Humans are vultures, they pick at everything. Mother always said so. Never trust anyone fully, give me 3 reasons why that was even an option. I study persons to pass the time, instead of actually paying attention to the lecture. Dr. Sadhu moves too quickly for me to be very honest. I just show up to see if I can learn anything at all. It’s a continuous loop of not learning and trying the exact thing again. Einstein’s definition of insanity. But then again I have never met anyone truly normal. Yet, people ostracize for minute reasons. If you have anxiety, they laugh making things infinitely worse. Then they move on and you think about that horrifying moment from every angle under a microscope dissecting it and making it caustic with each recall. Not that I would know, I dropped all those memories and its associates in a tub of acid to be eroded away. No need to lug those insecurities around. Do you know that 60% of people cannot sit still? Don’t look it up I just think it seems about right from my observations. The girl in the seat below me keeps tapping her foot and the boy? man? next to her is only spinning his pen. Sorry it’s difficult to call people in their early 20s men and women they still look like their teenage selves. The class group chat dings every few seconds and most people are on their phone probably looking at it. The convo is about Dr. Sadhu’s resemblance to some tv show character. Then someone sends a sticker of him in the chat which I save because that’s what you do with the good ones. My friends Michael and Lilly are whispering about something so I lean over and insert myself by saying , “What was that?”   “We’re talking about lunch, there’s a special with a discount based on the number of push ups  you do.” Lilly responds. “Yeah so I want Lilly to record me doing it.” Michael continues. “Ah,” I just say with a nod. We became friends after a group project in the first semester. The three of us mostly did the work and met up in the library so we just vibed afterward. Like a salad, you know healthy and balanced lol. The group of girls behind us are doing their own judging of the class. One is speaking about how Remi wore the same t-shirt yesterday and how Michael is creepy because he said bless you to a stranger that sneezed. Like I said vultures. Michael heard them because his posture stiffened a little. “And Nitric Oxide was named molecule of the year in 1992 because of its role as a vasodilator. That’s how Viagra works.” I think all the lost souls refocused with that one. “Did you hear that Jacob and Annie broke up? She caught him cheating.” they continue. “Waw and she failed a course last semester too.” “Yeah I heard her say last week that he was the only thing right in her life and keeping her sane at the moment.”   “Well watch him put her on the one way trip to being a nervous wreck.” The same girls above me are gossiping at the moment.   “Wait how did you know that she failed?”   “I took a screenshot of the student ID numbers and names when that lecturer accidentally posted it. Thank God I cheated of you then.”   “Bitch, thank God I studied that was supposed to be a team effort and you were sinking the ship.” And then I hear the other girl literally cackle I kid you not. Annie is nowhere in sight; she is probably crumpled up somewhere. Relationships are trash. I zone out for the rest of the class not even paying attention to the people in the room anymore and all of a sudden, it’s lunch. Remind me not to do this while driving. The three of us go to the push up place and order our food. Only Michael does his discount push up exhibition while Lily records. He does 35 so that was 35% off. He was getting weary at 33 but preferred a number that could be considered a set if he was working out in the gym.

At the lunch table, Lilly begins by saying that she’s ready to graduate. She says that everyday and we’re only in the 2 nd semester of our 1 st year. Which means that by saying this it will go on for seemingly forever. Jacob waltzes in the food court with ‘not Annie’, who is stunning by the way. The things that having parents with money can get a barely average looking guy.   “Why weren’t my parents rich business owners?” Michael says echoing my thoughts.   “Annie is dumb for investing so much into him. Clearly he thinks that he is the be all and end all. The hottest thing since sliced bread. Which means that anyone associated with him is disposable. ” Lilly sneers.   “Wasn’t Annie your friend in school?” I ask.    “I told you that?” We both nod.     “The things that I know about that girl.” She starts and then stops herself. “Anyways, she never learnt or listened to anything that said so I gave up. We were never there for each other when we needed it, sadly.” We all stayed silent after that statement and continue eating.  “Do you all believe in love?” Lilly starts.   “Do you believe in magic?” I quip.    “Parental love or one from a dog probably.” “Weren’t you just saying that Annie was stupid for trusting Jacob so readily?” Michael adds in. She sighs at this. “Yea.” “But then I want my David and Victoria Beckham story.”   “Victoria’s hot.” Michael and I say at the same time.    “I would throw this sandwich at you but I don’t like to waste food.” Michael was right about the pet love. My dog will follow me to the ends of the world. But I am biased toward dogs, cats seem to be a little too much like humans. They are independent creatures. Something in my periphery makes me stop my internal monologue and I realise that Jacob is glancing in our direction, particularly at Lilly and then it dawned on me that she was stealing glances at him for a while now as well. Interesting.


Just get me to the church on time… EDWARD “Edward, says Father, you can’t go to France today. You need to spray the fields in Lower Farm. The conditions are perfect.” Edward looks up from the paper he was reading as he was eating breakfast and looks out of the window. Father is right, the sky is blue and cloud free, it looks like there is almost no wind. The April of 1974 has been particularly cold and damp, and in truth, a day like this couldn’t be wasted.

He really ought to postpone his trip to France by a day. Surely it couldn’t be that big a deal to arrive there just one day late? Especially if he phoned to explain the situation to Marie. He has responsibilities after all, responsibilities he can’t shirk away from.

“I’ll think of it Father” he answers pushing his empty bowl to the side and folding his copy of Times as he stands up

As he climbs up the stair to his bedroom, he thinks of Marie, of her disappointment. He hates the thought that he may be hurting her. Then, he thinks of his responsibilities, of the terrible weather of the past few weeks and how he hasn’t been able to spray. Marie ought to understand, she is so clever, she will see why he can’t make it today.

Once upstairs, in his room, he looks at his grey suit, hanging from his wardrobe door, with a clean white shirt and a light blue bow tie. Marie picked the silk bow tie out for him because it is “The exact same shade as his beautiful eyes”. Below are his carefully polished shoes.

On the floor, are yesterday’s discarded overalls, with his T-shirt still inside them. His socks are coiled on the floor, in front of the overall legs. He likes to take all his clothes off at once when he undresses, in one fell swoop. It is faster than taking all the items of clothing off one by one and folding them, it is more efficient, and it leaves him with more time to soak in the bathtub after work before he goes to sleep or goes out.

He hasn’t been going out lately, because Marie isn’t around. He misses her so much.

Sighing, he takes his pyjama off and gets dressed. Then he goes down to the farm office and picks up the phone. MARIE

Maman, when I think of you on that morning, I imagine you were up at 5 am. In my mind’s eye, you bound out of bed, your heart singing in glee. I can guess exactly how excited you must have been at the prospect of Edward’s arrival later that day.

In those days, Edward was your be all and end all. He was your sun, your moon and your stars. He occupied pretty much every single one of your waking thoughts… Apart from the time you spent working on Theodore Dreiser’s books and your thesis, it goes without saying.

I think it is likely that you eventually got out of bed, at around seven am, after a long while tossing and turning and trying to get a few hours more sleep, realising it was pointless because you were so excited and nervous, pinching yourself repeatedly to make sure that it wasn’t a dream.

I may be pushing it as I write this but I fancy you executed a few dance steps when you got up. When I am in a particularly vicious mood, I picture you as Maria dancing and singing “I feel pretty” in

West Side Story . This is doubly ironic and nasty because you never saw West Side Story until 2021, that you only ever watched the Spielberg revamp of the movie and an extremely Disney-ish one at that.

But then I always thought you had this Disney Princess vibe about you. Even nowadays, you sometimes remind me of a Disney Princess and it is not just because you are so pretty and dainty.

I picture you getting out of bed and starting to list everything you need to do to prepare for his arrival. You must phone the restaurant to make sure the booking is still OK, check on the flowers, and to do your hair, your make-up and above all, you must meet your best friends for coffee to tell them all about Edward, his blue eyes, his charming smile, his dimples, his dry wit, his farm and your plans for the future.

Then, you heard the phone ringing in the living room. A few seconds later, your mother knocked on the door and said: “Marie chérie! It is Edward on the phone for you.”

I picture you rushing towards the living room and the phone, your heart overflowing with love for Edward.

THE (mostly) RELIABLE NARRATOR I always have known the story. It often came up at dinner parties, it was  one of those amusing light-hearted stories that Maman told so well and so wittily. It also came up quite regularly when they fought.

As a small child I would tell it to my friends and peers, to try and entertain them with it, but they never believed me, and they called me a liar.

Maman, when she was in a good mood, liked to minimise the importance of the event. It wasn’t that bad she said, it was only the civil ceremony they had had to postpone.

Later in life, up to today actually, I learned to use what happened on that day to my advantage. I have a flexible perception of time and that story is really the best excuse ever. What is a ten-minute delay here or there in comparison to a whole 24 hours? Absolutely nothing, that’s what.

I have also used it as justification for my oddness, for my many eccentricities. I will explain that I know I am a little peculiar, but then, the apple never falls far from the tree and so you ought to know this about my past. It works quite well, people laugh and claim to forgive me after they hear the story, especially when it is told with force amusing expressions and a slightly self-deprecating tone. I have, after all, inherited Marie’s talents as a comedienne. I also have Edward’s bad-boy one-sided grin, the one that would have permitted him to get away with murder, that allowed him to get away with so much… except that on me, it is a bad girl smile and it doesn’t stay in place long without me bursting into laughter. And all that charm, it helps… a lot.

However, when I sit down and ponder on what happened on that day, when I am truly honest about my feelings, I don’t want to laugh. Rage and pain fill my heart as I ask the following question:

“WHO THE FUCK MARRIES A GUY WHO TURNS UP TO HIS WEDDING ONE WHOLE DAY LATE?”


