OH MY GOD ITS MORNING I GET TO DO STUFF AGAIN!!! I SHOULD GO WAKE UP MY PERSON!! HE’S THE BEST CAUSE HE FEEDS ME TAKES CARE OF ME AND TAKES ME ON WALKS. SOMETIMES HE EVEN GIVES ME FOOD JUST FOR PUTTING MY BUTT ON THE FLOOR HE CALLS THIS “Sit”. Oh, I’m so sorry where are my manners, my names Daisy and I’m a poodle, I live here with my person. OH MY GOD MY PERSON I NEED TO GET HIM UP. I WANNA DO STUFF WITH HIM...I need to use one of the trees for some “doggy business too” I charge up to his bed and launch myself on it. I start to give him good morning kisses which I know is definitely his favorite way to get up and I start telling him to get up. HEY GET UP WAKE UP I MISSED YOU WHEN I WAS SLEEPING WAKE UPPP!! I should tell you a little bit about him. He’s about 400 paws tall and has grey hair, grey skin, and wears a lot of grey clothes. I guess it his favorite so its my favorite too. He starts to sit up and I’m so excited to see him but I NEED TO USE THE BATHROOM. I run out of his room and down to the door so I can go outside. I start asking him to open the door and scratch at it so that he knows which door I wanna go out of. He walks over and lets me out so naturally I bolt out the door. YAY OUTSIDE!!! I LOVE IT!! I start running around as fast as I can in a circle just to show him how fast I am. HEY LOOK HOW FAST I AM LOOK AT ME LOOK HOW FAST I AM. OH MY GOD I NEED TO USE THE BATHROOM RIGHT NOW!! I squat down and start to go to the bathroom but I was going to fast and I kinda flip over myself paws over tail. I get up and keep on going to the bathroom I look to my left and there's my person looking gray as all heck just watching me making sure I’m safe while I’m defending our property from the squirrels, chipmunks, and other animals that think they can just come here and free load off of us. After defending the perimeter and marking my territory I decided it was time to go back inside. I run up to my grey friend at the door and just start to jump up onto him so he knows how much I missed him while I was protecting us. “Daisy you want some Breakfast?” He asks and I’m just like, BREAKFAST YOU MEAN MORNING FOOD RIGHT AWWEEE HECK YEAH I’M HUNGRY. I just hope that he switches up my food one of these days I’m pretty tired of eating the same thing twice a day for the Past 63 years but I’m just happy that my person feeds me everyd-SQUIRREL!!! GET OUT OF HERE HES ON THE WINDOW LET ME GET HIM LET ME OUT I’LL GET HIM. COME ON LEMME GET HIM. OOOHH FOOD YUM. I start chowing down it's a little dry to be honest but I’ve never gone hungry so I guess I really can’t complain. I finish my breakfast and decide to post up on the couch and wait to see what’s going on today. My person sits down next to me and starts scratching behind my ears which is THE BEST. “Who’s a good girl?” He asks. I AM I AM I’M A GOOD GIRL YES I AM I’M THE GOODEST OF ALL THE GIRLS I PROMISE. “Daisy come on let’s go for a walk.” DID HE JUST SAY WALK!! I launch myself off of the couch, pull my leash off of its holder and plop my butt down right by the door. HEY HURRY UP I WANNA WALK LET’S GOOOO. He comes up shoes on and grabs my leash and hooks me up. We start strolling around the neighborhood and we’re keeping up a nice little pace I could do this for hours. I see one of the other people that live near us and I want to say hi but I don’t want to leave my person because I don’t want him getting jealous of anyon-SQUIRREL!!!! Anyone because he’s my favorite and I want to make sure that he knows. We get back to the house and we play fetch down the hill with a frisbee. It’s so much fun but I don’t always like giving it back to him but he doesn’t seem to mind. After a little bit my person is laying down in this big hammock I jump up and start to cuddle with him. He has a couple friends come over and he feeds me. We sit outside all night laying in the Hammock right next to the crackling fire and just cuddle up to one another all night. Eventually I fall asleep right next to him. He wakes me up the fire is out and his friends have all left. He picks me up and cradles me in his arms I gently give him kisses in my half asleep state. We make our way inside and he lays me down on his bed gives me a kiss and he walks into the bathroom to brush his teeth. I can feel myself starting to doze off again. All I can think about is what adventures we have instore for us tomorrow, all i know is that I can’t wait.


