: Brief profanity and brief violence The K-Pop drowned out the sound of the vehicle. Even with the sunglasses, Tucker had to continually squint as the low September sun filtered through the tree limbs. The placid, predictable concrete of the city was miles behind him, replaced with the wild, untamed...whatever this was. Trees? He guessed. In between songs he caught glimpses of his father's music--quite a variety, he observed, but still not really what he liked. His phone chimed. A message from Heather. "So no hangout?" she asked. He wanted to pour all his feelings into this message, but didn't. Instead, he cleared the screen, put his phone in his lap, and continued to look out the window. It wasn't long before the car slowed and turned down a gravel driveway. They were plunged into the dense woods, and the day turned into a faux night until Tucker's eyes adjusted. He thought about sending Heather's chat reply just then, but he was out of service. He wondered if Uncle Henry had WiFi. His dad tapped him on the shoulder, then tapped his ears. Tucker reluctantly took his earbuds out and put them back in the charging case. "You excited?" Tucker shrugged. At least his dad had the decency to turn the radio off. "I feel ya." "I could have just stayed at home." "We talked about this." "I know." "You're not old enough." "Yeah, I know." "Soon though," his dad said with a smirk. He always tried to lighten the mood with these kinds of serious talks. They passed by a rusted--something. Tucker thought it looked like a robot with teeth on the bottom. Probably an abandoned project from the 1920. At this point moss had claimed it. The car finally stopped and Tucker's dad turned off the engine. Tucker's skin tingled from the absence of asphalt of the 2 hour car ride. He and his dad got out and stretched their legs. The lake was visible through the fall foliage. The air was a few degrees colder than on the road. His Great Uncle Henry--from Tucker's dad's side--was already out the door. The two men greeted each other warmly. Despite being a recent inductee into the 90's, Uncle Henry was pretty mobile, still not needing a cane or walker. His wife, Nancy, died ten years earlier after being bed-ridden for nearly three years. But Uncle Henry's appearance still mirrored that of his dad's and--annoyingly--his own. Although Tucker still didn't sport the pure white beard of his great uncle or the peppered one of his dad he was still cursed with the wide jaw and pronounced underbite. One thing he did have going for him was the sparkling eyes, that grew more jovial with age. Tucker still kept a stoic face, thinking back to a good reply to Heather. As his father and great uncle continued to catch up, he wandered around to the side of the house to take a look at skeleton of the addition. Fresh lumber was already encased in plastic sheets, and the outline of a stairway snaked around the outside of the walls. Moister was on the wood, but Tucker still smelled the fresh timber. His dad and uncle were actually discussing the project right now, Uncle Henry waving his finger toward the work progress, mentioning "vacation rental" and "before the good Lord takes me out." Okay, yeah, Tucker admitted, this would be a neat place to have a vacation. But not when your original weekend plans were to hang out with a cute girl. "Tucker," Uncle Henry beckoned. "I just baked a pie. Come on in and have some." His dad was already up the porch and inside the house. Uncle Henry looked back coyly, and said, "And I have some beer for ya," only to be met with Dad's scolding, "Henry!" Inside the two men continued to talk about life, leaving tucker to hang out by the unusually comfortable couch. A slice of pie was eventually brought to him. "Sorry, burned the crust," Uncle Henry apologized, as he did every time he cooked the pie. He swore by his late wife's cherry pie recipe, but was never able to execute on it. Tucker remained by himself, scrolling through his phone, waiting for a signal, and trying to seem like he was listening to the conversation. Eventually he grew bored after finishing the pie and trudged upstairs. The room his uncle usually set aside for him was cluttered. At first it just looked like trash, but upon closer inspection Tucker noticed the yellowed pages, the typewriter font, the faded pictures of a 20-year old Nancy, glammed up and smiling broadly at an angle toward the camera. And a revolver, just lying there. And...a detonator? After recovering from his early-stage heart attack, Tucker recalled--Uncle Henry did espionage work for the CIA in the late sixties and and into the seventies. It never really interested him much. But there was something about seeing the old work stuff, in person, that piqued his interest. "Oh, that stuff, meant to clean it up," Uncle Henry said, who had appeared beside him. "But you can stay in this room for the time being." Uncle Henry led the way to the room across the hall. "So you did some spy shit?" Tucker asked. "Watch your damn mouth." "Sorry. You were a spy?" Uncle Henry opened the door to the adjacent room. Cold air rushed out. "Yes, I thought I told you about it." Tucker shrugged. "I guess you did when I was younger." Tucker's dad called out a farewell to both him and Uncle Henry. Uncle Henry replied. Then Tucker said, "Did you ever kill anyone? Like 007?" Uncle Henry smiled. "No. I was lucky." "You ever almost die?" "Yes, one time in particular." "Can