I woke with a start to see my boyfriend, Jamie, aiming a shotgun at my head. “DON’T FUCKING MOVE!” he screamed at me. I’d only just woken up and this scenario was pretty unusual, so I hadn't really planned on moving just yet. I was still trying to gather data on my surroundings to work out what the fuck was going on. Jamie had stopped yelling and seemed to be sobbing. His face was all red and blotchy and wet. I’d never seen him like this before, but I made a note that it was not a particularly attractive look on him. I briefly wondered why I was considering his attractiveness at this moment in time and then returned to the primary task at hand; dealing with the sudden shitshow unfolding in my bedroom. As I went to adjust myself and start trying to reason with my newly psychotic boyfriend, I realised that I was sitting up, which meant that I must have fallen asleep, in bed, in a seated position. This seemed a bit weird, but given the other things going on around me I decided to park this oddity and come back to it later. I really needed to focus on the important things. “Jamie” I said, in what I hoped was a calming tone. I wasn’t really sure what tone of voice I should go for, since I had never encountered a scenario like this before, but calming seemed like a good option. “Please!” He half shouted half sobbed in my direction, shotgun still aimed squarely at my forehead. A smell wafted by my nose and I realised that I was hungry. Starving, in fact. Had I missed dinner last night? Focus. “Jamie” I tried again, in my soothing tones. Christ, I really was hungry. That smell was making my mouth water and I could almost feel my jaw trembling at the thought of eating. “Please” he whimpered “Please, don’t come any closer. You’re.. You’re not yourself. Please, just stay there.” Not myself? What the fuck? I’m not the one pointing a shotgun at my life partner! I decided not to raise this point with him right now, given his current state, and persisted with plan A; getting him to calm the fuck down. I was starting to get pretty agitated too as I was now fully awake and had been awake long enough to properly understand the severity of the situation. If things didn’t start to change in the next couple of minutes, there was every chance my gentle, caring, loving boyfriend was going to become a crazed, psychotic, murderous boyfriend and we would be making headlines for all of the wrong reasons. But my god I was hungry. That smell! It was so distracting! It made my jaw ache and my stomach felt like it might implode if I didn’t eat soon. “Jamie” I tried again, raising my arm, palm forwards in what I hoped was a kind of non-threatening “it’s okay’ motion. BANG! I felt something graze my shoulder. He’d fucking shot me! Fucking crazy bastard. This filled me with an almost uncontrollable rage. I mean, he was clearly unwell, but to SHOOT me?! This situation was getting out of hand very quickly. Drastic action was required and I needed to formulate a plan B, quickly. Jamie’s sobbing/whimpering had grown louder and he was now making the sound of a hysterical child crossed with a wounded animal. It was the kind of noise I didn’t really think humans were capable of. I suppose it was the kind of noise you *hope* humans aren’t capable of. The kind of noise that alerts you to a deep-rooted, animalistic distress, and signifies the absence of any rational thinking. “Please” he kept saying “Please, I don’t want to, I can’t…” What the fuck was he on about? I looked down at my right shoulder to assess the damage the shotgun had done but I had to do a double take. A huge chunk was missing from my bicep. Christ, could shotguns do that? It felt like he’d grazed my shoulder but apparently he’d taken off half my upper arm. The wound was all jagged and torn, it kind of looked like I’d be bitten by a rabid dog or something. I could see the bone and bits of muscle and flesh hanging off and for a moment, I was weirdly intrigued by the anatomy of my arm. It then occurred to me that it didn’t hurt. I was struggling to formulate a plan B as by now there were a lot of things about this scene that weren’t quite adding up. But with the overwhelming issue of my boyfriend firing a shotgun at me I was finding it quite hard to piece together the full jigsaw in my mind. And I was so hungry! It was getting really quite difficult to focus with this overwhelming hunger consuming my body. I don’t know what it feels like to suffocate, but I would imagine that the longer you go without air, the more and more the thought of breathing takes over your mind, until it’s the only thing you can think about. All other thoughts leave you and the only thing you can concentrate on is taking a breath as your whole body fights to fill your lungs with air. Well, that’s what this hunger felt like. Jamie was still sobbing somewhere in the background of my thoughts but that smell, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was so delicious. I wasn’t just hungry, I *needed* to eat. I needed to taste that salty smell on my lips. I needed it like… I don’t even know. Like a fish needs water, like a plant needs sunshine. Neither of those come close, I needed to eat like it was a compulsion. There was nothing else I could do at this moment, but eat. I looked up at Jamie, the shotgun still aimed at my head, and tears streaking down his face. Oh. My. God. He smelled delicious. I could smell the sweat dripping off him and his tears rolling down his face. I could smell his fear, and his panic. And I wanted to taste it. “Please” I heard him whimper. I lunged at him, I needed to satisfy my hunger.


Chemical warfare in the Asian jungles. Man on the Moon. Data accumulating by the terabyte in a mainframe world; satellites taking up ever-more stratospheric real estate, prepped one day to ruin the neighborhood one strike, one leak, one tech sociopath at a time.

“Oh my God,” I proclaimed, awestruck in the presence of a genuine ‘60s technological marvel. “Looka this.” A millennimom skirted away toward the chick-lit-heavy book box at the lip of the casita’s two-car garage. Sarah reluctantly abandoned the sheet-metal lawn ornaments, and I shook the Ziploc bag as she sidled past the bibliophile. They clonked – a solid, metallic, Clint Eastwood when America used to by-god MAKE things clonk. “Remember the Thingmaker?” I enthused as my life partner regarded my find and then me with what I can only describe as reptilian apathy. “You’re ruining the moment.” “Oh, my,” Sarah said. “What marvelous treasure have you uncovered?”  “Thingmaker molds. Creepy Crawlers and Fright Factory and, oh my God, one of the soldier molds.” “I can see I’m getting power of attorney far earlier than planned. Fine, what is a Thingmaker, and what things does it make?” “Oh, gee, everything . You had like this hot plate thing that got up to, I don’t know, maybe 1,000 degrees, and you poured this no-doubt toxic goop into the mold and made a bug or a soldier or a set of vampire teeth…” “Another piece of the puzzle falls into place. And you used this thing – Thingmaker – where? The kitchen, an asbestos-lined laboratory?” “My room, of course. There were tongs,” I emphasized. “Once I figured out what the tongs were for.” “How did you survive childhood?” “Probably the bastards at the Consumer Product Safety Commission – thank you, Richard Nixon.” I turned toward the cash table. “Uh, ma’am?” “Not if you want gyros today,” Sarah advised, and returned to the razor-sharp metal flowers. The See ‘N Say at the back of the card table was in solid if not mint condition, the original ‘60s sun-yellow Farmer Says model, before they yanked the pull string for a slots lever and jammed a computer chip in the thing. I waited for Millenimom to breeze past with her booty, then cranked the red arrow to roughly 8 o’clock and gently tugged the yellowed plastic pull ring. What it belched up was not what the cow said. Ever. I gave a few more critters a spin, with equal results, then waited for Sarah to cart her death flowers to the SUV before placing the device before the late-bloom boomer. She smiled as she lifted it by the handle to consult a strip of masking tape on the base. “Boy, I used to play with this thing all the time. About drove Mom and Dad bug-nutty. In fact, I thought my folks had gotten rid of this 50 years ago. But my brother found boxes of all kinds of crap out in Apache Junction after my mom died a couple months back.” “Sorry.” “Nah. You know what, it’s about noon. Why don’t you just take it for your grandkids?” I averted eye contact. “Hey, thanks. The Thingmaker yours, too?” “Oh, shit, no. My brother almost burned the fucking house down with the thing.” ** Luckily, we got through the gyros and falafel and basmati without incident – when I got to the car with my prize, Sarah was bolstering the Ugly American image for our prescription helpline guy, so I stashed the See ‘N Say in the cargo hold under my rainy-day windbreaker. It was laundry day, however, and short of simply declaring “Tada!” at the unveiling, I had no choice but to play the pig card. “What the hell even is that?” Sarah murmured. ** “It was kind of a fucking technological miracle back in the day,” Owen breathed. It was not a great breath, and I wasn’t sure whether it was the age, the girth, the bowl of dead butts next to the antique register. He looked like David Cosby and Neil Young’s love child, surrounded by bears that cared, dolls raised by cabbages, Barbies who’d never left the box, and every vintage board game that had ever ended with my sisters and I eye-gouging over fake stakes. The proprietor of Junction Collectables and Curiosities tapped the casing of my Farmer Says with his mini-screwdriver, his fingerless bike gloves creaking slightly. “It’s a pretty cool gizmo – inside, there’s a plastic disk lot like an old gramophone record. Each of the 12 sound waves is embossed on the disk and stored in concentric tracks. Fortunately, he’d chosen to crack heavily-used existing inventory, and he displayed a now-off-white disk with diagonal grooves along the outer edge. “Those are the starting points for the 12 concentric tracks,” Owen explained, growing a little too excited. “This metal needle rides in one of the grooves depending on where you point the pointer. The ‘chatty’ cord, like they call it, lifts the needle, pulls it out to the edge of the disk, and winds a brass spring that turns the disk. See that plastic cone over the whole deal? The needle transmits the vibrations embossed in the ‘record’ to that T-shaped plastic piece it’s embedded in, and it transfers them to the cone speaker through that red dingle at the top. Pretty awesome. Right?” “Mm,” I said in an ostensibly awestruck manner. “How tough to replace the disk?” Owen leaned perilously back on his wooden stool and snagged a Styrofoam cup of coffee that looked cold and oily, from among a scattering of Styrofoam cups. “Anybody today with any reasonable mechanic skills could rejigger this thing, maybe even use a 3-D printer to reproduce that disk. But I assume this recording was made in the ‘60s or ‘70s. Still don’t want me to open ‘er up?” “Eh,” I reiterated. The guy surely knew what he was doing, and I wasn’t even sure it was evidence of anything more than a warped mind, and if that was so, the phantom tinkerer’s fingerprints or trace was trapped inside a sunny yellow case with the incriminating recording. In the end, I imagine my reservations were related more to pulling a thread on a hazily pleasant past. “You wouldn’t want to sell, would you?” Easy Rider Elf grinned. “Give you, say, $100? The case is pretty cherry, the string‘s still intact, and I got all the innards on the counter in front of you.” I pondered the pursuit of truth versus the pursuit of next month’s Hulu and Netflix fees. “Can I get back to you? Besides, doesn’t it screw up the value to swap out parts? Not exactly OEM.” Owen shrugged. “Neither am I,” he chortled. ** Junction Collectables actually was on the dusty stretch of East Main outside Apache Junction, where inexplicably surviving stucco cafes and low-rent gun and souvenir shops and esoterically specific shops like JC&C attracted more dust motes than walk-ins. I followed Main until it became East Apache, and meandered around to the Apache Junction Public Library. I could have done this on the iPhone, but apart from major past tragedies, celebrations, local misadventures gone national, or sports, the digitized news archives had a coin slot. The new library had a nice lady named Trish and a sweet microfilm/.pdf run of mid-‘60s Apache Junction News and Sentinels and a shelf of vintage town directories. Like everything else in the Valley before Starbucks and Walmart and La Quinta and old golfers and the mobile young rode into town, the Junction was a relatively tiny place during the Johnson years, so what I was calling the precipitants stood out like saguaros. The little things that might set someone to a sadistic and time-consuming gaslighting campaign. At the same time, I wanted to gauge community resources, and by the time I’d inhaled a shit-ton of nearly 60-year-old pulp dust, I had what I think I wanted. Bone Thugs N Harmony, Alicia Keys, and the Jonas Brothers had laid down tracks at Mesa’s Saltmine Studio Oasis, according to owner Don Salter owing to “our philosophy of combining vintage old-school analog classic tools with modern, new-world digital.” Rattler Studios, not so much. Located toward the mountains in what appeared to be a branch Oppenheimer bunker, Apache Junction’s best-kept secret and deservedly so appeared to have scored its new-world digital from a high school AV department, hidden among vintage old-school analog classic tools most of the current staff might need a high school AV crew to reboot. “Local bands and artists, mainly – way it’s always been,” Red Greenway described after fetching me a stout cup from the studio Keurig. He resumed grazing what looked like old-school chow mein -- about a half-mile back, I’d spotted a Chinese restaurant probably as old as the saguaro flanking it. “Most of its a mix of godawful country, worse indie shit, and even some hip-hop, rich folks’ kids who couldn’t bust a rhyme with a jackhammer. Hoped digitizing the whole thing might help us branch into audiobooks, podcasts, that sort of thing, but you said you were at the library. You seen their new studio? Green screen, video editing, podcasts, instrumental tracks? I may have to convert this all into a meth lab.” Greenway swept a hand toward the back wall gallery of local concert and club posters, album covers, and CD sleeves featuring the Rattler’s early undistinguished alumni – mostly pick-your-clone cowboys and metal heads and such ‘60s/’70s none-hit wonders as The Wally Goetticher Experience, the O-K Chorale, and The Three Horseman of the Apachelypse. Middle guy must’ve been Pestilence. “Kevin Cisneros – the K in O-K -- was about our only real success story, sort of,” he sighed. “I mean, he and his partner there with the steel guitar -- got quite a following at the area bars and even a little local airplay, but the partner quit playing after getting effed up in some accident or something, O-K Chorale dissolved, Kevin went solo somewhere else. We felt bad for the partner and made him gofer/janitor. By the way, all this is off the record, right?” “It’s all off the record,” I said. “I used to be a reporter. I came across something odd at a garage sale.” I pulled the See ‘N Say from its Old Navy bag and pulled the sting. “ The frog says, ‘ RIBBIT! RIBBIT ” “It has a beat,” Greenway conceded. I frowned at the recalcitrant toy, and cranked the arrow a few clicks to the left. The rooster’s dark pronouncement raised his brows.  “What kind of bastard would put that on a kid’s toy. I mean, this did belong to some kid, right?” “She didn’t tell me this was The Psycho Says model. Or she didn’t know. Lemme ask: Could somebody have done that here, back in the mid-‘60s?” Greenway considered as a malnourished-looking group of emo wannabes straggled in and he nodded them presumably toward the studio. “It’s a slow day, and you got me curious. Let’s pull this puppy apart and see what’s up. Don’t worry about them – they’re self-starters, you couldn’t tell.”