Walter shaved. Then he walked to his room and vacuumed the floor for a while, until it was time to leave for the doctor’s appointment. He stepped into the sunny streets, feeling that he’d been there before. He didn’t look at the people passing by and kept his head low as he walked down the street. There was a green bottle top on the ground, a curled up rubber band and a purple glue on nail. They reminded him that he had been there before. Walter was nervous about the appointment. Afraid it was going to be too intense for him. He hadn’t been outside in a while. ‘Never heard of that,’ the doctor said. ‘Well, you see, this keeps happening to me. I encounter a situation, and when it’s over, or while I’m still in it, I get this strange feeling that this exact situation has already happened before. In the exact same way,’ Walter said. ‘And I have that feeling all the time, doctor.’ ‘All the time, you say? So right now as well?’ the doctor asked. ‘Yes.’ The doctor leaned back. He gazed at the ceiling fan for a while. ‘Well, I can assure you, this is the first time we’re having this conversation.’ ‘I believe you. But it feels as if I had been here before, and the longer we sit here and the longer we talk, the more I feel that way. It’s very unpleasant. And I don’t know how to escape it.’ The doctor grabbed a pen from the table and tapped it against his finger. ‘You see that?! The way you took the pen and play with it. It’s like that was bound to happen.’ The doctor put down the pen.‘What exactly is so troubling about your condition?’ ‘Don’t you understand? Whenever I get into such a situation, it’s as if I am put there, out of nowhere. This feeling, it’s as if it’s reminding me, that no matter what I do, it has happened before in the exact same way. And look. If it is true and it has already happened, then it’s like going in circles. That’s really what it feels like. Going in circles, without progress. It’s driving me insane.’ The doctor had a puzzled look on his face. Walter was getting twitchier and twitchier. The situation had become very intense now and he felt like leaving. He shoved around in his chair, while the doctor waited and smartly gazed around the office some more. ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘I’ll prescribe diazepam for your condition. Take it once a day and you should be fine in a week or two.’ Walter left the office then. He should have known the doctor wasn’t gonna be able to do any good. He walked down the steps, deliberately deciding where to step. He skipped one step, then no step, then three, then one and then none for the rest of the rest of the staircase. But it didn’t change his feeling and no matter where he put his foot, with every step, he felt he was following a predefined path. As if he had walked down these steps just a week ago and was put here again now. So when he reached the second to last step, Walter suddenly stopped and jumped over the two steps, trying to surprise himself. He landed. Then he dashed left, clapped his hands twice and whistled, deciding it all so quickly and spontaneously, hoping to trick himself and the feeling. But it didn’t work. It never worked. As if it had always been known that he was going to jump the last two steps in that particular moment. On his way home, he stopped trying to surprise it and just ignored the feeling. He didn’t wanna make a scene. The people were giving him enough strange looks already. He avoided them and kept his head low exposing himself to as little visual input as possible. In front of his door, he closed his left eye, so he wouldn’t see the bay next to the door. Unlocked the door and went in. Inside he closed both of his eyes, which sometimes made it easier. He was mad about the doctor’s appointment. It had been too intense, like a complete reset, showing him that all the times he had thought he had tricked the feeling successfully prior to the appointment, were useless and just part of another bigger frame. Like a checkpoint he returned back to. So there was his room, the black windows shut and the tiled floor with the black and white tiles empty and clean. Just as he had left it and just like it always was. The vacuum cleaner was still plugged in next to the door frame. He looked around and felt that he’d been in this moment before. He was still following the track of the doctor’s appointment. Going in circles like a scratched record. Walter closed his eyes again and left the room keeping them closed. He had to do something. Surprise himself with something sporadic and unexpected that came from within him. Something to throw him off the track. So he decided to go outside. It was night and dark and nobody was around. He walked down the street, passing the alleys. Maybe he could climb something. A car or phone booth or something. He walked a few blocks. Then he reached an intersection. And as he crossed the street, Walter spotted three cops walking up the street his way. He walked on but turned to see where they were headed. The street was empty. But then suddenly a man fell out of the nearest doorway. Smacked right to the ground, his body completely relaxed and his pants down to his ankles. He didn’t move. The three cops rushed right over to him. And Walter snapped. What a coincidence. Oh what a fucking coincidence. He felt like puking. He stomped his foot on the ground multiple times, then ran a few steps ahead, stopped abruptly, swirled around, clicking his tongue and dropped to the ground. Trying to get away from the moment as fast as he could. He rolled sideways along the pavement, beating his fists on the ground, then quickly popped back to his feet again, shaking his left arm through the air and spinning around, continuing his spastic dance. Then he tried to calm himself down. What a ridiculous coincidence. Had he crossed the alley two seconds later, he wouldn’t have seen the man fall. He threw up once. Then he wiped his mouth and began to walk back. ‘Excuse me, sir! Are you alright?’ Walter swirled around. One of the cops had come over. His face twitched as he reached for his flashlight. ‘Sir, are you alright?’ he held the flashlight into Walter’s face. ‘You were having a seizure.’ ‘I’m fine. It wasn’t a seizure. I have a condition, it’s alright. Please leave me alone. Unexpected events trip me out like hell, as you’ve just witnessed. And this is another unexpected event to me.’ ‘Are you intoxicated, sir?’‘No sir. Like I said, I have a condition. It’s psychological.’ ‘What kind of condition?’ ‘Well, I always have the feeling that everything that’s happening to me has happened before. Like Déjà vu.’ ‘Hm. Well, this hasn’t happened before,’ the wiseass cop said, totally missing the fucking point. ‘Yo Rick,’ one of the other cops called then, ‘quit talking to the alien, and lend us a fucking hand here!’ ‘Watch out, yeah!’ Rick said to Walter and lowered the flashlight. Of course it hasn’t happened before. That was the point. It didn’t matter what was happening. He felt this way no matter what happened. And if he had stepped into the alley two seconds later he would’ve seen the man with his smacked head lying on the ground, and it would have freaked him out just the same. Turned inside out Walter walked home. Back in his room he was exhausted. The tube lights were on and the vacuum cleaner was still plugged in. He started it and began to vacuum the room. He started in the right corner of the room and went up the tiles towards the black windows. Then he turned and went down the next row. Keeping his gaze on the tiles. He breathed calmly and tried to think of nothing. He cleaned the entire room. Then he pushed the vacuum cleaner to the right corner again and started over. In the morning he woke up, lying on his back. He folded the blanket back to a perfect rectangle next to him, swung his legs off the edge of the bed and walked to the bathroom. His left foot stepping on the white tiles, his right one on the black ones. He was already naked. He stepped in the shower. It was a floor level shower. There was no shower curtain, no mirror, and nothing that could move. His razor was lying in its spot next to the drain, where it always was, aligned with a tile. Walter sat down on the tiles. His back and ass feeling the cold stone. Then he picked up the razor and began to shave his legs. From the bottom up. Ankle to knee. He knew where to start and stop each line. The hairs weren’t long at all. Hardly visible, black dots. But he still shaved every inch of his legs. Then his crotch. One slice across the ass, then his upper body, then the lower and upper back. He was getting cold now, but didn’t mind. He shaved his arms and his already bald head. And at last his face. Chin and cheeks and his eyebrows. Not cutting himself once. He placed the razor back where it belonged, stood up straight against the wall, closed his eyes and turned on the water. Washing away the hair dust. The tube lights in his room were on. Walter turned on the vacuum cleaner and began vacuuming the tiles. He started in the right corner and went up alongside the wall towards the two black windows. He vacuumed the whole room like that. Up and down the rows of tiles. The windows where taped shut with black cardboard, so no light came through. Because otherwise the light would be different on a sunny or rainy day, or at night. That’s why he had taped them shut. The light always had to be the same. No surprises. He vacuumed, tile after tile, like he always did. He finished, went to the starting square and started over. Keeping his stare on the next tile, trying to get it right. It didn’t make the feeling go away. But this way at least it made sense, because he really had been there before, in the exact same moment. Thousands and thousands of times. After another round Walter got hungry. He turned off the vacuum cleaner, left it plugged in and went to the kitchen cupboard. With his eyes closed he reached in and got a can of baked beans. He got baked beans delivered to his room once a week. They were dropped off in the bay next to his door. Usually Tuesdays. But he never dared to get them before Thursday, as he feared they might not be there and that would be unexpected. He didn’t heat the beans. He ate them with his eyes closed and immediately washed the spoon and put it back in the drawer. Blind. He only had one spoon. Then he returned to vacuuming his room until he got hungry again or tired. The next morning he woke up, folded the blanket to the side and went in the shower. He shaved his entire body like he always did. Not cutting himself once. Then he went on to vacuuming his room. Sometimes he felt like he was going too fast or too slow. And sometimes a wheel of the vacuum cleaner got caught in a groove or the cord. But he just continued up and down the tiles. Trying to get it right. He knew this way, it was all going to be over soon.


*This story contains themes of sexual/physical violence, mental health, and other traumas. Please be advised before reading.* *Also please excuse any formatting errors, for whatever reason this site never keeps my indents in place when I paste over the story* Anti remembers falling out of her bed, her face caked with blood.     She remembers crawling to the kitchen, pulling herself along the tile floor.

    Anti remembers closing barriers around the memory of her trauma.

    She remembers forcing it out of her brain and down her neck.

   She remembers the feeling as it traveled from her shoulder, down her arm, and into     her hand.     She remembers passing the memory into the butter knife held firmly in her hand.     Then she remembers relief.

   The knife has lost its stainless-steel shine in the years since it was impregnated with experience. But even without a metallic glare, Anti can always feel it. The closer she is to it, the sharper the pain. She normally keeps it in a lock box. But not today. Today she needs it.    She wakes from a dreamless sleep and rolls out of bed in a fluid motion. She dresses plainly and ties her curly locks in a high bun. The scar under the curve of her right eye catches her attention. The tug of the knife on her nightstand grows stronger. A smear of foundation hides the scar. The handkerchief that she wraps the knife in lies next to it in a crumpled ball. She reaches for it clumsily and accidentally touches the blade’s hilt.    The memory strikes her like a bullet. All at once she is overcome with trauma as if every moment of it were happening at once. It lasts hours and seconds. She jerks her finger away from it like a child from a hot stove. She hasn’t been so absentminded as to touch the knife in months. Perhaps the significance of the day is getting to her. Because today she excises her trauma for good.

The streets of Brooklyn are quieter than normal. Or maybe the sound isn’t registering in Anti’s ears. She walks mindlessly down the streets, working toward her destination on instinct alone. Every person she nears is given an uncomfortable amount of space. The wrapped knife is safely in her hand, where it won’t inadvertently hurt someone. Her sleeve has slipped down over it, to hide the blade from passersby. She spent the last several years trying to stop herself from feeling crazy, but today she can’t help it. Eyes follow her down the street and she can’t help but speed up as they do. The world is cruel to people who’ve been through what she has. Reality seems to bend itself out of shape to throw her trauma back in her face.

Her feet stop in front of a dusty, stone stoop. A steep set of stairs lead to a large wooden door scarred with the markings of children. Vines climb the red brick walls and cover now useless windows. A teapot-shaped elderly woman is crouched at the top of the steps with her hands resting on the head of a ceramic dog statue. Her eyes are closed but a smile bends the corners of her lips upwards.

“Hi Grandma Nellie,” says Anti, the fog finally lifted from her mind. Nellie’s eyes snap open at the sound of her granddaughter’s voice. She waddles down the steps as fast as she can, her hips made heavy by a long life. Anti meets her halfway and embraces her in a warm hug. “Antimony, my beautiful girl!” says Nellie. “It’s so good to see you!”

“When were you?” Anti asks, gesturing towards the statue. “I was visiting your grandfather on the day we brought home Buster. You remember Buster, don’t you?” “Of course.” Nellie’s smile widens as her granddaughter reminisces. She turns towards the door and beckons Anti to follow.

“I have his collar inside, you should visit. I love that memory.” Nellie lives in a large house that feels intensely small. Boxes of clutter line the walls. Stacks of old newspapers cover the couch. Every space is littered with knick-knacks, old silverware, clothes, and other pieces of junk. The objects themselves are useless to Nellie, but she can’t live without what’s stored inside them. As soon as she passes through the door, Anti’s senses are overwhelmed by memories. Her grandmother’s home is more like an outdoor farmer’s market on a busy Saturday than it is a quiet place of living. She can smell Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Sunday dinners coming from a tower of plates in the kitchen sink. Old conversations echo from a line of empty picture frames on the mantle. She can even feel the warmth of the hearth when she’s near the fireplace, even though it hasn’t been lit in years. Nellie’s home has become a museum of memories and Anti understands why. It’s hard to feel alone in a house full of ghosts.