you tell me about it?" "Yes, but first, I want to get your help getting the walls up on the addition outside. I'm hoping we can finish before the sun sets." Tucker sighed and his shoulders dropped. "You got any WiFi yet?" Uncle Henry wasn't phased. "No." Tucker shrugged. He could either sit on his bed bored or help his Uncle out. "Okay, fine." Tucker grabbed his duffel bag, threw it on his bed, then donned some fall gear to combat the cold. When he ventured outside, the sun had already set behind the hill and cast an evening red onto the lake. "Over here!" Uncle Henry called, three nails hanging from his lips. Eventually the lure of the Internet-connected world wore off, and Tucker was even tempted to conclude that it was therapeutic to help his great uncle. Mostly he just held boards in place as Uncle Henry nailed them, trying not to laugh any time Uncle Henry smacked his thumb and threw a flurry of obscenities. "Don't tell your folks I said that," he would say after the pain wore off. But soon Tucker would have to squint to see what they were doing. "Well, we have a few more boards, but we can finish in the morning. Let's grab some more of that pie." Instead of sitting at the dining table, Uncle Henry brought the pie tin up to the room with the scattered paperwork. "It's alright--all this is declassified. The worst that you could do with it is get a scammer trying to buy it on eBay for free. Here, try to eat the pie over here. I don't want it to mess anything up." Now Tucker was able to take a closer look at some of the papers. Most of the writing was in either Russian or German. Some French. Uncle Henry was a busy guy. Tucker reached for a folder when Uncle Henry beat him to the punch, abruptly yanking it out of the pile and raising an eyebrow. "First," he said, opening the folder. Inside was a fuzzy black-and-white photograph of a man in a trench coat, about to cross the street. Balding except for a strong ring of hair. Sunglasses. Tucker thought of joking that they needed zoom-and-enhance in the seventies. "The most dangerous mission," Uncle Henry said, settling himself into a chair. Tucker leaned against the wall, picking up his pie. "You have to remember, my only job was intelligence. I wasn't supposed to take this guy out; Bedivere Filipov. I was supposed to find the name of his major customer." "How'd you do it?" "He was a Russian weapon's dealer post Cold War. Didn't like how the Cold War fizzled out. So I thought, 'Weapon's dealer. What if I was a weapon's supplier?' I worked closely with other Russian spies to establish a business, and feed a paper trail to make it look like I'd been around since the thirties. The ruse worked. We got our man. Filipov did it covertly, but we were able to set up an appointment. "We didn't want to risk having a wire or anything surveillance-related. Filipov was powerful and had many layers of security. I would have to go in without any protection or wire, get the info, and get out." "Were you scared?" Uncle Henry nodded. "But I had to do it. Lives were at risk. So on the date of our meeting I got through every level of security. My heart was pounding. Everybody was greeting in their usual Russian way. I was still playing an American, so I didn't need to worry about appearing Soviet. Anyway, I finally entered Filipov's office. He was very tight lipped. But I hedged a bet that he was desperate. There were other, more notorious, arms suppliers in Russia. If I walked out on this deal, there was nowhere else for him to turn. Which gave me some leverage. "Anyways, Filipov wasn't saying anything. I was hoping the names of his customers would slip out, but they never did. But then I took a risk and I said, 'Americans must pay. I need your assurances that the weapons will be distributed to the right people.' I remember Filipov's eyes flashed. His mask slipped. I got him. He told me five customers. Though he said he had seventeen, he teased me with five, which was plenty. "His assistant started to get nervous, and then discretely walked up and whispered in his ear. After a little back and forth, Filipov tensed up. He slowly reached under his desk. His assistant carefully reached behind his back. "I sprang from my chair. A bullet grazed my arm, right here!" He rolled uphis sleeve and pointed to the back of his arm, revealing a scar. "I was out in the hall. His security was all over me. But there was a window down the hall, so I sprinted for the window, took a breath, and jumped out the window. "Bushes broke my fall, but I was caught. I scrambled to get out of the bushes as I heard a siren go off. I realized that was for me. They were after me and they were either going to kill me or torture me. Didn't want to find out which. Just as I came to my feet two nurses walked by. They eyed me with a fearful curiosity. I grabbed on of them and shoved a knuckle in their back, feigning a gun. 'Get away!' I screamed in Russian, 'I'll kill her!' Her assistant did run away. 