** Sarah had had several help desk innocents to terrorize, so I was off normal chec duties. “Got your lunch, or I guess dinner by now,” she grinned unsettlingly as jaunty hold music plunked at her very last nerve. “Just stick it in the microwave.” I left the dinosaur Spaghettios in too long, but Sarah’d went to considerable sarcastic expense digging out Ella’s old Mickey Mouse spoon, so I cleaned my plate. Jesus called after lunch. The other one. “I reached out to the Apache Junction Police and Fire folks,” the Gilbert PD detective reported in his unflappable, chamomile rumble. “Only reason there was a file at all was there was a brief arson investigation. The fire investigator found a charred device with a heavy-duty heating element, and the bedroom carpet was saturated, laminated, in fact, with what he thought might be an accelerant. Turned out to be plastic, and the department found a serial number that tracked of all things to some toy. After a little persuading, the 10-year-old son admitted he and a neighbor boy had been performing unauthorized experiments with the, ah…” “Thingmaker.” “And when the inevitable fire started, the neighbor’s brother — who was watching a western with the Dad — rushed upstairs and pulled both kids out. Had second-degree burns on his hands and was treated for chemical smoke inhalation. Little brother sustained more severe facial burns, requiring extended hospital treatment.” “You get names?” “The Dautrives and the Wisters.” And it came to me in a deductive Batflash. ** “I don’t understand,” Rita McClelland drawled with polite terseness. “You want a refund or something? It was free.” “Nothing like that,” I assured her. She set us up in lawn chairs on the driveway as I described the modifications made to her favorite childhood toy. “I don’t remember anything like that,” Rita stated. “I would assume, from, like, you putting it in the garage sale.” “You think my brother did it, as some sort of prank? Bob could barely change his bike tire.” “Well, it was dark, and kind of threatening in a creepy way. Not obscene or predatory, but disturbing for a kid to have to hear.” “But I never did. After Bob had an…’accident’ with that Thingmaker I told you about, Dad kind of went off the rails. The See ‘N Say seemed to set him off, so I just set it aside after a while.” “Somebody’d replaced the original recording with another one. That accident,” I ventured, cautiously. “The fire.” “How’d you know about the fire?” she whispered. “I was a reporter,” I said for the lack of anything relevant or cohesive. “Somebody wanted to hurt you, or your family, what, almost 60 years ago. I did a little digging, probably out of boredom, and discovered the fire in Apache Junction. A boy got hurt, right? One of your brother’s friends?” “Pete Wister was a wild kid,” Rita Dautrive McClelland muttered. “We always thought he was the one goaded Bob into whatever started the fire. The Wisters understood it was an idiot accident, and Dad paid Pete’s hospital bills. They understood.” “Not sure all of them,” I murmured. **  “Thought I should let you know I decided not to sell.” I called as the tarnished bell above the door jangled. I’m just going to give it back to Rita, remember, your old neighbor?” The welcoming grin froze on Owen’s face. Owen Wister, the O in O/K Chorale until the nerve damage to his half-gloved hands ended his musical career. “I’ll give you $500.” “That was your fatal mistake, offering me twice what a vintage See ‘N Say goes for online. You really wanted it, or at least take it apart and ‘accidentally’ destroy or switch out the disk or leave your fingerprints along with teen Owen’s.” “I was young and pissed off,” Owen stammered. “I thought Bob’d destroyed my life. My dad managed one of those tourist shops off the highway, and he had molding equipment to make cheesy Southwest souvenirs. I was always good in shop, and I had after-hours access to Mr. Greenway’s equipment. I thought if I couldn’t fix my brother, I’d hurt the Dautrives. Even after the fire, I went over to watch The Virginian with Mr. Dautrive every Wednesday. It was my Dad’s favorite before he got cancer.” “Well, he named you after the guy who wrote the original book. What you were watching the night of the fire, right? And how you sneaked Rita’s Farmer Says out of the house, installed the new disk, and replaced it.” “I thought I’d freak her out, mess with her mind, make her feel as shitty as the kids at school made Pete feel. It was a crappy, vicious plan, and after I left for ‘Nam, I realized how far off the rails I’d gone. But what could I do? Nobody said anything after I got home; Rita was in college and seemed to be doing OK.” “It was harsh stuff, but it sounded vaguely familiar. The Lotus King down the road – I assume it’s been around forever? That where the guys at Rattler’s Studio generally sent you for lunch, right?” “Yeah. I’d usually pick up stuff for the family on the way home, too.” I nodded. “Curious why you didn’t record a message to go with the frog, then I discovered you only modified the tracks for the cow, cat, horse, sheep, rooster, dog, and pig. Stopped by the Lotus King, got me an couple eggrolls, and verified they, like nearly every other Chinese-American joint, use the throwaway Chinese Zodiac placemat, which includes the rat, ox, tiger, rabbit, dragon, snake, horse, goat, monkey, rooster, dog, and pig. Each animal of the zodiac represents a cycle of years and both good and bad traits attributed to those born in each year. The zodiac gave you the inspiration for the predictions you offered about Rita’s future personality and fate. But not for the frog, turkey, bird, duck, or coyote on the Farmer Says ‘zodiac.’ You substituted the cow for the ox and the cat for the tiger and personalized it for maximum psychological effect.” “I was the guitarist – he was the writer,” Owen grinned before the pistol came shakily from under the counter. “Just give me the See ‘N Say.” “You realize how goofy that sounds,” I responded. “Relax. You really trust your trigger finger even after all those years? The statute of limitations is long past, even if anybody could figure out what to charge you with. And Rita says she gets it, that you were an angry teenager.” Then I dangled the yellowed plastic ring with its freshly snapped string, and set the Old Navy bag with what remained of the Farmer Says on the formica floor by the door.  The gun clicked on the glass. “You didn’t play it for her, did you?” Owen asked quietly. In fact, I’d advised her against. There are some strings, some threads you shouldn’t pull.


