   “No! You have to leave! The commotion you’ve caused is unacceptable!”

   We snicker at her, keeping up the act. Right now, we need the librarian to believe we are just some delinquent teens here to cause trouble. I whisper something into Mae’s ear, nonsense words really, but enough to keep the librarian’s attention.    “Stop that!” She demands, her voice raised higher than what would be expected of her.    “You’re being rather loud.” My sister responds in the most demeaning voice she can muster. “It’s making it incredibly hard to focus, don’t you know that libraries are supposed to be quiet?”    “Besides,” I add, “I was only whispering. That is the polite thing to do in this setting.”    “Just moments ago you two were yelling about and knocking over books!” She says, even louder now. “I would say you are hardly in the place to preach politeness to me.”    Her words give me an idea. I turn and walk towards the nearest bookshelf, before spinning dramatically to lock eyes with the woman. I lift my hand, and in one quick motion I swat a collection of books to the ground. A small part of me feels some semblance of guilt, but a stronger part of me is having too much fun to care.    “That’s it!” She begins to walk towards me and I realize it’s time to run.    I grab Mae’s hand and we sprint up the first set of stairs, the librarian following soon after.    “Parker…” Mae gasps out between panting. “Do… do you think we took it too far?”    I shrug. “No clue, Peter just told me that we need to distract her. He never clarified how big the distraction has to be.”    “Go big or go home?”

   “Go big or go home.”    I look over my shoulder and realize the librarian has nearly reached us.    “Okay, let’s go.” I whisper.    We run to the second set of stairs and rush up it, a little slower this time. We have to stay close enough that she doesn’t give up, otherwise there’d be no point to this.

   “How many floors does this library have exactly?” Mae questions as we reach the top of the second staircase.    We pause for a moment and I pull out my phone to check.

   “According to the official website, 5 floors.”    “I’m assuming that wouldn’t include…?”    “Definitely not including that. People aren’t supposed to know about that.”    She nods, and I feel a hand wrap around my wrist.    “Got you.” The voice of the librarian sounds almost silly, and the threatening tone she has attempted to take on does not suit her.    “With that feeble grip?” I laugh, pulling my hand away with less ease than I show. “Hardly.”    I run, not up another flight of stairs but to the opposite end of the room. Mae splits off from me to go to the third floor. I can see the librarian grumbling inaudibly, and decide to taunt her.    “Which of us are you gonna go after now, huh? There’s only one of you. You can’t catch us both.”    Peter, a childhood friend of ours, let me know there would only be one librarian today. He created a false event, or something of the sort, and invited the whole library staff save for one. The one with the keys. The library needs to be open for this to work. He never told us what he was after, never explained why we’re doing this, but he’s always had a good reason in the past for this sort of thing, so I must trust him now.

   The librarian chooses to go after me, probably because I’m closer. That’s her first mistake, Mae would’ve caused way less chaos. I climb on a nearby chair to jump up to the top of one of the bookshelves, knocking over some of the decorations lining the top. Once I’m up, I scoot to the center of the bookshelf, pulling my legs up in criss-cross applesauce.    She glares at me from below. “Get down from there!”    “What are you gonna do?” I taunt. “I mean sure, you could pull me down, but the whole bookshelf might just come falling down with me, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”    She scowls at me, before running away and up the stairs, presumably to find Mae.    My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I hop down gracefully before checking it.

   “I got it, meet me back at my place.” Reads a text sent from Peter in the group chat.    “Understood, on my way.” I respond.    A few seconds later I see a response from Mae. “Cool.” It says. “I might be a bit late, gotta shake this crazy librarian lady.”    I laugh, and decide to take the elevator this time. No need using the stairs considering I’m not trying to be a distraction anymore. Once in the elevator, I push the button for level 1. No basement. What a simple lie, but I suppose it works for the most part.    It doesn’t take long to be out the door and on my way to Peter’s house, it’s only a mile away, so I opt to jog it. No need to take a bus for such a short way, though I start to notice the heat by about halfway there, and am drenched in sweat when I walk through the door.

   “Mae managed to make it here before you.” Peter jokes.    “And even after you left me to fend for myself with that horrible woman.” Mae adds with a smile.    “Oh please.” I respond. “That’s only because she bikes everywhere. Now what was all this for? You ought to tell us after the trouble you put us through.”    “Well as you know I had to steal a file from the secret basement of the library.”    “Yes, but I’m asking for what we don’t already know.”    “Patience, Parker, I’m getting there. The files in that basement are all regarding assassins, and their kills. I had to be sure before I said anything, otherwise I’m not sure if you’d have been able to properly do your part in the operation.”    “What do you mean?”    He hands me the file, and Mae peers over my shoulder as I open it.    It reads “Kaeson Johnson, Assassin.”

He found my mother’s file.


Hey there my name is Maya. I'm currently 22 years old, and well today... well my mom is coming to visit me... I only have a mom, my dad he left us when I was 16... my mother was heart-broken, it took a long time to get her back... but even when he was still there... I never felt as though he truly loved us... You see me and... my mom don't have the best relationship... When I was going to college... well, like I'm really into Arts, and I'm actually an Artist... Not trying brag, but a pretty popular one too. I have had many gallery's as well... and you see... well my mom did NOT approve of that what so ever. She wanted me to become some sort of really smart Mathematician or something, but as I said, I really, really like art and so... when I actually got selected for a top Art School... The day I was leaving for college... Well we had a fight... A big one, and it ended up me leaving with us both really angry with each other. We didn't talk for nearly 9 months after that, however we did finally call once after that and now we call every 3 months but those calls are never like very long nor too peachy. However, I really do miss my mom. Before that incident me and my mom were very, very close, and no matter what I'll always love her. A few days ago I've finally collected enough courage to ask my mom to come over for lunch! And I couldn't believe it when she actually agreed! Today now... well I'm getting ready for the lunch, my mom should be here in just about 20 minutes! I have just finished cooking her favorite foods-or at-least her favorite food 4 years ago. I had made roasted Chicken, along with some rice. I had also made some noodles. Hopefully she'll like it. After I set up the dining table I paced around the house to make sure everything was tidy and in it's place, after I made sure everything was in it's place, I finally sat down for a moment. I've been working all day, and barely had a chance to just sit down and rest. I got out my phone and started to idly browsing... I saw that I had gotten a few message's when I checked, I was surprised to see one was from my mom! It was sent only a minute ago and it read, ' Almost there. See you soon.' I texted her back, ' Alright see you.' A couple minutes later the bell rang! I instantly got up and walked over to it. I took a deep breath... and opened it. There stood my mom, in the past four years we haven't met she didn't look like she aged even a bit in-fact she looked even younger. I suppose having to worry about your children really does age you... As I was trying to decide what on earth to say, my mom first said, "Hello Maya" "Uh, hey... mom" after a pause I quickly added, "Please um come in!" After she walked in, I closed the door behind her. She was looking around the house, before I could say anything she told me, "This place you have is well organized." "Uh thank you?" I instantly wished I didn't say anything because the way I said it made it sound more of a question than an well... sentence! "Well... I've seen some of your artwork on television, they were looking pretty good." I nodded, "Thanks, I was currently corking on..." I walked in front of her and to the side of the hall where I had a piece of paper covering it. "This" I finished as I revealed a giant canvas, with the painting of a beautiful sunset over the ocean. My mother walked over to it and for a long moment examined it, before she said, "Maya I must say this looks marvelous." When my mother said that I felt a huge sigh of satisfaction rush over me. Even though many others have told me, my work is great... when my mother said it I felt as if it really was good. Even though we barely have a very good relationship there's still a feeling you get when your own mother tells you something is good. The reason I think for that is because only your true family will give you true criticism and advice that will truly help you grow. "Thank you so much, it means a lot to me mom" I said with a smile. After a moment of looking at my own work I turned back to her and told her, "Well... um you must be hungry..." "Well... I guess could eat." she replied. We walked over to the dining table, and we both sat down. The conversation at first I felt as though was a dying fire. If you didn't say something for too long or if one of us didn't ask a sort of question that the conversation may die down forever. And I hated this. I just wished that we could be like we used to... like before. Back, before I left... we both would sit hour hours just talking, unlike some where they always complain their mother doesn't get them at all... I felt as though my mom would understand me... better than anyone else. However, it wasn't as if we didn't have small arguments, but whenever we did we'd always make it up to the other... I guess when you don't have anyone else then each other... we wouldn't have a choice anyway. That's when it hit me. I can't take it anymore. I want to be how we used to be. I want my mother back. Then I said it. I said what I should have a long time ago. "I miss you" My mom stopped eating, and I held my breath. There was a long pause before my mother finally talked. "Maya... I miss you t-too! I hate this distance between u-us!" her voice broke as she spoke, "You're the only one I have left... I..." Without thinking I walked over to my mother and sat next to her, I wrapped my arm around her, and she started crying. I could feel my own eyes getting wet too. "M-Mom, please don't cry... I miss you too... and I know how hard it was for you when he left us... but just as I was there for you then... I am now too... I always will." By now, we were but crying. My mother hugged me back, "You were always so strong even then... you were stronger then me... if it weren't for you I don't know what would have happened then... But you... You helped me, you kept me going, assuring me everything would be okay..." After a few seconds more of silence my mother finally pulled herself together, "I.. I'm sorry... I don't know what happened to me there... but Maya... please promise me... that you won't leave me again, you're the only one I have left..." My heart sank, it was clear she hadn't forgotten about... "I promise mom... I love you" before she could say anything else I hugged her, and she hugged me back, and whispered, "I love you too".