'Now, get me out of here,' I said to the nurse that I had. "She hesitated so I pushed my knuckle further into her back. Her feet started shuffling toward a door guarded by a soldier. He raised his rifle, but the emotional pleas from the nurse won him over, and he backed away from the door, keeping his weapon trained on me. "I carefully backed into the door. Then, at the last possible moment, I kicked the woman toward the guard, opened the door, and closed it before I got shot. I raced back to base, and, boy, I had a story to tell! "During debriefing I told all the details. But everyone was stern-looking. I wondered why. Finally, the director asked, 'What are the names of the customers?'" Uncle Henry's face fell, then he continued. "'I forgot,' I said. And I really did, truly forget. I forgot every single one of the names. I sat in the room for half an hour, racking my brain. The other agents waited. I worked through the alphabet, I retraced the steps in my head, but I could not remember a single name. "They brought doctors in. They hypnotized me. They told me to go home and get some rest." Uncle Henry snorted. "Yeah, you try sleeping if national security is dependent on faulty memory. "Days go by...months go by...still--nothing. I was so distraught I had to leave my job. I took early retirement, before they fired me. Even now, to this day, for the life of me, I can't remember their names!" Uncle Henry looked down at the folder, lost in thought. Tucker could almost see the reflections in those sparkly eyes--the disappointed faces of the other agents. His distraught uncle at a dining room table at night, crying in front of Nancy, unable to keep in together. Then, abruptly, he closed it. "Well, that's all for tonight." "Got any more stories?" "Yes, tomorrow. It's getting late." Uncle Henry got up from his chair and turned off the light, leaving the hallway night light on. Tucker sat in the darkness for a bit, still absorbing the story. He took the phone out of his pocket. Still no signal. He put his phone on flight mode to preserve the 75% battery life, then took his great uncle's suggestion and went to bed. He again scrolled through the Heather's messages before falling unconscious. Did she like him? Jury was still out. He put the phone aside and closed his eyes. The room lacked curtains, but without city lights and with the overcast sky, the room became pitch black. He heard his great uncle snoring in the other room. Or was he snoring? "Mfr--Shyam!" He thought he heard. Strange, he didn't know his Great Uncle talked in his sleep. Ah, that was because he usually slept in the room across the hall so he didn't hear him. Now the wall carried over his sound. He still breathed--were they words? Almost. Hey! Maybe a new language! "HrrrrmmmmmmmSssssshhhYam! FarrrrrraGOoooo!" This continued for a few minutes. Eventually the murmuring stopped and soft snoring was heard. Entertainment for the weekend, Tucker thought, and turned to his side, snuggling into his bed. The next morning Tucker and Uncle Henry continued to work on the addition. The walls were finally up. They took a trip into town to buy the siding. Uncle Henry bought a Rockstar and a muffin for Tucker. Henry just stuck with coffee and a trail mix. They returned to work until it started to rain. Uncle Henry claimed rain was a sign from God to stop work. Tucker couldn't agree more. "You talk in your sleep," Tucker said as Uncle Henry made sandwiches. "Yeah, that's what Nancy told me. I told her she farted in her sleep. That shut her up." "You had more stories?" "Yeah, that one I told you last night was definitely the most harrowing. Should have given me PTSD, but the most it did was prove to me I'm senile. There are other stories that are more entertaining." Tucker listened as Henry told another one about a clumsy partner who never let his clumsiness show because Henry was good about covering for it. "I kept him around because he was really good at connecting unrelated ideas," he explained. "Saved a lot of lives." Eventually the rain gave way to sunshine, and they continued to put up siding, Henry on a ladder, lips playing with the iron nails, Tucker handing him the slats. Then, finally, evening hit. Henry toasted some bread and peanut butter. They both ate it ravenously, too beat to prepare anything more substantial, and retired to bed. Tucker closed his eyes. He didn't last long. Again, his uncle with the talking. This was just too good, Tucker thought. He had to record it to show Dad. Quietly, he retrieved his phone, turned down the brightness all the way, then tiptoed out into the hall. He quietly turned the knob, and slowly pushed Henry's bedroom door open. Just barely illuminated by barely-dim lighting, Henry lay sprawled on his bed, wearing just his underwear. Tucker opened his video app, just as Henry started talking again. The audio quality was gonna be good. He hit record, and the camera app chirped, causing Uncle Henry to stir slightly. But he didn't wake. He still continued to murmur gibberish. After the five minute mark, Tucker felt it was enough. He closed his phone app, then quickly tiptoed back to his room. His dad was so gonna get a kick out of this! The next morning, during breakfast, Tucker looked at the video of his Great Uncle talking in his sleep. He wasn't sure if the audio would be loud enough. Oh, no, it was. Tucker grinned. "Ggggrrrrhhhhhr...Joh.....JOhhhh....siiiiii...." Tucker snickered. He didn't know he would have this much fun at his uncle's place. "Is that me?" Uncle Henry demanded. He stood in the kitchen doorway, bleary-eyed, wearing a stained t-shirt and sweat pants. Tucker was about to hide the phone, but--despite Uncle Henry's half-awake appearance--he snatched the phone away. His face flushed. "You went into my room and recorded me--" Then it went pale. "Well...I'll be damned." "Language." "Shyam Hahn," he repeated. "That's right. Hahn. And Tsvetan Miles." His face suddenly brightened. He kept the phone and walked away, muttering nonsense to himself. "Uncle Henry?" Tucker asked. "My phone...?" His pace quickened. "Tucker, put on some pants. We're heading to the Langley!" Within 5 minutes the two were in Uncle Henry's growling tuck, speeding down the freeway. "Turn it up! Turn it up!" Uncle Henry demanded. "Put it close to my ear! Haha! Yes, That's it!" Then, as he continued to look at the road he repeated to himself. "Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley...Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley..." He continued this mantra until he checked into Langley and asked to see the director immediately. A fifteen minute waltz of talking with a retired director shortcutted the process, and Tucker was then following his Great Uncle into the director's office as he chanted "Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles....Presley..." Despite Henry's suddenly flamboyant display of enthusiasm, the director at Langley regarded him with professional disinterest. "May I help you Mr. Carter?" "I got it! I got the names! The Filipov case from 1974!" I can't believe it! Can you believe it Tucker!" He then repeated the names to the director, who nodded curtly, then turned to his computer, typing a few things, clicking a few things, then printing something out a piece of paper. "They thought I had forgotten! But I hadn't! It was all in there! All it took was this young MySpacer here--" as he tousled Tucker's hair-- "to jog this old coot's memory! Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley...Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley..." Without ceremony, the director handed Henry a sheet of paper. "What's this?" Henry asked. "A report of the Filipov case. Turns out a rogue operative took care of the job. A few minutes after your escape, the operative used the chaos of your escape as a distraction to set off a bomb. Filipov and his entire staff died in the blast." "And the customers?" "They disbanded. We soon arrested them. They're in an Austrian prison for war crimes." Henry's shoulders sagged. "Oh." "Thank you for bringing us the intel, though." "No wonder they were declassified." The director nodded solemnly. Suddenly Uncle Henry brightened. "But I still remembered!" He exclaimed. "Come on, Tucker, let's go get some ice cream!" "It's 9 in the morning." "Best time for ice cream!" The two left Langley, Henry dancing to his new rhythm: "Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley...Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley..." Tucker still had one more day with his crazy uncle. And he had to admit, that didn't sound like such a terrible idea.


Imagine you are going for a stroll through a forest. It is a beautiful day; sunlight is peeking through the top of the canopy to dance among the trees. The path is gentle underfoot, almost soft, padded with the many leaves that have drifted to the forest floor. The wind tumbles from tree to tree, rustling the leaves as it twists overhead. The birds sing softly to one another and flit from one branch to the next. You take a deep breath and your lungs fill with cool, crisp air. A bright purple flower nestled between two ferns catches your eye. It is not too far off the path and you begin to wonder to yourself if you should go have a look. You veer from the path and trudge over. It is beautiful. Vibrant purple petals are complemented by a bright yellow centre. You kneel beside it and lean in, breathing deeply. It smells familiar but you cannot quite place it, an almost citrus-like smell. *Oranges? No. Lemons maybe?* You smile and thank the flower for making your day, standing up to make your way back toward the track. The slivers of sunlight that make it through the dense canopy feel like warm kisses against your skin. You look up, welcoming them with a smile as they dance across your face, contrasting against the cool forest air. You look back down at the sprawling expanse of forest, the thick brush obscuring your view to the path. You walk for a little while, soaking in the view before you realise you probably should have come across the path by now. You decide to retrace your steps; get back to the flower and start again. But as you turn around you are not quite sure which way you came from; it all looks the same. *Was it that way? Or maybe it was over there.* You pick a direction and start trudging through the thick undergrowth. It is not long before you start to feel a pang of worry. Playing out scenarios in your head. You pick up the pace, it feels like you have gotten into a thicker part of the forest and you are now having to push your way through the thick undergrowth. Your shirt catches on a stick and tears. *Fuck.