This is a story about a letter. Like the letter itself, much of this story is true, maybe all of it is true? But then again, maybe it’s just the invention of a creative mind, or mis-remembered events and conversations? We may never know. Of the biological father, Mum seemed a bit vague.  Maybe he was half Indian and half Scottish. Maybe he was a doctor or a surgeon, or an aspiring movie producer. Maybe his first name was Ellis, or Elliot. For sure he was a philanderer, for sure he didn’t know I exist, nor do his two daughters, my half-sisters, if they are still alive. He must have been tall because Mum was not. She promised me that she would tell me the man’s surname one day, but she never did. I imagine prospects for a single mother with a child born out of wedlock would have been very grim in the early 1960s, and given that abortions were still illegal, my Mum had little choice but to resume a loveless marriage, entering into a pact of silent compromise with Dad. Which of them had it harder? My Dad, raising another man’s son, or my beautiful Mum, dutifully sharing a bed with a sloppy drunk? Dad and my brother were masters of the cryptic crossword, which they devoured on Sunday mornings along with tea and toast. They would take turns at the puzzle until it was completed, printing capital letters and making tick-marks that seemed done by the same hand. Sometimes they would ask me to help on a literary reference or a historical fact, but I was never able to make much of a contribution, moreover my handwriting was messy, and I often forgot to tick off the completed clues, which irritated Dad. I just left them to it, bonding over anagrams, reversals and hidden words. I also left them to their politics. Dad had good qualities: he was garrulous and courteous among strangers, he was a good cook, had a terrific memory and was generous with his pension money, but he was also a drunk, a bigot, a small-minded man that didn’t really know how to give of himself and never read books. I loved him, I suppose, but it was hard work at times, and I often worried that I might become more like him as I got older, since the proverbial apple never falls far from the tree.  I also hoped that I might develop the same movie-star frown-lines, but I never did. The Letter? Well, it arrived at our downtown apartment in New York, soon after our Long Island wedding. My wife knew already of its contents because she’d had an uncomfortable and secretive solo lunch with Mum shortly after the wedding and prior to my parents’ flight back to the UK. She handed me the postmarked envelope and withdrew from our bedroom, where I read the letter for the first and only time, so I don’t exactly remember the tone. Was it apologetic, exculpatory? Was it sad or uplifting? For whom was it really written? It is in a box in the garage now. I should re-read it, but it’s been such a long time. Water under the bridge. The outline that I recall was simple. Dad was a heavy drinker and a bore, and when he got a job assignment in Chatham in 1959 or 1960, they agreed to a trial separation. Mum stayed in north London, working as a hairdresser in the West End during the day, attending adult education classes at night, when she could. One winter evening she met a fascinating man who beguiled her with visions of beauty and truth, had sex and got her pregnant. She never saw the man again. Faced with the prospects of raising an out-of-wedlock child as a single mother, she reconciled with Dad, and they resumed their troubled marriage. He raised me as his son and in exchange she gave him a third child, a daughter, and, as far as I can tell, it was thereafter a barren, loveless and almost humorless cohabitation.  She claims that the one-night stand was meaningful, and that I should not consider myself an accident.

If I could turn back time I might go back to before the letter, to a road trip in the West Country when I was twelve or thirteen, sitting in the back seat of the car, listening in on a coded discussion about me. Only, of course, I did not know it was coded at the time, it was just oblique and awkward and unintelligible, using words and phrases that I only half understood. I remember asking Dad about the word “bastard”, and he said it was a type of bird.

My mum was an orphan. She thinks she saw her father once when she was an infant. She remembered him as a kindly presence, dressed in a dark suit, maybe a hat, walking through a patch of bluebells in the woods one day in late Spring. She drew this scene in crayon, painted it in oils, talked of this vague encounter often. She conjectured that her father was a doctor, had an affair with a young maid who abandoned her to the Salvation Army. She was adopted by an elderly and childless couple, who encouraged the pretty little girl to sing and dance, and before she was old enough to understand that she was being exploited, her adoptive father, introduced the golden-haired girl with the curly locks to London’s club owners as an English Shirley Temple.  She sang at the Albert Hall, she sang with the big bands at Alexander Palace, she sang alongside the organist during the intervals at The Empire, and she was anointed the Beauty Queen of Wood Green, but then she married my dad, the boy next door, and her life shrunk to that of wife, mother, and apprentice hairstylist. After Dad's heart attack, she became the breadwinner too. I was a very good swimmer. After the fourth and last race of this particular district swim meet, I ran to the side of the Olympic-size pool and handed four gold medals to my Dad up in the stands. I remember that my hands were shaking, and I am sure I had a huge grin on my face. I didn’t know what to expect, so there was no reason for me to be surprised at his reaction, but I was. He seemed embarrassed, took the medals, muttered a “good lad”, and put them in his pocket. Some of the people around him were clapping and cheering, but he just sat there looking awkward. Soon thereafter, he stopped taking me to the Swim Club because it was affecting my grades at school. Mum told me that, being half Irish, he sinks in water; its relevance was lost on me.

For some reason, most of the school football games took place in the rain. There would be a handful of grim-faced dads on the sideline, smoking cigarettes, dressed in gray suits and dark woolen overcoats. In those days they wore black dress shoes, which slipped on the muddy grass, so the dads walked like they were on stilts. My uncle told me that Dad was a terrific footballer when he was young, very fast, played center forward at school, and could have been a pro, but for the War and all that. On this day I had a terrific game playing sweeper. I was not fast, but I was strong, smart, a good tackler and possessed a great right foot. I delivered a perfect long looping pass up field, releasing the striker to score an easy goal. There was a smattering of applause from a huddle of dads on the sideline. My Dad stood apart from the others, hands in pockets, and when the game ended, he promptly walked to the car where he waited for me to clean up while the other dads escorted the team to the changing rooms, chatting away, offering advice. At the time I thought he was giving me some kind of hard-knocks lesson in stoicism, but the letter puts things in a different perspective. I had literally outgrown the man, like a cuckoo. Out on the stoop, Mum asked me whether I ever wondered whether I was a misfit, which I did and still do, but I thought she was talking about herself, the orphan, so I probed the half-memory of her father in the woods, but she turned the conversation back to me, my thoughts; she really wanted to know. I like to generalize, to conceptualize, and I was about to leave for university to study Philosophy, so I said something inauthentic about alienation or disassociation, actually meaningless to her and to me, and she seemed irritated. The conversation stuck with me, but I didn’t know why at the time. Dad was estranged from his sister and three of the four brothers, a schism formed at the time of his mother’s death, vaguely attributed to an acrimonious resolution of her estate. Dad and the youngest brother remained close; it was one of the few relationships that endured over the course of my parent’s peripatetic life, and I like to think it is because there was a full and honest understanding between them of the truth of my provenance, but when Dad died, I asked the uncle about my Mum’s letter, and he claimed that he was unaware of their separation, didn’t have a clue. I promised my Mum that I would not discuss the letter with Dad, or with anyone other than my wife. I struggled with this for a while, but figured that it was their pact, their burden and it was the respectful thing to do for Mum, and for Dad, for whom the disclosure would be a public humiliation; that of the cuckold. I also figured that dad, a smoker, alcoholic with a severe heart condition, eight years Mum’s senior, would die soon, and the need for secrecy would end.

But Mum died first and unexpectedly. I was working in Singapore at the time. My wife and I took the girls on holiday to a tropical island in Malaysia. I phoned Mum from the hotel, to give her a weekly update on the girls, my job, life in Southeast Asia, but there was something odd about her responses, robotic. I felt like I was talking to a stranger or a hostage. “Love you, Mum”, I said, to which she replied, “Do you? That’s nice”. These were the last words that I ever heard her speak. I at once phoned my brother, asked him to check in on her, something seemed awry. Perhaps Dad was drinking again? Perhaps she was going to leave him – at last? I didn’t phone my sister, but I should have done. My Mum had breast cancer, it metastasized, migrated to her brain, she went into a coma. We ended the vacation and flew direct to the UK. At Heathrow airport we hired a rental car, rushed up the A1 motorway and went straight to the hospital. My wife, more practiced in grief and loss, went in to see my Mum while I waited outside the ward, distracting the girls. She came out, ashen. “Didn’t look like her”, she said, “without her hairdo”. It isn’t her, I thought, not without her perfect platinum blond perm. This was not my mother, so I didn’t go into the ward to see her, because she wasn’t there. Her body ceased functioning the next day, and I cried at my father’s knee. I have a brother and a sister, and I love them, but we are estranged by geography and time. We are also estranged by genetics, and there’s nothing much I can do about that, except dismiss it as irrelevant, for my sake and for theirs. It is one of the reasons that I have not done a DNA test. My wife, recently had a genetic test, revealing that she is very nearly 100% Ashkenazi but for a tiny sliver of Scandinavian DNA that must have originated in another eventful one-night stand, albeit in the dawn of time.  I took the family on a road trip once, to France, the girls were maybe eight and ten. My youngest asked, “so we are half Jewish, and half English?”, which caused a good deal of mirth, but it was a good question, nonetheless. Maybe one of the girls will get a DNA kit one day and figure out the other 50%. Maybe I will meet my half-sisters as a result, assuming they are alive.

There were only a few people at my Dad’s funeral. The owner of the local pub said Dad was a regular and would be missed and shook my hand. My brother-in-law said that the same publican had been forced to ban Dad from the bar for being drunk and disorderly, and when we got back to the house, we found dozens of empty lager cans beneath the kitchen sink. Sitting in the living room, nibbling on white bread sandwiches, I told the family about the letter, which was greeted with denial, surprise and shock, except that my brother knew already. He disclosed that he even remembered the trial separation, and he said that Mum had confided the truth in him many years ago, preceding the letter. My sister, who had cared for my father since Mum's death felt that she’d been disrespected and was understandably upset.

Once things had settled down, I asked my brother whether he knew the last name of the biological father, but he did not.  So, I don't really know who I am, but I do know that I am free.


