up.” “This conversation isn’t going the way we’d hoped,” Dr. Steed said, “Christina, we’d like to give you the course that we gave your sister. It’ll open up so many opportunities for you. Chemistry as a profession is failing, because of the environmentalist’s avid abuse of it. We’d like to give you a brighter future.” “We could give you any job you want,” Dr. Buondy said.

“But I’d have to send money?” Christina asked heartlessly. “Like Aretha?” “Well, no education is free -” Christina ran out of the room before Dr. Steed finished his sentence. Neither followed her.

Christina’s converses clipped against the staircase as she grasped the staircase, breathing heavily.

They were offering her a life like Aretha’s. They dared to ask her, dared to think that they could trap her like they did her sister. She should’ve felt sick. But the slight didn’t mean anything to her, like it should’ve. All she could consider was the complete waste; her sister had gotten nothing she’d wanted or needed in life. She’d never asked for anything. Christina shouldn’t have this life. It was wrong. This life belonged to the child her sister had borne, the child that was now in the ground next to her mother because of the complete negligence that had damaged both mother and daughter. Christina wouldn’t go on, couldn’t go on anymore knowing what she now did. She refused to. It was her life, after all. Her logic vexed, Christina’s mind was bolting through thought-after-thought. At last she came to the idea that her sister had chosen her. Christina. That had to mean something, right? Or did it mean the wrong thing, did it mean that Aretha had wasted her life on someone else’s?

Christina couldn’t think straight. She couldn’t handle it. Looking out the window, she saw something that made her heart stop entirely. There was another urn, one next to Aretha’s. A smaller one. Christina ran outside, and dropped to her knees. Reading the urn, she let out a howl.

It was her sister’s child. Sinking beside the identical urns that were placed against the oak, an area already dug out to put a gravestone there, she dug her fingers into her hair.

Christina couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t process this. She needed Aretha at this moment, she needed someone who was only by her in an urn. Christina winced as she lifted her head and the wind hit her. Her tears down to her cheekbone, she thought. Why had Aretha done what she had? Christina could never know. Or apologize to her niece or nephew. Christina had to let it go. Didn’t she. She had to try, right? That was always the best idea. To try. Maybe to try and figure it out, maybe to try and make her sister’s choice not a waste. She knew one thing, one thing that meant everything; she wanted to make her sister proud. And that was all that mattered


A Sympathetic Interlocutor by D.A. Cairns

Decorated was the word that first came to mind when he noticed her cheeks. Breaking eye contact only very briefly because he wanted to hold her gaze as long as possible, the strange patterns on her cheeks caught his attention. They might have been scars, burn scars or, had they been located somewhere else on her body, the kind of scars left after a surgical attempt to remove tattoos. The thought intrigued him and suspended the moment of greeting in time.

Suddenly aware of her soft hand inside his, he let go and stepped back gesturing for her to take a seat. When he had settled himself opposite her, he saw that she was watching him and he instinctively stiffened. Her eyes were huge, round and dark chocolate. Adorned with lid liner and shadow, her lashes were spruced and unnaturally thick, and she would have elicited a comment in his mind about her being overdone had she been someone else. Had they been somewhere else. Everything seemed different. He felt different. She shifted her weight slightly and tilted her head to the right, apparently waiting for him to speak.

Embarrassed, he cleared his throat and summoned sufficient strength to concentrate on what he was supposed to be doing. But even as he spoke, those funny marks on her cheeks wrestled for his attention. They could have been freckles, although they were lightly coloured in contrast to her olive complexion, but not single freckles gathered together in clumps. More like thousands of them packed into adjacent rooms for all night dance parties. This thought amused him, and his accidental smile was returned warmly and sincerely. This woman was breathtaking. Not classically beautiful because of her cheeks and the way her thick black hair was held away from her face in a clumsy ponytail -she looked like she had spent all her preparation time on her face and not left enough to do her hair properly. She was indisputably stunning nevertheless.

‘Why are you here?’ he asked her. ‘Why have you come here today?’

‘Well,’ she began slowly, finally looking away and thus releasing him from the spell she was casting over him. ‘I think I need to improve my reading and writing.” A perfectly constructed sentence delivered in a languid Middle Eastern accent. Improve, he thought, how could you improve on perfection? ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Is not being able to read and write as well as you would like to stopping you from doing something you want to do. Like further study, for example?’

She thought for a moment, averting her eyes and thus giving him the chance to study her more closely. From her full lips dressed in red, over her chin and down her slender neck, his eyes stopped when they reached a golden angel sitting astride her cleavage. The line of the thin chain which suspended the angel matched the low vee cut of her white dress.

‘I would like to go back to work now that my children are older.’

He loved the way information was revealed slowly during these interviews, morsel by juicy morsel, peeling away the layers of protection, the walls people built around their personal lives. Those walls invariably crashed to the floor as the interview progressed. Whether verbally, in their speech or their writing, or non verbally in their body language, they communicated their lives to him, their hearts and minds and he was an avid reader.

‘How old are your children?’

‘I have three. Thirteen, eleven, and nine. All girls.’

It was impossible not to stare as the enchantment grew, filling the room like fog. He had thought she was probably aged in her early thirties. It was hard to tell sometimes, especially with women who were able to hide their age so much more efficiently than men. However with children that age she was more likely to be in her late thirties, even early fortes though that was scarcely believable. Desperately curious to confirm his suspicions that she was older than she looked, he selected a piece of paper from the pile on the desk which filled the space between them and placed it in front of her.

‘Please fill in this form.’

Date of birth was the fourth question so he watched eagerly as she wrote, his eyes glancing occasionally past her hands and jeweled fingers, to her breasts which seemed to have risen higher, threatening to spill out of her dress. Maybe it was the way she was sitting, leaning forward with her arms pressed tight into her sides.

She wrote 11/9/64. He wanted to tell her how surprised he was that she was forty three and how beautiful she looked but he couldn’t. How could one compliment a woman without her thinking that you were a pervert at worst, or a sleaze at best? The words would always be construed as flattery with intent, no matter how politely you phrased them. How could one be sure in himself that the words were merely a genuine compliment and not expressions of desire, or worse: lust? How could he be sure? There was a place, an inside world where he could be alone with his thoughts and feelings, where he could sift through memories and adjust them as necessary and use them however he wished. A place to fantasize and twist reality to feed his insatiable lust.  It was a place of both refuge and repression. A haven and a hell.

The interview proceeded normally; she answered questions, did the tasks, the reading, the writing and the mathematics while he filled in forms, ticked boxes, interpreted and analysed both her and her work, made her laugh, made her blush, made himself blush with his boldness, noticed the delicate chain around her ankle and her painted toenails, and averted his eyes when she needed to adjust her clothing to recover what was being gradually, conspiratorially revealed. All the while he wondered whether the chemistry he felt between them was real or imagined, and whether the way she tilted her head and played with her hair was flirtatious or merely absent minded. He even went so far as to suggest they could go on talking for the rest of the day, and she had agreed, and although the exchange was lighthearted he felt the words expressed genuine sentiment. He really did enjoy her company. This admission was followed by a fist of guilt jabbing him in the ribs a few times. He was married and so was she.

‘The interview is finished now. You can go and have a nice cup of coffee. Thanks for your time and good luck,’ he said, slowly standing up.

She smiled as he took her soft hand in his and he wished her well a second time.