* That somehow made the situation feel a little more real and you start to panic. You keep pushing through. If you could just find the path, a creek, anything to use as a landmark. You start running through all the survival tips you know from movies and books. Looking up, you realise the sun is starting to get low and pick up the pace. The forest is slowly darkening. After what seems like an hour you stumble across a trail of sorts cutting through the forest. The panic subsides a bit and you heave a sigh of relief. You pick up the pace and jog for a bit, following the trail. You check where the sun is and estimate there are around two hours of light left. As long as you get back on the main track, and hurry, you should be out before dark. This trail is fairly easy going but seems more like a side trail. You hope desperately that it links back up to the main path. A flicker of colour on the trail up ahead pulls your attention, there is something hanging on a bush. You press forward and notice a small piece of fabric tangled in the branches; it looks strangely familiar. Looking down at your shirt you realise it is the piece you tore off earlier. The trail you have been following is your own and you have been going in circles this whole time. Your heart sinks and stomach drops. Feelings of dread wash over you. *Fuck, fuck, fuck!* You stop and look deep into the forest, praying that something, anything might look familiar. Nothing. You spin on your heel and there is a giant wall in front of you, towering high into the sky. Your heart skips a beat. *What the fuck?* You cautiously reach out, fingers touching a cold gritty stone. It feels almost… Menacing. You recoil from it and look back over your shoulder, the forest is gone. In its place is a long, dark cavernous tunnel. Your heart is racing, and you keep looking from the wall to the tunnel. You sit on the floor and put your head in your hands, slapping yourself a few times. *This isn’t real. This is not REAL!* You look back up and see the dark hallway stretching before you. After what seems like an eternity you stand up and take a shaky step towards the tunnel, then another. Before you know it, you are heading further in. The light starts getting dimmer and darkness begins to envelop you. *Fuck this.* You decide you don’t want to do this and spin around. Your head bumps straight into something solid. The wall. It has moved and is blocking your exit. You start shaking. *This is some horror movie shit*. You cannot turn back. One step at a time you walk into complete darkness. Every time you go to turn around the wall is right there. Stopping you. Taunting you. Suddenly, your arm brushes on something and you freeze. You can hear your own heart thumping. You reach out a shaky hand and feel a rough hard surface, it is a wall. You realise you must have been walking crooked and take a step the opposite way. You bump into another wall. You reach out both arms and feel walls either side. *What the fuck? Is this getting smaller?* You turn around just to bump back into the wall behind you. You want to cry, to scream. There is only one way to go. Forward. You keep reaching out to feel the walls on either side. You go from having to stretch both arms out to feel them, to bending at the elbows. Eventually, both sides are brushing against your shoulders and you have to start shuffling sideways to keep moving. Your head bumps into something and you suddenly realise you have to crouch. Your hands become clammy and your mouth is dry, you are finding it hard to breathe as you are pressed lower and lower. Shuffling sideways in an awkward half-crouch until you are pushed to your hands and knees. The cold hard ground becomes damp and slippery. A tear streams down your face and you decide to try and move backwards. Your foot is met with the resistance of the wall. You cannot even turn around, you try turning your head to look behind you, but the space is so small your nose scrapes against the wall. You sob as you press forward, walls closing in further, forcing you onto your belly. You pull yourself along the ground, scraping your fingertips against the floor to drag yourself forward, your head is forced sideways, face scraping the wet floor. The walls of the cavern squeeze against your chest and your back, tightening your lungs. You try to look up but the stone pushes against your temples. You wriggle one leg up to try and get a foothold, your knee gets stuck. You go to move it back; it is met with resistance as the wall closes in behind it. You try to pull your arm toward you, but it is wedged, and no amount of straining will make it budge. You cannot move. You cannot go forward. You cannot go backward. You try and wriggle your way out of it to turn your head. But the roof is so tight that you have to keep your head sideways. Your chest feels like it is in a giant sandwich press, each breath cut short. An icy cold begins creeping up your legs, your stomach, your chest. Water so cold it makes you gasp for air, your chest constrict and your muscles cramp. You try thrashing as more water fills the tiny space, desperately trying to move but every muscle, every limb, is frozen in place. The water rises until it covers one nostril. You tilt your head as far as you can, temples scraping against the harsh stone roof, pursing your lips to the side to take a breath. The cold stings against the side of your face, one eye fully submerged. A small amount of water comes in with each breath and you sputter and cough. You try and catch your breath but each time you exhale it feels like the walls are crushing you and more water splashes in your mouth. Your lungs are burning, and you are sputtering and coughing. *This is it.* Water floods through your nostrils, your chest heaves. You take a massive breath and air rushes through your lungs. The walls disappear and you are in a forest. A bright purple flower nestled between two ferns catches your eye. It is not too far off the path and you decide you should not go have a look.


