Disclaimer: This story does not reflect my spiritual or cultural views. It attempts merely to examine the pull of faith when Man gets involved. “Merry Christmas,” John grunted. The doctor looked up from the man’s chart, and did a half-turn back into the room. “Excuse me?” John analyzed the man’s dark face for signs of offense, belligerence. He didn’t know the physician – or for that matter, at this moment, anyone in the conceivable world -- but he realized now his sarcasm was misdirected. “I’m, ah, I’m sorry,” John offered, waving the pulsometer they’d affixed to his index finger. “I didn’t mean to sound like an asshole. I’m just a little discombobulated, is all. Well, a lot, actually.” The doctor smiled for the first time since his patient had awoken to a fresh new universe. “I understand, and I empathize thoroughly. You’ve had a major trauma, and now, you have some significant blanks to fill in. I was a bit discombobulated myself. What did you say a moment ago?” This time, the physician paused, his forehead furrowing even as he maintained his bedside smile. “I just meant Happy Holidays,” John defaulted defensively. “No,” the doctor drawled, crossing his arms over the chart. “What precisely did you say to me?” Christ, one of those . John chided himself. “Look, I said ‘Merry Christmas.’ It’s just instinct, what you say this time of year. I certainly didn’t mean anything, you know, personal by it.” “I, um, didn’t take anything from it. Christmas, eh?” Something in the physician’s expression suddenly jabbed at John’s gut. “Wait a minute. What day is this?” “December 25. Why do you—“ “When did they bring me in?” The doctor stepped forward and adjusted the pulsometer that had slipped when John bolted up in the narrow Hill-Rom bed. “Here, please, just relax. You were brought in at 1:12 a.m. this morning, into the ER, with what appears to be transient global amnesia. You have no knowledge of past events, and you couldn’t process what either the paramedics or ER crew were asking you. It is not an uncommon condition after a traumatic incident like what you experienced last night. What is unusual is that your physical injuries are so minor given the nature of the crash. Of course, the police believe your passenger side took the brunt of the impact, but I might have expected more than a few broken ribs and an ulnar breakage. I can preliminarily tell you you have appeared to have sustained no significant neurological trauma.” “Dr. Giannetti, please report to the nurse’s station.” The doctor glanced up at the PA announcement. “I’m truly sorry, but I’ve been expecting results on a critical patient. “If you wish, we can discuss this further. Now, you really should relax. An orderly should be by with dinner in a half-hour or so. Hope you enjoy chocolate pudding.” “Long as it isn’t figgy,” John quipped. “I’m certain it’s not, though if you require a vegan selection…” John Doe blinked. “Joking. More shitty holiday humor, sorry.” “Well,” Giannetti nodded. ** “Sooo,” the counselor began. “What does ‘Christmas’ mean to you?” John stared at the bespectacled young woman. “Is that really relevant at this point?” She smiled as if contending with lay ignorance were simply an essential step in the intake process. “I’m sure Dr. Giannetti explained that you currently appear to be experiencing what we call global transient amnesia, which as the name suggests is often a short-term condition that can occur in cases of physical, emotional, or mental trauma or extreme stress. The good news is, GTA symptoms normally persist for no more than 24 hours, and usually less. “During an episode of transient global amnesia, a person is unable to create new memories, and the memory of recent events disappears. You can't remember where you are or how you got there. You may not remember anything about what's happening right now. You may keep repeating the same questions because you don't remember the answers you've just been given. It can be frightening.” “I’m not frightened,” John said through his teeth. “I’m confused as fuck is what I am.” “Absolutely, I get it. See, what’s interesting, and perhaps slightly concerning is that in most cases, GTA patients can’t recall short-term events, but they know who they are. You clearly possess basic cognition – you’ve identified familiar objects and can follow reasonably complex directions -- but you profess not to know your name or other basic details about yourself. Though all that may well come back to you within the next 24 hours, there are other issues as well. That’s why I asked you about this ‘Christmas.’” “This Christmas?” John echoed, trying to straighten himself while maintaining his dignity. “What do you mean?” “I mean, what does Christmas mean? To you? You see, at this point, the police haven’t been able to ascertain any details about your identity – your vehicle burned almost beyond recognition after you were very fortunately ejected through the windshield. Anything you can recall might give us a clue to who you are, how we might reach your family. So I’ll ask again, what does Christmas mean to you?” John flopped back on his pillow, more exhausted than exasperated. “What’s it mean to you ?” The shrink collected her legal pad, and shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe you could explain it to me.” “I get the feeling you’re asking the wrong guy. I don’t have the slightest who I am or how I got here, but the thoughts I have been having are kinda, well…” “Yes?” “Well, if I had to say, kinda dick-ish. I get the feeling I’m not the greatest guy, that I have a pretty poor view of mankind in general. But maybe that’s what Christmas is.” “And that would be?” “A time when we get our faces rubbed in what petty, selfish, ugly, cruel, apathetic ass-wipes we truly all are. We’re held up to this perfect ideal we can’t possibly live up to, and everything shitty in our world or this life just screeches to a halt while we pretend to be the people we can’t seem to be the rest of the year.” “Mm.” The single syllable made John want to throw the remnants of his crappy breakfast at the smug intruder. “Why now?” “Hah?” “Why now?” John wriggled in agitation, and the second slice of uneaten toast jumped on the institutional beige tray. “You an atheist or something?” She was silent. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business, and I don’t care if you are or not. It was a weird question is all, and maybe my brain is still jumbled. I hope I didn’t sound like some holy roller.” The counselor pursed her lips, seemed to consider another inquiry, then abruptly arose. “I think that may be enough for right now, and as I said, we could soon have all the answers we need. Just keep trying to remember anything you can.” “Sure.” “I’ll send someone for your dishes. You sure you don’t want to try to eat just a little more? Protein can help accelerate cognitive function.” John glanced at the cold eggs, the dancing toast and the unopened strawberry jam and the discarded butter pack with the Happy Holstein logo that had predated his short-term recall. “Excuse me?” His head snapped up, and he realized he’d spoken aloud. “Butter Cow,” John repeated. “Sorry, just something from my childhood. Some county fair when I was a kid.” The shrink leaned back against the door. “And just what is a Butter Cow?” “You know,” John said. “One of the dairy groups hires some dude with too much time on his hands to sculpt a life-size cow out of butter, and they put it in a refrigerated display case so people can see what a cow made out of butter looks like, I guess. It’s just some dumb thing I remember.” The counselor’s brows rose, and John could see her jaw tighten, but she quickly composed herself. “Interesting. And it’s not dumb at all. Even these small recollections might give us a clue to your identity.” “Or we could wait until dinner. I see lunch is roast turkey. A little early, don’t you think?” “For what?” she asked. ** “Sounds like a longshot,” the neurologist murmured, sipping his Diet Pepper. “Though I do seem to remember some controversy a few years back.” “Well, yeah,” the shrink breathed. “How would you think people would react?” The physician chortled. “No offense, but I guess those kinds of things don’t bother me so much. I’m a man of science.” “Well, as you are fond of reminding me, I am not,” the counselor responded, light but tight. “In jest,” he emphasized, though noting her customary plate of raw veggies. “You got something?” The Google search results were reflected in her wide lenses, and as she clicked at her pad, a vaguely familiar image materialized under a reversed headline and a splash ad for some new, must-have tech. For a split-second, he got it. “Three years ago,” the psychiatrist noted. “’Thousands of Midwest faithful packed the Obulewe County Fairgrounds in Southeastern Indiana to protest what they deemed an act of ‘outrageous blasphemy’ by local farmers.’ Surprised they ran the photo, though there is an advisory.” “Ridiculous,” the neurologist said. “Insensitive, possibly; pretty boneheaded. But obviously an unintentional blunder.” “Oh, I’m sure. But it’s the only such instance I could find – not surprisingly, the art form seems to have perished -- and as I said, it took place a little more than three years ago. Three years ago. Doe referred to the ‘Butter Cow’ as a childhood memory, but he’s in, what, his mid-‘30s? It’s likely he was at this county fair three years ago.” “I took my son’s children one time to see the cows and lambs and chickens. There were no butter animals of any species. Your point?” “I believe our amnesiac may have been a local resident – Obulewe County is almost entirely agrarian, and the few towns are small – fewer than 2,000 people. If he lives there, or lived there, I would guess people would remember him. And if he had a family, doubly so.” The doctor smirked as he drained his soda. “I know you’re very excited about this patient. That crazy outfit he was wearing, the strange references. But we very well could have all our answers by tomorrow morning.” “Which would be a wonderful time to have family around.” The neurologist made a three-pointer into the breakroom garbage – a gesture of surrender. ** She was somewhat surprised by the sheriff suggesting a ZOOM call. Not as surprised by the sheriff himself – the psychiatrist had read Obulewe was a religious county, as was much of the rural Midwest. Corkscrew locks fell to either side of a hard, flat-planed face, and a silver star anchored his immaculately knotted tie. “We got the usual mix of the faithful here,” the sheriff smiled, “and usually, everybody gets along fine. But when those idiots at the Federated Milk Council decided to put that damned thing – no disrespect…” “No, I’m reform,” the shrink murmured. “Well, anyway, a few of the fundamentalist types over to the First Canaan Temple got in an uproar, decided the dairy folk were, um, mocking their religion. And I’m not sure what happened next wasn’t a sign they weren’t right.” “How so?” “Well, we got our own old-timey types, too. Had a lot of crazy revivalists and cult folks though here 50-60 years ago, and a few set down roots. Every once in a while, we’d get talk about some group called The Mass kicking up trouble. They’d meet in an old Animist lodge out by the fairgrounds, and folks would talk about seeing them in their red robes, chanting and lighting candles and shit.” The sheriff unconsciously leaned back as the headshrinker’s face nearly filled his screen. “I want to show you something – I’m texting it now. You said red robes?” “Yeah, with this crazy headgear. The leader was obsessed with some ancient Jewish prophet nobody ever heard of – some guy supposedly raised the dead and did all kind of magical shit before a crowd hung him. So, anyway, thing is, a lot of these Mass guys were farmers from outside town, thought the rest of us had lost our way, and especially the Canaan folks, who are by the way, my wife’s people. So when the old-school Canaan folks showed up to protest outside the dairy pavilion, a bunch of these red robes turn up out of nowhere with weapons, and the thing turns into a riot. Five dead, including the head of these Mass people, and they closed the pavilion until last summer. All over some dumb butter statue. Again, no offense intended.” “And again, none taken. This is 4023. Did you get my text?” The sheriff located his smartphone, peered at the screen for a moment, and seemed to pale. “Wow, yeah. Your guy was wearing this?” “You recognize it?” “Not only that,” the sheriff mumbled, looking up. “I know your guy. Haven’t seen John since his dad’s burial rites. And that’s Nick Baptiste’s Mass get-up he has on. Thought he was shed of all that after the shootings –the Red Robers disbanded soon after, and John got his company to transfer him to your neck of the woods. I’ll inform the wife, but don’t expect a guest appearance. Anything else we can do for you?” “Does the term ‘Christmas’ mean anything to you?” “That was the name of their order. The Christ Mass. What they called their prophet guy most of the time. That and, uh...” The counselor paused. “Jesus,” she whispered. “Wow,” the lawman breathed. “That is one phenomenal guess.” ** Since the relocation of Integrated Health Systems adjacent to the East Wing wards, the neurologist and the therapist reached Room 347 as the Code Indigo alarm echoed through the beige halls. The intravenous feed was dribbling its last on the tile floor, and the bedspread was splattered and pooled with the blood of stitches torn and shunts removed and flight taken without consideration for finite fluids. It was impressive that John Baptiste had been able to make it out of the room, but it had been right after shift change. “I suppose I should have anticipated something like this,” the shrink muttered. “Ridiculous,” the physician said as he skirted to the window overlooking the parking deck and Hubbard Street. “All that garble about his made-up religion and imaginary holiday had us spinning on mud.” “Neither crazy nor imaginary to John,” the counselor countered. “Sheriff Abebe told me Baptiste was raised by a religious zealot who kept a tight rein over his family. I talked to one of the profs in Interfaith Studies at The College – she told me this ‘Jesus’ likely existed, and was attributed with some seemingly mystical deeds and abilities and a message of compassion and mercy.” “Sounds awful.” She smirked. “Yeah, but Nick Baptiste had had some dark influences himself – John’s grandfather, had envisioned this Christ Mass as a racial crusade. He’d felt the Great Black Plague’s virtual eradication of Europe’s religious scholars had erased the global impact of ‘Northerners,’ and Nicholas felt spreading his version of this Jesus’ word might displace Judaism and Hinduism and the Animist denominations and elevate European Americans into societal leadership. John broke free, and in fact married a Canaanite woman against his father’s wishes. But the Christ Mass traditions and rituals Nick inoculated his family with died hard. Tunde – the sheriff – said John had started quoting this Jesus at the Canaanite temple, and after his father died, his spiritual conflict led to a psychotic break, divorce, and his moving as far away as he could get.” “So what happened? He’d made a break. Why the red suit?” “The best I can guess is some form of seasonal disassociative disorder. That John’s feelings about his estrangement from his family are particularly acute during the season he grew up sanctifying. Now that it’s all gone, he may have suffered another psychotic break. Where he was heading last night, though, is anyone’s guess. And what might have brought him back to present reality.” The neurologist, perched on the window sill, rapped on the double pane. “Might have answers to both quandaries. Take a peek.” The counselor frowned, but joined him, followed his outstretched finger down the block, toward the gastrological clinic and, beyond, the temple. “Faith has a powerful pull,” Giannetti observed. “Sometimes toward love, sometimes toward hate. That Public Safety commander, Mede, told me there was no way Baptiste’s little hydro-ionic tin can should have gone up so ferociously last night. Unless the hold was full of some kind of chemical accelerant.” But his colleague was already out the door. ** A crowd was gathered – the congregation was holding its monthly meal for the unhomed. The monument that flanked the temple steps was floodlit, casting deep shadows on both the gleaming head inclined toward the cosmos, and the failing man in the hospital tunic at its granite base. She kneeled beside Baptiste, whose face was spectral and glistening in the moonlight, and attempted to mop his cheeks with her headshawl. He smiled up, but the pain of his pilgrimage drained the energy from his lips. “The Butter Cow,” the shrink murmured. “The lights just came on down here, and that’s what brought it back, right?” “I wouldn’t have done it,” John protested weakly. “That’s wrong. I was going to do it. Then the accident – it was almost like some kind of…” The counselor glanced back at the sprawling Soggogoth Health Preservation Center, the form of Cthulhu towering over the admissions court as a symbol of the universe’s knowledge and healing potential. Then up at the golden calf that had been here since her mothers’ childhoods. “It’s all right,” she comforted, though John Baptiste was now gone to this world. “You can say it.”