The only open seating found in the entire house sits at the center of Nellie’s small kitchen. A waist-level circular table is surrounded by two chairs with worn seat cushions. When Anti returns to her grandma’s side, she is digging through a box of old dog toys and leashes on the table. Nellie rummages through the box slowly, holding each item before putting it to the side. Looking up at her grandmother’s face, Anti realizes that her eyes are closed. For the stout elderly woman, it is easier to search for a memory, than for an object. Nellie’s eyes open as her fingers wrap around a stretch-marked collar of blue leather. She pulls it from the box and holds it out to Anti.

“Here. Take this, sweetheart,” she says softly. As soon as Anti’s hands touch the collar, she becomes enveloped in the memory. The summer breeze of a home without air conditioning hits her first. She’s on her knees. No, this is Nellie’s memory so she’s just several inches shorter. She sees the cobalt blue walls of her grandmother’s kitchen. The murmur of television hums behind her. In it, she can recognize John Madden’s iconic voice. It’s Sunday. Her grandfather is watching football.

The flow of memory pulls her down. Her field of view shifts to the ground where Buster is laying on his stomach. Her arms extend towards him. Her fingers sink into his fur, a thick clump between each of her digits. It’s been so long since she’s petted a dog. Why has it been so long? Why…? Why is her stomach sinking?

Where is this fear coming from?

No, not fear. Terror. Darkness settles into the scene like a fog. Anti can feel that she’s crouched over Buster, but now the sensation of lying on her back is taking over. And there’s weight. So much weight. She’s suffocating. There’s a hand around her throat. Buster bleeds away and now Anti’s fingers are digging into the skin of a man. A man on top of her. She’s in her freshman-year dorm room. She was just in the kitchen. How did she get here? There’s blood flowing from a cut under her eye. Her vision is going red. He’s on top of her again. How did this happen? He’s pressing down now with everything he has. He’s going to kill her. He’s… Anti collapses as she’s snapped out of the memory. For a few harrowing moments, the afterimages of her trauma hover over her vision. She’s back in the kitchen. But not in the blue one, the cluttered one. Her head is on Nellie’s lap. The collar is on the floor and so is the knife.

“A memory that strong will overpower any other, even if you’re not touching it. How long have been carrying that thing around for?” Nellie asks sternly. Anti doesn’t answer. Her recovering mind cannot produce words right now. “Can you speak, honey?” Nellie asks. “Y…Yes,” Anti stammers. “I’ve heard of people losing themselves to memories like that. Becoming slaves to their own pain. But not you. Not my Antimony.” “I’m not strong. That thing terrifies me,” Anti says. “Who told you that strength was the lack of fear? The strongest people I’ve known were terrified during the most important moments of their life. Fear is what pushes us to be strong.” “I wasn’t even thinking when I made it,” Anti says looking at the knife. “I just wanted the pain to be gone. I didn’t want it in me, so I put it there. I just want it to be gone. It’s too much. I want to…” Anti cuts herself off, ashamed of her intentions. “You want to give it back to him, don’t you?” Nellie asks. “I heard he was getting out tomorrow. I knew they wouldn’t keep a pretty boy like him in jail for long. And I knew that the day he got out, you would need me.” “He deserves it. He deserves to feel everything I felt. Not to become a better person. Not so he can get forgiveness. Just so he can hurt. Just so he can hurt like I did. Like I do,” Anti cries. “I know. I know.” “No, you don’t know. No one knows. You can’t. Not unless you touch that thing. And I won’t let you. I won’t let anyone. Only him. He’s gonna feel it deep in his gut after I stab him with it. It’s only fair! He’s gonna ask me why and I’m not gonna give him the satisfaction of a reason. He should know. Everyone should know. I shouldn’t have to justify it! I shouldn’t have to think about it!” The rant consumes the rest of Anti’s energy. Nellie holds her tightly, her hand rubbing the base of Anti’s neck. She wants to be strong for her granddaughter, but there is no helping the tears that begin flowing down her wrinkled cheeks. For the first time in a long time, she is completely present.

Nellie moves the newspapers from the couch to the bathroom so Anti has somewhere comfortable to sit. She is wrapped in the only blanket not laden with memory. A washcloth soaked with warm water lies across the back of her neck. The rhythm of her breathing is still ragged, but it has slowed. Nellie returns to the room with a cup of tea. White tea, Anti’s favorite from childhood. “Do you like it?” Nellie asks. Anti nods still enamored in nostalgia. “I haven’t made it in so long, I was worried it wouldn’t be as good.” “It’s perfect, Grandma. Thank you,” Anti responds between sips.

   Nellie leaves the room and returns with an object wrapped in thick layers of dinner napkins. Anti’s heart accelerates at its presence. Nellie holds it in her hands like the leash of a wild dog. She’s not going to let it hurt anyone.    “This memory is strong. Stronger than anything I’ve ever seen. It still holds all the emotion from the actual event, so if you do what you want to…He’ll feel everything.”     Anti is relieved at these words. She doesn’t want to give the man who assaulted her anything less than what he gave her. If the memory wasn’t whole, she’d just be stabbing him.    “Good,” she replies.     Nellie shakes her head, pulling the knife closer.    “Don’t do it,” Nellie says.  “Why shouldn’t I?” Anti asks, getting to her feet.

    “This memory is still whole,” she says. “It’s still yours. You’ll be giving it to him. Don’t give him any more of you than he already has.”     “Then what the hell am I supposed to do with that thing,” Anti yells, pointing at the bundle of napkins.     “Take the memory back from it. While it’s still whole. While it’s still yours. Make it just a knife again.”      Anti is taken aback. Does Nellie know what that would feel like? What that would do to her?     “Are you kidding me? Why would you want me to go through that?”    “It’s the only way to process it. To deal with it and move on.”    “No! It’s my knife. It’s my memory and I’m going to do what I want with it!” Anti steps up to Nellie and puts her hands on the bundle. She pulls it from her grandmother’s hands. Anger and fear paint her face as she makes her way to the door.

    “I’m sorry. I’ve waited too long for this. I’m not giving it up now.”     “I’m sorry too. Be careful.”      Anti walks out the door toward a choice that will define her life. Nellie falls into a couch she hasn’t sat on in three years. She picks up Anti’s teacup, still warm and steaming. She can feel the memory of their fight slipping out of her mind, but she fights back against it. This one will be hers.

     Anti pulls into the prison’s parking lot and parks facing the gate. Beside her, in the passenger seat, is a large, leather purse. Inside the purse is a bundle of napkins wrapping the knife. The chain-link gate is one hundred yards from the lot where Anti’s car is parked. Her eyes are locked on it, waiting for any signs of life. He should be coming soon. Her concentration is broken by the soft chiming of her phone. It’s Nellie. The ringtone is her favorite song.

“You are my sunshine My only sunshine You make me happy When skies are gray” She peers down at the screen and winces at the image pixelated onto it. It’s Nellie, holding her as a baby. Anti’s puffy arms reach up towards her grandma’s nose and Nellie smiles down at her. Her hair was only just starting to gray. She was still hiding her wrinkles under makeup. Anti wonders where her grandma has this memory stored. The faintest hint of that day is nestled at the back of her mind. It’s mostly bright sunlight, the feeling of being held, and the smell of Nellie’s perfume. She can’t tell if any of it is real, but even though she knows it may not be, it’s still the most treasured memory she has. “You’ll never know dear. How much I love you Please don’t take My sunshine away.”     The phone goes black, and Anti is met with her own reflection. She can see some of Nellie’s features on her own face. Her nose. Her eyebrows. Her lips. But her eyes… Her eyes are cold, whereas Nellie’s are warm. Her eyes take in light and give none back to the world. There is something missing. A piece of her cut away. A loud ringing sound pulls Anti’s eyes from the phone. It’s the sound of the front gate opening. The rattle of the chain link fence shakes her soul, but Anti gathers the courage to get out of the car. In the distance she sees someone walking towards a yellow taxi. He’s in plain blue jeans and a gray shirt. He’s lost weight and his hair has begun to thin, but the tinge of the knife’s metal in her mouth confirms it. It’s him.