Szymon Kutchin The Arizona Tundra Before the snow, locals were worrying about the Arizona landscape burning in the July heat. Now, they were dwelling in tunnels made of snow. Almost everyone was ill prepared. Living went from one harsh extreme to another harsher one. The snow had come out of the blue. It was the first snow in Phoenix for several years. At first several thought that it was the hazy grey ash from one of the fires that always seemed nearby. The ashen smoke always dropped the temperature a few degrees, so it seemed logical, but when the temperature dropped below freezing, the members of Phoenix knew that something was not right. This was not ash, but snow. Once government officials realized this, they made orders to import cold weather gear. They made efforts to bring them as quick as possible. They even called a state of emergency in an attempt to receive aid faster. Seeing this unforeseen event, the mayor of Phoenix made a short speech with poise, and cameras galore, to the residents. “Residents of Phoenix, it has come to my attention that we are to expect some severe weather that we are not accustomed to. There are dark clouds spanning over the entire Four Corner Region likely to produce snow for several days. Because the unexpectedness of this blizzard, we are ill prepared to deter the negatives. I have been in constant communication with the four corner states since we got the news, and we have all decided to declare simultaneous states of emergency.  Without safe ways to remove the snow, buildings have a high potential to cave in on themselves. Because of this, I am giving the orders for everyone to grab any possessions of value, particularly clothing and anything that produces heat, and food, then head to State Farm Stadium before the bulk of the snow falls. The stadium dome should be able to hold the weight of the incoming snow. We will wait out the storm there. If you are unable to leave your homes, take all your food and blankets to one location and do your best to stay warm. Power may go out sometime during the Blizzard so do not fret. Stay calm. We will do our best to provide aid to those stranded.” All of the vehicles with plows came to rid the roads of the snow. Even construction crews helped clear the roads to allow trucks to get to the locations that Mayor Newman had mentioned. They cleared the roads to the stadium for as long as possible. The snow fell faster than the trucks could drive. In a matter of hours, only vehicles designed for off-road situations could traverse the ever-deepening snow. All of the plows could not keep up and eventually got halted mid push, halted by the snow. The front-end loaders, bulldozers, and other construction equipment was able to last longer, but the sudden freeze caused many hydraulics to bust. At this point, they gave up trying dig out the roads and just focused bringing what they could to safety. This included animals, food, people and supplies. Once these were moved to one of the locations of safety, all vehicles stopped moving. The roads were too covered and snow drifts already were covering first floor openings. It would be a long, cold night. Only five hours had passed since the snow started to fall and looked like it was not about to stop soon. As well intended his speech was, it created chaos. A mass pilgrimage to the city center would have created chaos without the snow. But with the snow, and drivers that had no idea how to drive in snow-covered terrain ensured that pileups around the city occurred. Vehicles became empty shells of plastic and leather when people abandoned them to make the trek to the city center by foot. People who were prepared for days of iced tea got more than they had bargained for and became man-shaped ice cubes for Mother Nature to enjoy. Some lucky ones were able to make it to the domed stadium wrapped in all of their clothing they owned, or layers of blankets. Frankly, the snow fell too quick for many and they froze on the way there. Many decided to stay home. They perished when the falling snow got too heavy for their roofs to handle. Each collapse created increasingly large chain reactions of falling buildings. As the sky began to brighten from the rising sun, thirty-five feet of snow already fell. Seeing how quick and heavy it was snowing, many people volunteered to help by doing things they knew. In order to survive, they needed to work together. Some members of the community teamed up to sew together warmer clothing from the summer gear most wore. Some started cooking from the food that was brought. Together they made sure that they would do anything they could to survive including change the temperature controls from blowing cold air to cozy warm air. They also tried to dig through the snow. They were figuring that they would stay above the snow line to access the surface and possibly dig out of the snow. These brave men and women ended up making slopes up to the top and piled the snow on the sides. To aid them, a few creative members of the dome community created snowshoes made from stadium seats and straps made from excess tank tops they had. Fifty people went out to assist the dig out. At first, they just dug out an area in front of the main entrance. But when the snow continued to snow, they needed a way to put the snow on top of what already had fallen. So, they made a ramp up to the top. Wanting the snow to hold, a few decided to compact the snow near the entrance so that the snow would be able to hold up more. Soon the compacting had become a tunnel. They made it quite large to accommodate the falling snow. This gap allowed the snow to continue to compact and maintain its strength even though more snow continued to fall. The Diggers continued to dig up to the top while Packers made sure to pack the snow behind them providing the structural support. Sometimes they used seats or other items made loose that members inside kept removing to provide some more support to the snow tunnel. Some of these diggers made it their goal to remove the snow cover from the retractable roof. They did not desire to have their beautiful stadium crumpled like Seeing these tunnels. An architect that made it into the dome decided that make some rooms so that the people would not need to be segregated by class any longer. The inside of the domed stadium. If he was being honest with himself, it was because he was tired of the dome and had an empty canvas to create architecture not seen before. So, he enlisted the aid of a few more members to help dig out the rooms. They became known as the Developers, and others became known as Melters. It was the duty of these people to melt up water from snow to use for the cooks to use. This also removed the snow from areas where it would not be beneficial. Together they teamed up to carry snow up to the surface. After a few tiresome hours of working with the aid of a few Melters and Diggers, a few rooms, large enough to hold a few hundred people were starting to appear. At this time, it was just bare rooms with a few shallow enclaves. The architect wanting them to be deeper and more decorative but was outvoted by the workers to build more rooms as it was more important to create more rooms because even with people uncovering the roof, chances were low that the roof would survive for much longer. So, they ended up recruiting everyone who had enough impromptu warm gear to assist the dig-out. Periodically men and women would go back when they got too cold or tired. They would go over to the fires created on the concrete floor of the dome or would make their way to the executive suites. However,those that originally got in them decided that they did not need to share em with the others. They also decided that they didn’t need to work either. So, the cooks decided that they didn’t need to eat. The ones who came back got covered in blankets near the fire but passed off their hastily made coats to others who were heading out to dig. Sometimes these coats were taking to the ones sewing to add some more layers or mend holes. The entire time, these people were sewing up the clothing and blankets that everyone brought into winter gear. Sure, some looked funny with fifteen or so different shirts, but they were warm. Not the warmest out there sure, but warm enough to keep somebody warm for a few hours while they dug. To add heat, they were heated by the fires to dry them off and to give the wearers a nice transition from the heat to the cold. It was almost midday when the weight of the snow collapsed the glass roof of the dome. The ones on top noticed the weight shifting first and managed to warn the top-siders about the roof collapsing. They were able to send a message to the ones down below. They managed to get out of the center right before the ear shattering crash could be heard. The diggers up top had been clearing the roof in a star like pattern and were removing the snow just behind the snow fall. It was adding up, and they were slowing down. Due to their efforts, they were able to delay the roof crash, but only long enough for a community of sorts to be created. Most of the community was centrally located in the dome, but a few had already moved into the tunnels. The warning did give just enough time for most everyone to remove themselves from the direct center. This meant that injuries were low compared to what they could have been. The diggers on top were unable to leave the roof before the glass fell under the tons of snow on the roof, so they made sure to keep their balance while they surfed down to the center on their snowshoes and shovels made of the red seats. Luckily, the only the center of the roof collapsed, leaving the exterior walls standing. It was also fortunate that it ensured that not a lot of snow would fall on the actual walls or the seats underneath. Several of the executive suits were damaged. The people who wanted the isolation from the community went to stay with the others. They allowed, provided that they aid in the dig out. It was either that or go back to their cold breezy rooms and starve. Fires were restarted and more people moved to the tunnels. The wind was not as prevalent there. Instead, it was quite cozy. The heat was coursing through the tunnels, which kept people warm, but did require packers to consistently pack the dampening snow solid again. The diggers over by the ground had discovered some flat pieces of steel and leather while making the rooms. It took them a while that these elements of a scrap yard actually were their cars, crushed by the many feet of snow. They ended up taking the elements to the builders. They ended up deciding to use the steel as tunnel supports. So, they got to work on reinforcing the crystalline structures of snow in the tunnels and walls of the rooms. The rooms were big. They had dimensions created by the architect and walls with complex engravings and steel intermingled throughout. The steel supports would have looked horrendous had it not been for meticulous placement that created a confounding beauty. It would not have been possible before this disaster struck. The snow slowed its decent at around six that day. Snow drifts rose almost three-quarters of the way up the 235-foot stadium. The snow around the drifts and beyond was fifty feet or so lower. Some spires of snow rose from the distance. A closer look revealed them to be the partially collapsed remains of the skyscrapers on the other side of town. At first, people could not believe that it had stopped. They were starting to believe that it never would. Right before sunset, the snow had stopped. One by one members of the community came out to see the sparkling shimmer that the snow produced in the evening light. The snow was mimicking the sun’s red and gold hues. Fleeting clouds could be seen revealing the sparkle of the distant stars. It was as if the world was telling the members of the community that everything would be okay. They would continue to build their frosty palace. They would continue to work out what to do. Most importantly, THEY WOULD SURVIVE!!!