They stood behind the door in the small interview room savouring a ridiculously long good-bye. The truth was he did not want her to go and she was in no hurry to leave. In the pregnant silence, he began to feel dizzy and was still holding her hand when he opened his mouth to speak. Nothing but air escaped his nervously dry lips, and soon he felt as though he was drowning, like he had fallen into the deep, deep pools of her eyes and they had magically stolen his ability to swim. Seconds passed recklessly into what felt like long minutes as they stood there. Still, no words were spoken and the door to the outside world remained firmly shut.

Finally he released her hand, more from the carelessness of drowsy enchantment than deliberate action, and she looked away. The moment was over. The spell, shattered.

‘Goodbye,’ she said quietly as she opened the door. ‘Thank you.’

He swallowed and managed a very faint, ‘You’re welcome. Good luck.’

Then she left the room and walked away down the corridor. Away from him, away from the mysterious connection they had just undoubtedly shared. He smiled. She was now a new resident in his inside world. A traveller who had landed on his planet and not been allowed to leave, despite wanting to. A fellow prisoner, though not consciously aware of the fact, or even vaguely impacted by the reality of her incarceration.

‘Liliane,’ he breathed wistfully. ‘Goodbye Liliane.’

He sat down, and when he had completed the paperwork and written in his comments and recommendations, he collected all her papers and placed them neatly together inside a red manila folder. He closed the folder and read her name one last time.