Their eyes lock, only momentarily. He only looks up at her for half a second. There is no recognition in his eyes. She is nothing to him.

“Ma’am, are you waiting for someone?” Asks one of the guards. Anti doesn’t answer. She just turns around and walks back to her car. Reality feels different now. Like she’s been raised to a higher altitude. Anti wants to start the car and drive back home, but she knows that she can’t. She can’t go back home until this is finished. Her hand plunges into the purse and pulls out the bundle. She can already feel the weight of its contents pulling her down. She unwraps the handle of the knife and stares at her reflection on its stained metal surface.

She takes a deep breath and wraps her fingers around the hilt. The memory attacks her senses and takes control. But Anti doesn’t fight it this time. She meets her trauma with purpose. It tries to rip her apart but she pulls it into herself. A scream bursts from her throat as the scene starts to overwhelm her. Part of her wants to back out. Part of her wants to let go. But it’s either this or die, so she plugs forward.

Finally, she cannot ignore it anymore. She looks up at the man who doesn’t even remember her face. For the first time, she realizes that he couldn’t even look at her while he raped her. She grabs his face with the points of her nails and forces his gaze down. There is nothing in it but puny fear. He is nothing but she will take him. She will take all of him, but he will get none of her.

Anti pulls him into her. She pulls all of it into her. A slight prick of electricity travels from the knife to her hand. It travels up her arm and as it does the landscape begins to crumble. It reaches her shoulder, and his face implodes in on itself. It moves up her neck, into her head, and the memory blisters. Everything begins to settle. The bed becomes her driver’s seat. Sweat and brass become the smell of a faded air freshener. Heavy breathing becomes a light breeze. She’s back in her car and she’s holding a knife. Just a knife. She’s shaking and crying. The pain is not gone. Anti is not okay, but she is whole. Everything that is meant to be hers, is hers only.


Court Wizard Malagus the Fourth stood proudly before King Richard and the court. Behind him, the common rabble sat, amazed at the might of the wizard as he offered a curse worthy of the treason of the man kneeling before them. “You will never endanger this kingdom again, Margon the Black!” King Richard said and turned to Malagus. “And my court wizard will ensure it. Tell us, mighty Malagus, of the punishment you shall inflict upon this traitor.” “Yes, my King! I shall inflict the curse of eternal suffering upon him, a curse so terrible that it is only spoken of in whispers by most. But not by me, of course.” Malagus paused, waiting for cheering. There wasn’t. In fact, everyone looked… a little confused. Finally, King Richard coughed once and then spoke, “Yes, and what will this curse do?” “Why inflict eternal suffering upon this dog, great King! And then we shall place him in a coffin forged from iron, his body cast into it while the metal is still red hot! That shall be placed into an obsidian sarcophagus, and then molten lead shall be poured into the cavity to make it impossible to get to the coffin. And then a great temple complex shall be constructed around the sarcophagus, guarded by traps both mundane and magical!” “Errr…” King Richard stared at Malagus. “That is… rather more expensive than I thought. Wouldn’t it be better to just give him a small grave, perhaps let the family put flowers on it—“ “Oh no, my King! For should he ever be released, the curse of eternal suffering would then let him become an abomination, a being of pure hatred, a being capable of—“ “Getting vengeance!” Margon shouted. “Upon your children and their children!” “Hah!” Malagus laughed. “The crypt and the traps and the immortal guards that I will summon to defend it will ensure that you never—” There was a cough, and Malagus turned, getting ready to punish whatever *peasant* interrupted his speech. And the man who had coughed was a peasant. He was wearing stained and worn clothes, no doubt someone who had come to beg the court for mercy in some affair. “WHAT!” Malagus snarled. “Um, begging the court wizard’s pardon, but Your Majesty, if you think this is too expensive, I can help you.” “How, my good man?” King Richard asked. “I’m a logger, so I’ll whack his head off for a gold piece. Ain’t never seen anyone come back from that.” Malagus laughed. “Who do you think King Richard would trust? My sorcery or your ax!” He glanced up at the King. “Shall I have the laborers start on the crypt? It should only take a few months—well, building the physical structure at least, then come the traps and the magic…” King Richard stared at him. Looked back to the peasant, rubbed his chin... Then made his decision. \*\*\*\* “And they’re calling him a *headsman* now!” The former court wizard slurred out to his listener. “And the other kingdoms are also hiring them. I mean, nobody asks for a curse of disembowelment or a crown of eternal suffering anymore! They just get one of these, these, *peasants*, and whack, off goes the head!” “That’s rough, buddy,” the bartender said. “But… if you don’t have a job anymore, I’m gonna have to ask for some coins up front.” Malagus the Fourth, *former* court wizard, groaned and let his head hit the counter.


It was a night just like every night in Lothny Creek. As the sun slowly but surely lost its battle with night over the farmer's fields with swaying crops, the vibrant town was swallowed into deep darkness. The moon shed light over the beautiful town. But just because it was dark did not mean there was nothing happening, the radio in the bedroom of Jim and Jill, 5th graders at the local school, played the stations jingle. The tacky brown and cream pattern on their walls felt inviting and homely to them, warming their spirits as they talked about supposed quiz the following day. The cashier at the local Store was just picking up her hoody and locking the dated-looking rusty doors while she pondered the meaning behind the glowing blue and red curved company logo, she decided she would ask her boss at some point. The janitor for the school slowly cleaned round the final messy classroom for the day, relieved he would soon be able to spend some well deserved time with his young grandchildren after he retired. He thought for a while and realized his grandkids might also turn out to be little monsters, like the kids at the school, this worried him for a small second before he got back to cleaning. A rebellious teen prepared to run away from his home as he packed his bags and thought about how his parents didn’t understand him. He was excited to be able to have a sense of freedom, even if people did miss him. He packed a half blue and half green t-shirt with some writing in the center as he thought over his plan. The crops continued to blow in the wind under the moonlight but the silence had increased and started move and flow, the silence soared over the town and penetrated the buildings. In Jim and Jill’s room, their radio had stopped functioning normally and produced no sound, but in fact, there was nobody around to notice it because Jim and Jill’s bed had clothes in it and a crumpled duvet, but no children. The brown and cream walls suddenly looked more intimidating. The local store’s lights stayed on with a key sticking out of one of the dated looking, rusty doors and the logo of the store glowing blue and red into the darkness outside. On the ground, there was a hoody beside a pile of clothes. In the school, there was a bottle of wood cleaner lying directly on top of a student's desk and a moving storage tray rack filled with rubbish blocked the entrance. In one house there was a suitcase filled with clothes, a blue and green t-shirt left hanging out of the case, looking forgotten. Authorities still don’t know what happened, nor will anyone because the government decided to keep the incident out of the public eye to avoid more criticism. Nobody will ever fully understand or comprehend the great disappearance of Lothny Creek.


I was startled by the zip on my tent opening..After living in alley ways filled with rats, and a certain group of people less civil then the critters themselves, ive grown accustomed to being woken up randomly. But this was different, I awoke with a strange feeling that whoever was outside my half tin half tent abode, did not want to simply ask for a cigarette or spare change. "Whos out there" I said feeling around for my camplight. "My name isnt improtant, come with me now and your life will never be the same". Said the voice outside my tent, with a sense of urgency probably due to the fact that it was pouring with rain. I paused for a second realizing the chances of my life becoming worse at this point in time were near on impossible. "Let me get my coat".