“Well, if it’s up to me—” “It is up to you!” “No, I can’t. You know I can’t!” “Silvia!” No! John! The sound of shattering China brought Silvia back to the present. “Oh, come sit down Silvia,” said her therapist. Silvia dazedly reached for the broom next to the kitchen doorway, “No, I’ll clean it up. Tasha, her therapist, put down her notebook, “Silvia, you should sit. I’ll get it.” Silvia came out of her daze as anger bubbled within her, “I can do it!” she snapped, seizing the broom handle.

Tasha’s voice was firmer, “Siliva, give me the broom. Sit down.” Silvia gripped the broom’s handle so hard the wood started to smoke under her grasp. She glared at it as flames started to rise from the wood. “Silvia!” yelled Tasha. “Silvia!” No! John! Silvia let go of the broom that was now a column of flames. She sat on the sunflower-patterned sofa as Tasha blasted the broom with a fire extinguisher. Silvia slipped once again into a stupor, gazing at her wedding ring as Tasha retrieved a new broom from the pantry. After finally cleaning the smashed teacup, Tasha handed Silvia a plastic cup of water. She then sat herself down in the loveseat across from Silvia. The loveseat was orange and clashed horribly with the sofa Silvia thought vaguely. But then again, Silvia didn’t like the color orange. Tasha picked up her notebook again and waited. “I heard his voice again, just now,” Silva said, “I used to only hear and see him when I slept. Now it happens during the daytime too.” “Why do you think that is?” Tasha asked soothingly. “I’ve had more time to think about it since they fired me,” Silvia muttered. “They didn’t fire you,” Tasha corrected as she scribbled some notes, “It’s a leave of absence. They said they’d reinstate you as soon as—” “I don’t hate myself anymore?" Silvia interrupted, "Well, they might as well fire me then.” “Hate is a strong word,” said Tasha. “Yeah, not strong enough,” Silvia answered, twisting her wedding ring around her finger.  “Why do you hate yourself,” Tasha asked calmly. Silvia didn’t answer right away. She noticed the clock on the wall behind Tasha had stopped ticking. “Your clock’s dead.” “That’s fine,” Tasha answered. “No, it’s not,” Silvia retorted, “Where do you keep your batteries?” “Siliva, let it go.” “NO!” Silvia burst, “I can save it! I— I mean… fix it.” “I know you can,” Tasha said, putting down her pen and taking a sip of her drink, “Would you say that fixing things has become… an obsession?” “No,” said Silvia in a strangled tone. Silence. No ticking from the clock. Silence. No sound of his heartbeat. Silvia stood, “Batteries! Where are they!” Tasha put aside her notes and stood too, “Relax, Silvia. If it really means that much to you, I’ll change the batteries, but you stay here.” Tasha waited until Silvia begrudgingly lowered herself onto the edge of the sofa, then darted into the kitchen's junk drawer for batteries. Silvia plugged her ears as the sound of Tasha’s rummaging reached her. She could feel herself inching slowly off the sofa the longer Tasha searched for the batteries. It seemed to go on forever. The sounds of clutter shifting grew louder!

I have to help her!! But she asked me to stay, it’s out of my control!! NO, nothing can be out of control ever again!

With a yell, Silvia sprang from the sofa and tore into the kitchen. “Tasha, please let—” Tasha stood holding a fresh pair of batteries in one hand. With the other, she was continuing to make a ruckus in the junk drawer. Embarrassment engulfed Silvia as she realized she had just failed a test miserably. “You lasted almost three minutes,” said Tasha, closing the drawer. She stopped the timer on her phone, which rested on the counter. “A new record!” Silvia’s face burned, “This therapy doesn’t seem to be helping much.” “It’s only your third session,” answered Tasha, motioning for Silvia to go back to the living room, “It’s going to take some time.” “I hate time,” Silvia retorted as she sat back down on the sofa.