When I returned home from the funeral service for my wife, I took her ashes which were in a lovely urn and placed them on the mantel over the fireplace. My daughter Kelly and her husband were there, and various mourners dropped off food. I would not need to cook for several weeks. I started to recollect the life that my wife and I had together. I met Christine at college. I was a little older because I had been in the war and the GI bill allowed me to go to school. We fell in love instantly and were inseparable. She wanted to get married right away, but I didn’t have the money to start a family. Christine’s mother gave us some old Roman coins she found in a closet, and we sold them to raise the money for a small house and to start our marriage. At the reception, my father in law called me aside and said, “The women in our family always take care of their men. You're going to be very happy. However, there's one thing you'll have to get used too. They are clean freaks. They constantly put things away, and often you’ll never see those items again.” That’s how my marriage to Christine was. If I left anything out, it would disappear. If I asked if she had seen the missing item, she would say, “Oh I put it away.” If I stopped a project before finishing it, I had to put everything away, or it would disappear. Sometimes this worked in my favor. I had a favorite beer stein that I had brought home from Germany. One day I dropped it, and it broke. Christine quickly cleaned up the pieces and put them away. The next evening, she smiled and gave me a beer in the stein which was now miraculously fixed. She said, “There was a duplicate in my mother’s closet.” Christine loved the small Wisconsin town where she grew up. I got a job as a history teacher in the local high school. I was worried about making it on the small salary, but Christine found an old painting in her mother's attic. It was a missing Rembrandt, and it brought in more than enough for us to live on for the rest of our lives. When our daughter Kelly turned thirteen, my wife taught her how to put things away. Suddenly I was living with two women who could make things disappear. Now that Christine was gone, I went through a period of depression. I didn't want to care for a big old house. Soon I agreed with my daughter that She and her husband would take the home over, and I would move into a condo. However, first, there was one more thing on my bucket list. I wanted to find the secret spot where my wife had been putting things away for 55 years. I had a dumpster placed into the driveway and began filling it with old items that I cleaned out of the house. Kelly volunteered to help me, which was fortunate because at my age I tired quickly. One day I noticed that the urn with my wife’s ashes was gone, but Kelly said, “Don’t worry, I put it away.” Finally, I was in the basement going through things and deciding what to throw out. I had the aches and pains of old age, with pain shooting down my left arm. Feeling nauseated, I decided to sit down in an old chair. As I sat, I looked at the basement wall and noticed a door that I had never seen before. Saying to myself, “That’s it! That’s the closest!” Invigorated by the discovery, I stood up and opened the door. Stepping through the doorway, I saw an unbelievable sight. Diffuse white light came down from the ceiling illuminating the room. An aisleway stretched into the distance, with tall shelving units on both sides. About four blocks away, a boxcar sat. I started down the aisle, and to my right, I saw a slide rule sticking out of a box. It was my slide rule from college! Attracted to this shelving unit, I started to take in the scene of stacks of objects I hadn’t seen in thirty years. A noise behind me caused me to turn around. Christine was standing there. Not the old Christine, who had been ravaged by cancer, but a young Christine. She said, “I’ve been expecting you!” I replied, “Christine! You look sixteen! How is this possible?” Christine handed me a mirror, and in it, I could see myself in my old dress uniform. I hadn't been able to wear it for fifty years, but I was thin again, with thick brown hair. Christine spoke, "You were always a handsome, sexy soldier. Do you remember the four-poster bed from our honeymoon? It's here; I put it away." I blurted out, “Christine what is happening?” She took my hand and led me to one of the shelving units. There I saw the urn with my wife’s ashes. Another urn sat beside it. Startled, I turned to Christine. Christine spoke, "Kelly put my urn away here. The women of my family have been using this closet for generations. When a girl turns thirteen, we take her here and show her the family storage closet. When things are put away here, the closet restores like new! We don’t know how many generations this has been going on, but there’s a lady here who wears furs and is keeping shelves full of stone tools. She doesn’t speak English, so I can’t talk to her, but she did give me some stew. I think it was mastodon meat.” Looking at the shelf with the urns I pointed to the urn next to Christine’s. “Who is that?” Christine replied, “That’s you, dear. You had a massive heart attack while cleaning the basement of our home. After the funeral, Kelly put your ashes next to mine. With your interest in history, you’re going to very happy here. In the harbor, Blackbeard is restoring Queen Anne’s Revenge, and he has his treasure on board. Amelia Earhart gives rides on her Lockheed Electra at the airport. We have the original copy of the Gettysburg address and papyrus drawings to the lost pyramid.” Christine then embraced me, pressing her breasts into my chest. She said, “You have eternity to explore this closet. First, let’s check out that four-poster bed.


The incantation was read, reverberating off the world, echoing, surrounding him. The underworld trembled as he was summoned. Through fire and brimstone, he rose through the Chasm of the Damned, tore across the Abyss of Lost Ones, burst through the line between his and theirs. A vortex of fleshy colors swirled around him, formed over his body, tightened, stretched, elongating, reached like pleading branches and down into him through every orifice. From one world to another, from one shape to another, to be summoned was a task he held highly, but one he would punish dearly if discovered to be made by a fool. He closed his eyes, his eyelids hissing on his flesh, and when he opened them he stood in a room that was far pinker than anything he had ever seen. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the blinding, vibrant color. Posters with various female humans in different poses, dressed in gowns, wearing tiaras and crowns, dancing, singing, were plastered to the walls, and sprinkled around them were colorful, shiny stickers of horses with horns, tiny cherubs with glittery wings, and rainbow colored stars and other symbols. The were white curtains with rose patterns hanging to the sides of the windows, and the bed in the far corner had more blankets and pillows than he ever thought imaginable. His sigil was crudely drawn on the small table he stood upon. A tiny, plastic knife blanched with red, and a paint set laid next to it; a wrinkled sheet of paper was on the floor, the incantation scribbled in red, a crayon nearby. A toppled over plastic chair was on the floor, painted with splotches of bright blue and indigo. *What is this?* he thought. “Yay! Yay, yay, yay! It worked! It worked!” A little female human cheered across the room, jumping up from a plastic chair placed in a ring of stuffed animals. A doll house nearly as big as her stood in the center of them, partially open, revealing dolls, plastic furniture, and other child toys. “You summoned me?” he asked, his voice grating, as if with every word his throat ground gravel to a fine dust. She threw her hands above her, one had a small, red mark across the palm, then pointed towards Him. “I did! I did!” “For what purpose do you summon me? Only those who require removal of a human’s life summon me, and only fools would summon me for anything else.” “To play, to play! Daddy’s not home, and mommy is sleeping!” “You summon me… to play?” A fine red mist escaped his lip-less mouth and slits for nostrils, rising and settling onto the ceiling above him. The plaster began to melt, and drips of white fell on his horned shoulders, the table, and the floor. The stench of burning paint, caulk, wood filled the room, mixing with the pungent, spicy scent of the mist. A hole revealing the attic formed, and insulation began to sing. “Yes! I need someone to be Ken! I can be Barbie and their daughter, but not Ken! Girls can’t play as boys, sil—” His amber eyes glowed and, as if a storm cloud passed over the sun, the room darkened. The lines that were etched up his body like snaking veins ebbed with a fiery light, illuminating the room. The small girl sat back down, putting her hands onto her lap. More mist escaped him, through his pores, through his eyes, became a smog engulfing him and the part of the room behind him. Hidden behind the cloud, the flaps of this world's frame started to peel, slowly being pulled back to reveal his true form; endless tendrils twisted, conjoined, endless innards like veering corridors, swirling staircases, that reach to the catacombs of ancient beings; places, things, words, names unimaginable to the little's girl world. “You summoned me!” he roared, stepping off the table that collapsed into kindle and embers. “To play? To play with toys? Do you know who I am child? Do you know who, what you summoned! Only the foolish have summoned me for greater things, and even those were childish!” The carpet singed around his hoofed feet, the smell of burnt plastic intertwining with the room's stench. A veil of tears covered her eyes, streamed down her chubby cheeks. She balled her shirt collar in her hand, biting her lower lip. The little girl spoke in between sobs. “Yes… I wanted someone to play with… Daddy’s— daddy’s always gone, and— and mommy’s always sleeping… she takes special medicine… We— we— we moved here for daddy’s work. I have… I have no one to play with here.” He loomed over the girl, peering down through the red mist, his eyes glowing, amber ovals. He balled his pincer-like claws into fists, black blood seeped in between them, dripping onto the floor. The demon glanced back at the table, saw the paper with his incantation among the rubble, saw the plastic knife that must have been used to cut her palm, and saw his symbol, now destroyed. “You summoned me little human,” he said, the color of his eyes and body gradually dulled and disappeared, returning to ember and ruby. The flaps of flesh mended, hiding the depths within his body. No mortal should look upon them, let alone a girl, though, perhaps, his mother may be an exception. “Thus, I will do your bidding this once.” The clouds lifted and sunlight fell into the room through the window once more, reflecting off the pink walls, filling the room with radiance. The fine, red mist quickly dissipated, as did the smell, though he didn't intend to repair the burnt ceiling, floor, walls, just yet. *For another time*, he thought. The demon crouched, glanced among the dolls and what he believed to be Ken into his claws, and asked, “How do we begin then, little human?” If you like what you read, you can view more of my work in my subreddit at .


I remember the day Laura brought her new son home for the first time. I was excited. I knew I'd recall it as the most important day of my life. After much debate, we decided he should be named Hampton, a family name, though I always called him Hamp when his mom wasn't hovering nearby. Her face shone with such pride in the little guy. She held him so tight that I worried she might crush him. I wondered whether she knew the proper way to carry him.            "Be sure to support him from his bottom so you won't drop him.           "Don't hold him too tight, or you might squeeze the life out of him." She wouldn't surrender him to anyone else's hugs and affection. I could hardly catch a glimpse of him, wrapped as he was in his swaddling clothes. He seemed so small, wrinkled, and wiggly when she let me see him. When I looked carefully at him, he didn't look like me at all; he appeared so—well, ugly. But I knew he had to be mine. I felt confident he'd grow out of it, that eventually, he'd become handsome like me. Hamp slept most of the time—actually, he mostly dozed, cried, and pooped. At night he lay next to his mom in bed. At first, Laura wouldn't let me sleep next to them. I sat in a recliner chair across the room and watched them as they slept. I feared Laura let him sleep too close; she might roll over and suffocate him. She never did. As a new mother, she must have had a natural maternal instinct on how to care for her baby. Later, when I was allowed in their bed, Hamp reached out, touched me, cooed, and cuddled me. The thought of him caressing me—loving me—sent chills down my back. He had accepted me. And soon, he learned to say my name, Herman. As he got older, Laura began reading him stories, mostly fairy tales, from a hardbound book with detailed line drawings illustrating the story's characters—knights, princes, princesses, and dragons. At first, Hamp enjoyed looking at the pictures with wide-eyed fascination. He pressed his hand against the colored forms and giggled as he traced the drawings with his tiny fingers. Eventually, he took crayons and scribbled on the books to improve the artists' work, the results annoying his mom. Still, she accepted his need to express himself, and over the years, she collected many more illustrated books for Hamp, books with colorful renderings of kings and castles, pirates, and pirate ships. I sat with him for hours explaining the art, helping him sound out the various letters, and how to string the letters into words. He learned to read, love words and stories, and appreciate art as he leafed through those books. Hamp and I became the best and closest of friends. Since Hamp was short and chubby, he became an attractive target for bullies. In elementary school, he frequently needed me to soothe the physical and emotional wounds he received at school. At night when Hamp was upset or frustrated, he could punch me in the arm to relieve the stress; when he was lonely or feeling rejected, we could hug each other tight, and he would feel accepted and secure. Even as he aged, he'd come home and hug me—anxious or lonely. When he was in the seventh grade, he came home especially upset. There was a dance at school. His first childhood crush had been on a black-haired girl named Barbara. He thought she was beautiful, though he was confused why he considered any girl attractive at that age. He idolized her and sat staring at her at every opportunity during class. He asked Barbara to dance with him that day, and she agreed. Holding her hand and putting his arm around her waist gave him an unfamiliar tingling feeling. Then some of the bullies interrupted them. They taunted Barbara, "You shouldn't dance with that ugly, fat boy." She stopped dancing with Hamp at once. That day he came home humiliated—broken-hearted. He came to me, tears streaming down each cheek and his eyes puffy and red. As always, I was there to comfort him. I tried to convince him that he'd make other female friends. I wasn't much help since the only female I had been close to was Laura, his mom. But I did convince him that most of his life lay ahead of him, and things would get better.            Then came the fights in high school. Hamp had to learn to face aggression: avoid it somehow, fight his way out of the trouble, or run from it. I recommended that he learn to avoid conflict altogether; I had no idea how to advise him how to fight. He'd come home bruised mentally and physically regardless of which path he chose. He needed me most then, and I was happy I could help him deal with life’s pains and bruises.            After Hamp left to go to college, he didn't come home at night anymore. He decided to go into art and writing—the fine arts. I like to think the time I spent with him and those beautiful books had a lot to do with his decision for his future. I haven't seen him in such a long time since he went away to college. At night I sit on a chair in his bedroom and wait for him to return. I am lonely. He must not need me as much anymore. After a while, Laura decided to redecorate Hamp's bedroom. She placed what remained of me in a cardboard box that went into a dark closet. I guess I'm lucky. Though Laura sewed and mended me many times over the years, I lost most of my stuffing. I was afraid she was going to discard me with the trash. So, I'll sit here waiting patiently until Hamp returns for me. I'm sure he'll come home soon and take me with him when he leaves. I know he still needs me. After all, we're still best of friends, aren't we?                                                            END