I also posted this short story on . # Faking a Murder in Moonville Tunnel A True Story of Teenage Debauchery ### A Quick Preface During my early teenage years, I was absolutely *obsessed* with World War Two history. I collected two entire sets of vintage combat fatigues and field gear—complete with M1 Garand rifle and a sidearm revolver—and participated in World War Two battle reenactments whenever possible. Since I was probably the youngest person in the universe with a desire to take part in historic battle reenactments, I was mostly running around a field with middle-aged guys in American and British military uniforms, shooting blanks at middle-aged guys in German wehrmacht uniforms. (Side note: shooting at Nazis is fun regardless of situational context). I also wore my fatigues to school on the anniversaries of major battles and events. As one would imagine, donning moth-bitten old army uniforms and constantly spouting-off dates of historical remembrance doesn’t exactly make you the most popular kid in school. When I reached my late teens, my interest in social debauchery began to outweigh the battles of yore. So followed plenty of beer and plenty of trouble. By the time I graduated high school, the old 101st Airborne and 1st Infantry uniforms were packed away in dust-covered rubbermaid totes. ### Murder at Moonville Tunnel On some Friday or Saturday nights during the summer after graduation, my friends and I would make the one-hour drive to an abandoned railway tunnel called Moonville. Deep in the woods by way of an old gravel forest road, it had a local reputation for being haunted. College kids would drive up from nearby Ohio University in Athens. They came in search of ghosts; and boy did Moonville deliver (at least when my friends and I were around). Those kids are probably telling folks to this day about the paranormal phenomena they witnessed deep in the woods of Ohio in an old abandoned tunnel … In reality it was my friend Dustin making spooky noises and rolling boulders into the creek; or my friend Kyle walking across the far entrance of the tunnel in an old wedding dress; or even just an explosive rustling of bushes and growling noises—enough to send even the most cool and collected frat boys running for the safety of their sedans. On other occasions, we’d take unsuspecting friends for their first visit and put them through the usual rounds of teenage scare-tactics—yelling *BOO*, making spooky noises; boilerplate stuff. Teenagers having teenage fun. Until—as teenagers often do—we took it too far… On a Saturday that could have been *any other* given Saturday, a bunch of us were hanging around the parking lot of the local Wal-Mart. Someone suggested we drive down to Moonville Tunnel. A group of four or five girls in our little crowd had never been before; so the boys began our usual rite of preparedness, telling them that the tunnel is haunted and that they were likely to run into a few ghoulish entities from beyond our earthly world. A few of us—Kyle, Dustin, Greg, Dewey, Joey, and myself—went into the Wal-Mart to grab a few supplies for our journey. While we were standing in the checkout line, a terrible, insidious light bulb burned to life inside my brain. I told my three friends about my newly-hatched plan and thus, the cogs began to turn. Back outside in the parking lot, Greg and I told the rest of the group that we were going to have to sit this one out: We had been called in to do some work early the next morning, we told them. *Bummer*. Leaving the Wal-Mart, we turned onto Bridge Street and drove twenty minutes to my house. I dug into my closet and pulled out an old army ammo crate. I grabbed an en-bloc clip filled with .30–06 blanks, a handful of .22 blanks, and loaded my old blank-firing M1 rifle and .22 pistol into the back seat of my friend’s truck. Operating through a spy network of covert texts sent via Motorola RAZR flip phones, Greg and I timed our arrival in Moonville—down the miles of dusty and unmaintained county roads, deep into the forest, to the makeshift parking area—to precede our group of friends. We drove past the parking area, farther into the woods, until we found a pull-off with enough space to hide the truck. Carrying our weapons of mass disfunction, we backtracked toward the trailhead to Moonville Tunnel. We crossed a bridge over a wide creek, into and through the regular parking area at which our friends would soon be arriving. It was next to a wide creek with a bridge over it. The entire parking area was a muddy quagmire at the time. We carefully rock-hopped through the sludge until we reached the beaten path of the trailhead. Once we’d hiked the half-mile back to the old creepy tunnel, we took up positions in the heavy underbrush. Thanks to our two insiders, Dustin and Kyle, our timing was impeccable. We had settled into the leaves not more than ten minutes before we heard familiar voices coming up the trail from the parking lot. As the caravan of our buddies traveled across the path in front of us, I noticed that Kyle’s mom and dad—Carl and Robbie—had joined the group. Carl had a habit of encouraging (rather than discouraging) these types of activities. I knew he was in on the plan when the group reached the middle of the tunnel and I heard him instruct everyone, amidst protests from some of the girls, to turn off their flashlights and “see if any ghosts come out.” We took this as our cue. Greg and I crept to the entrance, pointed our blank-loaded guns toward the decrepit ceiling of the tunnel, and I whispered, “One … two *… three—” BAM! BAMBAMBAMBAM!* The sound of cannon-fire, screams, and laughter filled the tunnel as friends slipped in the mud, spun in circles, cried for their mothers, and struggled to regain their grip on reality. Everyone who was in on the joke—Greg and I included—burst into a fit of laughter and the rest of our friends quickly realized they’d been bamboozled. This is probably where the prank should have ended. About an hour later we were in the main parking lot. Most of our friends had already left for home, but a few of us were still standing around and talking. I was going to hitch a ride back with Kyle and his parents, and had just loaded my things into the back of their truck. Just as I closed the door, a car pulled into the muddy parking area. My friends and I looked at each other. “College kids,” someone said. “You outta get out that pistol and fuck with em,” Kyle’s dad suggested to me with a boyish grin. It took no more cajoling than that for the rest of us to jump onboard with the plan—even though at the current moment there was no more “plan” than the suggestion of “getting out the pistol and fucking with” the college kids. I discreetly opened the truck and harnessed my little revolver in a shoulder holster underneath my jacket as Carl approached the college kids. He introduced himself and told them we had just arrived as well; that we were getting ready to check out the supposedly haunted tunnel; and that we were first-timers. I approached the group and took stock of them. There were five total: One big, tall corn-fed fellow who could have been a linebacker, a short guy in glasses who was about as wide as he was tall, and three innocent-looking girls who looked like they had just moved into their freshman dorms. Of the five of them, I only remember the name of the short guy in the glasses: Dakota. An interesting name, which might be why it stuck with me after all these years. Or it could be because Dakota’s introduction prompted Dustin to spontaneously (and untruthfully, I might add) tell the group of strangers that he happened to live in North Dakota, where he was a professional bull-rider. His name was Mike, by the way, and he was only in Ohio to visit his cousin, Jeremy \[Kyle\] here. One of the girls went to shake his hand in greeting, but when they reached for it, Dustin held up an empty jacket sleeve (his hand was pulled back inside of it) and told them he had lost the hand in an accident on his family’s ranch as a child. “Kinda messed up of you to try to shake my nub,” he told her. When she issued an embarrassed apology, he accepted. As the group of college kids were enamored by Dustin’s tall tales of Dakotan bull riding and lopped-off appendages, Carl leaned back and whispered to me, *“Act like you’re hammered drunk.”* Thus, I mentally consumed a pint or so of corn whiskey and assumed the name of Sam. “Nice to*—hic—*meet ya,” I slurred to them. We started down the trail. Dakota told us that he had been to Moonville Tunnel several times. He knew all kinds of interesting facts about its history. There was an old mining village beyond the tunnel that was abandoned in the late 1850s, he told us. You had to cross a stream to get to it. There have been several recorded deaths, one in 1958 when a brakeman fell onto the tracks. We learned quite a bit from Dakota on our walk back to the tunnel, and in return, we filled his head with as many lies as it could hold. Finally we made it to the tunnel, walked through it, and approached a stream on the other side. “The mining village is just a little farther, past this creek,” Dakota told us. “Just need to cross on this log.” He pointed to a mossy fallen tree that spanned over frigid, rushing water. Carl turned to me. “Sam, your drunk ass is liable to fall off that thing and drown yourself.” I took the hint, and after a couple of lines faux-protest, I consented to stay behind with Carl, Kyle, our friend Dewey, and Kyle’s mom Robbie. The college kids, along with Dustin and a few of our other friends, crossed the creek on the log and disappeared into the woods on the other side. As soon as we figured they were out of earshot, we started to conspire. Of course, Carl was the first to offer a suggestion: “We should wait for them to get halfway across that log and fire the blanks at them so they fall in the creek.” I imagined news headlines of a tragic accidental drowning, all caused by a group of prankster teenagers who would learn a valuable life lesson by way of spending their twenties and thirties behind bars. “I have a better idea,” I said. About fifteen or twenty minutes later, we were back in the tunnel and patiently waiting. As soon as we heard voices coming down the trail, Kyle and I started to argue. Somehow, despite the fact that we were but a simple troupe of Appalachian hillbillies with zero acting experience, I swear the performance that would follow could have won an Oscar: “I saw your number in her goddamn phone!” I slurred to Kyle. Dewey was holding him back against the wall of the tunnel and Carl was holding me back on the opposite side. “Bullshit,” Kyle replied, “you’re fuckin delusional. Every time you get like this you start accusing me of this shit, you paranoid asshole.” The back-and-forth continued until the group of strangers and friends approached our impromptu stage. Dustin and our other buddies hung around, (not in on the plan at this point themselves); the college kids passed between Kyle and me with confused caution. Our improv routine escalated. “Boys, calm the hell down,” Carl told us. Then to me, “Sam, you’re drunk.” “So what if I’m drunk,” I told him. “He *knows* what the fuck he did.” Kyle started to push Dewey away to get to me and Dewey tried to ‘calm him down’ in the same manner as Carl. “Jeremy \[Kyle\] goddammit, he’s drunk, let it go—” “I ain’t lettin shit go, get the fuck off of me—” The college kids hung a few feet away in the tunnel and watched as Kyle tried to get past Dewey. “This is the last time,” I told Kyle, “the last time I hear about you trying to fuck her behind my back.” I reached into my jacket and started to pull the revolver from its holster. Carl’s entire demeanor changed from the moment my arm reached in my jacket to produce our primary plot device: “Jeremy—Jeremy he has a gun—HE HAS A GUN JEREMY, *GET BACK*—” Cue collective gasps from the college kids. Carl wrestled with me and pleaded for ‘Jeremy’ to run, but Kyle’s character wasn’t having any of it. “Oh, you need a fuckin gun huh? Pussy ass little bitch—” he made it past Dewey and halfway across the tunnel with fists raised when suddenly I ‘managed to free my hand from Carl’s grasp’ and aimed the pistol at my faux-foe. A cacophony of noise erupted in quick succession: “NOOO!” screamed several of the college kids as they saw the pistol being pointed at their new friend Jeremy. *BANG!* went the sound of the first shot as it reverberated through the tunnel like a stick of dynamite exploding in someone’s living room. And then there were the screams. The most awful, blood-curdling cries of terror that you could ever hear. The kind of screams that stay with you for the rest of your life—even as you write about it over a decade later. Kyle dropped to the floor of the tunnel. I fired two more shots, and with each of them his ‘lifeless body’ convulsed a half a foot into the air. Carl’s performance continued. He left me and rushed to Kyle, who was stifling laughs between his best attempts at a dead guy impression. “Robbie, call 911!” Carl yelled. “Robbie, he’s not breathing! Call 911 right now!” I collapsed against the wall and began to ‘drunkenly weep’ at the sight of what I’d done. The gun fell to the ground. Carl turned and grabbed the lapels of my jacket, slamming me into the concrete wall. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GONNA DO NOW?!” he asked me. “HE’S DEAD, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO?!” “I don’t know,” I cried. “I don’t know, I can—we can—we’ll put his body in the creek and—oh god, I’m so sorry … I’m so sorry …” Carl started to laugh. We turned and saw that the college kids had already made it to the other end of the tunnel. They paused at its opening, disoriented and panicking. “We-we-we need to g-g-get to h-higher ground!” Dakota screamed. “Run down there and scare ’em,” Carl told me. Something in me, a little voice, thought for just a fraction of a second that maybe we had already taken things too far … but the laughter of my friends on our end of the tunnel was like an addictive drug. Laughter, which, either didn’t reach the *ears* or the *consciousness* of the college kids. When I took off down the tunnel, they saw me and screamed all over again. They pushed each other out of the way and stumbled in the mud trying to turn, and then fled down the trail toward the parking lot. The laugher in my ears waned and with it, its effect. I thought, *These people are going to be traumatized for the rest of their lives if they leave here believing someone was murdered.* I holstered the pistol and continued out of the tunnel and down the trail, trying to catch up with them. By the time I reached the parking lot, they were already in their car. Dakota was behind the wheel, and the big linebacker was in the passenger seat. Their car was stuck in the mud. *Wrrrrrr …. wrrrrrrrrrr …* The front tires were spinning backwards with the speed of a straight-lane dragster, but the car wasn’t budging from its mire. As I entered the glow of their headlights, I saw both of their eyes grow to the size of baseballs. “Stop! Stop, it was just a joke!” I yelled, waving my hands. From inside the car, they saw the guy *who just killed his friend* running toward them, shouting nonsense, and waving his arms wildly. The passenger door opened and the linebacker tumbled out and ran at a full sprint into the opposite tree-line until I heard a *SPLASH* as he swam across the creek near the main parking area to the other side. Dakota panicked and put the car in drive, suddenly propelling it forward into a boulder on the edge of the parking area and smashing the front fender. I finally reached their car and they screamed in unison before I held up my hands. “Guys, this was all a joke. It was all a joke, I’m so sorry. There were just blanks in the gun. My friend Kyle—uhh, Jeremy—is coming out of the woods right now.” Dakota was sobbing. “I don’t care,” he cried. “I don’t care, I don’t fucking care I just want to go.” All three girls in the back were sobbing. *My god, what have we done,* I thought. “It was just a joke,” I repeated. “We thought it would be—” *“Just a joke?”* I heard a voice behind me. I turned to see the linebacker towering over me, clothes dripping, face covered in briar scratches. “It was just a joke, huh?” About that time my friends were running back into the parking area from the trail. “Uhhh, listen man,” I stammered. “I don’t want any trouble, we were just—” “You don’t want any trouble? Don’t want any TROUBLE?!” He started to raise his fist but Dewey pushed me out of the way and stepped in front of him. “Get in your fucking car … and go back to Athens.” Several other friends stood behind Dewey and the linebacker eyed them all. Dakota called from the bruised Camry … “C-come on, let’s just get out of here.” The linebacker took a deep breath and pushed past Dewey. He went to the front of the car and pushed, along with a couple of our friends, while Dakota was finally able to back the car into the gravel road. The linebacker paused at the open car door and turned to look at us one more time. “Just so you know. We’re calling the sheriff when we get back to Athens.” He got into the car and they sped away, trailed by a contrail of flying gravel and mud. We were silent; everyone realizing the gravity of what had just happened. Well except maybe for one of us: Carl started laughing his ass off. “What?” Kyle asked him. “Hell,” he said once he’d caught a breath. “They’re gonna call the sheriff and tell em they met some guy named Mike, who’s a one-armed bull rider from North Dakota, and saw his drunk friend Sam shoot a guy named Jeremy.