“You hate a lot of things today,” Tasha said as she took the clock off the wall, “Anything else?” “Healing magic,” Silvia answered, her throat tightening. Silvia felt her hand light on fire again. She watched in disgust as the orange flames emanated from her fingers. She didn’t like the color orange. “You know, if I wasn't your therapist, that might be offensive to a healing mage such as myself.” Tasha popped the new batteries in and replaced the clock. She finally picked up her notebook again. She gave Silvia a sarcastic grin. Silvia sighed, “Sorry… wait, you're a healing mage?” Her hand suddenly extinguished with a puff of smoke. “Yep,” Tasha said, jotting down some notes. “Then why are you a therapist?” Silvia asked, “Why all the talking? Can’t you just heal me?”

Tasha shook her head, “My magic only works on physical wounds. Your mental state is not physical.” She shrugged. “We all have limitations, Silvia. Sometimes we can overcome them to a certain extent. That’s why I became a therapist. But some limitations we just have to learn to live with. Such as... not being able to control everything.” “I know, I know!” Silvia groaned, laying her head in her hands, “It’s involuntary. I wasn't always like this.” “I know,” Tasha nodded.

There was a moment of silence, then Silvia whispered, “Will I ever… you know… get back to normal?”

“No, not completely, I mean,” said Tasha closing her notebook, “Progress is what we’re after and I think we did make some good progress today. I’ll take that cup for you.” Silvia hastily grabbed her cup, “No, I can—” “Progress, remember, Silvia?” said Tasha with a smirk. “Yeah, right. Ok, you c-can take my cup,” Silvia’s hand shook as she gave Tasha her cup. Tasha took it and led Silvia to the front door, “Really great work today, Silvia. I’ll see you again Friday. Try to practice the techniques we’ve been working on.” “Right,” Silvia answered with a shadow of a smile, “See you then.” On the steps outside Tasha’s office, Silvia paused and looked down at her wedding ring, which glinted in the sunlight.

I’m sorry, John. I never imagined it would be this way. I didn’t know it would leave me so messed up. But I’m trying to fix it, John. I’ll find a way to fix it… for you.


By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. The soft licks of heat lapping my face, melting the frost that clung to the world. I watched my neighbours, my friends and family, run from what threatened to devour them; I watched their attempts all be for nought, for the fire swallowed them up. My world burned before my very eyes, leaving in the fire’s wake a barren wasteland. By the time I stepped outside, my world had already been forsaken. * A sharp chill clung to the air as I breathed in the scent of autumn, my heavy black boots crunching over an array of colourful leaves; red, orange, brown and yellow, all fluttering down from towering trees above. The pavement below my feet was sugar dusted with fine frost that glittered in the October sunshine and I pulled the sleeves of my red knitted jumper down to cover my chilled hands. I turned the corner that led to my parents’ house and saw it looming in the distance; standing apart from all the others, with its rickety gate, wonky, Victorian structure, which had always reminded me, and unfortunately all the other children in my village, of a witch’s house. The graveyard probably never helped, I remarked drily to myself, the garden gate screeching shut behind me. I made my way up to the front door and its old-fashioned iron knocker, with a backpack full of groceries for my parents, and let myself into the dark house. The colour I had last painted the walls still remained; a deep, burning burgundy, with blackout curtains to help ease my mother’s migraines, which she had suffered from since having a stroke a year previous, and then frequently after. I often joked that it was like walking into a furnace. “Jenna,” my father’s gentle voice sounded first, then the familiar, rhythmic clunking of his walking stick as he hobbled towards me. He spread one arm and drew me into a tight hug, smelling like smoke from the fire they kept raging all day every day. “How are you?” He asked as he drew back, leading me through to the living room. “I’m fine, dad,” I said, half swinging the backpack off, so it hung from one shoulder. “How are you? How’s mam?” At that, his smile faltered. “Ah, well she’s – it doesn’t look promising, Jenna.” I set the bag down on the kitchen table and began unpacking groceries, determined not to cry. “Has she seen Doctor Thom this week?” My father nodded somewhat gravely, setting the kettle over the stove; I had been at them for years to buy a modern kettle, one that didn’t require a lit stove to boil the water, but they had remained partial to the old one and that seemed to be unchanging. “Doctor Thom says it’s a matter of waiting now, the medication helps to control it, but it’s not a cure.” Pain, so intense, shot through my chest and spread across my body. I found myself unable to speak, so instead I nodded and accepted the cup of tea my father handed me, grateful for the mug scalding my hands distracting me from thoughts of my mother. I took a seat on the sofa opposite my dad, looking at the lines on his labour-weathered face, the grey of what remained of his hair. I swallowed the lump that lodged itself in my throat; soon, I would be without them both. Perhaps sensing my torment, my father smiled at me, asked me how my fiancé Brandon was. I gulped a mouthful of tea, “he’s okay,” I said. “He’s starting a job at the newspaper next week and I think he’s really excited.” “That’s excellent, love,” my dad’s voice was coated in warm honey. “And how are you doing – have you been okay?” I offered him a lopsided twitch of my lips, “yeah, not much changed in my life since the last time I saw you, just work and more work.” “No rest for the wicked.” A silence fell for a beat, broken only by the sound of tea drinking. I stared into the depths of my mug, the tea made from tea leaves instead of teabags reminding me that my mother used to read our tea leaves once upon a time, a better time. She always claimed to have the gift of sight, though I never believed her. “Can I go up and see mam?” I asked eventually. My dad nodded, “aye, she might be asleep, but if she’s not she’d be really pleased to see you.” I got to my feet, setting my mug down on the table and headed for the spiral staircase that led me up towards my mother. She looked smaller than I remembered, tucked up in the queen-sized bed that she shared with my father, more grey too. She was awake, just barely, when I entered the room and she mumbled my name with a small, exhausted smile. I crossed to the bed as quietly as I could and lowered myself onto the edge gently, taking her papery hands in mine, suddenly choked by tears. “Jenna,” my mother whispered. Just ‘Jenna’, over and over again, weary eyes tracing my face, and I realised then that she was trying to memorise me so that she would never forget what I looked like. Overwhelmed, I raised my hand to touch her cheek softly and she smiled and closed her eyes; I was unable to look fully at her, the memory of her once being such a strong, vivacious woman plagued me as I looked at her now, so quiet and frail, so I focused instead on her bedside table. That’s when I saw the old scrap of paper, a name written in blood red ink: Clauneck. I frowned, curiosity getting the better of me, I pocketed the scrap of paper surreptitiously. When I looked back at my mother, I saw she had already dozed back off, so I planted a feather-light kiss on her forehead, before turning to leave the room, my heart aching in my chest. * The café smelled like spices, cinnamon, ginger and coffee. Unable to face going home for a little, I stopped in to get a cinnamon latte as a little treat that I indulged in every autumn when all the coffee shops brought out their seasonal drinks, so I sat at a small, round table with one chair by the window and stared out unseeingly as I sipped the sugary coffee. I was halfway through the mug when I heard the most curious thing, not being a great believer of coincidences myself, my interests were more than piqued: “Cappuccino for Clauneck!” Called out the barista, handing over the mug to a tall, well dressed man, who turned around and caught me staring in disbelief. The dark haired man smiled knowingly, “strange name, I know.” He drifted over to me, “mind if I sit?” Stunned, I shook my head. Clauneck pulled up a chair, setting his mug down on the table, “my parents were a little…different. But, what about you? What’s your name?” “Jenna Walsh.” “Jenna…no relation of Diedre Walsh?” I blinked in surprise, “how do you know my mother?” My right hand snaked its way into my pocket to clutch the slip of paper there. Clauneck smiled again, “I’ve been counselling your mother, terribly sad what’s happening to her.” The coffee burned my mouth as I took a sip, for lack of anything to say, trying to remember if my parents had ever mentioned counselling or any kind of emotional support for my mother. But, I supposed, she would not have Clauneck’s name written down if she did not know him. “Has it- has it been helping?” I asked, setting my mug back down. “I certainly hope so. Listen,” Clauneck lowered his voice and leaned forward, “I can help you to help your mother, if that’s what you want; I’m involved in some experimental treatments for people like your mother.” Perhaps sensing my hesitation, he got to his feet. “Why don’t you meet me tonight at eight, by the Railway Inn, and we can discuss it more then? Goodbye for now, Jenna.” And, with that, he left; I had not noticed how much colder the café had been when he was in it. Meet me tonight at eight. The words reverberated inside my skull, dizzying, as I tried to force forkfuls of spaghetti Bolognese down my throat that night, Brandon watching me in concern. It could be anything, a trap, a scam; I could end up murdered or the victim of fraud, or assault, but the chances of me learning of two different people called Clauneck (when I’d never even heard the name before) seemed to slim to dismiss it as coincidence. “Jenna, are you okay?” Brandon asked, his eyes fixed steadily on me. I tried to reanimate myself somewhat, “yeah, sorry, just thinking.” “About what?” “I met my mam’s counsellor today and he offered me different treatment options, less conventional ones. He said we should meet to discuss them a bit more.” Brandon chewed his lower lip, a frown knitting two eyebrows into one. “I didn’t even know your mam had a counsellor – did he give you a name?” “Clauneck,” I replied, still attempting to find anything appetising.