He burped. Not very loud, as he was struggling to keep straight, but the stench of alcohol made it clear he’s been here for a while.  “Ye know, kid, many a seaman think a capn’ should fight better ‘gainst his old ship, but every capn’ knows better. Some good sea dogs might think his captain pities the ship, but that ain’t it. Mates and masters start to get it, aye, but only capn’s fully grasp it: ships be jealous. They ain’t a little, no, they got pangs o’ jealousy, they’re wretches. Been a first mate meself, only twice I seen the hardiest men wet themselves over easy battles. Capitain Hecter himself got near dead when fighting old Margahole with the Gray Shroud. Now, Margarita at her prime was a sight to see, but even then it would hardly be a match to the Shroud – those gray sails were something else, and that fleetness while carrying those cannons was something uncanny. Margarita was abandoned after a successful raid got her slow and bruised.”  He took another gulp. Went down like water.  “We was ready and thinking none too stupid to face us, and that old tub showed up, more holes than a doily and not even all the cannons there. Capn’ knew it better than his own arse, so we thinking, eh, that should be easy. Then I saw ‘im piss heself, right there, white and frozen as if not in a hot Caribbean noon. What I wasn’t seeing was the nimble the Margarita got. I swear you she looked like the holes were fixed, though we could still see’em all there. And cannons fired far as we never could and damn, they got good too. Captain Hecter lost his left arm before we ploughed our first ball in her broadside. By the end of the day, Captain had lost his legs too, and the Gray Shroud took a beating like it fought a man-o’-war. And that’s why Sir Hecter got his rum company. The captain has always been good with rum, made his own stuff and knew what we seamen liked, and it was a better trade for one without legs. But I digress. Here, kid, I was to talk about jealousy.”  He spit at the ground and took such a large gulp it looked like he drank air.  “Thar be a ship called Ivory. Or was it? Nah, the Elephant. Ah, hell, what do we care. She traded in ivory, raided mostly, I be calling her Elephant. Thing’s worth a fortune. Ivory I mean. Done Capn’ Cyril filthy rich. But riches be good for none when ye time’s come. Mayhaps be bad, even. Make’em stop seeing. And when’em see no more, crap happens. See, Capn’ Cyril was a first class raider. Heard o’ some nice guns up in America and came for grabs. Sailed north all the way to the summer ice ‘fore ‘em, and found some nice ship flying the Union Jack there too slow and too protected for her own good. Had to be it. A damn bloody massacre ensued, ‘cause Cyril wain’t no brave fool. He got ‘em at night and rid himself of a few lighter scouts before they could even see ‘im. After hearing the boom, they ran, but none too quick. The Elephant sunk a frigate before all were at their posts, but the others got ready and sailing and shooting. Quite a load of iron flying everywhere, the frigates shooting and a galleon fleeing, but those dark sails made the Elephant nigh invisible at night. Cyril got a frigate to shoot the other, and mercilessly broadsided the survivor. The last frigate stood blocking the way to the galleon, or was it a carrack?, and was so violently rammed down when trying to shoot that even the cannons went flying. And that’s when the boom came”  He got the bottle again and started swigging like it was fresh water after he was stranded and rescued, and no one could tell if not for the smell of rum. “Whoa, easy there!”, I said.  “Bollocks. No use in easy, kid. Ye be no legend if facing easy, innit? And Cyril seen raining fire. Agh.Bloody mess, worst than me. Elephant be lit then, I’ll be damned, but wasn’t stopping none. No, none. Bloody sailors musta pissed’emselves. But shoot and boom and raining fire once more. Cyril seen mortars, but not that. That be witchcraft, thar be something in the carrack. So see he must and see he did. He was taking a beating, aye, but he was reaching her alright. A few well aimed angels and the main mast was down. Galleon was already slow, took all she had to keep moving, snail like and at all. Course they reach ‘er, and they beat ‘er, and they board ‘er. Bloody mess kept on and on and on, and gunpowder and steel were loud as a party, a damn long party. I know nay how many died from Cyril’s crew, but none Bretons live to tell, none but a prisoner kept there who thought a miracle she got released. She was a scoundrel, aye, but hell if any knows what she did to be locked. But Cyril, oh she got him good. He was flying high after that victory, but the wench made him forget all. ‘Course he got all that treasure and them guns, but the wench got to warm his bed every single day after. That’s when he made the big mistake. He told the whole crew they were to be wed. And the first mate would be the one to wed them. Now the first mate was a wary fellow, and though burly as can be, he was in no way a stupid man. He tried to warn off the captain against such a thing, saying he’s never seen a successful ship driven by a married couple, but Captain Cyril was having none of it. So it was, kid, and they wed. That night the mate sure as hell was the last one sober, and the only to see what looked like a gale starboard. He thanked God almighty they were anchored, and went to see the night’s watch. The crow’s nest was empty.”  He drank again, finishing the bottle. By the looks of it, there wasn’t much left.  “The watch was pissed drunk and passed out on the deck. Oh he was gonna taste some flogging, aye, but that was matter for the morrow. Some storm forming starboard and some dark heavy feeling made the mate as restless as he felt the sails to be, raised as they were. Then they weren’t. Ship was shaking and no one on the wheel, sails suddenly down and you could swear the anchor had never been dropped. Ship began to turn and sail windward, into the storm, and better than if the first mate himself was driving ‘er. Things happened fast, and no one could help but to hear a devilish cry, as if some angered, betrayed woman had just enacted her furious revenge. And right in the middle of the storm, it was all anyone could do to hold on. The mate was the first to be thrown overboard, as the Elephant used the very wheel he was struggling to control to overpower him. He surfaced and caught his breath in time to see the just married lass being hurled to nothingness, and the ship calming as if a furious beast giving up life after a rough hunt. No one could control the ship in that storm. The only one able was at water, now maybe half a league away. They crashed and sunk right there, cursed by their own vessel, and not a single one of those souls was free from her curse. The mate wrote it all in a letter and threw it in a bottle to sea, and that’s how me grandpa learned of the tale. Said he died soon after.”  He actually managed to sip something more from that bottle.  “So, kid, hear this: sail north of the Jack Bay close to Little Inagua at the wrong time and ye might still hear their screams in the storm. And don’t dare go near ‘em, else they’ll drag you with’em. There always a red lightning coming from that hellish ghost weapon they stole, and you can’t hide, as the captain’s always searching the sea around for that lass he lost. Now you know, kid. I’m getting another bottle. Wait for me here, ‘twas nice talking and I got a few stories more to share. Damn rum can’t keep me drunk for a full minute anymore. One day I hope I’ll remember the name of the ship.”  “Don’t try too hard,” I said, “or you might have a stroke.” Once he was gone, I walked away. He seemed indeed incapable of keeping drunk for long or ceasing to talk. Sure he’ll find someone else to bother with his lies and won’t even notice it’s not me. Captain Hecter’s first was actually called Slingshot, a quick and steady brigantine. The jealous ship was called Lady Margatia, after Captain Cyril’s mother. Good thing its name’s been forgotten. There were survivors from the galleon raid, else he wouldn’t have this tale to tell as I never wrote about it. He also got the shipwreck place wrong, but Lady Margatia is indeed jealous and never much liked waiting, so before she wondered, it was time I moved.


Wally tucked and rolled into the aisle of Halloween costumes, then army crawled his way to the other side. He was nearly spotted, but his military training put him at an advantage to keep a low profile and out of sight. Reaching the end of the aisle he sits up, back against the aisle, and holds his knees to his chest. Sweat pours down his face and his heart races, thinking back to how he was nearly taken captive. He never thought working as a cashier in retail could be so dangerous. Some of his co-workers were already taken against their will, and Wally refused to go out like that. He was hired to do a job, and that’s what he was going to do. So now to plot his next move. “I think I saw him go this way”, Wally hears what sounds like a big burly man say. The voice is too close for comfort and Wally knows he must go now. He remembers seeing 2 men holding guns, but the 2 women seemed empty handed. With no time for hesitation, Wally jumps to his feet, and keeping his back against the wall of costumes, quickly looks around the corner into the main aisle. Looking to the left, then the right, he sees it is clear. Darting straight across the main aisle, he dives behind a table filled with half folded onesies. Wally notices that the employees in the infant section did not properly fold the onesies, nor group the sizes together. He takes a mental note to make the Department Manager, Prudence, aware of the situation once he makes it to safety. After resisting the urge to fix the onesie table, Wally crawls on all fours deeper into the infant section, towards the dressing room; Maybe he will see Prudence on his way. Wally knows there is a phone at the dressing room, and he can call for help. “Did you clock out already?”, he hears a familiar voice say. It is one of his co-workers, Shelly. She is walking down the main aisle that Wally just leapt across. “Oh my goodness, I forgot!”, another voice says. It is Prudence. Wally is baffled how calm she is, given the danger she is in by still being on the clock. Still on all fours, Wally turns around and crawls back towards the edge of the infant section by the onesie table. If he could reach Prudence before she goes back to clock out, she would have to fix the onesie table. “Pssst”, Wally hisses at the girls, leaning into the main aisle, with only his head visible. Neither girl seems to hear. “PSSSST”, Wally hisses slightly louder. Shelly spots him. “I’m off the clock”, she quickly responds. With no hesitation, she turns around and follows Prudence back to the timeclock. Wally rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to getting himself out of danger. He couldn’t waste anymore time. “There he is!”, one of the ladies with the burly man screeches. “Young man…YOUNG MAN”, one of the ladies, also burly, shouts out. In tow was a younger looking lady, and the 2 burly men holding BB guns. Wally curses under his breath. He knew he could only blame himself. His compulsive need to tell Prudence to fix that onesie table caused him to be spotted. He quickly flips his badge over so his name can’t be seen. “Do you know if you have any more bullets in the back for these BB guns?”, the first burly men bellows. His black and red checkered shirt reminds Wally of a lumberjack. Wally quickly searches his brain for a way to get out of this. Being a cashier, it is not his job to check the back for stock. “Sorry sir I am just a cashier this is not my