Regret is something people always seem to carry with them. Whether it was because of some decision they never took or one that only led them down the wrong path. It always seems to be constant in a person’s life, a state of existence that requires no change. So why is it, when it comes to the end of your days, when that same existence begins to slowly die down, do people finally begin to unload all their regret for anyone to hear? The story always seems to be the same, really. Without emotion or belief, they all begin to cry out to the same tune ‘*if* I had just done this’ or ‘*if* I just had more time’. Always if. Always without promise or resolve. Always just a tape, placed on repeat. The need to change what’s within or even press pause for a few moments having been lost, never to be found. Or at least, that’s how it usually went. I would be making my usual rounds. The hallways heavy with the sound of sorrow. Regret, dripping from the doors they came from like tears that left the grieving families eyes. Yet, within that mess of cries, like each day I came across it, one person’s tales stood out more than anything else. Much like a diamond in the rough. A man who I had come so used to passing, collecting what he had laid out for me in the form of drifting words and lazy tales that in one striking moment I found myself so unprepared. “you don’t have to stay by the door…” It came as a bit of a shock really. Having become so used to listening from afar, to wander by his door, collecting the shiny gems that spilled from within his mouth. To be called in, even if it was my job to care for patients, seemed strangely different. As if this very room had become one that I wished not to enter, to only observe from its doorway without any need for further contact. Standing there though, I began to think. Think what may happen *if* I didn’t take this chance, *if* I were to ignore his statement and just keep going on with my day. Frankly the thought began to sicken me. To think I might join those I despised so much, to find regret within my own actions, provided a push that sent me forward and through the door. I used to hear him talk while I did my rounds. Usually to himself, speaking of days long gone. Most of the tales, if you even want to call them that, were of his parents. Sometimes, I would catch bits and pieces, nothing important really. Though on occasions, the stories would seem to keep at a pattern, growing stronger with each retelling, forming a tale of the past that, as I walked by, would be quick to listen to. Through these tales I would begin to hear of his life. Hearing of the stories on how his father was a drinker, a man of Irish blood, falling upon his own needs and soon finding his feelings down the long neck of whatever bottle he held within his grasp. Other times it was of his mother and how she used to sing to him, something he spoke about in longing now more than ever, after having ignored it for so long as a child. After a while I would find myself waiting, expecting really, for the tales to drift from his room. To pick them up as I passed by, revealing to me something new and interesting about him, something that I knew would brighten my day. Slowly beginning to want more as time went on, my pickups taking longer and longer. My interest willing me to remain, to listen and observe of the tales he left behind. The tales had begun to change for me after a while. What once was a pastime, something I collected like the endless tools and towels during my rounds, had begun to shine through everything else. A tiny treasure really, one that I held onto without regret, without second thought to what may happen without their presence. The room was brighter than I expected, the curtains hanging open and the windows swung free to allow in a natural breeze. His sheets freshly replaced; the air filled with lavender. The refresher mixing with the smell of the world outside, as if trying its best to combine and hide away the sickness that clung just outside of the doorway. And yet, with all these distractions, they did little to hide the man that lay before me. A complete opposite of the rooms sparkling image. The man was dying. Sickness having claimed its right to take his body, leaving him bedridden and closer to death with each passing day. This was of a story so common, heard so many times that most would find themselves yawning at the retelling of it. And yet, as I stared at the man before me, thinking over to the thousands of others I had found in a similar situation, I couldn’t help but feel…empty. Its as if this man’s presence before me, one I saw drifting away so quickly, had already begun to create a void. A void I knew would never be filled; a void placed there because I found myself wondering what I would do without his tales. Finding myself so lost within my sorrow, the cheery room before me slowly beginning to corrode. Every calming scent reminding me of the death it hid. Every pleasant image, the calm sheets and fluffed up pillows used only to hide the dying body that lay before it. "…I know I'm dying; you don't have to feel bad about it" The man's words, once more pulling me away from where I was. His calmness, especially towards death - something I had grown so quickly to detest in this moment, made me feel almost ridiculous for finding such pain from the death he drew ever so close to. So instead, as I stood there watching him hold on for as long as his body allowed, I decided to do it with him. To stand by his side, to sit and talk and to listen most especially. To watch his body as it faded away, the strength he had held onto slowly crumbling before me. Watching so quietly at the end, a smile so pleasantly placed upon his lips as if none of this truly mattered. It was only then, once the silence truly began to set in, did I begin to cry. The tears streaming down my face, breaking whatever silent oath I had made for myself to never feel for a patient, to never truly care for what they did. But it was also in that moment, as the tears continued to fall that I began to notice the little red book that hid so well within his hands. A notebook that as I slowly slid away from his hands, I noticed my name written across. Careful to open such a thing now, my eyes beginning to dry while the first few words showed through. Tales old and new, ones that I remembered so fondly and ones I was excited to explore. Flipping through the pages, glancing across the words written down so fondly, until I came across the final words, one that drew me to pause for only a moment before I began to crumble once more, finally letting everything go, my tears and stammers filling the halls ‘...to the nurse who listened’  if you made it to the end of this story then i congratulate you.


“Girls, shhhhh,” a voice admonished them. Claire and Diana sheepishly peered toward the librarian, instinctively reaching to cover the phone in their hand. “Sorry, Ms. Rose,” Claire responded first. Always a favorite of the teachers, she liked keeping it that way. “I can see the phone, girls. Do you really need that to complete your homework?” the librarian seemed to enjoy living up to her role as the stern caretaker of library sanctity. “We are using it for our algebra homework, unless you would like to lend us the abacus in your drawer,” Diana tartly responded. Never one to back down to authority, Diana didn’t seem too worried she might get caught in the lie. Ms. Rose looked like she wanted to admonish Diana but thought better of it; her parents were one of the biggest donors to the library. “Well keep it down. This is not a zoo.” She walked away huffily, presuming it gave her an air of importance when really it made her seem like a twelve year old rehearsing for a play. Claire and Diana turned their attention back to their phone. “Are you sure we should send this?” Claire whispered, trying to sound more matter of fact than she felt. “Girl, come on. Don’t flake now! This is gold. Can’t wait to take that bitch down a few notches. All coming in here with her South African accent and her diplomat parents. Let’s see her act like she is all that after this comes out!” Claire looked again at the photo she had taken that they were about to send to all her classmates. On her own she was never as bold as her friend, but Diana had a way of needling her to action. She knew she’d be in big trouble if her parents found out, but even they seemed to succumb to Diana’s charm. Plus, it was true, the picture she had taken would cause a commotion and Claire kind of liked that she would move from the periphery to the epicenter for a while. Lately, she had the distinct feeling that she was a colorless outline, like she was barely visible even to herself. “Hey, you in or what?!” Diana impatiently rapped her knuckles on the table, eliciting another round of shhhhs from a neighboring table. Claire sucked in her breath and before she could think about it any further, tapped the send button and heard the satisfying chime of the message racing through radio waves to her classmates’ phones and lighting up screens around town. When Claire walked toward her locker the next morning, she felt eyes on her that made her walk a bit taller and flip her auburn hair a few extra times to maximize her air of drama. She sat a few rows back from her usual spot in the front of the classroom and daydreamed about how the rest of her sophomore year in high school would be different. “She’s a badass,” people would whisper. “She’s not afraid to take someone down! Don’t mess with her. Also, isn’t she so pretty?! And she now has the largest boobs in our year.” “Psssst,” a sound poked into her thought bubble. Claire turned to the direction of the hiss and her eyes widened. It was the boy she had been crushing on for half a year and had never turned his head to look toward her. Alex’s sage eyes now looked directly at her while his arms outstretched under the desk were flashing something in her direction. “Yo, did you take this?” Claire quickly contemplated the tone in which she should respond, and speak the first words ever to her crush outside of “Hey, you dropped your pen.” “Oh yea, haha, I forgot about that. Hilarious though, right?” Claire flicked back the hair framing her face as she responded hoping it would add to the breeziness coating her response. Alex cocked his head to the right and furrowed his brows before shrugging his shoulders and turning back to the front of the room. Claire felt the heat rise up from her collar to her cheekbones as she tried to concentrate back on whatever her teacher was word-vomiting about in the front of the room. That was not the response she was expecting. Maybe he hadn’t really heard her? For the first time since she had pressed the send button, the doubts she had decluttered from her head started creeping back in like wild ivy. She had to find Diana at the end of class for her dose of emboldenment. But her friend found her at the end of class, weaving through the hallway of open lockers and raucous classmates. Claire could tell she was heading toward her because Diana’s eyes didn’t leave her face as she practically swatted people out of her path. As soon as her friend reached her, she pulled her out through a fire escape door to the back stairs. “Shit, Claire, did you hear”? Her friend’s voice was vibrating the words out with strain. Claire was so caught off guard with the fear radiating off her friend that she just gaped at her. Fear was a shade she didn’t recognize in her friend. “Claire, Claire are you listening? Did you hear? Jesus, Nika, she...she. OK can you stop staring at me like a dumb duck? Claire, Nika attempted suicide last night and is in the hospital in critical condition.” Claire felt the walls change direction around her and had a sudden sensation that she was freefalling down the stairs in front of her. She felt the weightlessness in her legs and the rush of adrenaline in her chest. And then she wasn’t entirely sure she was still awake; drowsiness filled her eyes as she wished the last twenty-four hours had never happened. That she could go back to the library and remove her finger away from the button that would send the photo of a period stain on a white dress to half her classmates.