“Clauneck? I think I’ve-“ Brandon paused abruptly, the way he so often did when overcome with thought. “That sounds familiar to me…” I shrugged, “it’s not a common name, so maybe my parents did mention it and I just forgot until now.” “Maybe…do you want me to come with you tonight?” I smiled, leaning across the table to give him a long, lingering kiss, “I’ll be okay.” “Okay,” he said when we broke apart, though his face still showed uncertainty. Cold, October air engulfed me as I stepped out of my warm house and into the dark night. My feet slipped slightly on the frosty ground, I grabbed the fence for support and felt the cold melt instantly from the warmth of my hand. The Railway Inn was mere minutes from my house, which was one of the benefits of living in a small village, though at this time of year it would have the fire roaring and be packed with bored locals, already sick of the dark autumn nights, making the place unbearably humid. Clauneck stood outside with his coat collar turned up; he looked like Dracula. I almost laughed out loud. He raised a large hand in greeting, “it’s busy in there,” he said, “why don’t we go for a walk?” Though my instinct said no, my desire to help my mother got the better of me and I agreed. We walked on through the night, away from the pub and away from eavesdropping locals. I wasted no time on pleasantries, though he himself seemed disinclined to make idle chit chat, “how can you help my mam?” I asked, “I don’t want to waste any time on false treatments that just cost money.” Clauneck laughed and shook his head, “I wont waste your money, I always follow through on my word. Jenna, what would you give to help your mother? And I don’t just mean ease her symptoms, I mean cure her.” “The doctor said-“ “I know what the doctor said,” interrupted Clauneck, “I’m asking you what you’d give for it to be possible.” For a moment, I felt tears constricting my throat, then eventually I breathed out, “anything, I’d do anything to save her.” “I thought you might say that.” “Is there something your treatment can do that the doctors can’t?” Clauneck opened his mouth to answer, when our conversation found itself disturbed by the shrill ringing of my phone. Grimacing, I mouthed an apology before answering it, and Brandon’s voice exploded in my ear: “Jenna,” he said, “this is going to sound really weird, but I know where I heard the-“ I cut him off urgently, “Brandon, can you give me a minute? I’ll be home soon; I just need to finish up here. I promise I’ll be back shortly and then we can talk about whatever this is.” “Jenna, wait-“ “Love you, I’ll see you soon.” I switched off my phone and stowed it back in my pocket, “sorry, you were just about to say?” Clauneck smiled a cat-like smile, “if you put your name down, I can see what I’ll be able to do for you,” he produced what looked like a sign-up sheet from his coat pocket. “Just names for the system,” he assured me, handing me the sheet and a pen. I took them, signed my name, wondering what could possibly go wrong from a simple signature. “Wonderful,” he said smoothly, “I’ll be in touch, Jenna, I’ll speak to you very soon.” He was an odd man, I thought to myself, as I turned to leave, but he might just be my mother’s saviour. “I know where I know your mother’s counsellor from,” said Brandon, the moment I shut the front door behind me, clearly not bothering with pleasantries was a common theme for the night. He took my hand and led me over to where his laptop sat on the table. “Clauneck is a faith healer, a miracle worker. In short, he’s a fraud. I’m sorry, Jenna.” Tears pricked my eyes, but I fought them back. “That’s okay,” I whispered, “it was too good to be true.” Brandon took me in his arms, “I’m sorry, I know you wanted to help your mam, but no harm done to her, right? Or you.” I nodded, the tears finally falling, and allowed him to tuck me into bed like one would a small child. Overcome by exhaustion, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, and awoke in the early morning to a call from my mother. “Jenna, what have you done?” She said in horror when I picked up the phone. “What did you do?” My heart froze in my chest, “what do you mean? I met Clauneck, he- he said he’d been helping you.” My mother groaned, an anguished, animal sound. “No, no, no, no. Jenna, you have no idea what you’ve done. He wasn’t helping me.” “He said he could heal you?” “And he did, for a price. Everything has a price.” I felt as though all the air had gone from my lungs as Clauneck’s words, what would you give, came back to me with a new, sickening clarity, and I realised Brandon’s warm body was not in the bed next to me. “What’s the price?” I asked, terror ripping through me as I bolted out of the bedroom, already on my way downstairs. “What did you say you’d give?” “Anything,” I admitted, horror like ice in my veins. My mother’s sobs echoed down the line, “then he took everything. Your dad, he’s – he’s gone too. You made a deal with a demon, my soul for anything and everything else.” “A demon? No, there’s no such thing – this can’t be happening.” I felt as though I had woken from nothing into a living nightmare. “It is, though.” As I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I dropped the phone, a scream tearing at my throat, so awful that at first I did not think it was mine. I ran towards him, fell to my knees, coming face to face with Brandon; from a distance it had looked like blood, but then I realised, his skin had been burned off, melted, bubbling, but he was long dead. I cradled his lifeless body in my trembling arms, tears streaming down my face. The kitchen stank of rancid, burning flesh, and even in my petrified state I wondered how I had not heard him, for he must have screamed in agony. I thought, unwillingly, of him burning alive, the flesh melting from his bones, and I felt nausea rise within me. Up until I had laid eyes on my now-late fiancé, I had not fully believed my mother’s words. We were due to be married in two months’ time, we were supposed to be together, and my rashness, my selfish need to fix everything had ruined that; perhaps if I’d taken his call the night before seriously I would have thought twice about signing my name. Everything has a price, Jenna. Clauneck’s voice came to my mind, overpowering my attempts to drive his contact out. I asked you what you’d trade, so surely you must have known, you just didn’t care if it meant saving your mother. I knew you’d be in that café; I knew you’d say yes. “That’s not true!” I sobbed, my head splitting with pain. “I didn’t know!” You didn’t try to find out, all you cared about was the fact that you couldn’t bear to lose your mother; you didn’t even ask her if she wanted to live, and now look what you’ve done. You might have heard him screaming, you know, if I hadn’t torn out his vocal chords first. And then Clauneck’s voice was gone, leaving me sick and cold and horrified. “Brandon,” I screamed, over and over again. “No, wake up! Please, Brandon, wake up!” it was like a morbid stuck record, and I screamed until my throat was as raw as his flesh. That’s when I saw it, out the kitchen window. Almost in a trance, I rose to my feet and headed outside; I had offered him everything, so he had taken it. By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. The soft licks of heat lapping my face, melting the frost that clung to the world. I watched my neighbours, my friends and family, run from what threatened to devour them; I watched their attempts all be for nought, for the fire swallowed them up. My world burned before my very eyes, leaving in the fire’s wake a barren wasteland. By the time I stepped outside, my world had already been forsaken.


This story contains depictions of violence, self-harm, suicide, and psychosis. — Verity Castillo was hers.

She knew where he worked—Westlake Recording Studios in LA, or at one of his home studios in Manhattan or The Hamptons.

She knew what he smelled like—Gucci’s The Alchemist’s Garden, cinnamon and Patchouli oil with rustic accents.

She knew his favorite color—mauve—and his blood type—O-negative, the same as hers (what intimacy!) —and his date of birth down to the second —September 21st, 1998, at 8:13 PM London time.

She was familiar with every facet of Verity’s being, understood him intricately, as a neurosurgeon does the human brain. She had a tattoo of his name below her breast and the outline of Verity’s birthmark—a spotty, amorphous thing—on her heart. They were more than acquaintances, she and Verity. Certainly, she was more than a fan.

God, “fan.” Just the mention of such an inconclusive and understated label chilled her to the bone. It stripped her of her efforts, robbed her of the countless hours she’d spent slaving over Verity’s discography, his interviews, his social media, unreleased songs and leaked photos. To call her a “fan” was laughable. It was infantilizing. Verity was her entire reason for being, her heart and soul, the ache in her stomach and the bounce in her step. During his now-infamous drug scandal and subsequent decline from the spotlight, she’d gone mad with want. Verity’s absence in her life had been an addict’s withdrawal, caused her to spasm and scream, sob until her throat ached with the same agony her wrists did, tortured her in a hellish inferno she thought only death could remedy.

I’m bleeding for you , she remembered thinking one gruesome night, gripping the blade that had pierced too deeply. This is all for you, my love.

But Verity returned, so she decided to live.

Since “Heroin-Gate,” as Verity’s fans often called it, he’d skyrocketed to A-lister status. She didn’t know how to feel about that. On one hand, a larger fanbase meant more screaming teenagers to appease with music, but on the other, the thought that more people so much less devoted to Verity— fans without true comprehension of his personhood, his depth— believed themselves to be on her level made her sick. Only she knew what it felt like to be saved, like an atheist converted, by Verity’s music. His eponymous debut album had dragged her out of hell, and his second and third records had kept her there.

Friends had come and gone, and there was Verity. Years had passed, and there was Verity. She greeted the sun, and there was Verity, a constant, always. Verity deserved his success; she knew that. She should be thrilled for him. She shouldn’t care about his other devotees, and right there in line, shivering from an early-night chill, she decided she didn’t. These fans could have their delusions. She knew what was real: she and Verity. They were subliminally entwined, stepped to the same romantic rhythm, saw the world the same way. Verity was hers. Who cared about everyone else? She’d been in line since 8 AM yesterday, the second to arrive (though she’d bribed the girl in front of her to switch with $100 and her portable charger). And now, it was finally happening. She was entering the arena. Where Verity was.

The idea that she and Verity were in such close proximity to one another sent a euphoric tremor down her spine, one only the frigid metal barricade could subdue. She curled her fingers around the barrier and wept. Soon, this fence would be the sole separation between them.

United at last, she thought, and dried her damp cheeks with her palm.

She wondered what Verity would wear tonight. Usually, he donned black skinny jeans and one of his various oversized t-shirts, but on rare occasions—in his favorite cities, she thought—Verity draped a white button-down around his broad, muscular shoulders and unbuttoned it throughout the evening, revealing the slick skin above his happy trail, the V of his hipbones… If I see his abs up close, I’m going to combust.

She squeezed the barricade tighter, if possible, and prayed for time to speed up and then slow down, stop, at just the right moment. “I love your shirt! Where did you get it?” A girl with short blonde hair and craterous dimples beamed at her, pointing to the colorful needlepoint blouse hanging loosely from her torso.