…rd! This is so weird! This is so weird! This is so weird! This is so weird! I feel like my heart’s going to explode if this doesn’t happen soon. Ooohhh! I should never have agreed to this. What was I thinking? This is so weird! Ok, Jim! Just relax! Relax! This will be over soon! Just hold on, relax and it will be over soon. Breathe! That’s it, breathe. One, two, three, four! Breathe! One, two, three, four! Breeeeatheeee! Remember the exercise that you taught yourself, Jimmy boy! Come on now! Five things you see! Five things I see! What do I see? What do I see? I can’t see shit! It’s so dark! Shit, shit, shit! It’s so dark! I’m going to die! I’m going to die … I’m going to die! Am I dead? You’re not dead, you idiot! You’re in the tank, that’s why you can’t see anything. Relax! RELAX! Ok, ok! Next thing. Four things I can touch. What can I touch? What do I feel! I feel scared! No idiot, with your hands. What do you feel with your hands, with your skin. I feel … liquid. I feel … the mask on my face. I feel the floor under my feet. And … what else?! What else … I feel …my tongue? Yeah … I feel the tongue in my mouth. Great! Now breathe … relax. That’s it? Relax! Good! What’s next? Three things I can hear. What do I hear? Hmmm … bubbles? Ok, that’s one. What else? Are those voices? I think so. Can’t make out what they’re saying, but those are definitely voices. Must be the doctors. Ok, one more, Jimmy! One more! Hah … you hear yourself. Right? Sort of. It’s good enough. Two things you can smell. Plastic, yeah, I can smell plastic. Ok! What else? Something bitter, rancid almost. Ok! Last one. One thing I can taste. What can I taste? Hmmm … that’s weird, what’s this taste? It’s sort of bitter … and cold? That’s it, I taste bitter and cold. Good! Good job there, Jimmy! That’s it! Much better now! What’s taking them so long? I should be under by now. Hmmmm … Is something wrong? Shit … I’m sure something’s wrong. Should I wait? Yeah … I’ll wait. I’m sure there’s nothing serious. Maybe they’re just talking. Yeah … they’re just talking. Any minute now. Any minute... now … Breathe, Jimmy … breathe. That’s it … breathe. Relax, think of it as going to sleep. You love sleeping, don’t you? Yeah! I love sleeping. I’ll dream like crazy. I’ll be free! I’ll finally be free. Ok! How long has it been? Five minutes? Ten? Twenty? Shit! I can’t take this anymore. I need to get out of here and see what’s going on. Shit, shit, shit. " …eeeeyyy!” Shit, why is my voice so horse? “… eeeeyyyy! ..et ..e ouuu…!” Shit! My muscles feel so stiff, and this damn liquid is so dense. I can barely move my arm. Come on Jimmy, punch that panel, punch it like it owes you money, Jimmy. Punch it! “… eeeeeeeyyyyy!” Come on damn it, it’s not like you don’t know I’m here. “Le.. ..e ouuuut!” Yeah! That’s it, I’m screaming in here you idiots. " …s so…ne ‘n he…” Yeah! I’m screaming! Shit! Move, you damn arm! Move! Pound that panel. Pound it! " …lax man!” What did he say? Relax! Shit, that’s the word of the day, isn’t it. Relax, relax! I am relaxed. Come on already, get me out! “… stuc…, it’s stu…” What the hell are they doing?! What’s taking them so long! “Heeeeeeeeyyyyyy!” Crap, if I move my mouth too much the mask moves. I don’t want to swallow any of that stuff. " …eeeeeeyyy.., ..et me ou…t!” “Th.. l..v..r’s stu…, pul.. the on… on yo… end!” What? “Pu.. th… l..v..r!” Pull the what? Pull … think Jimmy, think! Shit! The lever, pull the lever! “Pu.. th… l..v..r!” Pull the lever, where’s the lever? Where is it?! Come on, Jimmy, think, think! Where was it? It should be in reach. Right? If I can pull it, it should be in reach. Relax! Breathe! Breaaathe! That’s it! Come on, Jim. Find that lever! Find it. There! There it is! Pull it, pull it. Pull…. it! Shit! Aaaaaaaaaah! “At a boy!” “Pull him out.” Oh my god, it’s so cold. Why is it so cold?! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! “Alma, hand me that blanket! Let’s wipe this muck off of him before he freezes to death.” Whhooooo arrrrrrre theeeeseeeee ppeeeeoppleeeeee! Brrrrrrrr. Shiiiiiit, it’s coooooooold. “That’s it, you’re alright boy. You’re alright! Open your eyes slowly, slowly! You don’t want to go blind now, do you!? That’s it. That’s it! Let’s have a look at you!” “Is he alright?” That sounded like a girl! Shit, it’s brrrrrright. “Yeah! Just confused. Like we all were. Remember?” Who is this guy? Sounds like my dad. No, older! “Pfffff, not like this.” I don’t like this guy, he sounds like that asshole Jessie from high-school. Why is it so bright? Come on, Jim. Breathe! Get your bearrrings! You’re alright. You’re alright! “Where’s the doctorrr? Who are you guys?” That’s it. Relax! Is this how babies feel? Everything’s so misty! Ok, Jim! Relax and look around. Get your bearings! “Pffft, doctor? Confused my ass, I think this one’s daft, Max.” Jessie 2.0 again. How old is he? Looks to be thirty something, that goatee sure makes him look like an asshole. Yeah, I don’t like this guy at all. “Here you go, Mr. Tennyson. Here’s another blanket.” She’s pretty. A bit old, what is she? Twenty-five? Thirty? Pretty eyes. I really like green eyes. “Thank you, Alma! Let’s get this boy on his feet. How are you son? Are you feeling better?” Old-Dad looks really tired. He doesn’t look anything like Dad, though. He’s fat and he smiles a lot. I like him, I like him a lot. “So, how do you feel? Do you feel better now?” “Mmmhmmm! Thanks! Who are you? Are you doctors?” “No, no! We’re patients, just like you. My name’s, Max. Max Tennyson! Do you know where you are?” Why is everyone starring at me like that? Crap! I’m naked. Shit! And there’s a girl. Is she smiling? Shit! “What’s your name? Do you know where you are?” Mr. Tennyson sure likes to repeat his questions. “You’re wasting your time with him, Max. The frost got to his brain. See how his eyes are darting all over the place? He’s squirrelly.” Nope. Don't like him. “Please leave the boy alone, Mr. Gage. So... do you remember your name?” at least Jessie 2.0 respects Mr. Tennyson. Is he afraid of him? “Jim! My name’s Jim!” “Good! That’s good, Jim! This is Alma and  this is Mr. Gage. Now, do you know where you are?” “At the Cryogenics lab in Houston, Texas?” Where are all the doctors? Who are these people? “That’s right! Do you remember the year?” Again with the questions. “2000… 30?” Or was it 2029, my brain feels slow. Have I gone squirrelly like Jessie 2.0 said? Oh, shit! Oh, shit? “2030?” Alma, she looks scared. “So, he’s one of the newer batches. That explains it!” Jessie 2.0, he looks terrified. “I’m not sure we’re in 2030 anymore, Jim.” They all look like that. “What do you mean? Where’s the doctor? What’s happening?” “We don’t know where the doctor’s are, Jim. We woke up a couple of hours ago, just like you.” Is that worry on Mr. Tennyson’s face? Was he expecting answers from me? What do you mean ‘woke up’? “What do you mean: woke up?” “We were in cryo-sleep, just like you. We