‘Frank Courtney; new resident in bed 12. Male, 81, major stroke with right-sided weakness, speech affected, discharged from hospital this morning. ’ ‘Family?’ ‘Widowed. A daughter, as far as I know. I don’t think they’re close. He was a clever bloke by the sounds of it; scientist for the government, apparently.’ The two nurses popped their heads round the door, saw that the old man appeared to be asleep and moved on to complete their handover. The old man opened one eye. Glanced around. Settled back into the pillows. ‘ Was. Hrmmph . ’ The care home would take in those who were struggling to cope in their own homes, and it would also take patients who were ready to be discharged from hospital, but weren’t able to go back home. And that’s why Frank was here. Not that he had any choice, not that he had any say, not that he could have said anything anyway. Frank was stuck. Four weeks ago, Frank had had a stroke; he woke up one day in a hospital ward wondering how he’d got there. He remembered that he’d been heading to Wiltshire to meet someone, but he couldn’t remember who or why. And now he couldn’t even ask anyone because his face didn’t work. It’s not that he didn’t know what to say. All the words were there. It’s just that he had a loose connection. He’d pulled a few faces when some young girl came in to give him a shave. He could nod, shake his head, raise an eyebrow and blink, and give a shaky half smile - not that he’d much to smile about. Other than that, speech was just frustrating. He’d pretty much given up. It was so awful, he couldn’t ever imagine it getting back to anything like worthwhile. Just twisted grunts, like the most garbled railway announcement you’d ever heard. What would be the point anyway? There was no one to talk to. The nurses and carers flitted in, did stuff to him, and flitted out to do something else to someone else. No one had time to talk. Certainly no one had time to paste a patient look on their face while they waited for him to utter something they might be able to figure out the meaning of. Not that there was probably anyone on his wavelength here anyway. They probably thought ‘erudite’ was some sort of glue. He lay back and waited for the next thing to happen. Drug round. Tea round. Supper round. Toilet round. Comes to something when your bodily functions have to happen on schedule or not at all… * * * ‘Frank?’ The chubby dark-haired nurse called in that loud and low voice they use when they know something more shrill will interfere with people’s hearing aids. Frank irritably opened his eyes as you do when you’re not asleep, not deaf, and not stupid either. ‘Oh good, you’re awake,’ she grinned. ‘Would you like to see who’s come to visit you?’ Times like this were when Frank regretted his speech loss the most. Times which were crying out for a retort, sharp and stinging as a paper cut. But no, he was forced to arrange his face in a ‘I have no idea, do please tell’ kind of expression, because that was one of the few that he could still do. Before the nurse could offer any further inanity, the door opened wider, and something tumbled into the room. He couldn’t see what it was because his bedrails were in the way, but then his daughter came in muttering her thanks to the nurse and clumsily pushing in with a bundle of carrier bags bursting with who knows what. Junk, probably. ‘Dad,’ she said. Making sure to give him a businesslike peck on the side of his face that still worked properly, and then lifting up Frank’s granddaughter and dumping her onto the end of the bed, as it was tiny girl who had made the clumsy entrance. Frank looked from granddaughter to daughter. ‘I’m sorry Dad, she wanted to come, and there was no one I could leave her with anyway. She’ll be fine, she’s got a couple of toys, and she just wanted to see what it was like here.’ Martha pulled out a couple of stuffed animals from one of the bags and planted them on the bed next to the little girl who immediately began talking to them as though they’d had a stressful journey. Chloe was an unexpected child. There was quite an age gap between her older twin brothers and her - but also, no one expects Down syndrome, do they? Frank hadn’t had much to do with Martha’s boys, and even less to do with the girl, living so far away etcetera, but it’s difficult knowing what to say in that kind of situation, isn’t it? Avoidance was always easier. And of course now, it wasn’t an option anyway. Frank shrugged at his daughter and glanced at all the bags she’d dragged in. ‘I brought you a few things from home to brighten up your room.’ Frank nodded acknowledgment. ‘Now you’re living so close by it’ll be much easier to pop in. But before I go back up north to check on your house, you’ll have to let me know what you want to keep and what can be cleared if…’ she paused, ‘well, I suppose we‘ll just have to work it out between us.’ She fumbled around in the bags, pulled out a few old framed photographs he’d kept of his wife and daughter on his desk. ‘Probably best if we hang these on the wall to save space,’ she said, casting around for the best bit of wall. They said it’s OK if we let them know where we want stuff, and they’ll hang them for us.’ Frank rolled the eye that rolled the best. ‘I’m doing my best, Dad. I’m really trying., Martha’s voice shook a little. ‘I knew you’d hate it anywhere, so I just picked the home that was nearest and didn’t smell of wee.’ He snorted. Martha had always been refreshingly honest. ‘Is that you laughing?’ Frank let out a wheezy gurgle. ‘OK, that’s better. We can agree on that then.’ She paused as the door opened again, and a care assistant popped in offering tea, coffee, and the usual biscuits you get in a family pack. ‘No jammie dodgers left, sorry,’ he said, ‘If they open a box overnight, the night staff always nick the best ones.’ ‘Thanks for the tip,’ said Martha. ‘I wouldn’t mind, only we always get left with the rubbish coconut ones,’ he shrugged, handed a small beaker of orange squash to Martha for Chloe who was still absorbed with her toys, and pushed the trolley back out of the room. ‘Well, you’ll be able to do plenty of people-watching at least,’ said Martha as she gently handed a plastic cup with a spout filled with lukewarm tea to her father. ‘Looks like it’s more milk than tea; Mum’d have a fit. I don’t think they have skimmed here.’ Conversation flagged as the adults sipped their tea, and Chloe offered her squash to her toys. When they didn’t appear thirsty, she gulped it down herself and went back to playing with her toys, making a little den for them with the bottom end of Frank’s duvet. ‘There’s some post,’ said Martha, reaching for another of the bags. ‘Perhaps I could open it for you, and then you can read through, you know, sort it and let me know if there’s anything you want me to do with it. There’s this one as well; I thought it might be important,’ she placed a small envelope with a hand-inked address on it on top of the pile. ‘I don’t recognise the writing.’ She laid the letters to one side of his bedside table so he could go through them after his supper. Frank nodded thanks. He smiled and touched her hand. The movement made Martha jump, but she squeezed the offered hand, and blinked away tears. She couldn’t remember a time when she’s felt closer to her hard-working, secretive father. The hand squeeze turned into a hug. So sad that after all her father worked for, all he achieved, this would be how it would end. She released him, and quickly sniffed and wiped her nose; Chloe noticed, her lip started to tremble and she took big gulps of air in preparation for what Martha recognised as likely to be loud bawling. ‘We’re going to go, Dad. Chloe’s tired. I’ll come back tomorrow evening. Try to rest. ' Another kiss and she bustled away with her daughter. * * * Over the next few days, Frank familiarised himself with the rhythms of the home, although his bowels refuse going to the loo on demand… The pile of post thins as he sat in his comfy chair, and first picking out the easy envelopes to bin without opening. Circulars, prospecting letters from people who sell conservatories, ‘free’ credit cards, charity newsletters. Then he put aside the bills for Martha to help with, magazine subscriptions to cancel, and condolence letters for her to help respond to. The small handwritten envelope remained until last. Then he eyed it as he sipped his lukewarm tea. Salisbury postmark. How funny, there was a slight smudge in the top corner, making it look like the postmark was dated 1951. Finally, he swept it into the bin at the side of his chair with his forearm. Done. One of the carers took him down to the ground floor library. He struggled to concentrate because of the stroke, and anyway, there wasn’t much he was interested in reading - the books were mostly murder mysteries which he found depressing; the main characters surrounded by so much death book after book - and the books themselves had probably been ‘donated’ by those who’d died too. Funny when you thought of it. A couple of the residents had died. No one mentioned it, but he noticed that he was now being washed and dressed about 20 minutes earlier in the mornings, and going to bed 15 minutes earlier too. There were a couple of empty chairs in the dining room, but he couldn’t quite remember the faces of those who were missing. The chairs would of course soon be filled with new people. Life goes on. Until it doesn’t. Martha brought Chloe again one afternoon. So awkward. Chloe went with him to watch him have his hair cut in the salon. She sat next to him swinging her short legs from the big chair and giggled at him in the mirror. He raised an eyebrow and it made her laugh harder. She pulled a face back, and he wiggled his ears. She roared with laughter. They headed back to his room. Chloe played with her stuffed animals as Martha told him family news and he nodded, shrugged or scowled in response. One day Martha brought more post, and Chloe brought crayons and a colouring book. Once Martha was clearing away the completed post and waste paper, Chloe plopped the colouring book onto his chair table and offered him the crayons. He reluctantly took a purple one. She, an orange one. Together they coloured, two heads bent over a picture of something - he wasn’t sure what it was; it was upside down for him. Quietly they worked, progress was slow, and neither was proficient at keeping within the lines, but Chloe didn’t mind. ‘Look, mum!’ she shouted as she proudly held up a seaside scene of crabs, starfish and a sandcastle coloured purple (so that’s what it was…) The colouring became a habit; on Mondays and Thursdays, Chloe would spend the afternoon colouring with him. He was bemused to notice that they were both starting to look forward to her visits, and he learned not to mind the scrappy outlines or the strange colours used. * * * ‘Frank?’ the day nurse popped her head around the door. ‘There’s a visitor for you. Dr Penrose? Would you like to see him in your room or in the day room?’ Dear, oh dear. Penrose. A long time, and he’d come after all.