“I made it. It’s supposed to look like Verity’s mesh vest from the ‘If I Love You Now’ music video, but I messed up the sleeves a bit.” “No, it looks good! And I should know.” The blonde placed her hand over her heart and giggled. “I’m probably half the views on that video.” Suddenly, uncontrollably, she felt a rush of white-hot anger bubble through her stomach and up her throat, heating her skin in its ascent. The fury climaxed at her lips and poured out, a biting arctic chill and an eruption of crisping magma all at once.

“Fine, then. What’s the drummer’s name? In the video.” She prodded the blonde’s chest with her pointer finger. “Verity hired him as a replacement for Florian since he was out sick with pneumonia. What’s his name?” The blonde’s lips curled downward as her eyes narrowed. “What?” “Gregory. The drummer’s name is Gregory.” She was shouting now. She knew she had an audience, but what did it matter? This was important. Who cared if people knew how loyal she was to her Paramore? In fact, the idea of new eyes aroused her. She felt her confidence grow as each phantom gaze kissed her flesh. “If you really were half the views on ‘If I Love You Now,’ you’d fucking know that.” The blonde made a curt noise at the back of her throat.

“Jesus. I was just making conversation.” And then, under her breath, “Freak.” No, not a freak. Devoted. Enamored. Love, his love.

She contemplated continuing their argument, but it was useless. She’d never be able to convince this girl that she wasn’t a freak but the love of Verity’s glorious life. “All those girls he’s dated, the tall models with big lips—they’re not his. Verity’s supposed to be a serial dater, but he’s not. It’s fake! It’s all for show. He’s waiting for me.” She’d only laugh louder, glare with more intensity, and who needed that? No, it was alright. This blonde could think whatever she wanted; Verity knew what was real.

The opening act was alright. She felt nothing toward them, no excitement, no longing or lust. She’d return home that night and remember nothing, not their songs or how they looked or which gaunt and ghostly boy played bass. They were only there to introduce Verity, to sing flat notes every so often and dance awkwardly around their mics so that when he did mount the stage, Verity was even better than she’d remembered.

She cheered when they finished, not because she’d enjoyed their performance, but because it was over.

On the other side of the stage’s curtain stood Verity, and soon, she’d see him up close. His high cheekbones, his tanned skin, those ebony lashes and pink, pink lips. Lips she wanted to kiss the life out of. Lips she would soon touch.

It wasn’t a matter of if but when.

Minutes ticked by, and she felt the air around her become molasses. Waiting was a slow, painful death. She felt nausea pool in her stomach and prayed the floor wouldn’t crumble before Verity appeared. She’d be alright with death, would welcome it, even, if only she got to see him in the flesh, golden in the light of the arena.

The lights dimmed, shone purple and blue; she held her breath until her face matched and released ice and magma from the confines of her throat, a shrill squeal, an anticipatory battle cry.

A single spotlight showered Verity’s microphone stand in glitter and fire.

And then, as if an apparition, an angel, a god, there he was, just for her, only for her. Verity.

Tears streaked down her face. The first few chords of “Tonight, Baby” rang out like a church hymn, and she placed both hands on her chest, wheezing as if her heart was failing, and maybe it was. In this moment, she did feel like she was passing on, floating above the crowd to the heavens, sprouting wings as she rose. Every inch of her skin tingled, every hair on her body shot up straight, and as Verity sang his first lyric, she knew her life was complete.

“We’re here. All of us. The chosen ones, the few.”

But it was just her. The arena was empty, and they were alone, she and Verity. He’s looking right at me, she thought, and a wave of bliss washed over her. He’s singing to me. Right to me, to me, to me, to me… Her vision blurred, and she gave in to fate. — She woke, disappointed. She felt light and dizzy in a way only a living person could, and that meant she’d see a sunrise without Verity’s piercing eyes staring down at her, without hearing his silky voice croon the words to her gospel. Wait. Verity’s piercing eyes staring down at her… The last things she remembered were those eyes, those gemstones glistening in gold glitter, and now she was here, she was…

She sat up. Canary yellow walls imprisoned her in a barren and unfamiliar space. There was a brown leather couch, headache-inducing LEDs overhead, and no sign of Verity’s gemstone eyes.

To her right, a manual clock read “10:10.”

Two hours after the concert started. She’d missed it. It was over.

Death would have been far too kind now, she thought. Put me out of my misery, she thought. Life is pointless now, she thought. I’ve been looking forward to this my entire life, and now it’s over; I may never see my love again. I should die, I should die, I should die… Across the room from the cot where she lay sat a foldable table with an array of food for crewmembers. There were cups of fruit, pretzels, and chocolate chip muffins, but she only cared about the vanilla cake at the end. And the knife beside it.

She stood, entranced by the metal blade, and walked toward it, her sneakers dragging on the coarse carpet. She’d bought these shoes for the show, the perfect combination of stylish and comfortable—great for waiting in the queue—but now they meant nothing. What use did they have, what purpose, other than slowing her down?

She removed the shoes. She kept walking.

Her fingers curled around the base of the knife, as it had all those months ago, and she stared at the warped reflection of her mouth in stainless steel. That mouth, what use did it have now? She’d missed her chance to sing along with Verity, to intertwine their voices until they were one. Maybe she’d start with her mouth and kill the rest of herself afterward. Her mouth, and then her eyes, and then, and then, and then. The fire in her body had dulled. Hot embers remained, glowing in her fingertips, seducing her. Fade, fade, just like the fire. Let it all go away.

The door creaked open just as she brought the tip of the blade to her face. “Hey, hon. We’re sorry you missed the concert. There’s someone here to see you—” The door slammed. She dropped her arm—and the knife—to her side and saw a graying woman with a lanyard draped around her neck. And beside her, him.

Verity. He had come to see her. He had come to be with her.

“It’s you,” she said, and stepped closer, one, two, three times. His eyes were even more beautiful in person. “I knew you’d come for me.” “Honey, put that knife down,” said the graying woman, but the words met her ears hollowly, as if they hadn’t truly been spoken. A wisp, a memory of speech. “Please, just…” He’s shorter in person. He wanted to meet me halfway. Four, five, six. When our lips meet, I won’t have to stand on tiptoe.

He spoke.

“I… hi. I was just— I saw you faint. I wanted to make sure you were alright.” He’s stuttering, he’s frozen. Nervous to meet me. Nervous to meet the love of his life.

Seven, eight, nine. “Finally,” she said. Her voice was not her own, not anymore. Soon, Verity would suck it out of her body and make it his. “We meet.” I worship you. “Please,” Verity croaked. He wants you. He wants you. He wants you. “Please.” “Say my name,” she uttered. “I want to hear you say my name.” He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t speaking. Why was he standing like that, with his hands out in front of him like a shield, with his eyes wide and unblinking, with his lips taut, with his shoulders shaking? Why weren’t they one yet? Why could she still tell where her body ended and his began?

Why wouldn’t he say her name? “Say it!” She screamed. She was something inhumane, but he could fix her. He could make her human again, bring her back down to earth. All he had to do was say… “I don’t know it!” He cried. He was trembling, all of him, and she realized with a sudden, horrible clarity that it wasn’t in awe. “I don’t know you. I don’t know your name.” “Yes, you do,” she groaned, and she felt her eyes bursting from their sockets, her limbs crumbling, falling away from her. She felt the ceiling come crashing down, and her knife burning in her grip. “You do, Verity. See? I know your name. Verity. Verity Castillo. You love me. I love you. Say my name.”

The graying woman had gone. Where? No matter. They should be alone for this.

“I don’t know it,” he repeated, tears streaking his cheeks, staining them red. “Just tell me your name, and I’ll say it, I’ll say it. Put the knife down, please. Don’t hurt me.”

Liar. Liar, liar, you’re lying, why are you being like this, Verity?

Stop being like this, Verity. I love you; you love me. Say my name. You know my name.

You know me. Every song you write, every lyric you pen is for me.

You’ve described me in every way. I have brown hair, blonde hair, blue eyes, green eyes, a black dress, a white ballgown, a band tee, skinny jeans— say my name.

You know me. You created me. You are my creator, my god.

I’ll be blonde for you. I’ll be European. I am your songs.

I know where you work. I know how you take your coffee. I know who styles your hair and what it smells like. Your birthmark is on my heart and your name is on my chest. I know you.

Attention, that’s love. I pay attention. I love you. Say my name. Say it. Say it. Say it.

Ten.

The knife crunches on impact. She’d never heard the sound of piercing bones and muscle. It was melodic, almost. Like the haunting last notes of a ballad. Like a song, a song, a song. Verity’s mouth fell open, and she watched his eyes dim. What color were they again? Gray, the color of corpses, maybe. They hadn’t been gray before. They were now. Gray. Ten. Ten steps, ten, ten, ten. Say my name.

“Please,” Verity breathed, gasping around the knife. She drew in his words, took his voice. It was hers now.

“I would never hurt you,” she labored, maybe a bit belatedly. “Never. I’m the love of your life, Verity. We own each other.” His blood was slick on her hands. She touched two fingers to his chest wound and smeared it onto her cheeks. Metallic and red. That was Verity. They were one.

Where did his body end? Where did hers begin? This was euphoria. This was heaven.

“I would never hurt you.”

The knife left his body in a sickly suction, and she admired her work. Hot, alive, metallic, and red. That was Verity. Verity was on her dagger, on her skin. This was her dream.

She could die happy.