woke together at the same time, about two hours ago.” What are you saying, old man? Cryo-sleep? “I wasn’t in cryo-sleep! They were supposed to put me under, but something happened and you guys showed up.” What’s he talking about? “Pfffft, look around you boy! Stop being daft!” I really, really don’t like this dude. If he calls me daft again... Wait! He’s right! The lab wasn’t like when I went in the tank. Oh my God! Where am I? When am I? “It worked?” “Yeah! It worked! Don’t listen to Mr. Gage, Jim. He’s just angry and scared.” At least Mr. Tennyson’s on my side. I think I’m going to need it if this continues. “Pffffftttt.” Heh! Just like that asshole, Jessie. Angry and scared! “What year is it?” “That’s what we’re trying to find out. You’re the latest addition. I went under in 2010, Alma in 2012 and Mr. Gage in 2020…” They do look scared. All of them. Especially Jessie 2.0. I guess that’s why that punk was always behaving like that. Heh! If I see him again I’ll punch him in the face. Settle down, Jim! “Can you stand on your own, Jim? How old are you by the way? You look twenty.” Mr. Tennyson again. “I’m nineteen!” She smiled. Is she shy? She’s looking away a lot. “Poor boy!” What? Why poor? Poor old man maybe? How about that? Just shut up, Jim! Does this mean I’m in the future? Oh my god! “We’re wasting time. Literally every second is precious, or have you forgotten?” Jeez, does this guy ever relax? “Is your name Jessie by any chance?” “What? No!” Heh, could’ve sworn it was. Just smile and wave, Jimmy! Smile and wave! “Come on, let’s get out of here. We need to find out what’s going on, here.” “Finally! Thank you, Max.” The lab looks really strange. Now that I look around, we’re definitely not in 2030. I wonder what year it is. Everything looks different. Are those screens? “Did you check the computers?” “Yes, we did! We couldn’t get any of them to work, I don’t think there’s any power in the facility.” Wow, her voice is so sweet Should I ask how old she is? No, don’t be a creep, Jimmy! That would be really weird. Hi! Welcome to a weird future! How old are you? Just look around, Jimmy. Look at all the pretty walls. Look how pretty hey are. They have a nice white color. Wait! That’s right, everywhere I look there are only walls. “Aaaaah, where’s all this light coming from?” “The ceiling, as far as we can tell.” Mr. Tennyson seems smart. “Didn’t she say there’s no power? How can that be?” “We don’t know. But the ceiling glows. Quite brightly as you can see for yourself. It was even brighter when we woke up. Based on that, I believe the sun is starting to set.” He seems to have taken the leadership mantle of the group. The others don’t seem to mind it at all. Hmmmm. “Why are you saying that?” “Jesus, boy! It’s obvious they’re powered by sunlight or some sort of light since nothing else seems to work and we didn’t touch anything.” Here we go again with this guy. “Relax, Mr. Gage! The boy doesn’t know what we did, or did not do. He’s right, Jim. When we got out of the tanks the lights were already on. As I said before, even brighter then they are now. That’s why we believe them to be powered by photovoltaic cells. Does any of the equipment in the rooms we’ve passed look familiar?” “No, nothing.” “Then I guess it’s safe to assume that we’re not in 2030 anymore.” Pretty smart. “Mr. Tennyson! Do you think the others are waking up as well?” What others? What is she talking about? Idiot. Of course there are others here. Hmmmmm. But why haven’t they woken up yet? “It’s safe to assume that they are, Alma. Mr. Gage, help me with this door please!” Should I help as well? It feels so cold to the touch. Come on. Put your back into it, Jimmy. One, two... three. That’s it. “Great! Let’s see what we have here. Aaaaaah. This appears to he a locker of some sort. Let’s see if we can find something that will fit us, shall we?” This material looks high-tech. It feels so light and yet it’s warm. I definitely like the future. Ok! It looks a little tight on Alma. Right! Stop it, look away. Stop being such a creep. Remember what Dr. Patel taught us. Look for the markers. When you feel like this, when you feel the need to lose yourself in someone else like this, it’s because you’re trying to lose yourself, period. I’m scared and it’s ok to be scared. Remember who you are, Jimmy. You’re scared and lost and alone. Well, except for these weird people. Who are these people? Are they even who they say they are? "We'll go look around some more. You two stay here. We'll be back for you!" Should I talk to her? Now’s my chance while they’re away. Come on, Jim. Relax! You can do this. Just breathe! “Hey, Alma!” “Yes, Jim.” “How did you get out of your tank?” Smooth, Jim. “What do you mean?” Does she look scared? Am I that weird? “I mean: did someone let you out or did you get out the same way I did? What happened?” “No. The tank drained and let me out at the end of the process. It was almost empty when I woke up. The same with Mr. Gage and Mr. Tennyson. I think yours was broken or something.” Ok. That’s great to hear. It seems bad luck transcends both time and space. “Did you look for anyone else?” “There are over fifty tanks back where we were set up. We just figured it wasn’t their time yet. That’s why we came out looking for people.” Hmmmm. Ok! So there’s more of us. Maybe someone has some answers. “Jim!” “Yes?” “What’s wrong with you?” What?! “Excuse me?” “Sorry! I mean, what are you sick of?” “What do you mean?” Am I that weird? What’s gotten into her. Why is shy asking me this? “I mean. That’s why you’re here, right? Because you’re sick and you wanted to wake up sometime when there would be a cure?” Ok. Poor girl! So that’s why Mr. Tennyson made that face when I told him how old I was. That’s right! The first batches of patients where all terminal, this was their last hope. “I don’t really want to talk about it.” Because I’m ashamed of it. Relax, Jimmy! Relax. “Ok!” I wonder what’s hers?! “Jim, Alma! Could you please come with me?” “Sure thing, Mr. Tennyson.” Pfiu! Right on time. “What’s wrong?! Did you find someone?” “Not exactly. But I think I know what’s happening.” It’s not good. He’s trying to mask the tremor in his voice... it’s not working. Is it getting colder? “Through here. We weren’t supposed to wake up like this. I think the coolant slowly heated up and that’s why we all woke up at the same time. Around this corner over here.” Is Jessie 2.0 crying? What the hell? “Is he ok?” Ok! I think she figured it out as well. Something’s definitely not right. “He’ll be fine. He's in shock. Now, I won’t be able to hold the door open for too long. You need to see this with your own eyes, otherwise, you won’t believe me. Ready?” Come on already! What's going on here? “Ok. Now!” What the...? Ice! There’s ice everywhere. Everything’s under ice. What the hell? “Guys! I believe we've woken up at the end of an ice age… I think we’re several millennia into the future!”