The wind chimes were going at it again. As the wind blew, they crashed feverishly into one another, a frantic dancing orchestra that woke the girl sleeping on the couch.

As she blinked her eyes open and rubbed her cheek that had been pressed against a scratchy pillow all night, she glanced around the room worriedly. She began to absorb more sounds; the distant howl of a starving dog, the trees crashing together outside, rain colliding with the windows. With small, cold fingers, she pulled the sleeves of her sweater down to her wrists. Sleeves that had her name sewn into them with bright red thread five times over, Beatrice Dean , a name she had seen so often that she was beginning to feel sick of it. But her father had sown her name into all her clothes with hands so shaky she would oftentimes wonder how he managed to get the needle into the thread in the first place. He was always adamant that somebody would try to steal all their clothes one day, so he had to take certain measures.

She stumbled to the kitchen for a glass of water when she saw her father sprawled across the ceramic tiled floor, his skin paler than the floor beneath him. He looked like somebody had tossed a corpse over a field of freshly fallen snow. The sunken skin mixed in with the sparkle of the white contrasted each other, and created a sort of unsettling peace.

She nudged him with her toe. “Dad?”

There were other things on the ceramic tiles. A large, dull needle, a spilled can of orange soda, and vomit. The girl wrinkled her nose and nudged him again. She knew that she had to keep trying to wake him up, so that he would slowly squint his eyes open, rake his fingernails across his chest and sit up. He’d be confused for a moment, and ask her if he had died, just like he would do every time. And she would quietly say no, just like she would do every time. After a few more nudges, her lower lip began to quiver. The rain outside died down, but the trees were still thrashing. It sounded as though they were trying to get into the house, as if there was something terrifying outside. But the girl knew the true terror was inside the house. She felt as though someone was knitting a sweater inside her rib cage with sharp, hot needles. She needed to leave.

Carefully, she stepped around her father, dodging the needle and the soda and the vomit. She stepped past the shiny black garbage bags dotted around the kitchen, glanced at the swarm of fruit flies that looked like locusts come to punish her and her father. She placed her hands on the doorknob of the back door and gave it a good twist. Usually, her father would lock all doors with a special key only he had, so she wouldn’t think of leaving, or worse, attempt to. But to her surprise, the door swung open to the outside. She glanced back at her father, wondering to herself why he would lie about the key. Wondering if there was something out there that might have stolen the key and unlocked everything.

Outside was cold. Her socks mushed into the muddy ground, and the wind felt like fingers weeding up her spine. The long, dark trees that were so richly green that they looked blue, were pirouetting around her wildly. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen the outside of the house, especially when it had been so dark out.

“Hello?” she mumbled, mostly to herself, just so she could hear something human within the howls of nature. “Hello?” She saw a stream to her left, and she stumbled over to it. Moonlight winked over its tumbling waters. She saw her reflection, and was stunned by it. Her father had smashed all the mirrors in the house not too long ago, claiming that somebody was watching them through their surface. Staring at herself, she realized that her eyes had an uncanny fuzzy brightness to them, like television screens. She looked away quickly.

The tears came so rapidly that she crashed to her knees. They were hot down her face, and salty on her lips. Something inside her stomach told her that her father had finally died, that she was finally all alone. She sank her hands into the piercingly cold water of the stream for a moment, and began to sob, scrunching her eyes shut tight.

Unbeknownst to the girl, there was something rising up from the water. Something small and breathing, something red with big brown eyes and white ears. It rose from the water, gave a small flick of its tail, and sat beside her, watching her as she wept. Eventually, the girl felt its presence and slowly opened her eyes and turned her head, her eyes growing wide as saucers when she saw the animal sitting next to her. She thought it was a cat at first, with its pointy ears and whiskers. But she knew it wasn’t. This was an animal she had never seen before.

“Hello?” she croaked, hoping deep within her stomach for a response. But all the fox did was blink at her.

“I think my Dad is dead,” she said slowly, looking deeply into its brown eyes. She saw her reflection in them, small and scared and lost. “Can you help me?” There was a pause. The fox opened its jaw. The inside of its mouth smelled as foul and as sweet as flowers on a grave. On its tongue was a small key, barely the size of the girl’s pinky finger. She reached out and took it, held its warm brass surface against the palm of her hand. Staring down at it, she knew it was important. She knew the key could solve everything.

Quickly, she rose to her feet and began to run, the fox at her side. She could see the house in the distance if she squinted hard enough. She felt as though the ground was swaying beneath her feet, rocking her from side to side, threatening to crash her into the mud, pull her down where she could never crawl back up from.

She pushed the back door open with all her might, and it swung so hard it slammed into the wall. Her father hadn’t moved. His eyes were still open, glassy like forgotten marbles. His mouth was slightly open, his lips parted and his tongue peeking out from behind yellow teeth. All the holes in his arms looked as though worms might crawl out of them.

Crouching beside him, the smell of death and vomit making her want to scramble out from her skin, the girl inhaled shakily.

“I know what to do now,” she said, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead with the back of her hand. “But you have to trust me. You have to believe it will work. Okay, Dad?” She took the key from her palm, and placed it on his tongue. She watched the metal dissolve onto his tongue, disappearing in a matter of seconds. Relieved, she sat back on her knees and smiled at the fox. All would be well now.

But her father didn’t open his eyes. His chest didn’t start to rise, she didn’t hear the scratchy sound of his breath. He was as still as a painting.

The tears threatened to escape from her eyes again. She felt as though a rock, hot and heavy, was turning around over and over again in her stomach. Her father didn’t believe it would work. A part of her always knew he’d be satisfied with death, especially since he’d been chasing it since before she was born. The room was spinning. The fox began to grow bigger. She saw him grow to the size of a bear in the corner of her eye.

Groping around her father’s head, the girl grabbed the needle. There was still some liquid left inside. She could see her reflection in the murky liquid, stretched out and twisted. She looked up at the fox. The bristly red fur on its head was brushing against the ceiling, its ear caught in the fan above the fridge. The girl ran to it, arm outstretched. With a scream muffled by the thrashing of the wind chimes outside, she plunged the needle into its chest.


A woman with golden brown skin and long curly black hair walked into a somewhat empty bakery causing the bell to jingle just as she opened the door. The smells of freshly baked goods was hanging in the heated air that complemented the smell of the autumn just outside the glass door. The woman walked up to the counter before inspecting the many shelves full of breads and other baked goods. A soft smile stretched across her rose lips as the scents from the kitchen became more powerful making her look past the shelves at the two men baking. The two men danced around the kitchen, and each other, with precision as they prepared a loaf of bread to be cooked. One of them, a man with sandy blond hair and summer green eyes, turned towards the counter just as he put the loaf into the hot oven. He wiped the flour off of his hands onto his white apron before fiddling with the knot in the back to make sure it was tied on tightly. He was not aware of who the woman was as he walked up to the counter to greet her. “Welcome to Bobby’s Corner Bakery! What can I get you-” He stopped immediately as he looked up; his eyes going wide and his voice was stolen from his throat. He stared deep into the woman’s honey colored eyes that slowly showed confusion behind them instead of recognition. The man had not seen her since her death, yet her eyes were the same as they always have been despite how much different she looked. She was the only reason he worked at bakeries; he knew how much she loved baked goods. The woman cleared her throat and gestured to the various breads and pastries behind him. “Can I buy some bread or do I need to give you my number first?” She chuckled as his cheeks flushed red and he rubbed the back of his neck before laughing. “Yeah-Yeah, but your number would be greatly appreciated though,” he teased causing the other man send him a glare. “Hey! Quit flirting with the customer and give her her order!” The manager barked causing the green eyed man to sheepishly apologize. The woman laughed at this however, causing the man’s chest to fill with warmth before she ordered. “Just a loaf of your regular bread please.” The man nodded before grabbing a paper bag and the freshest loaf of bread off the shelf, packaging it with care while doing so quickly. The woman studied him closely before a wave of familiarity and nostalgia washed over her. Something about the way his messy sand colored hair fell in front of his eyes and the way he worked with efficiency gave her a sense of Déjà vu. Her eyebrows knitted together as he wrung up her total on the cash register and gave her a wide grin. “Have we met before?” The man looked taken back by her question. He did not know how to respond to that because they have met before; hundreds of times before. Each time was different than the last but they all held a special place in his heart. His eyes nervously darted around the woman before they landed on her hand. There around her ring finger was a silver ring with a diamond placed on top of the metal. He was too late. It felt like his heart had stopped beating as he looked back into the sweet honey colored eyes of hers; a pained smile stretching across his pale lips. “No, we haven’t.” The woman muttered a quiet, “Oh.” She pulled out her wallet from her purse and looked up at the man with frustrated eyes. “How much do I owe you?” The man handed her the bread and shook his head with genuine smile. “It’s on me.” The woman gave him a surprised look before smiling and turned around before heading for the door. “Thank you!” He waved goodbye to her as she left, “Come back again!” He watched her walk away along the sidewalk as a heavy feeling sunk into his chest with every step she took. Using the crook of his arm he wiped a few tears away before taking his apron off and setting it gently down on the counter. There was no need for him to stay in the city anymore this time. He felt no bitterness or hatred as he left the bakery and looked in the direction that the woman had went with a sad smile. He would have to wait for her again, but he was willing to go through a century just to be with her again. “See you in another life.