And she would.

“I love you. I would never hurt you, my Verity.” And as the door flung open, she plunged the knife into her heart, relishing that same crunch of muscle and bone—music. They had made music together, in their final breaths. She smelled like him, like Patchouli oil and cinnamon and O-negative. What a way to go. What a way to exist, to be remembered, to be loved.

Where did her blood end? Where did his begin?

Her eyes shut. She imagined skating in their pools of O-negative. The same. They were the same, she and Verity. It would have been perfect. If only he had known her name.


I haven’t had contact with another human for years. At first, I counted the days where I went without human contact but the days piled on top of each other and I could no longer count them. I didn’t really mind the loneliness at first. I had my dog to keep me company, while he couldn’t talk he gave me some kind of comfort throughout the night.

I don’t remember how humans disappeared or why. I remember waking up and getting dressed for work, I said goodbye to my dog and traveled down to the train station. When I got there it was deserted, it was cool at first but then it dawned on me that there was no one there. I still remember the same platform, its image is printed inside my brain, the eerie flicker of the lights, the empty train, the silence. But that station was long gone. Once I realized that there was no one left I went home. I greeted my dog and ran to my small living room. My hands reached for the remote and I pushed the power button, I watched as last night news played on my small box t.v. in denial I raced to my home phone, first I rang my parents. No answer. Then I rang my sister who lived in Europe. No answer. Then I rang the local police station thinking that maybe my parents and sister were busy. I got no answer from them. With no luck, I dialed random numbers hoping that at least one of them would answer. But no one did. I screamed and yelled out of fear or excitement, I don’t really remember. I spent all day locked up in my small apartment, I did laps of my kitchen, I read books, I talked to my dog. All in the effort to distract myself from the scary truth, I ignored it. I said to myself over 100 times that the world was just playing a massive prank on me. But when I woke up the next morning it was the same thing all over again, no people. Then I decided that staying in my house wouldn’t do me any good. So I left. I took my dog and a small bag full of food and water. I remember saying to my dog “come on Daisy, were going on a walk” her tail wagged with excitement. I knew we weren’t going to come back. So I and Daisy traveled across empty highways with empty cars, I stopped and peered in a few of the cars. Stealing food and anything of value, I didn’t take money. I figured it was useless now. We traveled through empty shopping malls which were good for food seeing as there was an abundance of it. We kept traveling until the night where we would find a shelter of any sort and stay in it until morning came again. Sometimes we wouldn’t find shelter in time and we would be forced to sleep outside. But not too long ago the nights started getting colder and storms were worse and happened more often. So now sleeping outside was no longer an option. Which brings us to our current position. While our daily travels had started in a small city we were now in the middle of nowhere. Dead grass surrounded us and the few plants that remained in this dead plain weren’t tall or wide enough to grant daisy and I cover from the storm. Panicked filled my body while life was lonely and boring, I didn't want to perish in this storm and leave Daisy alone. I ran with Daisy at my side. Did I know where I was running to? No, But anything was better than the dead plains.

“Come on Daisy run!” I yelled, she sped up in front of me. “Keep running”

I spotted a road and we both ran to it, A road meant that there were buildings nearby. I turned around and instantly regretted it. I had never seen the storm, I was always tucked up in a building. But this was something different. A dark fog quickly covered the dead plains that we were once in, It was loud and it made my ears feel like they were about to burst. Through the fog, I could see the plains and noticed that the small trees black as if they had been burnt by a vicious fire. The grass was the same, fire-ravaged. Suddenly I knew that we were in more danger than I predicted. I kept running trying to clutch up to daisy, she started barking and I took a moment to pay attention to the distance. A house! I almost stopped running but I kept pushing myself. We got closer and I noticed that the house had a chimney with smoke coming out of it. A fire was running in the house. Did that mean that there was someone in it? But I had gone so long without contact. On our travels, Daisy and I had never seen or seen traces of humans, just small animals that we would catch and eat. The thought of another human excited me and scared me. What if they were not friendly. Daisy reached the building first and started barking at the door.

“Help” I yelled, ``If they could hear us yell they might let us in “help us, please! Open the door!”

I reached the door and started knocking like crazy. I looked back at the storm, the road was gone, it had been pulled up from the wind and burnt by the fire. I screamed louder. The sounds of movement could be heard through the door. It opened and Daisy and I rushed inside the building. The door shut and we could hear the sounds of the storm hitting the door outside, it was loud. It was terrifying thinking that if the door hadn’t opened a moment later Daisy and I would have perished in it. “No way” came a soft voice from the corner of the room.

I turned to face the voice, it was a tall female with dark hair and green eyes. Her face was dirty and she had a bleeding cut on her cheek. She held a wooden bat with nails coming out of every inch of the bat. She looked intimidating, she was definitely not someone you’d wanna mess with.

I could feel my mouth open with shock and quickly shut it. “There are more humans," I asked. Her eyes went wide and she lowered her bat “you don’t know?” “About what” “You really don’t know about the humans” “Wait before you tell me any more, what's your name?” “It's Scarlett,  yours?” “Ryker” “Ok, but you really don’t know about the humans”

“All I knew up until a few minutes ago was that I was the only one left,” I asked “That's what I thought to” she responded, she sat down on the floor across from me “but there's more of them,” she said gravely “Humans?” I asked, she wasn't making any sense and I was so confused. “No” she shook her head “ I guess they were once humans but there definitely not humans anymore, they are the ugliest, most unnerving creature you will ever see” she paused before continuing “they look almost mutated, with extra limbs, bigger and smaller features, but they don’t have eyes”

I stayed silent. Daisy stopped wandering around the room and laid down beside me. “There are just empty black holes, and they just stare at you” “I'm guessing they're not friendly,” I joked, trying to make light of the situation. “No their not” she responded and rolled her eyes “I used to be traveling with my younger sister and she was my only friend left, then we were hunting for food and they surrounded us. So we ran to this building...but only I made it. She wasn’t quick enough”

I could see her eyes were wet with tears and her eyes were red and puffy.“I’m so sorry” I said softly “It's fine, no point looking back at the past. We have to get out of here though, these walls aren’t strong enough to hold them off, and they’ll come for more food if they get hungry” she stood up and started packing up the few things that had been spread out in the building. “Are you crazy?!” I yelled “you want me to go out there after you just told me your story about those creatures”

She raised her eyebrows “I’ve been dealing with this for a lot longer than you have and I know it's better to get away then stay here and wait for them to get hungry”

I bit my tongue and stayed silent. I followed her further into the building, there was a lot of rust and out of date food. It looked like a petrol station from the inside. She stopped at a door and turned to me. “We run out of this door and keep running until we lose them, then we go to my base” I nodded and turned to my Daisy “you have to run faster than ever, ok?”

Scarlett looked at me and I nodded, she opened the door and the sunlight poured into the dark building.

‘Run!”


All We Have Is Time ©2024 Ellen Bennett            Verdant pastures spread panoramically, dotted with scarred, red-wooded barns, squat doublewides or old homes in various stages of disrepair. Along the way, an invisible wall surrounds me, like I’ve entered a balloon filled with thick humid air. It stops me at once. I dismount the bicycle and straddle it between my knees, catching my breath. JOURNAL ENTRY: BICYCLE TRIP, JUNE 4, 2024 A pole barn with its open doors is strewn with equipment both inside and out. Flanking the open doors are two small windows, their frames of rotted wood barely holding shards of broken glass together.  An overwhelming loneliness sweeps over me, settling deep inside my gut. The edges of the defined glass look like they could cut through any excuse.            A rusted tractor sits outside of the barn, framed in the brilliant azure sky. It is surrounded by tall weeds and overgrown grasses, their rough thorny slivers poking through rotted floorboards and around the engine housing. The now-defunct lift bucket lays dormant, like a dinosaur who gave up the fight. It bakes in the midday sun while accumulated layers of pollen, road and mower dust, bird droppings, hay, old oil, and grease disguise the rich history buried beneath age-old fingerprints. Working hands once controlled the levers that carried soil, rocks, manure, hay, and bags of feed, like clockwork against nature’s shifting weather. It has been left to decay, like everything else we humans choose to ignore.             Several black cattle and two Paint horses graze lazily in the nearby fields, a gentle breeze whispers through the thickly leafed towering maples and elms. Such old trees, their secrets safely stowed within their massive branches, trunk, and sturdy roots. I think about putting my palms on the trunk to absorb their knowledge, but I don’t move because to move would disrupt the clarity of the moment.

           There is an undertow scent of recently spread fertilizer. Dark tractor lines crisscross the road coming from the field with the livestock and into another almost barren field which is in the process of being sowed. After a few days, the once pungent, eye-watering—almost nauseating—odor of freshly combined, composted fertilizer becomes not at all unpleasant, almost sweet with the clean air curling in from nearby Lake Michigan.