“Do you think you’re a good person, Chris?” The question took me by surprise, “Do I…do I think I’m a good person?” I repeated. “Yes.” It replied. “Isn’t that up to you to decide?” I asked, puzzled. “Perhaps.” It says, “But does that really matter?” I began recollecting, or, trying to recollect the events of my life. A memory makes itself apparent. I see myself on my knees, holding something. No, someone. “Why Is it so hard to remember?” I asked. “Just concentrate, Chris. You’re here for a reason.” It replied reassuringly. I closed my eyes and dived into the murky black water of my mind. The memory comes back, sharper this time. The person I’m holding, she’s a girl, one with short brown hair and green eyes. There’s something wrong though. She’s…pale, the whitest shade I’ve ever seen. There’s blood on her clothes and by proxy, on mine too. Tears sting my cheeks. I’m pulled back to It’s domain. “I’m sorry, it’s so hard to picture, like remembering some long-forgotten dream.” I said. “That’s okay, take all the time you need.” It replied reassuringly. In an instant I’m back, warm torchlight illuminates the crowd around me and casts shadows of angry faces and sharpened blades across the floor. I look up at the man responsible. A grin besmirches his face and a bloodied knife lays gripped in his hand. A firestorm spurs in my head. I lift my gun to his chest and, before he can react, pull the trigger. My mind is carried to a new scene, I face a crowd of onlookers, smirks on their faces. My hands are bound. There’s a man to my right reading from a text. “For the crime of first-degree murder and the harbouring of the fugitive, we sentence you, Christopher James, to death by hanging of the neck. The floor drops from below me. The rope tightens around my neck. I feel my life end as my eyes lay frozen on the sign that hangs above the onlookers’ heads. “Welcome to Salem.” It reads. “I remember” I say through choked sobs, with tears stinging in my eyes. It looks at me with sorrow in its eyes. “I judge you’ve come to an answer then” It assumes. My mind struggles to recall the question but eventually does. “Yes” I say defiantly, “That man I killed deserved to die, my daughter was innocent.” It nods in acknowledgement. “What happened to you and your daughter was an affront to the moral laws of this world. Keeping this in mind, I agree with your assertion that you are a good person, Chris.” It says reassuringly. “What does that mean for me?” I ask hopefully. “It means that you deserve another chance” It says back with a smile. Somewhere in the world, a child is born, one with no memories of it’s previous life. A mother looks upon her child’s face. “He’s beautiful” she utters to herself. Her husband turns his gaze from the child to her. “What should we name him?” he asks, with a smile on his face. A thousand names flash through her mind in that moment as she looks into her son’s eyes. One name reveals itself among the swarm. “Christopher” she utters to herself. “It’s perfect.” Her husband replies.


She was falling asleep. Again. These graveyard shifts pulling overtime were brutal. Sofie was beginning to question if earning that extra pay was worth it when her eyelids were drooping on the freeway as she headed home to her too-tiny, one-bedroom apartment. She really wanted to save for a decent down payment on a house, but at what cost? Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it, the hospital was short on ER nurses. To help keep any nurse working longer hours, they’d converted a larger room into sleeping quarters, with a few bunk beds, and provided a shower for them to access. Tomorrow, she’d bring an overnight bag. After all, she was single with no pets, and no roommate to worry about her—she should just spend the night every now and then at the hospital.

“Did you see the one wheeling the teenager with the concussion in? You know, the brunette?” A hushed voice filtered through her hazy mind in the darkened room. “Which one? So many are brunettes. It’s Friday and we get a lot of teenagers. You need to be more specific.” A second voice. Aware now that she was no longer alone in the nurses’ room. There were two unknown men with her. Sofie felt safe at work and knew she could hold her own, but what were these guys doing here ? She knew the male nurses who worked the ER and these voices didn’t match any of them. She had been asleep on a top bunk, tucked furthest from the door. She tried to limit her movement to avoid alerting these strangers to her presence. At least she could take solace in the fact they weren’t talking about her . She was a redhead. Had the matching freckles, and fiery personality to go with it. She knew she wasn’t a classic beauty and that was perfectly fine with her.

Subtly, she tapped her phone to check the time. She had another hour before her alarm would vibrate and she needed to grab a bite from the cafeteria to start her next shift. Sofie had already showered before she climbed up for a catnap of six hours.

“The one with the tat on her arm. Did you see her?” “Oh, you mean Linda. Yeah, I saw her. Why?” “She was the one I was in here with last night. I can introduce you to a lot of the ladies if you’d like since you’re new here.” Sofie could hear some rustling around. The way this conversation was going, she was glad she didn’t recognize the voices. Their conversation was just disgusting.

The other man answered. “Nah, I’m good. I may be new to the ER, but I’ll get to know everyone eventually.” Point for the new guy. Sofie heard a heavy scraping on the floor and a proud declaration of, “Found it. My ID badge fell behind this bed. If you change your mind, Doc, I can give you the lowdown on who’s willing to take some of your stress away, if you catch my drift. Well, I know a few anyway.” Who was this guy? A doctor? A nurse? A technician? Sofie didn’t recognize either voice, but then they’d been in hushed tones and those were harder to decipher.

She caught the first part of the doctor’s response on their way out of the room. “Let’s get back to work, I have another hour on my shift. Then I can head home to…” and they were gone. The door closed behind them and she was once again alone.

She lay with her thoughts while one more hour of slumbering bliss eluded her. This doctor had more respect for women than the other. Were people really getting together in that way?

At work ? Sofie didn’t exactly grow up under a rock, but she was naïve in the respect she felt people should keep work and personal activities separate. Or at least not intermingle the two at work . She sat up and dangled her legs off the top bunk and hopped off. She did a few stretches and made herself presentable. She’d slept in clean, pale green scrub pants and a tank top. All she needed was her top to look the part of the devoted ER nurse, and she’d scarf down her cafeteria breakfast. At least there was a Starbucks on-site, providing her decent coffee to start the day.

Owen was exhausted. It was all he could do to drag himself into his new apartment after his shift, which of course extended another hour to finish up with a car accident victim who’d come in. This apartment was closer to his new job but he was quickly learning he hated moving. As he surveyed the contents of his living room, he began to wonder why he had so much “stuff”. Boxes still filled two corners of his small living room, with a few more in the kitchen. He left his take-out in the kitchen and headed straight for a shower, then he’d eat in front of whatever documentary caught his interest on Netflix. Tomorrow was his day off. He’d deal with more unpacking then. Oh. My. God. Sofie was dead tired. She had her backpack slung over her shoulder, and two bags of groceries in her hands as she struggled with her key to unlock her door. “Need any help?” She turned toward the unfamiliar voice. Before her stood a very good-looking, fit man. Tall, black hair, and the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. More verdant than her own. Everything she was physically attracted to in a man. And he was smiling at her.

        “Thanks, but I got it. Before I hand over my keys to a stranger, I’ll manage on my own.” She didn’t want to come off rude, but she was tired and just wanted to relax, and in all likelihood, fall asleep in front of her TV.         “I just moved into the apartment next door. My name is Owen. Now, we’re not strangers. I’m just a neighbor coming in from taking my trash out. Dare I ask again, need help?”

        “Of course! I heard you moving around, shuffling boxes here and there a couple of weeks ago.” She handed him her keys. “I warn you though, I’ve not spent a lot of time at home so no judgment on the state of my place.”         Owen just laughed. “No problem. My own place still has the aforementioned boxes. How I accumulated so much, I’ll never know,” he chuckled then unlocked her door and pushed it open for her. She headed inside and invited him in, if only to her kitchen where she deposited her groceries.