In the night, Lucia awakens and remembers how it used to be, those hot summer days in Tuscany when everyone at the villa stretched out for siesta. She gravitated to the boathouse, where she’d mosey into the murky shade with the sound of water slapping the hull. And soon there would be Guido, also seventeen, climbing out from the water, pushing back his dripping hair. “Come, slip into the water,” he’d say, trailing fingertips over the surface. “No, Ma worries when I swim alone.” “But you’ll be with me.” Shy smile. “Oh, a boy! That’s even worse than drowning!” He’d lean closer, pressing his wet limbs against hers, leaving blotches all over her cotton blouse and culottes, marks that vanished once she got back in the sunshine. Tonight, three decades later, she senses Guido in bed beside her, his bulk a testament to his commitment to family and home and tradition. Theirs is a solid marriage, seen as strong and enduring by their friends in New Jersey who know them as Guy and Lucy. A marriage that produced four children, all young adults now, all busy with college or work and not able to be part of la raccolta delle olive , the annual Tuscan harvest. Despite the sweat and dirt, it's like a honeymoon for Lucia and Guido, after all the years of never getting away on their own. Why has it taken them so long to return, her sisters will demand to know. We were busy raising children , she imagines answering, but that is a lie. One of many she will be telling, perhaps. At the first ray of dawn, Lucia in her poplin pajamas tiptoes from the room. They are staying in a tiny bunkhouse, the overflow sleeping quarters from the main villa where her sisters and their families are staying. She stubs her toe. Stramaledetto! she gasps and then swallows the pain, the expletives. Guido slumbers on. No one else appears to be up; from her window the villa looks dark. La raccolta is hard labor: carrying nets to the groves, laying them out, raking the branches, all the time taking care not to tread on the olives. And then in the mill: cleaning the crates of raw olives, mashing them, feeding the press. No wonder everyone sleeps like a log. The day is brightening; sun gleams from the mirror hanging near the bunkhouse door. She looks closely at it—not at her reflection, which is haggard, but at the hand-carved frame. She recognizes the handiwork of Guido’s uncle, Rocco. Lucia is instantly awake; it’s as if Rocco has stepped directly from the gloom to pinch her. He was an eccentric, vulpine presence she instinctively tried to avoid from the moment she could walk. She rakes her fingers through her sleep-tousled hair. The frame—the memory of Rocco surrounded by wood shavings and razor-edged chisels while he carved tendrils on the brows of putti —disquiets her. With a fingertip she traces a wooden spiral. A small spiral—yet she feels dizzy. After all these years, she thinks. Still. She must get out, must clear her head. She pulls on shoes, a windbreaker, and a traveler’s belt, which was looped over the back of a chair. She exits the bunkhouse, feet crunching gravel on her way to the rental car. She’d seen a hole-in-the-wall café during the drive from the airport to the villa, and plans to go there now. But the villa parking lot is full of vehicles, including a truck that boxes in her car. During la raccolta , many able bodies return, like salmon to their spawning grounds. She notices the boathouse. The sun is glinting from its slightly dented aluminum roof. It’s at once shabbier and more real to her than anything else on this trip. The closer she approaches, the more waterlogged the turf. A cold wetness penetrates her canvas boaters. She jiggles the rusted latch until it gives way, then she enters the boathouse, leaving the door wide for light to pierce the gloom. A familiar dank smell fills her nose. She sees a boat, a hulking craft that blocks the view. An ordinary boathouse , she tells herself. Perfectly ordinary. So long ago. Memories come rushing back. Right here, in this corner, she used to hide, anticipating, moistening at the thought of Guido’s cool limbs upon hers. He always swam to enter secretly via the boat side. In the other corner—she can scarcely bear the thought—is where, once, Rocco had lain in wait for her. She takes out her cell phone from the traveller’s belt and snaps a photo. She uses a flash, so everything is devastatingly illuminated. This is her method of exorcism: She snaps photos of things she hates: she reduces them to small flat representations. This defangs them. Her phone has a picture of a rat snapped in the subway tunnel. And a tarantula that escaped from its aquarium in her daughter’s bedroom (and was safely re-caught). And the creepy T-shirt vendor at the farmer’s market where she sells the artisanal extra-virgin olive oil. You can fool some of the people all of the time, she thinks. She speed-walks back to the bunkhouse, alert to small noises of others waking. Inside, she pries off the clammy canvas boaters. She peels off the windbreaker and tries to drape it over the abhorrent frame, but she can’t get it to stay put. She feels dizzy simply touching it, as if Rocco is waiting to ambush again. Despair mounting, she slides into bed beside Guido. He grunts softly as she shifts her weight. Her eyes adjust to the dimness, and she watches expressions on his face moving like storm clouds on the weather-channel map. She wonders: how has he reconciled what happened on that long-ago afternoon? When he swam into the boathouse ready to hold her for a few stolen minutes—and instead found Rocco trying to subdue her? So many years and they have never spoken of what happened next. At first, they couldn’t—they’d crept away, separately, stunned and shaking, leaving a lifeless form under water. They’d forced themselves into busy-ness, with farmwork all afternoon and evening and the next day. Acting normal. On occasion, Rocco had sneaked away from the villa before, so the search for him started late. On the third day his waterlogged body appeared among reeds near the boathouse. No sign of trauma… an accidental drowning. Guido had been among the pallbearers. Not blinking an eye. Lucia kept watching, waiting for the mask to slip, especially when they were alone together, but Guido avoided her for the next month. In church, she confessed to the sex but never mentioned holding a man’s head under water. Meanwhile, their student visas had come through. A secret that was next-to-impossible to keep when at the villa, seeing the boathouse every day, became easy to keep at a private school in upstate New York. They plunged into a new life in a new land. The Guy & Lucy Show . The boathouse memory faded, flaring only when she smelled dankness or heard the slap of waves against an empty hull. Now, as she watches Guido sleeping on the bunkhouse bed, she wonders what episode is playing in his mental cinema. Is he reliving that first playful kiss? Or is he re-thinking the problem of winding a net around a struggling man? Forget the bond of parenthood; nothing binds you quite as tightly as being accomplices in an unrevealed murder. Stop it , she thinks. Just stop it. You can fool some of the people all of the time . She lies there recalling times she nearly came clean: first time, two days after the funeral, when she’d heard Rocco’s mother weeping in the night. Second time was when they walked alone over the Victory Bridge and she had an eerie feeling Guido planned to remove the only other witness to the deed. And then, the third time, after their big argument— over what? a sofa? —that had escalated to the nuclear option, when she was ready to pack up the baby and, oh yeah, report the crime to Interpol. A sofa? She can hardly believe it was so trivial. Then she discovered anti-depressants. Their secret remained intact, the truth of what happened to Rocco on that sultry day in July in a boathouse in Tuscany. In her mind she tours the old places—the hilltop towns, the winding roads, the lanes of cypress trees—and she falls asleep again. Then she dreams about Guido dragging Rocco into the water, plunging him in while she cast a net around him, pushing him under and holding him down until he grew still. She hears water slapping against an empty hull. She awakens, gasping, heart pounding, uncertain in her jet-lagged state whether it’s morning or evening. *       *       * Last Christmas, Guy had been so hungry for Lucy. He nuzzled her neck, running his hands up and down her arms, her back, her breasts, and whispered, “I remember that first time in the boathouse, Lulu. I’d love to go there again…” “I’m sure they’ve torn it down by now,” she murmured. “Besides, everyone will be there. And tongues will wag, old history will be dredged up.” But he kept talking it up—with her, with the children, with both families in Tuscany. “For once,” he promised, “we’ll help with la raccolta. ” He bought tickets. The night before the flight to Florence, he had a terrible case of cold feet. He told her that it would flay him alive to see the boathouse. He was dreading being face-to-face with his senile mother, his grasping siblings, and her relentless sisters. He was going only because she insisted. “It’s just for three weeks ,” she said. “We’ll be too busy to spit.” His reluctance surprised her, or more properly, his disclosure of his reluctance. She smoothed his forehead with her cool palm. You can fool all of the people some of the time. *       *       * On the final day of the visit, the sisters are sitting around the table, staring at Lucia. The breakfast is growing cold on the table. One of the children picks at it. Her sisters are silent except for Corinna, who is a year and a half younger than she is, but looks ten years older. Corinna says, “Do you think, sharing our bedroom so many years ago, that I did not notice when you stopped having siesta there?” This is all my fault, Lucia thinks. I let Guido think we only needed to act innocent. He didn’t know about the sisterly shark tank. “One time I got up and followed you,” Corinna continues. “I saw you sneaking down to the river. I saw you letting yourself in the boathouse. I waited, hidden, to see who else went there. But no one did. Instead, Mamma found me, slapped me, said, why are you out in the blazing heat? Ma sei scemo? I couldn’t tell her it was you I was waiting for, Lucia. So I went back to our crummy little bedroom and waited until it was time to get up.”  Lucia says nothing, scooping the foam from her caffé latte with a spoon. Touching it to her tongue. “A week later, Rocco goes missing,” Corinna says. “At first he misses the evening meal—the only time ever he missed it, but no one saw that as significant as I did. Handsome Rocco. I figured you had your eyes on him; what girl did not? Not like his ugly, spider-legged nephew Guido.” “Corinna!” Maria cries, aghast. “ Bada a come parli! ” Lucia narrows her eyes. She’s forgotten how cruel Corinna can be; she will say anything to provoke a response. She frowns, knowing she should stick up for Guido, but resisting the obvious ploy to be dragged into an argument. “And then, the next day, you stopped going to the boathouse for siesta. Right away. You knew he wouldn’t be there,” Corinna says. “Even though it was the following day when they declared him missing.” Lucia pries the end off her cornetto and puts it in her mouth. As if she is tasting it. Act normal. “Oh, you are cold-blooded. No tears.” Now Corinna is standing and stabbing her finger at Lucia. “The next day they find him—drowned in that part of the river curiously close to the boathouse.” Lucia rips a bigger piece from the cornetto, stuffs it in her mouth. “Of course I said something,” Corinna says. “I went to Mamma right away and told her. She laughed. Laughed!  She said, life was not a romanzo giallo . And then she slapped me, told me not to distress poor Rocco’s family with discorsi pazzi . But you!” She shakes her finger at Lucia. “You never once shed a tear for him. I used to listen at night as you fell asleep. You never once cried .” “Truth be told, I hated that creep,” Lucia says calmly—and immediately regrets being drawn in. “My sister, the murderer,” Corinna accuses. “I couldn’t have overpowered him! He was a grown man; I was seventeen. No. You are mistaken.” “Even now I see how strong you are,” Corinna insists. Lucia’s eyes sting. She regrets how intensely she has been working, trying to keep pace with Guido. Why does Corinna target her ? Why not Guido ? He is, maddeningly, blameless in the eyes of everyone. He is kind. Good-natured. Constitutionally incapable of homicide, they think. Her resentment churns. For a picosecond she imagines turning the interrogation light on him. Casting the blame. And yet—she was grateful, so long ago, that Guido had interrupted Rocco and had taken immediate action. “Corinna, I think the long days are tiring you,” Guido says. Lucia is startled; she had not seen him come in. She wonders how much he has overheard. Now he presses the button on the espresso machine and the noise becomes too loud for speaking. While it grinds, he can inspect Corinna, maintaining a mask of grave concern. As soon as the noise ends, he declares, “My family accepted the coroner’s report. My uncle Rocco over-indulged in wine that day. He died from accidental drowning. Please, leave us to our mourning. Do not tear apart families with lies and suspicions.” Lucia and Guido exchange a glance. Easy for you , she thinks. Your alibi is as airtight as an astronaut’s suit. “Come quick, the horse escaped!” Nella coaxes Corinna outside with a small crisis not-crisis. The sisters disperse. Soon the dining area is full of children and spouses grabbing a bite before they go out to the groves. Maria comes to the bunkhouse where Lucia is packing, and Guido is shaving. Outside, a van waits to take them to the small local airport; from there they will fly to Florence. “That Corinna —completamente pazza !” Maria says, shaking her head. “Is this a new thing,” Lucia says, deliberately casual, “or has she been raving about this all along?” “For years,” Maria says. “It’s so embarrassing! That’s why we never pressured you to come back. We hoped she would, you know, get it out of her system.” “Some people develop obsessions,” Lucia says. She tries to sound neutral, unshaken. “Yes, an idée fixe ,” Maria says. “Like, ‘electromagnetism is poisoning us’…” She stops and stares at the bunkhouse mirror, which now has a sheet of newspaper taped over it. “What is this? Do you have some problem with mirrors?” “No, nothing,” Lucia says lightly. “Oh, are you following the recent election?” Maria asks. By happenstance, it is the front page of La Nazione . News of the recent far-right victory. She shakes her head disgustedly. “What is it they say? You can fool some of the people all of the time… and all of the people some of the time…” But not all of the people all of the time. Lucia shrugs. “I kind of forget how that goes.” The End