Frank had a minute before his visitor arrived. He glanced around, seeing his room in the eyes of an old friend and colleague. Now an ex-friend and ex-colleague. Tidy. Beige. Uninspiring. Just like Penrose, in fact. To Frank’s shock, Penrose didn’t look a day older than when Frank had been forced to clear his desk. Not a day. ‘Caught you at last,’ a tweedy and slightly beaky chap said as he entered, holding out his hand. Glancing at Frank’s limp right hand, he swiftly swapped to his left without a word. They shook, Frank looking warily at him. ‘It’s been a long time, Frank. And not for want of trying either - I’ve written, called, I hoped you’d consider a proposal. As it is, I now realise, you’ve, ah, had a bit of a change in circumstances.’ Frank nodded. Penrose didn’t look a day over what? 36? How was that possible? ‘So, I thought perhaps my proposal might be thoughtfully considered after all.’ Penrose pulled a chair up opposite Frank, sat and placed his briefcase next to his feet. Frank looked at him stonily. ‘The project was successful. It works - and not least down to that, ah, unorthodox thing you tried…’ ‘…t hat got me fired, ’ finished Frank, in his brain. ‘You were right after all. It is possible to go back as well as forwards. Jenkins did it. Went all the way back to Waterloo, had a look around, and back to 1951 in time for tea. Government’s keeping it under wraps though, can’t let just anyone muddle around in the future or history willy-nilly . There’s a bit more to be done though, and that’s where you come in.’ He shuffled his chair forward, resting his elbows on Frank’s chair-table. ‘We want to refine it a bit, more time accuracy, and hopefully, reduce the fatigue and after effects for participants.’ He spoke quickly. Frank’s eyes widened with possibilities. ‘Hmm, thought you’d be interested,’ Penrose’s beady eyes glinted. We can do it this Friday. Pop you down to Wiltshire, and it’s back to 1951, you continue your masterwork finish what you started, and escape all this - you get to be young again. How about it?’ Penrose looked at him keenly. Frank raised an eyebrow and took a deep breath. I mean, it would would solve everything, wouldn’t it? He’d get to prove he was right all along, work on the project that had been his passion; and he’d had so many ideas over the last decades, in idle moments imagining how he could make changes, making fresh calculations and forming new hypotheses on top of old, discarded ones. Streamlining the process, improving reliability, accuracy…’ He closed his eyes and leant back in his chair. This was unexpected - and irresistible; this chance of validation, vindication even, the opportunity to test things, the scientific process… To exchange this for all that. He opened his eyes and looked squarely at the confidently expectant Penrose.

‘No.’ ‘What?’ Penrose leant back in surprise. ‘But it’s your life’s work.’ Frank shook his head. No. It isn’t.


I’m a liar. I’m really good at lying. I never understood why I feel the need to constantly tell stories, but it has become something of habit. I want to say that it is my general insecurity about my weight, and my poor personal choices, but I know that there has to be more to it than that. I’ve let so many people down, and it’s a shame really. I’ve missed out on some serious friendships because of the way I am. I’m a handful, and I know that. I sincerely wish I could just be myself, but I’m ashamed of who I am. I’ve been lying for as long as I can remember. I used to tell kids in middle school that I was actually a ninja, or a wizard, or a vampire— whatever was trendy at the time. But I wouldn’t just say it once and move on, oh no, I would push it and elaborate into the story until it was like a wild fire blowing through a forest. Thing is, once it got to that point, there was no way for me to stop it, and it would burn out of control until it fizzled out into smoke. Smoke, just like the stories I was sharing. I make myself sick sometimes thinking about the things that I say and why I say them. It’s maddening. I thought that before it was to impress people, and while, sure that is a reason some of the times now I can’t help but think it is more or less just a part of who I am now. I lie about everything. There isn’t a story i’ve shared that I haven’t embellished even a little for no reason. I’m a sucker for the reactions, and the attention, i’ll admit. One of the worst things though, is how my lying has gotten me in trouble, and I don’t seem to learn. I believe this is the reason behind my severe anxiety. I feel guilty all of the time! I am always looking over my shoulder and pretending that everything is okay but deep down I know I am doing something that is not okay. How do I fix this? What can I do to change? It seems like any time I try to improve and do better I fall back like an old dog doing the same tricks. I feel like this is something that, if I don’t get past, will hinder me for the rest of my life. It scares me how much I buy into my own bullshit, and I want nothing more than to be free from this. I have people who love and care about me and don’t even know the real me because of how masqueraded i’ve let myself become in my lies. It’s maddening. I feel like I have become a monster, uncontrollable. Vile, and self-loathing because I have built up such a facade. I lead two lives, and sometimes I wonder which one is really in control. There is so much people don’t know about me, that I don’t know about myself. It’s terrifying. I look in the mirror and I can see it, and I wonder if anyone else can. So many people believe that I am truly a decent person and it’s hard for me to swallow. I don’t feel that way, I feel toxic. I am a venom, venom that sneaks its way into your drink and burns you from the inside out. I will watch you let your guard down for me, and rely on me while I keep myself jaded. I will watch you believe in me, trust me, love me — all the while filling your heads with myths. I will convince you that you love this false me, knowing full well I can’t deliver what i’ve sold you. Then, when I have gotten you in your most fragile state, I will strike — like a python and blindside you. Leaving you in shock, confused, and hurt. I will cut and run, and I won’t think twice about it. I know I do this because i’ve done this so many times. Poor Meghan, poor Lorelei, poor Maggie, poor Nicole, Poor Mikayla. I am the worst, and I want more than anything to stop. It has become me, and I have become it. I am a downward spiral. At work, I lie. I lie about everything I do outside of work. After I clock out I punch out and I go home and sit in the dark and I write this, or I watch television, or I sleep. I make up stories about anything.. women, adventures, anything. I want to spice up my life, and in some twisted sociopathic way I believe that this is the only way to do it. It’s grotesque. My best friends, friends I have had for years have no idea who I am, but neither do I. I want to get help, I want to better myself and be honest, but I am uncertain how I can do this anymore. I sometimes honestly believe I might be a sociopath, and it used to scare the shit out of me, but it doesn’t anymore. Now, I feel empty. I don’t feel anything about this assumption, and I believe that is more terrifying than being afraid of it. Am I wired differently? Am I different? How can I change? I don’t know what I am doing writing all this down.. but it seems somewhat therapeutic. My therapist told me to write, and I started to. I’m trying to be honest with him, and it’s only been one visit and I believe I truly was sincere. I could pin-point when I wanted to lie though, and I stopped myself. Maybe I want to be fixed and because of that I put in the effort with him. But if I can do it with him can I do it with anyone else? Time will tell.