        “Obviously I just got home and can’t offer too much beyond what’s in these two bags. I did however buy some juice and a pack of blueberry muffins. Could I offer you any of those?” She headed to the other side of the kitchen’s bar, overlooking what passed as her living room, and let her backpack fall to the floor with a decisive thud.         “Thanks, but no. I’ll take a rain check though.” He winked at her.

Winked at her!  “This is a rare day off for me and I need to get my ass in gear to finally get rid of my boxes. Or at least unpack a few more. I almost found my plates so I could actually cook. But trust me, I’d love to procrastinate and spend time sharing a muffin with you.” Disappointment poured over her with his impending departure, which was ridiculous since she just met the man. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from his though. He had a certain allure that made her want to know him more. Sofie couldn’t even remember the last time she was this drawn to a man. If ever.         “Well, okay then. I guess I’ll see you around. Thanks again for your help.” She walked him to her door and closed it behind him. She leaned back against the door after she locked it and released a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Owen. It fits him. It occurred to her she didn’t tell him her name and he hadn’t asked for it.

Well. So much for that. She put the remaining groceries away and headed for her shower. The hot water would wash away the horror she’d seen in the ER that afternoon. The sick children, the injured, the drug overdoses. She was assigned to a car accident victim who was near death, but Dr. Carson had acted fast and saved him. Was this Dr. Carson the ‘new doctor’ she’d heard talking before her shift yesterday? She’d never met the man since they were never assigned the same shift. Or maybe they were and she just never paid attention. Unlike the first voice she’d heard talking, she wasn’t at work to find a bedmate. She was there to help comfort and save people.

She shrugged it off, made a PBJ, and settled in on her couch. Within an hour, her paper plate was on her coffee table with her crumbs and crumpled napkin. Sofie was asleep with her damp hair still piled up atop her head.

Owen made it a point to unpack his kitchen first. After meeting his neighbor, he was compelled to cook her dinner. She looked exhausted and if her green scrubs were any indication of the work she did, she was in the medical field in some capacity. He knew that mental exhaustion. Every mannerism, along with her apartment, told him she was single. Like him.         She intrigued him and he was calling himself tens kinds of stupid for not asking her name. She smelled like roses and anesthetic. He’d smelled that scent before, but couldn’t place where. He’d never met her before today, but she was familiar. Racking his brain, thinking of her pretty green eyes—eyes that drew him in—her sprinkling of freckles across her face, and her messy ponytail—a clear indication of a busy day—he got to work prepping a decent dinner for them both. Owen wanted—no, needed to get to know her better. Owen was sitting next to her on the couch, arm around her. She’d nestled against his protective male form, taking comfort with him after another long shift. He’d leaned his head down to kiss her, gently at first. Gradually, their hands had found each other, hungry for each other’s touch, and their kiss became more possessive, heated. The knock on the door woke her from a dream she wasn’t ready to wake from. She refused to open her eyes, not ready to lose this personal indulgence of her sexy neighbor’s image. Pure torture, she knew, but it’d been so long since she’d been with anyone. Another knock. More insistent this time. “I’m coming, keep your pants on!” She called. Who would visit her? Her brother had the code to enter the building and all deliveries were left downstairs.         She threw open the door to find the very co-star of her dream before her. Had she manifested him? “Owen! I wasn’t expecting you. Is everything okay?”         He held up two plates of food. The aroma of the chicken charged her senses, alerting her stomach real food was on the way. “Right as rain. And don’t worry, I kept my pants on.” He gave her a crooked smile.

She groaned and motioned him to come in. “I see you found your plates.” “I did. Made it a point to cook you dinner since you looked exhausted and had a slim selection of food here.” This man was from heaven, no doubt. “I am, was. I caught a nap on the couch.” She looked down and realized she was in her pajamas. He caught this move and reassured her. “Don’t worry, you’re cute in your pajamas.” She felt her face flush at the compliment. “Oh, well, then let’s eat. I haven’t had a decent meal in a while. I’m Sofie by the way.” They settled on her couch and ate together.

They fell into an immediate rapport just talking and getting to know one another. She liked him. A lot. The more they talked, the more she was falling for him. At twenty-nine, that’s not such a bad thing. And he was clearly enjoying her company. After all, he came back with sustenance for her. What man did that ?

“Did you get a lot done with unpacking?” She wiped away the last juices from the chicken. She decided he was far superior with cooking talents than she was. He could bring her food anytime. “This was amazing by the way!” “I did. Knocked out all my kitchen boxes. I’m glad you liked it. Cooking relaxes me. When I saw you so tired, obviously from work, I knew instantly I wanted to cook for you. Your food supply here was…let’s say lacking.” He was smiling at her again with his perfect smile. At that moment she wanted to kiss him. She’d never felt that urge to just kiss a man she’d just met. Until Owen. “Do you work tomorrow?” “Yes, ten-hour shift,” she replied. He stood up and gave her a quick kiss on her forehead. “I’ll be right back.” Did he really just give her a kiss? On her forehead ? She’d wanted a kiss on her mouth. She wanted to taste the chicken on his tongue. As she was lost in her own thoughts, he came back holding an insulated container. “I packed you lunch for tomorrow.” “You…what? You barely know me.” She was confused. No man was ever this sweet. “Correction. I barely knew you. I know you a lot more now.” He took the liberty of heading to her kitchen and putting her lunch in the fridge. “Keep the container. Return it when you want another lunch.” He winked at her again. She had questions. She wanted answers. “Owen, why are you doing all this? Why did you kiss me…on my forehead?” He sat next to her on her couch. He put his arm around her as he had in her dream. Would they start kissing like they had in her dream? “Easy answers to both. I’m doing this because I see a beautiful woman, tired, and in need of good nutrition. She’s an absolutely lovely person, who I’d like to get to know more. That answer your questions?” “Some. Why my forehead?” “Because we just met, and I was testing your reaction to me.” He arched an eyebrow. “Why?” Sofie leaned in closer to him, and whispered, “because I wanted you to kiss me, but not on my forehead.” He leaned his forehead to hers. She breathed him in. Sofie placed her hands on his chest; he felt solid. As if sensing her need, Owen tipped her chin up and placed a soft kiss on her waiting lips. It shot a new sensation down to her toes. Need. She barely knew the man, but she needed him.

“Did you want a kiss like that?” His voice was low, husky. And familiar. “What did you just say?” She pulled back.

Owen looked alarmed. “What did I do wrong? I thought...” She shook her head, trying to make sense of who this man was. “Are you a doctor at Washington Memorial? In the ER?”

He was hesitant to answer. “Yes…how did you know that? I’ve only been there a few weeks. Were you a patient?” She noted the exact time realization dawned on him. The scrubs. “You’re a nurse there, aren’t you?” “Yes. ER, pulling extra shifts. You must be the new doctor. Dr. Carson. You saved that man from the car accident yesterday.” “I’m glad he made it.” “I was his primary nurse. You’re a hero.” She needed to know more about him before she allowed herself to fall for him. Okay. Reality check. Before she allowed herself to fall harder for the man than she already had. “Shortly before you saved him, you were in the nurses’ sleeping room.” Owen didn’t deny it. “Dave brought me. How did you know I was there?” “I heard you two talking. Dave?” “X-Ray tech.” Owen was searching her face, looking for answers. “Wait, were you in the room?” She was never one to play games. “Between shifts, pulling extra graveyard. I was top bunk, back corner. I need to know…” Sofie was already dreaming of the man but she had to know.