The Grand Coastal Route locomotive came careening through the tracks high above the red rock canyon. The locomotive engineer was trying his best to outrun the train robbers closing in on the passenger cars but these efforts were proving to be worthless. Due to the train’s high speeds, dust clouds had formed around the cars and dirtied their windows, impairing visibility outside. The civilians, unaware of the situation outside, harshly critiqued the driving of the engineer. “How preposterous!” A wealthy gentleman exclaimed to the passengers of the last car, “Is the brainless bastard steering this machine purposely trying to kill us?!” Many of the others, dressed in similar upper-class garments agreed with the gentleman’s comments. All but one were caught in the wave of unrest; he sat peacefully in a velvet-lined booth towards the end of the car. Lengthy unruly hair and a light, brown beard indicating he hadn’t crossed paths with a razor in months, the bolo tie worn above his simple white collar shirt and charcoal black vest with a duster revealing he was a native to the west. He stood out among the crowd of elites on the train, his dress only semi-formal and his hygiene typical of the west. Although the man sat silent, he was well aware of the immense danger the passengers faced. Along the train rode a masked figure garbed in a stone gray vest, black denim jeans, and a pristine white dress shirt. Speeding along on a brown-spotted white horse, the train bandit reached the leading car of the train. Aggressively, he drew his single-action revolver from it’s holster and waved it about in the air, hoping the glare would catch the attention of the engineer. Once the engineer looked to his left, he knew it was all over. “NOOOO! Don’t! Please!” the engineer begged for his life, but futile these efforts would prove to be. Without haste the robber fired his sidearm, planting a hunk of lead in between the elderly man’s eyes with blood spurting from the exit wound. As his body slumped to the ground and fell from the train, the bandit stood up from his horse and daringly leapt to the controls. Without hesitation, the ruffian finessed the controls, adjusting all the right levers to slow the train down. Finally, the heist could commence. Noting the speed of the train had begun to reduce, passenger unrest had declined.. Many had gone back to casual conversations, mainly pertaining to events happening back east or their enthusiasm for land development here in the west. However, like dynamite tearing through the rough granite of the Sierras, the peaceful mood was abruptly killed by the storming of the cart. Four armed figures all donning black masks and bandoliers rushed into the cart and shot towards the ceiling, signalling a hold up. The gentleman who originally led the outcry against the driver, foolishly filled with a sense of heroism, exploded from his seat and attempted to hold one of the bandits up at gunpoint. Faster than his exploits, the shotgun wielding robber pumped the man with shrapnel moments before he could reach for his gun, eviscerating what was once the man’s abdomen. His blood decorated the red velvet seats and wooden floors. “Any otha coot wanna try dey hand?!” The lead bandit shouted, brandishing a six-shooter. He got nothing but terrified stares as a response. “No? Aight den. Men, go collect da goods.” The highwaymen began to clear the passengers of all their cash and expensive glittery goods with little resistance. The large shotgun wielding thug reached the quiet stranger’s seat, him leaned against a window with his hat slightly tipped over. “Ay! Are you deaf are just stupid?” He slurred out in a thick southern accent. The stranger instantly leapt up and drove his knife into the thug’s throat while knocking him to the floor. The stranger then quickly unholstered his black iron revolver with his right hand and fired two shots which tore through the foreheads of the other two robbers. Amid the passengers shock and gasps, the lead bandit aimed his gun at the hero but a black gentleman in the front seat leapt at and punched the bandit in his jaw. With this opening, the stranger shot the gun out of the robbers hand and shot him in the arm and side causing him to kneel. The gunman walked up to the robber, crouched down, and asked, “Zhelang’s on this heist, ain’t he? Unless you good for nothins changed the plan.” “I can’t believe you’d betray us, Kellan, you damned dirty snake!” the robber replied angrily. “That don’t answer my question, Kenny. Besides, y’all were holding me back.” Kellan proudly claimed. The robber continued his silence, making Kellan splatter his brains on the wall. He stood up, took Kenny’s repeater from his back and tossed the rifle over to the rebellious passenger. “I want you to shoot any armed bastard that comes back here who ain’t me or badges, ya hear?” He questioned the passenger, who nodded in compliance before cocking the worn repeater. With this cabin cleared, Kellan proceeded onto the rest of the train looking for his former companion. As soon as he opened the door to the luggage cabin the three outlaws within unleashed a flurry of bullets upon Kellan. Immediately, the lone gunman dove behind a makeshift fort of boxes and barrels but not before one bullet grazed his right arm. “Well boys, call me an 8 day clock in June but aint dat Kellan I just saw?” One bandit remarked. “Griggs! I always look forward to seeing how much heavier you are each day, ya overfed hog.” Kellan playfully replied. The robber, extremely offended by this jab, cocked his pump action and began charging towards Kellan’s position but the cowboy exploded from the back of his cover; sawed off in his left hand, revolver in the right. He first erased Griggs’ face from existence via sawed-off, replacing it with a crimson fleshy mess. Next, Kellan planted two bullets in the chest of one bandit and kneecapped the last before ending his agony with a bullet to the heart. Taking a breather, Kellan sat down to reload his guns and tend to his minor wound with some rum he saw on the floor. After 5 minutes, he was ready to continue his onslaught but first liberated Grigg’s gun, feeling he might need some more firepower to win this war. Exploding into the next car, Kellan kicked the door in into the dining car and instantly blasted one robber out the window with his new toy. The other robber quickly jumped behind the bar as Kellan dove into a dining booth and both began firing at each other as Kellan pointed civilians out through the back. While the bandit’s revolver kept Kellan from advancing, Kellan’s shotgun was tearing away at the bandits cover which could only withstand about two more shots. The bar was becoming a stack of toothpicks and right when he needed one more shot, the gun suddenly jammed. “Me and my got-damn luck.” Kellan grumbled as he inspected the gun. The bandit continued firing into the booth but Kellan, fed up with this back and forth, devised a better plan to deal with his foe. Unholstering his revolver, Kellan fired at the wall of alcohol behind the bandit causing it to cascade all over him. Then, the heroic gunman snatched a match from his baroque-engraved cigarette case, lighting it in the process, and flicked the burgeoning young flame towards the liquor soaked robber behind the bar. Instantaneously the bar was enveloped in a crimson blaze as the bandit, also caught aflame, danced back and forth whilst unleashing a blood curdling scream that could pierce the heavens. Once the screaming stopped and the bandit’s shriveled corpse collapsed, Kellan emerged from the booth with his guns reloaded and ready. With most of the train robbers disposed of, Kellan easily blasted his way through the remaining forces in the rest of the cars. Eventually, he reached the engine and the mess left by the poor engineer. He approached the controls and attempted to stop the train when a small knife lodged itself in his right hand making him pull back from pain. Turning around to spot his attacker, Kellan looked up to see his former leader and friend, Xin Zhelang, glaring down at him with a piercing murderous intent not even his flowing hair could interrupt. As he ripped the knife from his hand, Kellan shouted, “You brought this mess upon yourself Zhelang! It was YOUR decision to use me as bait to save your skin! You knew I couldn’t sweep that under the rug!” The Chinese gang leader stood perched over Kellan, statue-esque in his form as if the gunslinger’s words couldn’t penetrate his anger. Finally, Zhelang turned around and responded, “Your words won’t settle this, pestilent snake!” as he walked towards the back of the train. Kellan, now aware that the true challenge of this mission has begun, followed the gang leader to the top of the train. Standing atop the green and black locomotive, Kellan looked around to see the barren desert of the Mojave occasionally sprinkled with some greenery on his right and the massive canyon painted with layers of red rock the train straddled to his left. Zhelang stood at the opposite end of the roof, fixed in a combat ready pose. The two outlaws stared each other down, the rest of the world drowned out by the deafening tension pouring from atop the train. The scene stood frozen in time until suddenly both men went sprinting towards each other with violent intent. Kellan landed the first blow with a clean punch to the leader’s jaw but it left him unphased as he immediately retaliated with a few kicks to Kellan’s stomach and a sharp elbow to the face. The hero staggered back trying to recover but Zhelang was merciless in his assault. He continued with a flurry of kicks and strikes before a beautifully executed spin kick laid Kellan out on the ground. Underestimating his foe, Zhelang stepped over and began lifting Kellan by his shoulder but the downed gunslinger swung around and bashed the revolver’s rosewood handle into the Chinaman’s temple. With his target staggered Kellan exploded into action, slamming the gun straight down onto Zhelang’s skull which caused him to slump down to his knees. The cowboy was ready to land his finishing strike when Zhelang, whose face was now decorated with streams of blood, blocked the gun’s handle with one of his knives. Kellan, mumbling with annoyance, jumped back to avoid any other knife attacks as Zhelang picked himself up and brandished a second knife. The two engaged each other once more with Zhelang’s mastery over knives keeping the cautious cowboy from ending this fight soon. Sustaining cut after cut, Kellan knew if he couldn’t figure out some tactic to deal with Zhelang he’d be calling the canyon his new home. That’s when he realized there’s only one way to be triumphant. The Grand Coastal Route locomotive-now a shell of itself with frightened passengers, dead bandits everywhere, a burning dining car, and no engineer-began it’s crossing of the giant bridge extending across the massive canyon below. Kellan and Zhelang, still locked in mortal kombat atop the train, paid little attention to their surroundings and kept at the battle. Now, with everything in position, Kellan could put his plan into place.After being kicked and pushed back by Kellan, Zhelang charged towards his former friend and drove both knives deep into his abdomen. The pair stood in place, as if God himself were preserving this scene, soaking in what just transpired. Kellan then, through the blood accompanied coughs and cold steel invading what felt to him to be his liver, let out a slight chuckle and embraced his enemy. “What is there to laugh about, snake, this is the end for you.” a confused Zhelang inquired. “Well, that’s because you put yourself in the perfect position to receive some sweet southern justice.” Kellan asserted through coughs before headbutting the Chinaman and throwing him off the side of the train to be swallowed by the depths of the Mojave, his hysterical wails of horror marking his last moments on earth. With a wave of relief washing over him, Kellan took a moment to bask in his hard fought victory, still surprised he was even able to make it this far on the train. As the locomotive finished crossing the bridge, Kellan slowly made his way to the controls to stop it, wincing with every movement. Bringing the train to a complete stop, Kellan turned around and walked back to the closest passenger car, vacated by the folks he sent to the back. The hero then took a seat in the fancy velvet booth, pulled out a cigarette he blood stained with his hands, and lit it; puffing himself into unconsciousness as law enforcement approached from the eastern horizon.