As she made her way down the staircase, Madeline started to wonder if she was making a terrible mistake. Leaving a child alone — even without so many Poiloogs around — felt wrong. It tied knots in her stomach that twisted and turned and tightened with every step she took. The only thing that kept her going was the memory of Liam’s resolve. Though he may be young in years, he certainly wasn’t in experience. She had to trust that with her gone, the Poiloogs would move on, making it safe for him. That he would manage by himself. That he would find her again. When she reached the bottom of the stairs she paused, taking a few deep breaths. Tears pricked at her eyes but she blinked them away, fighting off the rising flood. Before she could indulge in her emotions, she had to get as far away from here as possible. Otherwise, the Poiloogs would find them again all too easily. She wished she understood how it was they sensed humans, and what about being close to another person made that easier. She wished she knew the range of their abilities, and how sensitive they were. She wished she knew if Liam would be safe alone. But wishes would get her nowhere. They had a plan. Now, they just had to stick to it. She crept over to the door and surveyed the street outside. Though she could still hear the hum of multiple ships, everything in the immediate vicinity looked clear. For now at least. After a quick adjustment of her backpack and the book under her arm, she dashed outside, pausing only when she reached the shadows cast by the buildings on the far side of the road. Glancing back at where she’d come from to orient herself, she set off in the opposite direction to the meeting point they’d agreed upon. If the Poiloogs were still able to track them even once they’d separated, she didn’t want to lead them straight there. Keeping to the balls of her feet, she maintained a light jog while minimising the sound of her footsteps. At each side street and alleyway, she paused, peering around the corner before darting across the gap. It wasn’t long before she noticed a hum from up ahead, steadily increasing in volume. A jolt of terror ran down her spine. If they were still tracking her, converging on her position… She had no hope against that many of them. And worse still, it would mean that they could find Liam just as easily. She picked up the pace, heading towards the sound. She could only hear one frequency — one ship. But she had to know for certain. When she reached the end of the street she came to a halt and peeked around the corner. A single ship was hovering there, speeding straight towards her. She ducked back around, pressing her back flat against the wall just as the ship zoomed past the junction. And past her. A sigh of relief burst from her lips. It seemed the Poiloogs couldn't sense lone humans. Or at least not very well. That gave this plan a chance of actually working. And it meant that Liam should be safe. When the sound from the ship had faded to a distant hum, Madeline set off once again. A couple of blocks later, she started looking for somewhere to rest for the night. Though there were still a few hours of daylight left, she was more exhausted than she would like to admit — or than she’d have admitted to Liam. And now she knew they were far enough away from each other to avoid being detected, she wanted to be close enough to keep an eye on the building she’d left him in. At least for the first night. It didn’t take her long to find one. Another soulless office block with the same grey carpets and plastic plants. After a quick sweep of the building, she settled in on the top floor. Choosing a window with a good view of Liam’s location, she slumped down next to it, placing her book and bag beside her. As the sun sank below the horizon and the last vestiges of orange that hung in the sky faded to black, Madeline finally let the tears flow. It started slowly, the pinpricks in her eyes breaking free and rolling down her cheeks, the *drip, drip* as they hit the floor punctuating her loss. But simmering underneath her sadness was fear — not of the Poiloogs, but of losing Liam forever. Soon, sobs were wracking her body as she struggled to heave in shaky breaths. Calm only came when exhaustion overtook all else, dragging her down into a fitful sleep. \ She awoke with a start to a humming sound, strange surroundings setting her on edge. The sky outside the window was still dark, peppered with stars. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she hauled herself up to look out the window, seeking the source of the sound. In the street below, the bright white light of a Poiloog’s ship drifted past. *Only* one, thankfully. It looked to be going more slowly than the one she’d seen earlier in the day. Perhaps due to the dark. Perhaps because they were conducting a more thorough search after the last had failed. Madeline watched, heart racing, as it continued on around the corner. When it turned in the opposite direction to where she’d left Liam, tension seeped from her muscles. With a sigh, she sank back to the floor, wondering how many hours it was until morning. \ For the rest of the night, she drifted in and out of sleep. Every time she woke, she glanced around the office she was in, expecting to see Liam lying nearby. It tore at her heart when she remembered — she was alone. To ease the pain, she’d check the streets below, squinting through the darkness towards where she hoped Liam slept before attempting to return to slumber herself. As the hours wore on she grew more and more restless. An anger which burnt in her chest flared brighter and brighter. Every ship that went past fanned the flames. When she thought of what the Poiloogs had made her do — what they had turned her into — she couldn’t bear it. With no one there to complain, she hardly even realised her leg was bouncing up and down, an outlet for the pent-up frustrations. Eventually, morning was approaching. The first of the sun's rays crept over the horizon, tinging it with pale blue. After a few sips of water and a handful of nuts, it was time to move on. She had to get as far away from Liam as possible, or she knew that she would go back for him — endangering them both. Madeline hoisted her bag onto her back and tucked *A Study in Scarlett* under her arm. \ She made good progress as the sun rose, jogging through the streets painted gold by the early morning rays. But her journey was slowed by the frequent stops. Each time she paused to duck out of sight of a passing Poiloog ship, the fire in her chest burnt a little stronger. Not for the first time, she found herself wondering what had brought them all here. Not to the planet — she’d given up on that question long ago — but to this area, at this time. Was all this effort just for her and Liam? This many Poiloogs searching for just two humans. If that were the case, there really couldn’t be many people left at all. Madeline pushed the thought away. It didn’t do to dwell on that sort of thing. It wasn’t like she could do anything about it. Her focus had to be *her*. And Liam, of course. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder. She turned the corner— And found herself facing an approaching Poiloog ship head-on! She cursed silently. This was why it was never a good idea to let these thoughts cloud your mind. She ducked back. But it was too late. The hum of the ship was winding down as it came to a stop. Madeline grabbed the book from under her arm, took a deep breath, and charged around the corner. Holding the novel aloft, she ran straight for the Poiloog climbing down from its ship. Before all eight of its legs were on the ground, she brought the book round in a wide arc, crunching into the creature's neck — or the section that joined its abdomen and its head. It shrank back from the blow, limbs flailing in panic. A claw grazed Madeline but she paid it no heed, leaping onto the floundering Poiloog to finish the job. Her breath became heavy as she hit the alien again and again, her rage at the creatures crescendoing to a frenzy. She landed blows with fists and feet and knees and elbows. Every ounce of strength that she had she poured into the violence, letting it all out. She kept going long after the body had stopped twitching — until the tang of copper burnt in her throat and sweat stung in her wounds. Finally, when her limbs had no strength left, she sagged into the purple goop, sobbing. But there was no time. She’d wasted too much already, caught up in the catharsis of the moment. Hauling herself to her feet, she wiped a hand across her face. Red from bloodied knuckles mingled with the purple of the Poiloog’s insides. As she ran, her eyes streamed, tracing tracks down her cheeks in the swirl of Poiloog and human blood.


There's a hunger that starts as desire, evolves into a sharp pain, then descends into nausea. No, This was not that sort of hunger. This was far, far worse. I had a dog once that had eaten four large rocks. Not pebbles. These were landscaping stones. I didn't know until she threw them up one by one. Each was three to four inches long, roughly an inch in diameter, and not at all smooth. According to the vet, she had a gastro-intestinal disorder that caused her brain to believe she was starving no matter how much food she had eaten. "In that state," she said, "she will eat anything just to feel satisfied." Even rocks. I'm at least that hungry. Fortunately, I understand a bit more about the risk versus reward of consuming my home's curb appeal than Xena, my warrior princess doggo. But, the feeling is still the same. I rummage loudly through the fridge. It's early, or late. I haven't slept, so I'm unsure what to call it. Whichever it is, I know my timing and volume are matched inappropriately because my boyfriend calls out to me through a sleepy fog to ask if everything is alright. A nearly incoherent worry paints his voice at first, but it quickly shifts to irritation when the obnoxious "beep" of the oven being set to 425º reveals my intentions. I've decided on a frozen pizza. The oven takes too long to preheat, so I begin snacking on handfuls of peanuts, pouring myself a glass of milk while crushing the nuts to butter between my teeth. \ I don't know how long I've been lying here in my own milk-soured vomit, but Steven is shaking me awake. He is worried. I hear repetitious beeping. I smell smoke. I smell everything. Has the oven timer always been this loud? No, that's the smoke detector. It is screaming into the thickening air in our house. Steven slaps me. He yells. Then again, harder this time. I taste blood in my mouth. Warm iron, but sweeter than I remember. My senses are screaming. The smoke. The alarm. The city lights throw pillars of illumination at one angle and noir at the other. Steven slaps me again. Softer this time. No, not slaps. Scratches? Yes. His fingernails dig into the flesh of my shoulder blades. It doesn't hurt. \ My hunger fades. I am fully satiated now. My lips and jaw and throat and chest are warm and wet. Steven moans weakly, lying limp in my arms. Blood pours steadily from two small holes in his neck. I remember now, it wasn't the vet, it was the woman from the bar. She was talking about me and my new feeding requirements. I don't even have a dog. "In that state," she said, "you will eat anything just to feel satisfied.