The Incredible Edible Box By Denise A. Pearson            “Earth to Bradley Carpenter. This is your partner, Casey Tillman calling.”            I lifted my head.            “What’s the problem?”said Casey.            “Problem? We’ve been working on this for a month. How can we win first prize in the science fair if we can’t make our eco-friendly box project work?”            “We’ll get it to work. I don’t want Creepy Freddie Potter to beat us. Or that know-everything girl, what’s her name . . .”            “Susan Kinder,” I said. “But she’s not so bad.”            “Mmm,” said Casey as he scraped our latest failure out of my mom’s best fry pan and into the trash.            “What’s next?” I asked.            Casey glanced at the kitchen clock. “It’s late. I gotta get home. We’ll work on it tomorrow.” I just stared at him. “Don’t look so worried. We’ve got a whole week left. Just because the milk and flour paste on the cereal baked in the pie crust didn’t work, doesn’t mean anything. Tonight, I’ll sleep on it.”            “Sleep on it?”            Casey shrugged on his jacket. “Don’t worry. I do my best thinking while sleeping. We’ll come up with a prize winner by the end of the week.”            At lunch the next day, Casey leaned close and whispered, “You’ll never believe the dream I had last night.”            “Yeah?”            Casey hunched his shoulders and shifted his eyes right, then left. He looked like a second-rate Dracula stand-in. “I was in your mom’s kitchen. Then the fridge door opened. All. By. Itself. A long, green arm stretched out of the fridge and grabbed me. Then it dragged me into the fridge. It was so scary it woke me up. “And Ta-Da! I knew this had to be the solution for our project.” “Uh, I think I’m missing something here. I don’t get it,” I said. “Celery. The green arm was a stalk of celery. We’ll weave celery together to make our edible box.” Casey entwined his fingers to demonstrate.            “Weave celery? Uh, Casey, celery’s crunchy, not bendable.”            “Did I forget to mention the part about dehydrating it first? Then it’ll be in flat strips that we can weave together.”            “Won’t it leak?”            “We’ll use egg whites for glue. Clever, ain’t it?”            I had to admit it was.            After a week of slavishly weaving slabs of desiccated celery about each other in varying configurations, we had succeeded. A basket weave pattern proved to be the sturdiest. Now, here we were, in the school auditorium, setting up our project. Our poster read: The Incredible Edible Box. How more eco-friendly can you get? Eat the contents of the box and then . . . eat the box.            “Think our chances are good?” I ask Casey.            “Go-umphral.”            “What?” I glanced at Casey. “Hey, those samples are for people to try and then like us on our Facebook page. Don’t eat them all up.”            Casey swallowed. “I can’t help it. Your idea of using ranch dressing instead of egg whites was fabulous – and very tasty.”            Suddenly, a shadow hovered near our exhibit.            “Tillman and Carpenter. I wondered what project you guys would enter,” Freddie said. “I expected it to be in the field of science - not an entry to the Pillsbury Bake-Off. â ”            I wedged myself between Casey and Creepy Freddie. Since losing the Science Trivia marathon to Casey, they’d become mortal enemies.            “It’s better than depriving mice of sleep, then running them through mazes,” Casey shot back.            Freddie sneered. “We’ll let the judges decide that tomorrow.”            Although the judge’s decisions wouldn’t be until six that evening, we arrived at school early the next day so we could refill our sample bin. The ones we brought yesterday had been gobbled up by the end of last night’s open house - everyone liked them. This morning, we had broken up all our prototype boxes into small pieces to make more samples.            “Hi,” Susan Kinder said as we walked past her exhibit, which was next to ours. Her project was growing hydroponic vegetables.            “Hi Susan,” I said. Casey nodded to her. “She really is nice,” I whispered to him. “If you’d only . . . Holy Cow!”            Our exhibit, and only remaining edible box, looked more like a piece of Swiss cheese than a box. “Who would stoop so low?” I asked.            Casey lifted up a small, white mouse from the inside of the box. His eyes darkened with anger. “A two-legged rat, that’s who.”            “Creepy Freddie,” I said.            Casey gazed at the mouse.            “Hey,” yelled Freddie, thundering over from his booth. “My mouse! Dino escaped last night.” Freddie plucked the mouse from Casey’s hand.            He glanced up at our hole-riddled box. “Oops! Guess Dino decided to make a snack out of your project. So-o-o-o sorry. And before the judging too.”            Susan came over and said, “I bet he deliberately put that mouse in your booth last night.”            “Yeah, but there’s no way we can prove it,” said Casey.            “What’ll you guys do? An edible box is such a great idea.”             “There isn’t much we can do,” I said.             “Can you make a new one?”            “We haven’t any materials left,” Casey said.            “Maybe I could help,” Susan said. “I read the ingredients for your box on one of your posters. I have celery in my hydroponics tank which you can use. There’s a convenience store across the street that must sell ranch dressing. And we could use the oven in the school cafeteria for dehydrating the celery. We still have most of the day get this done before the judging and I’ll bet we could get out of all our classes to do this. What do you think?”            I tried to catch Casey’s eye so we could talk this over, but he was staring at Susan.            “Why would you want to help us?” he asked.            “Maybe because I think going green and leaving a small carbon footprint is the best way of preserving our future.” Then she grinned wickedly. “And, maybe because I like you guys much better than Slimy Freddie Potter.”            I smiled back. “We call him Creepy Freddie.”            “Creepy Freddie?” Susan tasted the words. “Fits him perfectly.”            Casey flashed her a smile. “Yeah, don’t it though.”            We pushed Susan’s booth next to ours and went to work. We were putting the finishing touches on our posters by the time the judges came around. The head judge peered at the latest edition to our poster collection. He looked at his clipboard and said, “I don’t remember seeing this exhibit listed.”            We all gave each other quick glances, then Casey stepped forward to explain how two science projects had become one. “. . . and it melds environmental concerns of recycling with the newest technological advances in agriculture,” finished Casey.            The judges nodded their heads and examined our combined posters that announced “The Future of Food - - - From Hydroponic Farming to Edible Boxes”. As they walked on to the next booth, they were munching our free samples of the Incredible Edible Box.            Needless to say, Creepy Freddie wasn’t happy to be in the audience as Casey, Susan, and I mounted the stage to claim first prize.


The titles bad I know. Didn’t really put a lot of thought into it. Not a good writer so I’m sure there are a million errors. I’ve just always enjoyed making stories. This is the first time I’ve ever shared anything before so hopefully it’s not bad. God damn it’s so fucking cold out. It’s only October and the grounds been frosted every morning for the last week. It’s a beautiful sight to wake up to. But I’m ok with not seeing. Makes me feel cold just looking at. I dread stepping out of my warm home to the cold barren country roads. The bland open field invite the icy winds to blow in my face as I struggle on my long strolls to school. I’ve got to stop showering in the morning. My hair crunches like I put a full bottle of hair gel in it. I could drive to school but I like to enjoy the fall colors. There’s always opportunities for pictures with the sunrise peaking through the deep red leaves. It warms you despite the cool air that fall brings. The 20 minute walk always feels like 20 seconds to me. I lose my self in thought to easily. It’s the only way to keep the chaos of other off taking me down. The negativity that fills the world is to much to handle. All these mad murders that are narrated on the news almost every day. I hear so many complaints with hopeless solutions tied to them. It doesn’t matter what you do to try and stop them. You can take away their guns but then they’ll use their knives. You can take their knives but then they’ll use their tools. You can take their tools but then they’ll use their hands. You can take their hands but then others will raise theirs. The best thing you can do is to accept, mourn, and move on. If a person has a drive to kill they’ll do it. Doesn’t matter if they have a weapon or not. Shit. It’s supposed to hurt right. Why doesn’t it hurt. Is it the adrenaline. Does that make it not hurt? Will it hurt soon? What do I do if it hurts? How do I make the pain stop? Should I be worried about the pain? Wait I can feel something now. It’s cold. Very cold. It’s like the metal was forged in an icy flame. I can feel the whole blade now. It’s being thrusted in deeper. I can feel the flesh separate as it moves. What does it look like? It’s like the leaves it’s such a deep red. It looks like a pool with no bottom. I hate it. What’s down there? Never mind I don’t want to know. Stop I don’t want to see it. It’s too deep. I don’t want to know what down their. The pool is just getting bigger. I need to stop it. How do I stop it? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? A hand. Someone’s hand. I need to stop them and their hand. How do I stop it though? Can I stop it? How can you stop someone from hurting you? Well it doesn’t hurt right now but it might. I don’t want it to hurt so I need to hurt them? That will stop them. It work when I was little. It stopped my brother from hitting me. Only for a little bit though. But I only need a little bit. I should hurt them but how. Their neck. It hurts if you can’t breathe. I remember going under water in a pool a long long time ago. Not a red pull but a blue one. I remember it hurt badly. But I wasn’t scared. I just remember crying. I couldn’t say it hurt but it did. I need to hurt him till he cry’s. That’ll make him stop. I just need to put my hand on his neck and squeeze. Is it working? I think it’s working the knife is coming out. I can feel it move. Look even his face is turning blue like the pool I was in. It is working. It is working. It is working. It is working. It is working. It is working. It is working. It is working. He’s going to cry soon right? Cause it hurts and makes you want to cry. I want him to cry. So I can stop. My hands are tiered. My abdomen is sore. Will he cry soon? Why isn’t he crying. He’s supposed to by now. It hurts to not breathe. He should cry. I’m getting dizzy. My head feels like a boulder. I can’t hold it up. I have too look down. Look at the pool on the ground. It’s so big now. I might fall in. No don’t fall in. You won’t be able to get out. It’s too deep. Don’t fall in. You won’t be able to swim. It hurts to much. It hurts now. Not my abdomen but my chest. I feel like I did something wrong. But I don’t know. Did I hurt him to much? Could he not cry? You don’t cry a lot when ur older. Maybe he couldn’t cry because of that. I’m scared now. Did I do something bad? Am I going to be in trouble? I don’t want to be in trouble. Maybe I should go into the pool? They can’t yell at me in the pool if I go deep. I might be able to swim away from it if I go in. That might be a good idea. I need to hold my breath before I go in. It hurts to not breath. A deep breath. The pool is getting bigger so fast as I dive in. I wondered if I can touch the bottom.