“It’s all fun and games-” “Oh, would ya shut up with that, jackass?” growled Cordelia with a frown, “We’ve been walking for hours and all ya’ve been talking about is these damn games-” “I haven’t been talking about games, dummy. If you’d let me finish the sentence-” Theodora tried to reply, her hands on her hips in defiance as her travel companion growled at her. Never trust a fae that could shapeshift, her father warned her, and yet here she was. But, then again, Cordelia was the first lead she had. So, she had to distract her from realizing her true form… because that could be disastrous.

“Yer an idiot, that’s all,” Cordelia snapped back, “We’ve been hikin’ in this direction for four hours , Theodora. Are ya sure ya sense he’s this way?” Theodora knew her father was this way, she could sense him after all, it was a safe scent, and she knew as soon as they descended on him, Cordelia would need to run away, and fast. But, she, for some unknown reason, wanted to be around the annoying fae for just a little bit longer, no matter how dangerous it was turning out to be. But, she could tell the woman had thicker skin than she was letting on, despite complaints, the woman wasn’t even shivering at the frost in the air, and there was a hint of musk coming off of her that humans never had. Not to mention those legs, especially the thighs, were muscular and much more so than Theodora was used to looking at in the fairy realm.

And suddenly, she bumped into the taller woman, who was glaring at the other in disbelief, “Ya look pale. Are ya tired? Is that why yer trying to tell me some dumb bullshit story? We’ll set up camp… in this conveniently placed cave… let me check it out first, I don’t want there to be someone in there lurking and taking both of us out. I’m sure I could take ta anyone ta town, but with someone like ya here, I don’t know if I could focus," she winked again, and Theodora tried not to faint on the spot. Theodora blushed a bright pink, tucking her chin into her chest before turning away to make sure she could keep a perimeter around the area until Cordelia returned. The fae was right, Theodora couldn’t fight, but she did have other supernatural abilities that made her an asset in fights- including surveillance, “Kay! Hollar-” “We’re good, come in, ‘Dora,” Cordelia’s thick accent slipped through with the drop of the first part of her name. Theodora’s insides melted and were suddenly a red hot feeling, she tried not to think much about it as she nearly floated in, “Here’s the blanket, I reckon ya need it more than I.” Theodora snuggled into the blanket they’d… acquired on the way to the mountain, sighing as Cordelia set up the fire from the wood stuffed into a magical bag the woman had found in a previous town, one that could hold pretty much anything. Theodora had been shocked when the fae had wandered about it, seeing as it was a fairy-enchanted item, but then she realized, somehow, it was her father’s. He’d dropped it in hopes someone who knew him would find it. Luckily for her, Cordelia had. She then grabbed an apple out, cutting it up with a spare rock, and giving part of it to the fairy next to her. For reference, Theodora had learned to become “human-size” a long time ago, a ritual that only the fairies allowed outside the communities learned, and it was deemed “human-sized” because they were the baseline for most of the fae and supernatural creatures. Cordelia just so happened to be a wolf-like fae, others would refer to her as a werewolf, but it seemed she was more of a hybrid than anything, taking on more human features in shape, but more wolfish features in terms of body and head, fur/hair, and more. Theodora wondered if they’d ever develop a friendship where they could discuss the inner workings of each other's kin.

She glanced at the fae, scarfing down a piece of chicken, and she gulped.

No, probably not.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Cordelia asked, looking over curiously, with a hint of caution, as if she couldn’t believe that Theodora would even want to speak to the woman despite days of travel together; but she supposed that in other cultures, days were far less time. In fairy culture, days were like years together. So, it’s ironic that Coredilia complained about the time it took to hike this far up, or perhaps she has an elongated sense of time as well, but just intense trust issues.

She thought too much, this had always been a problem, she thought annoyedly.

“Just the games,” she winked, as a joke of course, but blushed herself when the wolfish cheeks grew a tad bit red, “I’m serious though. The Games are an important part of these parts… these fairy parts. I know you’re fae-” “How in Goddess’ name do ya know that?” “You’ve got the hairiest legs I’ve seen in my entire life, your eyes are yellow, you have canines the size of my head in… in fairy form… and-” “Yer a fairy?! And ya just traveled with me even though ya knew I was a fae? Are ya outta yer mind?” the woman growled, “Or just a right idiot?” “I’m not an idiot,” she frowned in return, “You just haven’t hurt me yet-” “Right! Yet ! An idiot! Fae and human alike hunt fairies, yer lucky I like ya so much or I woulda returned ya to where ya deserved. Depths of hell, ya tricky creatures.” “We don’t deserve to rot in hell, Cordelia, surely you don’t truly mean that,” Theodora begged, pleaded her to change her mind with her tone, she couldn’t bear to think someone she’d… grown to tolerate more than a fairy should a fae, could think such a way.

Perhaps her father was right.

“Ya don’t understand, ‘Dora. Yer kind are mischievous little ‘uckers who are constantly stealing me stuff, and then they ‘ave the audacity to try and befriend me to sell it back ta me! It’s annoyin’!” “Annoying, sure, deserving of rotting-” “Okay, sure I overexaggerated,” she waved her hands off with a sharp grin. Theodora gridded her teeth, “You can’t just say that dummy!” “Can’t I?” Theodora stood but was dragged back down. Blushing, she glanced over to see the wolfish fae put her arm around the fairy- the audacity of this woman! “Cordelia-!” “Oh come on, if you’re a true fairy ya’d die in the treck down or up. My body eats’ been the only thing keepin’ ya alive,” she grinned, “Besides, don’t act like ya haven’t been wantin’ to snuggle up ta me this entire time,” she winked.

Theodora swore on the Fairy Goddess she’d get up. Except she didn’t.