“You need to know if I’d ever bring a nightly tryst there?” He took her hands in his and kissed them both when she nodded. “No. Dave is an ass who only sees women as a hobby.” Owen moved closer to her. “I, however, actually respect women and would never ‘hook-up’ for a one-night stand. Besides, I’m partial to redheads with freckles, now.” He smiled at her and she breathed a sigh of relief. “Have you ever… never mind. It’s not my business. I just met you.” “Never. Silly me, I just thought people sleep in those beds between shifts.” She was smiling again, and even started to laugh. He claimed her mouth, slowly, and she was enjoying every moment of it. In his bedroom voice, he said, “Good. We may have something yet, but true to both of us, let’s keep our personal activities between us. My shift starts at six in the morning. Yours?” “I’m back on at eight. You think we may have something here?” She had to know if he felt it too.

Owen deepened his kiss. “Absolutely.” He reluctantly broke the kiss, stood up, and cleared the dishes from the tiny living room. He filled the whole space, both in her apartment and her heart. “I’ll head back. We both need our rest. Let’s try to meet for a picnic lunch.” He gave her his number so they could coordinate their schedules. “And Sofie, I’m not a one-night-stand guy.” He kissed her one more time and closed the door behind him. Tomorrow’s shift definitely held promise and a new beginning.


He was a brilliant child. So intelligent: on a level of Einstein. He understood space and time, but he knew electronics. He was too smart for school, and by the time he reached high school, partying was much more important than being bored with the repetition of the mundane education that he didn’t need. The one thing that Craig loved the most was airplanes. He read every book. He learned everything he could about them, not only flight itself, but what the engines and weapons systems were comprised of. How they worked and what was unique to each one. In Minnesota, where he grew up, when he had graduated and worked three or four meaningless jobs, like delivering and setting up waterbeds, he knew exactly what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. He wanted to be a United States Marine, and he wanted to work on airplanes. He set his mind to accomplishing that one goal. To say he was obsessed, was not even close to the love he felt for military aircraft, the weapons they carried, and the military personnel that operated them. The day Craig went into the Marine Corps recruiters’ station, he was tall, and lean, and extremely handsome. He had wide shoulders and he had charisma, the kind that comes from confidence. There is nothing that makes a person, male or female, more attractive than intelligence upheld by conviction. Craig had all of this and the Marine Corps recruiter recognized a future Marine was standing in front of him. Many young men had walked into Gunnery Sergeant Joseph’s office. He was a stereotypical Gunnery Sergeant and he did not take his position lightly. He wanted initial contact with anyone who dared to walk into his office, to present to them the exact feeling of what they should expect. Not just any person can be a Marine. In 1981, the commercials on television said, “The few. The Proud. The Marines.” Craig took this personally, and he knew he WAS one of the few, one of the proud, and he wanted to be a United States Marine. Gunny started on Craig the same as he always did by asking one question, first. “Young man, why are you here and what exactly about you, makes me want to believe that you are worthy of becoming a United States Marine Corps applicant?” The words were sharp and sliced the air like a machete through underbrush with absolutely no sugar coating applied. Gunny wasn’t yelling, but he wasn’t whispering either. Craig knew the answer immediately. He stood taller than he had when he came in and he said, “Sergeant, I want to work on airplanes!” Well, Gunny, just snickered at Craig. “Hah, SO DO A LOT OF MEN!” Craig did not even flinch. He did not look away and he was not discouraged. In fact, he was ready for the recruiter’s reaction. It was the same reaction that every single person, his father, his brothers, his friends. Every single one of them laughed at him the same way. But Craig was a quiet man. He only spoke when it was necessary. He always had a look that made people ask him, “What are you so mad about?” He would get so angry when they said this to him. He wasn’t mad to start with, he just didn’t talk unless he had something to say. Mostly, this was because he was listening to people talk about things without knowing anything about what they were saying and he was so much more intelligent than anybody else. Craig looked at the Sergeant and said, “I know airplanes, but I want to know what Marine’s know about everything to do with warbirds.” Gunny stepped back. He eyeballed Craig from head to toe. This was the only person that had ever walked into his office and given this answer and Gunny liked it, and he let his bowed-up appearance relax. He said, “You know, Marine, I send ninety percent of the young NOBODY’S that walk in here, right back out the door and two doors down. DO YOU KNOW what is two doors down from here, MARINE? DO YOU KNOW WHERE I SEND THEM?” Craig said, “YES, SIR!” Gunny said, “WELL?” Craig snickered and said, “THE ARMY, SIR!” They both laughed. That day, Craig was recruited to become a USMC candidate. He had to take the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery (ASVAB) test. He scored so high that when the results were given to the Gunny, he told Craig he could take any position he wanted, but he had something specific in mind for Craig. He told Craig, the United States Marine Corps wanted to send him to a secret two-year electronics school, in Memphis, Tennessee. Gunny said, “I have never had the opportunity to send one of my recruits there. It is so thorough and so in depth that the students are secluded and separated from their entire lives, and most Marines, know nothing of this school. The majority of those that attend don’t make it. It’s underground, in a bunker, and if you pass this school, you will be one of the top one percent of people on this planet that know this much about airplane electronics.” Craig did not know about this school, and he was ecstatic to take the assignment. Within a few weeks, he went to basic training at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, in San Diego, California. When he completed basic, he was sent to Memphis and spent the next two years in school. Craig was one the very top students and there were only a handful that were taken there. More than half were kicked out of the program. Round after round of young men, who thought they were good enough, soon found out they were not. Not Craig, however. He thrived and was in his element. After finishing school, he was sent to Hawaii, and he was assigned to radar systems on F-4 Phantoms. VMFA-235 was his unit. He loved working in the Quonset hut on the flightline at The Marine Corps Air Station at Kaneohe Bay. He was a fine Marine, and he excelled in his work. He was later stationed in Japan and the Philippines, as well. When his four-year enlistment was up, they offered him a huge amount of money to reenlist, but Craig had other ideas. Craig got a job working for the largest military contractor, that, in 1985, was doing the testing phases for the Apache Helicopter. Specifically, they built the night vision and guidance systems section of the helicopter. They and the other companies involved were attempting to sell this amazing aircraft to the US Government. He took the job, in Arizona, for $8.50 per hour. He was a temporary and a grunt and had to prove he was worth being hired, and ninety days later, that is exactly what happened. In 1987, he married and he and is wife had two beautiful children, later, while he continued his work, with extreme pride, and his family adored his commitment to the United States, the Marines, and to them. He built a lot of model airplanes, and he taught the entire family everything he could about planes. Craig excelled at his work and he became instrumental, when the helicopter was purchased by the US Army, and it became the world’s most powerful and most used weapon of war. Craig worked on the flightlines, all around the world, through his career, and later became a logistical and technical representative writing the manuals, which instructed young army men and women, how to keep the systems maintained. This is what he had done on the flight lines, as well. After September 11, 2001, when the desert wars began, he was sent to Kuwait for one year. He maintained the Apache for the men who flew them into battle. In 1996, he took his family to the middle east and lived in Abu Dhabi, with them, while he worked on a foreign military sale contract. When he returned, the family made a trip to Washington, DC. They visited the Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Smithsonian Center. He proudly told his wife and daughter about every airplane that was displayed there. It was like walking with a tour guide. He knew more than the guides themselves. As the family went around and traversed to another aisle, Craig stopped. Stopped dead in his tracks. He didn’t say a word. He just stared at one of the airplanes. There in front of him, was his plane. It was one of the F4s he had worked on, in Hawaii, in that Quonset hut. It was VMFA-235 and he told them, “This is my airplane”. Years later, when the war was now in Afghanistan, he was moved to another program, where the same night vision and guidance was placed on another larger aircraft and he was chosen by the Pentagon and his company, to live with the Marines, at Skunk Works, in California, while the program was established and later he was asked to go to Afghanistan, with them. It was a tremendous honor to Craig, and to his wife and children, for him to be asked. He purchased a new pair of work boots when he went to Skunk Works for the assignment. When the three years of testing and readiness was completed, he traveled with the Marine Corps unit, as a civilian, and lived and worked three tours, three years, in Afghanistan with the same men. He wore those boots, every day. The term, “boots on the ground” meant more to him than just boots on the ground, and men fighting, it meant he was where he belonged. He kept his fellow Marines, who admired his expert knowledge, on a 100% mission readiness rate. He was awarded hundreds of patches and coins and when he returned home, his wife purchased a Marine Corps K-Bar knife engraved with his name and it was mounted on a display for all those coins, to be shown honorably. There Craig was, in his element and had accomplished his goal, one thousand times over. He ran with the Marines, in the 9/11 Heros Run, alongside the young Marines, when he was in his fifties. He adored those boots, and sand that had accumulated on them, was never allowed to be brushed away. Craig brought those boots home, and they were never worn again, but they sat beside his desk, until the day he died. After his death, his wife took most of his model airplanes he had built, his military clothing, and photographs, and books and gave most everything to the two children, but not those boots. They sit, in a place of honor, in memory and respect for the man that served thirty-seven years plus four years as a Marine, supporting the United States of America. He was an honorable man, an outstanding Marine, and he loved the military, but as much as he loved all that, and loved his family, he loved airplanes, and you could ask him any question, about any plane, from the past to the current, and he always knew the answer. That Gunnery Sergeant made the best decision that was possible, for Craig, because no man on earth has ever loved his work more than Craig did. The Sergeant never knew, but Craig always remembered the man, who believed in him, and gave him the opportunity to do and be one of the few, the proud, the Marines, and he never took that lightly.