*“Huh? Oh, here.”* *“First time flyer?”* *“Last time flyer.”* I quickly entered the tunnel leading to the plane, ignoring the suspicious glance the attendee threw my way whilst scanning my boarding pass. *‘Last time flyer’*, I thought, chuckling underneath my breath. I had never considered myself quick witted, but I guess even during one’s final hours on this planet, they can learn something new about themselves. As I stepped on board, I could feel the shift in tension around me. Although no one was particularly talkative whilst boarding the plane, it didn’t really feel out of the ordinary until now. After all, a 5 am flight on a Tuesday in the middle of October is not usually bustling with big families visiting relatives, or young couples looking for a thrill. Those already seated were silent. Some had closed their eyes, others seemed to be analyzing the faces around them; taking in the last piece of humanity they would likely ever see. A small woman to my left caught my gaze. Her hair was fire and the glare in her eyes told the story of what led her here. A life in shambles, a messy divorce, lost custody, an abusive boss. Do my eyes tell my story? Or does my body wreak of a life spent alone? Carefully, I place my carry-on in the luggage holder above. If someone opened it, they would find nothing; they would see nothing. A quick unzip to check on its contents reminds me, however, that it is not empty. It is filled with love unreciprocated, time lost, and a future thrown away. Invisible memories leak through its seems, filling the air with a stench of rejection and neglect. I gag. A flight attendant quickly reaches to hand me a paper bag, but I fan her away. Even if I wanted to throw up, I had not eaten for the past two days, so I doubt much, if anything, would come out. I sit down next to a young man who appears eager to have company. Shyly, he smiles at me. *“They say that everyone dies alone, but here, we will go together.”* I look into his eyes. He does not seem like the type to choose this path. He seems hopeful, content, energetic. He radiates the energy I have always envied and craved to possess. I bring my hand up to his face and brush his cheek. *“I guess beautiful people are just as unhappy as the rest of us.”* Breaking eye contact, he turns his face away from hand and rolls up his sleeves. We both look down. *“I guess so.”* His scars tell stories I do not want to hear. Perhaps if we had met a year ago, we could have both avoided this fate. A year ago, I could have saved him, and saving him would have saved me. We could have lived a life together. But instead, we will die together. As the last passengers take their seats, the flight attendants line up and exit the plane. I can see tears falling from the lady that tried to give me a paper bag. Her muffled sobs remind us all of the magnitude of our actions. Later today, the news will run rampant with a story about how 97 people lost their lives in a devastating plane crash that left no survivors. Families will mourn, strangers will switch the channel, life will continue. For everyone but us, that is. Without any warning or announcement, the plane begins to roll down the runway. I assume in a time like this, the comforting words of a pilot are useless. The only thing we want, is to reach our final destination. As I take a deep breath, the man beside me turns his body to face mine. Slowly, he reaches over and takes my hand. His palms are soft and his hands feel like home. *“Do you know where you’re going?”* he asks me softly. *“I imagine heaven is off the table, but a guy can dream.”* Squeezing my hand, he pauses briefly as the plane begins to rise. His demeanor is no longer that of a youthful carefree boy. Brows furled, he looks at me for what feels like an eternity. I wait. *“Isn’t it ironic? The thought of being punished by choosing death, a path chosen because of the way life has already punished us?”* I sigh and tell him that I find it amusing how he is contemplating this now. I started asking that question when I was twelve, and I still haven’t heard an adequate response. He asks why. I think it's because, as a people, we are so uncomfortable with the unknown. We are scared of death because — all faith aside — we simply do not know. In an age where you can find out anything with a quick Google search, there is no confusion why this generation’s capacity to discuss questions you must answer for yourself is so small. Looking over, I could tell he was considering my point of view. I appreciated that the last man I would speak to would not be like all the others that have trodden on the doormat into my home. *“Tell me your story,”* he said. What can I say? There isn’t much to tell. I’m tired. Of what, you ask? I’m tired of living a static existence. I work often, socialize rarely, and feel alone always. Maybe it was just a rut, maybe there was a better way out, but I’m too tired to look for it. By now, I could tell he wasn’t happy with my response. I felt he knew that ‘I’m tired’ was just a copout to hide the real reason I boarded this flight. A tired person would not go through all of this effort to end their life. His hands fidgeted, and I could sense him pulling away from the conversation. *“I just want to be free.”* I mumbled, hoping this would draw him in enough to keep me company for a little while longer. Turning his head to gaze out the window, he said one final thing to me. The last sentence I’d hear from him for the rest of the flight. *“There are other things that lead to freedom.”* As the flight wears on, I grow tired. Before I can nod off, we are all started by a jerk in the plane’s motion. It must be time. I can see the red haired woman from earlier begin to panic. There is no escape. We begin to descend at a rapid pace. Falling faster and faster. Falling. Falling Falling. My eyes open as snow falls around me. I must have fallen asleep. Shivering from the brutal wind, I get up and look at the winter night that had grown more intense as I slept. Remembering why I was here, I walk closer to the edge of the roof and look down into the empty street below. As I place one arm on the ledge to hoist myself up, my mouth opens and something within me whispers. *“There are other things that lead to freedom.”* I stop. My phone buzzes in my pocket. Taking it out, I see that it’s 2:04 am. My roommate is calling. I answer. *“Hello?”* *“Where are you? You seemed off today, and when I got back and you weren’t here, I got worried. Why aren’t you in your room?”* Quickly, I back away from the ledge. I’m not sure what to say. Perhaps for once, I’ll try the truth. *“I went out for a walk to think about things. Things I’ve been considering for a while. All this time, I wanted to be free, and tonight I was going to make that happen. But after lying in the snow, I realized something. Choosing death doesn’t make you free, it just makes you dead.


She woke up on a tear stained pillow. Her red swollen eyes gleamed with silent sadness. The eerie silence of her was maddening. I had no strength to see her so broken. But then, no words could erase what she had been through. I stopped uttering words that would pass through her untouched. Her grieving was the only possible sign to know she was alive. Every morning would be the same. She was like a clock; like a machine fit inside her petite figure. She would always cook breakfast for me. It never failed to taste good, but now it lacked her love. It’s been 3 months and I don’t remember the last time we touched each other affectionately. We’ve been married for just 7 months; 7 months and 18 days to be precise. I had always been in love with her. Her careless laughter would captivate me for hours. The way her eyes sparkled when she looked at him was just pure joy. Sometimes I envied what he had, but I knew, I could gain her affection but not the happiness she felt being with him. By the way she saw him, I knew her love was pure and far beyond passion. But for him, she was just another girl. I used to overhear her friends wanting her not to be with him. But she was truly, madly, deeply in love. I was far too beyond to be noticed and so I drifted away. She would cross my mind not all the time but I would lie if I said I forgot her. I met her again a year ago. I was at the hospital for my regular check-up and there I saw her. I recognized her instantly as if we just met yesterday. She was the same, nothing changed. Except I noticed she had bruises all over her which she unsuccessfully tried to cover with make-up. I went up to talk to her. I always knew she could open up to people easily. And so she revealed , she had his baby and he was nowhere to be found after leaving her bruised the other night. My heart sank to see her in pain. I didn’t want to leave her in such situation so I told I would take care of her. Yes, few months later I got her affection and we got married but no, there was no sparkle when she looked at me. Then the baby arrived. For me it was our first child but for her, it was the reminder of her love. I knew she never got over him. She loved him unconditionally. I too loved her unconditionally so I had no intentions to change her. It was the first night of the baby in our house. I was the happiest person at that moment. As the night arrived, so did our lives darkened. He broke into our house and took away our baby as we were out in the porch discussing how she loved him through thick and thin. Then our lives turned upside down. We did our best to find him but we couldn’t. And so did we tried finding love in each other but we failed there too. We tried not to fight but blamed each other for being careless. Since then things aren’t the same. She wakes up in a tear stained pillow with red swollen eyes. But my hands hold back from giving her affection.