She stayed there until the morning sun came up, to which they both rose and continued their trek to find her father. When they did, they fought off the kidnapper and were holding hands while doing it.


“Hi, I’m Lisbeth,” I said, holding out my hand as per the instructional video. “Hello Lisbeth, I’m Bianca. Your mother,” said the woman in front of me. She matched the image on my tablet perfectly; medium height, steel-grey hair cut into a sleek bob just under her strong jaw. Piercing blue eyes that according to my data file I had inherited. I had tried to look in the mirror and hold up my tablet side by side but nearly dropped the machine in the process. “You must be Rodrick, my father,” I said, turning to the man beside Bianca. He nodded once, his head bowing low to reveal the pink balding patch atop his red wiry hair. Next I turned to a shorter man, supposedly two years my junior. “Brother. Christoph?” Christoph nodded too and stuck his hands into the pockets of his ship-issued grey jumpsuit. “Apparently that’s me.” We lapsed into an awkward silence and desperately I grasped for some information about one of them that I could seize as a conversation starter. “Mother,” I said, and Bianca turned uncertainty to me. “You enjoy the piano. Do you play or listen?” The question seemed to catch her off guard and she instinctively lifted her tabled and scrolled through her data file. “I play,” she said finally, with a cautious smile. “Prior to suspension I was a concert pianist.” “Lovely,” I said. “I am sure you were very good and I look forward to you taking it up again.” “Shall we eat?” asked father. The food had been brought through while we clustered in the corner of the room. A round table set with elegant silverware and glasses gleamed under a candelabra. The carpet was rich maroon, the walls festooned with oil paintings, giving the place an air of tradition. The rest of the ship was sterile grey; this was a family room, where those recently awakened were supposed to gather for reintegration. Father hovered awkwardly, unsure of whether to pull out mother’s chair or not. In the end they both made for the chair at once and bumped into one another. “Sorry,” they spoke in unison, then the ghost of a smile played on their lips. Mother stood back to allow father to pull out the chair, then we were soon all seated at the table. At first nobody touched their cutlery. We all brought up our data files and scrolled through, checking our culinary preferences and matching it to the food on our plates. I found that I disliked broccoli, so placed my share neatly in a napkin. Brother was apparently vegan, so ensure he took the plate without animal produce. Once we were all settled father poured sparkling water into our glasses and we began our meals. The clink of metal cutlery clashing against porcelain rang out in the small dining room. None of us felt comfortable using it after so many years with our limbs frozen in cryosleep. But it at least provided a conversation piece as we finally had some current common ground upon which to converse. “Damn fork,” father said, readjusting it in his hand and frowning as it twisted slightly when spearing broccoli. Quickly I consulted the files on father and my suspicions were confirmed. “Try swapping them in your hands; the notes say you are left-handed.” “Oh, oh of course,” father said as if he remembered. Once the action was completed his attempts were far more successful. “Does anyone else get pins and needles in their hands and feet?” mother asked suddenly. “Yes, every so often it will come on suddenly,” brother answered. “I was told it was normal but it can be quite painful especially when walking.” “I dropped my hairbrush because the tingling was so bad,” I added. My first hair brushing. I had barely had the strength to pull it through my tangled auburn locks but I had felt proud of my achievement. Until I dropped it. Again, once this conversation topic had been exhausted we lapsed into silence, with only the sounds of cutlery scraping plates or glasses setting down on the table. Once we were finished there was no distraction and we looked at one another in turn, averting eyes to avoid meeting gazes. “Now what?” asked mother. Father frowned again and consulted his tablet. “The schedule for day one says we have free time. There are suggestions of the television room for a movie, or the activities room for games.” A pause of silence that stretched into the void, past comfortable and twisting into something awkward. Brother was the first to voice what we were probably all thinking: “I’d rather go to bed.” A collective sigh as those words unlocked the shackles of obligation from us all. “Me too,” said father. Mother nodded and I added a murmur of assent. “It was lovely to meet you all,” brother insisted, trying to compensate for being the one to end the evening early. “I mean re-meet you all. They said that by day twenty-one our memories will be almost fully returned. The first day is always the worst.” “Brain fog, they call it,” mother agreed. “The confusion is at its most acute today.” We all nodded politely, the air electric with our need to get up and leave. Everyone was too polite so I stood and thanked them all for joining me. “The schedule says we meet for breakfast at seven thirty tomorrow. Have a pleasant evening.” “You too, daughter,” father said. He’d forgotten my name already. I supposed brother and I had it easier; we were supposed to call parents by their title. Still it stung he had not made more of an effort to remember my name. Even if I myself had forgotten it again. I’d have to have another look at my tablet. - I followed the navy line to the sleep habitats. The ship was pale grey; walls, floor, ceiling. All grey. Apart from the colourful lines that were designed to guide the disoriented souls awakening from cryosleep. And perhaps those that were fully awake but for who the endless maze of corridors looked much the same. My habitat was Sigma-85. The habitat area was broken up into clusters, which made finding your room easier. My few possessions would apparently be waiting for me there, having been taken from storage by the AI bots. It was as I was striding confidently following the line that I saw him; tall, medium build, wearing the usual grey jumpsuit. He was standing at the end of a corridor peering out of a porthole into space. The splatter of stars lit up a galaxy arm behind his profile, lighting the tips of his wheat-gold hair with an ethereal glow. “Hello. I’m Lisbeth,” I said confidently, having checked on my tablet again. My voice startled him and he turned rather awkwardly, with an equally strange smile. Like he didn’t quite know how to do it. Mine probably looked the same. “Hello Elizabeth.” Close enough. “I’m…um…a bit lost.” “Do you have your tablet?” I prompted. “No. I left it in my room. I’m four days awakened, I foolishly thought I could make my way without it. But I had a memory lapse and now…” I nodded in sympathy. We had been warned that sometimes although we feel we are progressing we may experience small lapses in our memories and revert back to day one or two for a brief period. That was why the importance of keeping your tablet with you was stressed over and over. I decided not to lecture him; underneath that weird smile he looked genuinely confused and terrified. “You’re on a ship bound for our new home world, you’ve been asleep for over a thousand years,” I said carefully, reciting the text on page one of the awakening document loaded onto each tablet. “We should find an AI to help reorientate you.” He nodded quickly. “Thank you. That would be best.” “Come with me, I will use the map on my tablet to locate a help point.” I tapped the app that brought up a colourful interactive map of the ship’s interior. Instantly the locator dot glowed bright orange, indicating where I was in relation to the rest of the ship. I was three corridors away from the family rooms, where I had come from and twenty corridors away from the habitat section. “Here, there is an AI panel just left down here. Let’s activate it and ask for assistance.” “Thank you,” the man said. He followed me obediently as I padded softly down the corridor, my soft-soled shoes whispering across the cold hard floor. We were going against the navy habitat line, getting further from my ultimate destination but soon we came cross a recess in the smooth grey wall, where there was a large screen and a touchpad keyboard, that lit up with a warm yellow glow as we approached. The figure of a smiling smartly-dressed man appeared on the screen. “Good evening, how may I be of assistance?” “Hello, this man has forgotten his tablet and suffered a memory lapse. He needs to know his name and ID number so that he can find his habitat and return for rest.” For a moment the figure on screen smiled warmly at us while the AI processed my words and ran them through the algorithm. “You require an ID service. Please answer yes or no.” “Yes,” I said, happy with the output. “Please stand close to the screen and look directly at the red dot for the duration of the tone.” I stood aside to allow the man access. He stood tall and straight ad didn’t blink while a small beep issued from the panel. Another pause while the AI searched through the databanks. “Welcome, crewman 7382, Antony Maldova.” “Antony, yes that’s right. How could I forget?” the man murmured, a sigh escaping his lips. “So frustrating.” I nodded in sympathy again, wondering if I too would suffer these horrible lapses even once I thought I had remembered fully. Did anyone every remember fully? If you forgot some memories, or things you liked, who would know if they were gone? If it was a secret you held deep in your heart that nobody knew, what happened if it never came back? “Antony Maldova, your habitat is Sigma-85.” My eyes blinked once. Twice. Then I checked my tablet. “There must be a mistake,” I said. “I must have been standing too close and the scan was confused. Your room can’t be sigma-85, that’s my room.” Antony’s eyes widened and he sighed again. “I’m so sorry, I must have done something wrong. I’ll try again, please stand a little further aside to avoid confusion.” “Of course.” I stood a good few steps away, far out of range of the computer screen. “Please perform an ID check,” Antony said. The AI scanned him again. “Welcome, crewman 7382, Antony Maldova.” “What is my habitat number?” Antony asked. “Antony Maldova, your habitat is Sigma-85,” spoke the AI’s smooth synthetic voice. “Oh. Thank you,” Antony said, then turned to me. His sea-green eyes were even more confused than when I found him. With my brow creased I scanned through my files. I had not had time to study further than my immediate family who I had been due to meet for dinner and my likes and dislikes of foodstuff as I had been afraid of biting into something I would find unpleasant. The silence was poignant and with my finger hovering ready to scroll further for a clue on my habitat arrangements, I happened to glance up and saw Antony’s face begin to change. “Oh. Oh now I remember…damn memory lapse…” “What?” “My notes say I’m in a relationship. That I was to expect a room mate.” I looked down at my notes, the page that had just loaded was headed “relationship” and at the top was a small file photo of Antony next to the word “fiancé”. All jewellery had been removed during the sleep and I expected I would find my engagement ring among my possessions waiting for me at my – our – habitat. “Oh, okay then,” I said, desperately aware that something more profound was required but unable to formulate the words. “Shall we…go together?” “That would be best,” I said, turning back so that we could follow the navy habitat line in the correct direction. For a long time we didn’t speak but our cushioned footsteps soon fell into a rhythm, matching pace and stride. Just before we turned into the habitat area, Antony’s hand reached out for mine. The backs of his fingers brushed my soft palm, seeking permission. I considered it. I didn’t know this man. And yet apparently I did. Throwing caution to the wind I curled my hand around his fingers. When I looked up, he was smiling down at me. And this time there was nothing awkward about it. When I returned the smile, it felt natural. The first natural reaction since awakening.