Roman Fuller rises from his seat and walks to the platform in the center of the hall. "My name is Roman, and I've killed 217 zombies." The figure astounds the audience; it is by far the highest reported at the support group. "The majority of the zombies were from Glendale, where I live and work. Just like the last guy, I have to complete the required therapy, participate in this support group, and I don't have to serve any time. It's been difficult; I don't think any of us expected there to be a cure for the zombie virus; I'm hoping this group can change people's perceptions of me I look forward to hearing from others, thank you," Roman says as he steps down from the platform and takes his seat in the crowd. Roman is heading to work through Glendale, a town with roughly 10,000 people, though post-zombie apocalypse, it's more like 8,000. A mother with a young child walks by, throwing Roman the middle finger. An elderly woman rolls down her window simply to shout at Roman, "I hope you get shot in the head." As Roman approaches the counter within a restaurant, the waitress throws him an evil eye and says, "Sorry, we're closed for lunch." "You're a restaurant; lunch is what you do," Roman replied. "Perhaps we're simply closed for individuals who killed my sister," says the waitress as she brings lunch to another table. Roman gets the picture and heads back to his work. As he enters the building, the receptionist greets him, "Oh great, the office jerk made it back alive. Lenny wants to see you," she says. "Thanks," Roman says as he walks through evil stares from everyone in the office. Roman knocks on Lenny's door twice; he's seated at his desk and waves him in. "Hey Roman, you know, the business has been on the mend since the end of the apocalypse," he says nervously as he continues. "I know we said everyone would get their job back, but there's only so much financial burden we can take on right now, so we're going to let you go." "You're firing me?" Roman inquired. "No, no, no, no, no, we're looking to maximize efficiency and performance; it was a tough call, we choose you by a hair," Lenny explains. "So you're terminating me based on my performance? Are you certain it isn't because I murdered your parents?" Roman inquired. "Whaaaaaat? Of course not; that's water under the bridge in my case. This is solely for performance purposes," Lenny expresses. "All right, can I at least pack my belongings?" Roman inquired. "I believe it would be best for everyone in the office if we shipped you your things. Avoid uncomfortable farewells. You know, keep in touch; why did you murder my family? Blah, blah, blah," Lenny says. "Yeah, I guess I get it," Roman admits. No matter what Roman did, he couldn't find work, the residents continued to treat him like a murderer, and he couldn't move because he was required by court order to attend the support group. Roman was resolved to make the best of the situation, attending meetings and conversing with other zombie slayers. "You kill one family's Mimi, and suddenly you're not invited to Christmas dinner," one zombie slayer grumbled. "Just because I stabbed your children through the ears doesn't mean I don't have feelings," said another zombie slayer as he sobbed from the platform. Roman had finally made it to his final required support group. He had big plans to leave Glendale and become a commercial fisherman; he would depart first thing in the morning to begin his new life. As the meeting was coming to a close, Doctor Mejia, Glendale's only doctor, comes rushing into the hall, panicked. "They've returned; they've returned! The zombies have returned and have taken over the entire town; we need your help," the doctor said while narrowly avoiding a zombie onslaught outside the door. "Nah, been there, done that, have the zombies come in, they can have some day-old coffee," a zombie slayer jokes, pointing to the dusty coffee machine on the table. "I secured the doors, but they can only hold for so long," the doctor says as he begins to push chairs and tables in front of the door. "What about the cure, the vaccine?" inquires another zombie slayer. "We've tried everything," the doctor says as he begins to move the coffee machine, napkin holder, and creamer dispenser in front of the door. "What exactly are we doing here? Glendale needs us again, and we're just going to sit back and watch everyone perish?" Roman motivates. "But look what happened last time, we became outcasts," says a zombie slayer. Roman walks onto the platform, "Did we get blamed for killing everyone's loved ones? Sure. Did they seize all of our weapons, making this fight even more difficult? Yeah, they did that. Will we be remembered for saving the town this time? Most likely not. But there are zombies outside that door, and if these support meetings have taught me anything, it's that zombie slayers kill zombies!" Roman says, determined. "Wasn't that the point of the support group?" says the support group counselor gently. Roman rushes up to the end of the hall, picks up an American flag, and snaps the wooden handle in half, creating a zombie-killing spike. "Come on, let's go slaughter some zombies!!" Roman says as he marches towards the door. Roman and the zombie slayers wiped out Glendale's zombie population. By the time they were done, there were almost no zombies left. The waitress from the cafe, dead; Roman's boss Lenny, dead; even the receptionist, dead! Hundreds upon hundreds of zombies were slaughtered by Roman and the zombie slayers. After an epic battle, Roman sits on the steps of city hall, and the doctor approaches him with a vile in his hand. "We altered the vaccine; there's a cure again!" exclaims the doctor. "Is that the cure right there?" Roman inquires. "Yes," the doctor confirms, "it's the only vaccine for miles." Roman shifts his gaze to the left and then to the right. He then stabbed the doctor in the head with the bloodied wooden spike he had obtained from the support group hall. The vile shatters into hundreds of fragments as it falls to the ground. "Oh, no, the doctor dropped the cure," Roman said to himself as he kills a zombie woman who gave him the finger as he walked down the street.


“I’m sorry M’Dear, but I can’t wear these fig leaves anymore.” Adam said to his girl. “I am getting a rash in that area. What made you think we needed to wear fig leaves?” Adam’s girlfriend Evie kind of dropped her gaze, and mindlessly counted her toes. “I don’t know...come, on. I never liked the way that orangutan stared at my private area. He had a suggestive way of licking his lips... I didn’t like it, especially after we ate that smart fruit.” Adam’s head bowed at this news. He felt a little guilty about Eve’s embarrassment, but had tried to stare when she wasn’t looking his way. I will keep my eye on him, give him a smack or two for being so obvious, he said to himself. “Is there any more of that fruit left? I just can’t get that nice taste out of my mind.” Eve looked with sad eyes over where that tree had been. There was just an ugly hole in the ground circled by loose dirt clods. The talking snake was gone too. He was such a refreshing mind here in the garden. The big guy in the sky was all cranky and bossy. The serpent had a whole new set of standards. Progressive stuff. He was teaching us to be free, adventurous. How were we to know He wanted all that fruit for himself? He only said, “Do not eat from the forbidden tree...” but he gave us no reason, just another bossy command.   Adam was depressed, seemed to have a feeling like a chunk of that apple whatever was stuck in his throat. He leaned up against a pine tree, looking this meadow over for the last time. It was so nice here, lawn that stayed the same height, trees that gently swayed in that nice warm breeze, a lot of animal types running around. He thought about his duty as an animal nomenclaturist. He told himself, surely he could have come up with better names after eating the smart fruit. How he came up with orangutan for that monkey thing, he couldn’t fathom. He had been definitely mentally limited. Rusty or Hairy would have been much more concise and descriptive. And ‘elk’. That was another one. It was a sound he made after eating a fig too fast. Elk. He did like ‘turtle’. That thing looked like it turtled along all right. Much better than Mobile Shellback. Adam continued to muse about his career cut short by a Boss that didn’t like to share. They were told to get all their things together, they were being evicted. The only thing Adam could claim was his favorite walking stick, and that fig leaf. That fig leaf I shall leave behind. “Eve, you got your stuff ready to go?” Eve was just wandering around, kicking at acorns and stuff, wiping her eyes. Adam saw that she still wore those silly fig leaves, and was getting a pink rash from them.   “Yeah, I guess. This was the nicest place we’ve ever lived...” That remark startled Adam who was remembering that it was the only place they ever lived. “Look. Let’s go stand by the gate, so He knows we’re trying to cooperate.”   So they waited there by the entrance, exit gate feeling a little impatient. Finally, a winged guy with a pencil moustache and wearing a derby dropped out of the sky. “Sorry folks. My friend Gabriel had stopped by and was telling me some new jokes. I lost track of the time. So, anyway, the Boss said you snitched some of his fruit. Sure you should have known better. There were some of his best angels told Him, 'Don't plant it in Eden if You want it to be safe.' He expected a lot out of you mental midgets...hahahahaha. He won’t even let us have any either. But, here’s the eviction paper. Do you have a pen, we need to sign here...” Adam’s eyes widened, Eve looked confused. “What is... sye ning?” he asked. “Oh, you guys didn’t do the elementary school thing yet? Sorry. Look, lick your finger, touch the ground and then press it under your name...uh, those squiggly lines say ‘Adam’. Good, Eve. Can you do that too, please. Eve frowned and stared at the angel for a second or two. “Ooohhhkay.” She licked her finger and touched the ground, then pressed it under her name.

  The angel pulled a shiny brass key out and unlocked the padlock on the gate. “Okay, get out, get out...out to the great slum of a desert. Hope you guys didn’t leave a mess for me...”   Adam and Eve looked out over this vast wasteland of wind-blown sand hills, and thought, “Where are we supposed to go?” He turned to ask the angel, but it was all gone. Eden had disappeared.   Any observer of the pair might’ve thought they were dancing, but they were turning in a circle, looking for a sensible direction. Adam stopped, leaned forward, and seemed to salute with his right hand over his eyes. “Look way over there, Eve. Are those trees? No, this way. Look ... way ... over ... there. See that, is that a tree?” Adam didn’t know, but Eve was a bit near sighted. “What? I can’t see anything. What do you see?” Adam frowned at his girlfriend. “Never mind. Just follow me.” So they trudged forward in the sandy wind. Whenever they got to the top of a sand hill, Adam saluted again, searching the horizon. After a few hours, it was getting dark. Walking in this soft sand was very tiring. They felt thirsty. Their knees ached. They had to stop to rest every so often as the sun marched across the sky. They watched the sun go dowwn behind the distant hills. The sky was going dark. Unlike the moderate temperature of Eden, it started to get cold. Adam found himself shivering, and longed for the fig leaf he left behind. In the black of the night, he snuggled up next to Eve and finally fell asleep. He found this snuggling business had other benefits.

  So, when the sun made the sky go light the next morning, he felt all smiley. Eve’s eyes fluttered open and was all smiley too. She raised her shoulder up to her cheek and looked all flirty. She kind of giggled, and put her fig leaves back on. Maybe this ain’t so bad, they both decided. There was a new feeling between this guy and his girl. They began to like each other.