           Black Gold!            A flutter comes from the top of one of the trees, a twitter and a call. A red winged black bird shoots from the cave of the leaves with a rustle and a snap as he calls to the others, possibly to join him in something delectable, or to throw them off the scent so the bounty will be all his. Do birds have this sense of propriety like their human counterparts? Do birds leave things behind to rot? When their offspring fall from the nest, do they save them?            They don’t.            Other birds of varying breeds zip in from different directions and bury themselves in parts of the trees. Their chatter blends in with distant cow moans and constant traffic on the highway which is located behind a thick line of trees. A heavy-sounding vehicle runs along the rumble strip then rights itself, and one of the Paints blows air through its nose as it flips its hay mound around into strewn piles. I watch the strands settle like pick-up-sticks. The aroma of sweet feed from a nearby tub is heady, the horse version of fresh-baked apple pie on a windowsill!            The mailbox at the end of the hard-packed dirt and gravel driveway leans toward the road. The post is fading, it’s green paint flecked and hanging in slivers around a chipped and unbalanced base. The door to the box is jimmied with gate clips. It doesn’t close all the way. There is a stack of weathered flyer mail sticking out of the top. The house number is hand-painted on a piece of wood, which is crookedly fastened with nails sticking out of the back of it having missed the thickness of the post. I wonder how it stays on in the wind.            A loud rustling from my right demands my attention and I swivel my head. Whatever it is, it is big. It sounds tangled within the trees and scrub. Then the sound settles, and a doe rises to the street from a shallow ditch, her hooves clattering lightly on the hard-packed dirt and gravel of the edge of the road. We come face to face, her mandibles working slowly on something she must have just picked off a tree. She is most gentle-looking, non-confrontive. I whisper to her twitching ears, “Hello beautiful, I am not going to hurt you, sweet momma.” She snuffles quietly through her nose and continues to slowly move the food around in her mouth, assessing me. Her front legs are slightly bent to accommodate the thrust of her back legs in case she needs to flee. I wonder if she has her babies tucked safely in the woods. Her dark eyes are steady on me. Perhaps she can smell that I am not a threat. When she sighs and calmly turns to go I tell her, “This is your land. Not mine. Thank you for making this moment count.”            As I watch her white tail recede back into the safety of the woods, I wonder if I have somehow stopped time. But I know that time is involuntary, like the beating of the heart, or the push of the diaphragm and expansion of the lungs! What would life be without the gravity of time? Where would history go to be discovered, surely repeated? If we embrace it, time gives us room and breadth.                                                                          ***            I take a sip of water and remount the bicycle.            The road continues curvy and hilly as I click into gear.            This pause has refreshed and nourished my soul; the scene permanently imprinted on the part of my mind that collects precious moments.            With the sun on my back and my eyes focused forward, I say quietly, “All we have is this, right now. All we have is time.”


"This wasn't any kinda fractal or visual i've seen in all the times i've tripped, this thing was alive. It was the fucking universe, man. The whole universe was like one big.... creature? God? I don't fucking know. But it was almost like it was squirming, like some group of gigantic fucking earthworms in one of those plastic things you get from a bait store. Like they were all packed in there tangled up in each other trying to go in a million directions at one time. But I'm telling you, this was one fucking thing. At first I started to flip the fuck out, but I've had some bad trips before so I calmed down and kept watching this thing squirm. It made me sick at first, not just because of how it looked but how the fucking size of it made my head spin. It was literally the entire goddamn universe. You remember that myth about the World Snake or whatever? Like how it stretches all the way around the Earth and eats it's own tail? Imagine how big that motherfucker is. Now take that and multiply it by some number we can't even wrap our fucking minds around. When I realized how massive it was, I didn't just feel nauseous. It was like my understanding of The Earth and our place in the universe melted away. People who have done a lot of psychedelics know what "ego death" is. You see your own death in a trip, so when you come back to reality you no don't have those pre conceived notions of "me". It makes you see shit in a different way. You aren't as selfish anymore, because you realize that you're like a drop in the bucket, you know what I mean? Ok, well this shit is beyond fucking ego death. The more I stared at this thing, it was like I had some kind of realization. It's the universe right? Well we're a part of it too. Our solar system, the next one over, hell even one a billion light-years away is living in it. And like how we're made up of atoms, like these tiny fucking things that all somehow stick together and make up everything. And then I realized something else. If the planets and stars and shit are like the fucking atoms that form this thing, what does that make us? We're like the fucking electrons and shit that spin around the fucking inside of the atoms. Hell, maybe even smaller than that. I mean we're like nothing. Like a fucking fly on a billboard the size of the United States. All this shit was coming into my head, and it was like my physical body and shit had melted away into this fucking thing. Even my fucking soul. None of it made sense anymore. I don't even think I was a person anymore at this point in the trip. It's like that atom shit I was talking about. Those atoms could be living their own lives that we don't even know about, but what does the life of that atom even mean compared to me and you? If that tiny fucking atom had a wife and kids that it loved a whole lot, and they all got wiped out in a car crash, or got fucking shot in the head one by one, what would that matter to you? It's just an atom, and the only thing that matters to you is that it does it's job to hold everything together right? Ok, now you're the atom. All you're doing is sitting there with a shitload of other dots doing Jack shit. So what if you die, or I die? There's trillions or probably more little dots doing the same thing. That was the scariest fucking feeling ever. Knowing that if we all got wiped out in a massive fucking explosion or war or whatever, it wouldn't even matter. So yeah, I was like this atom on the back of a giant space worm thing. But I started to feel it. The squirming. The goddamn slimy universe rolling around for no fucking reason. I completely lost my shit by then. I don't think the human brain can take that much. I was numb, and alive. It was like I got spread out in a million directions. I was the fucking stars, man. But it didn't even stop there. It kept moving out and out, and I could feel myself strecthing farther and farther and faster and faster until I got to the size of the worm.


Mark is back on the scene again he noted. He was never fond of Mark, we met Mark soon after we met up and I always found him to be a good guy, Mark and I had a shared interest in running amongst other things, but he didn't get on with Mark and tried to get away from him when he could. I decided it might be best if we only saw Mark a couple of times a year, in an attempt to keep the peace. I’d meet Mark at race meets and Mark would always ask after him, I hated that they didn't get along. I tried to convince him but he was having none of it. We first met in 2009 just before Natalie decided to leave him. He got very depressed about it and he came to live with me and for the first couple of weeks he moped around, sleeping a lot, doing crazy things like leaving the cooker on and nearly burned down the house. He got better though, after a couple of weeks he accepted she was gone and after a couple of months he went back to his happy demeanor. We decided in 2010 to head to Portugal for a few months where we both got fat and lazy, they were good days. We’d hang around the pool, drinking, or in the pool, drinking. A few months turned into nearly two years before we decided to move back. The downside for him was we’d bump into Mark from time to time. I thought the time away might help ease the animosity from him but no, he moaned every time we met Mark. Over the years we hung out as best friends do, we’d see each other daily, he turned into a good listener. I’d tell him my problems and he’d just nod his head, never butting in or never offering an opinion, he just listened. Earlier in the year he started to get a bit ill, and I couldn't help but notice his condition was getting worse and worse, he didn't listen as much these days and just got grumpier and grumpier. I put it down to the pain, though he never once complained about it. I spoke to Mark and asked would he come up to visit him, he got very angry when Mark came to the house. Mark never comes to the house he protested Why is he here? Dressed in his scrubs Mark said it was time, he injected him with the sedative and waited for him to close his eyes. Mark turned to me and told me that I didn't need to see the next bit, I walked away, but now I wish I hadn't. When I came back a few minutes later he was dead, and I was so very very sad. Mark and his colleague took him away and told me the practice would be in touch in a few days. A few days later I visited the vet practice and paid the man who killed my best friend.