My first time posting here! I'd love to hear what you all think, and please comment if you have something you'd like me to critique as well! \ **THE TAKASHI GENE (2,500 words)** **Year 2020** **Lacey Takashi** Grandma was 130 years old when I began to suspect she might be special. Before her, the longest lived human was Jeanne Louise Calment from France, who lived to the ripe old age of 122 years and 164 days. At 130, Grandma didn’t look a year over 80, and in fact she was looking younger and younger every day. The journalist who popped by for her 130th birthday party saw that, too, and asked my Grandma for her secret sauce. “I do yoga and sudoku everyday,” Grandma said proudly, “and tend to my fruit and veggie garden. Would you like to see my pumpkins? They’re especially plump this time of year.” Myself, my sister Lily, and our cousins challenge her to a game of chess every weekend, and to this day, none of us have been able to beat her. She teaches advanced yoga at the community center, wowing her students with her flexibility. Most of them are a fifth her age. She says she’s sworn off men since Grandpa passed at 89, but I’ve spied a few flirty texts on her iPhone. It’s 2020, and tech billionaires in the Bay Area are hunting for a miracle to keep them alive forever. What they don’t know yet is that the secret might be hiding in my Grandma’s (and maybe all her progeny’s) DNA. Though, like us, they’re also beginning to suspect. We’ve managed to keep Grandma safe from scientists and the like. People who’d love to draw her blood, dissect her genetic make-up, and run DNA tests. Grandma lives with us - my parents, me and my sister, our two boisterous dogs, and our two aloof cats. We try not to let her out of our sight, because deep down we have an almost irrational fear that Big Daddy might one day haul her away for the “good of humankind.” Grandma thought we were being silly. “If I am immortal, why do I still have wrinkles on my face?” \ It wasn’t until Cousin Mauve got diagnosed with leukemia, and Grandma was the only one in our family with a suitable bone marrow, that the scientific community finally got their hands on Grandma. Of course, the doctors had to run blood tests. Of course, her privacy would be ensured. No, no authorised genetic testing will be carried out. We can promise you that. What a crock of bullshit. The doctors were in awe of how physically fit Grandma was. “She’s got the body of a 50 year old,” they said, staring at her like she’d sprouted wings. “She’ll recover from the surgery in no time.” When Grandma was recovering in the hospital, one of us would be by her side every minute, as long as visiting hours allowed. Nasty news reports began to emerge. “CENTENARIAN REFUSES GENETIC TESTING FOR POSSIBLE SECRETS TO IMMORTALITY.” “IS POLLY TAKASHI THE KEY TO EVERLASTING LIFE? WE MIGHT NEVER KNOW.” It infuriated me that they blamed Grandma for this. Grandma seemed on the brink of caving a few times, and asked us if she might help mankind by agreeing to the tests. We told her if anyone was going to get tested, it should be us young’uns, and she should focus on enjoying the rest of her life. In the end, we didn’t authorize testing on Grandma, but we did have to authorize testing on Cousin Mauve to make sure the surgery was a success and her new bone marrow was working properly. That’s how they found out about Grandma. Grandma was discharged in a week and returned home with us. The scientists arrived the next day. One of the doctors, Dr. Howard, was a handsome fellow with dark hair and eyes and a chiseled jaw. I knew from the start he was not to be trusted. I was right. “When running the necessary DNA tests on your cousin Mauve,” he said, “we found something especially peculiar. If you see here, this is Mauve’s DNA before the surgery. And this is her DNA after Ms. Polly’s bone marrow was implanted.” He showed us a chain of DNA sequences, as if we’re expected to have human DNA sequences memorised. “What are we seeing here?” my dad asked, scowling. “Mauve has developed an excess of telomerase enzymes. Mauve had none before the surgery - and now she has the same amount as a newborn infant.” He leans forward. “The telomerase is repairing her telomeres.” There was a moment of silence as this information sank in. Mistaking our silence for confusion, he continued, “Telomerase is -” “We know what they are,” my mom said quietly. We’d been doing some research on possible immortality ourselves, so we knew telomerase repaired cell telomeres - stoppers at the end of cell DNA that prevent cell DNA from getting eroded during replication. Repaired telomeres mean repaired cells. Cells that live forever. Humans that live forever. “What do you want, Dr. Howard?” I demanded. “We only want to run a few tests,” Dr. Howard said calmly, “it will be quick and painless. What do you say, Polly? For the good of humankind?” Grandma scoffed. “What makes you think immortal humans will do more good than mortal humans? Have you watched the news lately?” Dr. Howard stiffened. “Polly, think about what this could mean. Your loved ones could live forever. Your whole family. Your two dogs and cats - maybe they can live forever, too.” “I’m not doing it. You schmucks leave my genes alone. And the ones in Mauve, too.” Dr. Howard smiled. “I’m afraid Mauve has already given us permission to study the cells found in her body.” He leaned into the sofa and crossed his legs. “Technically, they are her cells now.” Grandma’s face turned as red as her prized beets. “They came from my bone marrow -” “Which is now in your grand-niece.” He shrugged. “Just thought we’d ask you first, out of courtesy.” He got up to leave. “Thank you for your time.” Grandma was perplexed after the encounter. “Do you think I’m being selfish, Lacey?” she asked me, her forehead furrowed with worry. “For not sharing my genes?” “No, Grandma. I think you’re right. I’m sorry this is happening.” She sniffled. “What if they do find a way to make humans immortal, Lacey? Which schmucks will get immortal life? The rich and the powerful, that’s who. And they’ll make sure commonfolk won’t get none of it. Should I go to a nice non-profit, Lacey? Maybe they’ll be able to do some good.” Then she said quietly, “Would’ve been nice if your Grandpapa could have lived forever.” “Oh, Grandma...” She looked at me with watery eyes. “Maybe we could all live forever. And then maybe Boots, Snuggles, Nemo and Paul could live forever too. Wouldn’t that be nice?” She looks wistfully at our pets, all of whom are sleeping within ten feet of us. “I agree, that would be nice.” “If we could all live together forever - maybe this immortality thing isn’t such a bad thing, after all.” She squeezed my hand. “Maybe you have the gene too, Lacey?” That had occurred to me a few times - that I might be immortal too. That Mom, Lily, our cousins might be all immortal. “I’d imagine it’d get lonely quickly if I outlived you all,” she chuckled. “Maybe it’s a good thing the scientists found this… mutation.” \ None of us shared the immortality gene. Grandma was an only child, and Mom was hers. Turns out, the gene making Grandma immortal was not passed on to Mom, so it wasn’t passed on to us. Well, Cousin Mauve had it now too, but the scientists didn’t know if it would last. They never found out, because Cousin Mauve died two weeks after the transplant due to “unforeseen complications”. This shook everyone, but it shook Grandma the most. “What if it was my fault?” she asked me, her voice raspy from crying all night. “Lacey, what if my genes killed her?” “Shh, Grandma, the risk was always there. It might’ve happened with another donor, too.” “This is insane, Lacey. This is all insane.” “I agree, Grandma.” Meanwhile, the scientists were hard at work studying Grandma’s genes extracted from Cousin Mauve’s blood. Much to their frustration, they couldn’t find a way to activate the telomerase outside of their original source - Grandma. \ The year Grandma turned 140, Boots, our sweet chihuahua mix, died at the age of 18. The next day, Grandma pulled me aside and asked, “Should I agree to the scientists’ tests, Lacey?” Clearly, she’d been ruminating about this a lot, because I could see the determination in her eyes. She wasn’t asking me because she couldn’t make up her mind. She was asking because she wanted to see how I’d react to a decision she’d already made. “What do you think, Grandma?” “I think perhaps the scientists might be able to do some good with my magical genes, after all. It might be a few years, maybe decades, before they find the key to immortality, but at least that will give them time to - to -” She looked at me, and I understood. “To grant immortality to the rest of us,” I finished for her. She nodded, relieved that I understand. “Exactly.” She patted my hand. “Losing Mauve and Boots was painful enough. I can’t imagine losing anyone else.” \ The scientists welcomed Grandma with wide, open arms. Mom and I accompanied her to their posh medical facility in Southern California, where they promised she would be under the best care, and we would all live like royalty. All transport and food was taken care of, and they arranged tours for us a few times a week. They pampered and adored Grandma - we could see that. All the scientists needed were daily blood draws. She enjoyed beating all her doctors and nurses at chess, going on tours of the Griffith Observatory and Getty Museum, and most of all, thinking that her family might live forever with her. We were forbidden from speaking to the media about the tests, for fear of inciting panic and ethical backlash. The scientists hadn’t worked out the ethical portion of immortality yet. “This is our secret,” Dr Howard told us. “No one else can know.” We lived at the facility for a week before the doctors told us they'd gotten enough blood samples to last them for awhile, and sent us home. “Not gonna lie,” my Grandma said cheerfully as she packed her stuff, “I’m going to miss the lovely California weather.” I heard the uncertainty and fear in her voice. I knew she was hoping they’d have answers for her by now. Dr. Howard and the nurses showed up to say goodbye on our last day. “When will you isolate the Takashi gene?” Grandma asked. The scientists had named the immortality gene after Grandma. It was a huge honor, they insisted, and we should all be so proud. Dr. Howard shook his head sadly. “We don’t know, Polly, but we hope to do it soon.” “When you do, do you promise me that my family will get them first?” Dr. Howard smiled. “Of course, Polly. It’s written in the contract.” She pursed her lips. “After you’ve isolated the gene - how will you determine who else gets it?” “We don’t know yet, Polly. But I assure you, we’ll figure something out. We all want to live forever, Polly. Maybe one day, we all will.” He winked. “I didn’t want to live forever,” Grandma mumbled. Dr. Howard looked taken aback. Then he laughed loudly. It was an obnoxious laugh, the laugh of a person who thought he knew everything. “Everyone wants to live forever, Polly.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Thank you for contributing to the field of science. The world will thank you.” “Don’t thank me, thank my genes.” Then she stared at him, steely eyed. “Whatever happens, make sure the Takashis get the Takashi gene, capiche?” Dr. Howard nodded. “Again, Polly, it’s in the contract.”   **Year 2120** **Polly Takashi** I am 230 years old when I began to suspect foul play. Sightings of the rich and powerful started popping up in rumor mills in the past few decades. If alive, those people would be well over 150. I live with my great-grandchildren in sunny California, because this old lady loves the beach. Every weekend, I visit Griffith Observatory with them and watch the holographic planetarium shows about the universe, and another show about humans visiting Mars for the tenth time and our plans to colonize it. Word of my immortal genes has survived within the Takashi family, but I remain the only one with the Takashi gene. For years, I’d resigned to the fact that my genes might end - if my life ever ends - with me. I called Dr. Howard every day for a year. The answer was always the same: “I’m very sorry, Polly, we haven’t isolated the gene yet.” Dr. Howard established the Takashi Research Center of Longevity in Los Angeles in the tenth year. After that, I called every month, then every year, until the stoic receptionist told me Dr. Howard had died. Old age, he said. Dr. Howard would’ve been in his eighties. I called when my son-in-law passed at age 85, my daughter at 97, my sweet grandchildren, my grand-nieces and grand-nephews. They left me one by one, alone and miserable in my lone longevity. But I continued to live, because I now have great-grandchildren, great-grandnieces and nephews, two spunky maltese and two sweet ginger cats. I had trusted Takashi Research Center of Longevity with my genetic matter for the past hundred years, up until I saw a news report on holoTV that Bill and Melinda Gates were sighted in the Maldives. “Is it true? Was it really Bill and Melinda Gates strolling hand in hand along the beach? Reports say they look not a day over thirty. If they are the Bill and Melinda Gates we know who changed the computing world, they should be over 200 years today. Who are these Gates Doppelgangers? This is Heidi Fink reporting for CNN.” Everyone thought the news channels were being ludicrous. No one lives that long! No one except Polly Takashi, oldest centenarian known to man. No one knew about the Takashi gene. The Takashi family, myself included, is forbidden from telling anyone under a confidentiality agreement we signed many years ago. But the confidentiality agreement is only valid for as long as it’s renewed. Last year, the law firm handling this confidentiality agreement went out of business. Tomorrow, the confidentiality agreement expires. Tomorrow, I will visit the Takashi Research Center of Longevity and demand the truth. I’ll need no introduction - they’ll recognize me from the honorary statue of me erected in their lobby in 2021. Tomorrow, I will ask why I saw Dr. Howard at the Griffith Observatory two weeks ago. He had a new nose, lighter eyes, blond hair instead of black, but I’d recognize him anywhere. He was a splitting image of Dr Howard a hundred years ago. I’m not kidding myself. I know I won’t get any answers. I just want to scare them a little. A 230 year old woman finds amusement wherever she can. Which is why I will be making calls to the several journalists before I leave for the Research Center. Journalists who’ve become my dear friends at my oldest-woman-alive birthday parties. Journalists who will find answers for me.