Jessica and I went to the same college - Illinois State University. Both of us came from the Village of Savoy, some 94 kilometres south east of I.S.U. But we only came to know each other as freshers at the university. Here’s how we met. As freshers, I used to see her in my class but we had never talked. One evening, I was strolling outside campus when I saw her accosted by two fellows. From the altercations, I could tell that it wasn’t a friendly encounter. As I drew near, the bully donning Low Fade haircut held her by the ponytail while the other hand was cuddling her waist coarsely. The other goon with Faux Hawk haircut was trying to kiss her forcibly as he held her hands. She was fighting and screaming. “Hey you,” I shouted as I rushed toward them. “Stop it!” Faux Hawk stopped and confronted me. “Who are you?” He asked me The two were more heavily built and taller than I. I am five-eight but could rely on my rusty martial arts expertise if they attacked. I had taken three years of martial arts classes when I was at high school. “She is my classmate,” I responded. “Then why don’t you wait for her in class until we’re done with her?” Faux Hawk paused. “And why don’t you mind your business before we make you our business?” Low Fade thundered, leaving Jessica and charging at me. Before I could respond, he swiftly slapped me hard on the left cheek. I staggered sideways. I hadn’t seen it coming but I am not the fighting type either. I took a few steps back. I prefer diplomatic conflict resolution if it can be achieved. That is not to say I am a weakling. “Hey! I can see you’re spoiling for a fight but I didn’t come to fight,” I said. “Why don’t we just say that nothing happened and let her go?” “I didn’t know you were The Coward of the County ,” Faux Hawk said approaching me menacingly. You just want to free her without a fight? He added as he swung a right hook at my face. This time I sidestepped the blow. I kicked him hard on the chin sending him sprawling. He cursed. His chum furiously attacked. I gave him a lightning roundhouse kick that saw him on the ground too. Jessica was standing a slight distance away, agape. “We can fight now,” I challenged them. “I’ve changed my mind.” Low Fade stood up and swung a blow. I kicked him between his legs. He wailed and crouched. Faux Hawk rushed at me in a murderous rage. I kicked him in the solar plexus and he doubled up. I gave him another kick in the face – I must have broken his a tooth or two because I could feel a crack - that sent him flying. He spit blood. I could see they were not eager to proceed. “Scram!” I said. “You will pay for this someday,” Low Fade said as he helped Faux Hawk up. “I’ve never been whomped by a fresher and you are not going to be the first.” “I just did it and you’re welcome again, buddy,” I said. “I’m game. They hobbled away. I took Jessica’s hand and led her to the opposite direction. She was still shaking. “That was swift,” she said. “Thanks for saving me. I owe you one.” “It was my pleasure,” I said. “My name is Kevin Anderson. Needless to say, you’re my classmate” “I’m glad to meet you, Kevin. Mine is Jessica Olson.” “I’m happy to meet you, too. Who were those?” “They are our college mates – third year.” “Are they your friends?” “Friends? Hell, no. I believe they are bullies, sexual molesters. The one you kicked last is called Billy. He’s been stalking me ever since I turned down his overtures.” “Now you’re welcome to count on me. You can have me as your big brother on the campus.” “I don’t know what I would have done without your interception. My past few weeks have been hell. Thanks, again. I accept you.” “Thanks.” We went out and had coffee together. We talked about our romantic lives, our aspirations, backgrounds, blah, blah, blah. She told me that she was in a long distance relationship. That she was committed to the relationship although it was shaky. Her boyfriend was always suspicious and could pay her impromptu visits, just to keep her on check. Not finding her with anyone or tell-tale signs in her room did little to allay his suspicions. She kept the relationship anyway, on the premise that reason would prevail someday. I told her that my relationship had ended a year earlier over irreconcilable differences. It had been so painful for me. I had decided to keep romantic relationships on the sidelines for the time being because I didn’t want to hurt again. And so our friendship began. We had a few things in common and in fact shared a lot. We studied the same course at the university, went on study excursions together, partied and dined out together frequently. We hung out together during our leisure time. And that was quite often. But neither of us hindered the other’s personal engagements. Although we were pretty close, our friendship was all along platonic. In our third year, one of our lecturers was leaving to pursue other personal ambitions. He was very popular, so the whole department and the student fraternity decided to host a farewell party for him. Jessica had informed me that she had invited her boyfriend, Jimmy, to the party and she would be delighted to introduce us.  “Are you sure he will take it well?” I had asked her. “You have always defended me against sexual harassment,” she had said. “I don’t see why he would be so naïve to think of you as something else.” “You told me he’s always jealous,” I had said, “I hope he has grown up.” “He has no choice. After all he’s not here to protect me against the numerous marauding harassers. The least I would expect of him is to thank you,” she had said, chuckling. “Well, I look forward to meeting my kid sister’s lover,” I had said, nonchalantly. The farewell party was held at Plato’s Pavilion on the campus. By 7.00 p.m., we had secured a table and three seats. Jessica and I were enjoying our drinks as we listened to music churning out from the recently purchased state-of-the-art music system. We chatted as we awaited the arrival of Jessica’s guest and the official opening of the ceremony. The D.J. was playing "With You" by Mariah Carey. The attendees were exuberant and a good number were on the floor dancing. People were still having fun waiting for the emcee to introduce the event. Then at 8 o’clock, our visitor arrived. A young man standing at six-two, donning a leather jacket and denim jeans, approached Jessica from behind. He cuddled her and when she turned her head kissed her passionately. The number playing then was “Bad Romance” by Lady Gaga. “Good to see you, Jimmy,” she said after they were done. “This is my classmate and guardian, Kevin,” she added, pointing at me. “Kevin, this is my boyfriend, Jimmy.” “I’m pleased to meet you, Jimmy,” I said, extending my hand, which was ignored. “So you’re my famous competitor,” Jimmy said, sneering at me. Then turned to Jessica, “Babe, what are the little things you’ve been doing together? I even see you’re so close.” “What are you driving at?” Jessica asked. “Are you trying to create a scene? “You have already created a scene by sticking too close to this hunk,” Jimmy retorted, then turned to me, "What do you say, lover boy?" “Stop it…” Jessica attempted to say. “Stop what?” Jimmy interjected as he picked up Jessica’s wine glass and splashed the contents on my face. “It’s over, Jimmy; it’s over with you,” Jessica said to Jimmy, red with rage. “I should leave you two to sort your issues,” I offered, wiping my face. “You’re not leaving,” it was more of a command than a statement from Jessica. “You’re my date tonight. Stay. As for you, superhero,” she was addressing Jimmy, “leave now or I call security. You’re persona non grata and I don’t want to have anything with a skunk like you ever again.” She was still seething with anger. “We shall see about that,” Jimmy said and walked away. “I’m so sorry about that, big brother,” Jessica said to me. “I told you I have a bum for a boyfriend. Thank goodness it’s over with him.” “It’s unfortunate,” I said. And so, Jessica’s date aborted and we were left to do our little things together . After the party, we had our own extension and went out on a drinking spree. It wasn’t until the wee hours of Saturday that we retired to my flat – our first time in my flat together since we knew each other. It wasn’t until Sunday evening that she left, and then only because we had classes on Monday. She had to use one of my tracksuits because she hadn’t carried a change of clothes. “Are you still my big brother? She had asked before we parted. “You bet,” I had said. “Talk of siblings becoming romantic,” she said, jestingly. “It was my little sister’s idea.” “Adam said, ‘It was Eve.’” * Our graduation was colourful. We hugged and said goodbyes. I took a job as a research assistant in Missouri while she was offered a teaching job in the Village of Savoy. We communicated regularly through e-mail and phone. Our communications were manly chitchats. I didn’t have a girlfriend yet because I had sort of become wary of a break-up. Jessica told me that she never heard again of Jimmy and she didn’t care. Although our relation had been platonic, maybe with a tinge of romance, I was seriously thinking of cementing it to a romantic one. She hadn’t mentioned any new catch, so I was almost sure that she was still single. When my contract ended a year later, I returned to Illinois and was happy to reunite with my * little sister *. I was also in time to honour my real little sister Emma’s invite to their corporate-end-of-year party. Emma worked for Latham, Bird & Morgan LLP, a local legal firm. Emma had said I could come along with a friend. Who was better suited than my other little sister? I called Jessica when I arrived in the Village of Savoy and we arranged to meet the following evening, a Tuesday. They were on long holidays. We met on the Tuesday evening over a drink. We discussed many inconsequential issues. Then I asked if she would be available to accompany me to my real sister’s party on the coming weekend. To my surprise, she flatly declined. “You see Kevin,” she had said, “we have been communicating but there are a few things I haven’t told you.” “I’m all ears.” “Ever since we parted ways, I have attended only one party. That party ended disastrously and I swore to never attend any other party.” “What happened? Did you overdrink?” “More than that; I still feel uncomfortable discussing it. I will tell you some day when the time’s right.” “But this is not just another party,” I had reasoned. “This is my real kid sister’s party and I have no one else to accompany me.” “Okay, let’s make a deal.” “Let’s hear it.” “I will attend the party on condition that you also attend my event.” “What event?” “We shall discuss it later too.” “Deal,” I said, still in the dark. * The party was held at the Bird & Morgan LLP’s boardroom. It was jam-packed. There were all kinds of foods and drinks and the music was good. We had eaten to our fill and were enjoying drinks and music. At about 7.30 p.m., I asked Jessica to dance. The number playing was "Just The Two Of Us" by Will Smith. We had just danced halfway through "Somebody Else's Lover" by Juliette Claire when a thirty-something man, wearing a maroon sleeveless jacket, a white shirt and a black bowtie approached us. He raised his nonexistent hat and said, “Hellos,” looking intently at Jessica. Then he left as fast as he had appeared. “Who was that?” I asked Jessica. Jessica was trembling like an aspen leaf. “Let’s leave. Please take me home.” “Anything I need to know?” “Please take me home. I’ll tell you in bed.” We went straight to my flat. We took a shower and retired to bed. “Are you feeling better now,” I asked. “I’m good.” “Can we then talk about the bowtie fellow?” “Absolutely; his name is Alex if I am not wrong. As I intimated, the one we’ve just been to was the first party I have attended in a long time. When we parted, I was invited to a similar party. Then this sweet-talking guy approaches me and we sit together. He tells me how beautiful I am, how he would like to marry a girl like me, blah, blah, blah.” She proceeded to tell me how Alex covertly spiked his drink and she passed out. He went ahead and took her to his home. Fortunately, he was either intoxicated or high on drugs or both. So, instead of taking her to his bedroom, he took her to his parent’s bedroom! “According to his mother,” Jessica said, “Alex arrived home at midnight carrying me on his shoulder like a log. He was clearly too drunk. She and her husband were already in bed but her husband had gone to the toilet leaving the lights on. She was wide awake when Alex entered carrying what looked like a dead body. She screamed. Alex must have realized his mistake because he dropped his cargo and fled.” Alex’s father had returned to find the unfolding drama. He called police and Jessica was taken to hospital. Alex was arrested the following day and locked up. Tests on whether Jessica was drugged were inconclusive. So no charges were preferred against Alex and he was freed on the third day. “After that incident, I developed cold feet about parties. Now you know.” “Wow! That was an experience. Now, can we talk about your event?” “Let’s talk about it in the morning - please. My head will be clear then” “Your wish is my command.” We slept until midday. It was a weekday but neither of us had any commitments. “Good morning, sweetheart!” I greeted Jessica when we woke up. “It was a lovely night,” she said. “Indeed it was fabulous. If your head is clear, you might want to tell me about your event.” “Oh, yes. I would have told you ages ago but I didn’t know how. But I still have to tell you, one way or another anyway. You remember Billy, the guy whose dental formula you rearrange at the university?” “You mean one of the goons who were molesting you?” “Yes, that one; we buried the hatchet and he proposed. The wedding will be January third,” she said. "What! Are you pulling my leg?” “No. I’m serious. Will you grace the event?”