department let me see if I can find someone that works in that section to help you I’ll be right back”, Wally responds all in one breath. Before any of them can respond, Wally was making his way back towards the dressing room to call for her help. He will call someone to fix the onesie table as well. He keeps his head down, as to not make eye contact with anyone. The Holiday season hadn’t even started and people were already flooding the store. He thinks about how the Pre-Holiday season has never been this bad. “I told them not to put the Halloween Costumes, Thanksgiving decorations AND Christmas decorations out this early.” he thinks to himself, recounting the conversation he had with the Manager in charge of the Seasonal aisle. “Hey Wally! Why are you covered in sweat?” a friendly voice says as he reaches the Dressing Room. It’s Kathy, the store Operator. “I was nearly taken hostage.” he says while bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath from power walking to the Dressing Room. “I need you to page someone to check the back for BB gun bullets.” “Sure thing.” “By the way can you fix the onesie table at the edge of the infant section? Prudence is on lunch.” “Sorry, no I have 5 minutes before I get off” Kathy responds. Wally rolls his eyes and curses the overnight stockers for not cleaning their area. “Shoot. Well I need to get back on the register before they page me.” Wally wishes Kathy well and makes his way back to the front: The opposite direction of the BB gun family. Wally reaches the front and settles behind his cash register and turns on his light. This is exactly where he’s supposed to be…he is only a Cashier. Wally spots his Manager walking towards him and gives him his best customer service smile. “Hey Wally, can you do me a favor?” his Manager asks while flipping off the switch to Wally’s register. “Of course I can.” Wally responds cheerfully. “Can you please go to the back and see if we have any bullets for a BB gun?”


   “Shall I pour you another cup, mam?” Mellie asks as she tiptoes over to my chair, hands shaking nervously causing the tea kettle to clink and water to spurt out.

Though quiet and timid, and not much older than myself I found her company surpringingly enjoyable.

“Yes, please. I can’t seem to warm up my bones this morning.” I confessed, though I knew this had less to do with the inclement weather and more to do with what lay ahead.

                Mellie dropped in a cube or two of sugar before transferring the hot cup to me, the steam warming my cheeks as I took the first sip. She encourages me to take a bite or two of the scone she brought from the kitchen, but my appetite is lacking this week. The tea is soothing enough, and I stare out the window with my knees pulled up towards my chest. I watch in amusement as the white snow flurries fall heavily onto the street below.                 Downstairs familiar voices shout firm directions and orders to one another. Young serving maids mumble concerns under their breath as they walk swiftly past my door. Their feeble attempt to create a scene from a fairy tale is almost comical. They confess their annoyances to each other, only out of earshot of Lord and Lady Breaux. The shuffling of feet remains swift and with each step a purpose while chaos is alive and abundant in this very well-respected downtown home on Canal Street.

                Aside from the current event planning happening right under my nose, it is also the 1899 carnival season in New Orleans. The city appears unusually calm this morning. A thin blanket of snow covers every surface of the city, a very rare occurrence for New Orleans at any time of year.

                 Any other day I would rake through catalog after catalogue for the perfect gown to wear to the festivities and masked balls that would surely follow the parades. Even on such a dreary day as this my spirits would have been giddy and playful. Today, however, my girlish fantasies and mindless games are far behind me. A new life is waiting for me downstairs, and I am compelled to focus on nothing save the melting snow disappearing from the soiled ground.         	A recollection of past anticipation of “becoming a lady in society” has come back to haunt me. In less than a season, I’ve blossomed from a gangly imaginative child to a lost woman with a world of unwelcome responsibility on my shoulders. A responsibility that I do not wish to inherit and one I despise with all my heart. I’m trying to overlook all that lies ahead, to no avail, and choose instead to focus on the snowy white morning outside. I convince my mind to believe the weather might hold some glimmer of hope. Maybe this unexpected form of precipitation is a sign from God that I may be rescued from this predetermined life that has been my destiny since birth. I’m sure my mother perceives snow in the south on a girl’s wedding day as a sign of good luck. My mother and I disagree on many things.         	Unfortunately for my future, I was born into a prosperous family. When my father inherited his father’s railroad company at eighteen it flourished more than anyone imagined it would. He derived an obscene amount of money only after his father labored most of his life with grunt work, and then passed away before he could benefit from his company’s wealth.

My mother was born into a family of affluent lawyers. My grandfather, Theodore Monroe, represented my father in a lengthy court case when he was dragged into a lawsuit with one of his conductors. My mother was introduced to him shortly after.

Both families saw courtship between the two as a great opportunity for two well known families in New Orleans to unite as one. Love was never an option for my mother. She understood her duty as the daughter born into a world of privilege. Privilege, although sought after, came with much responsibility.

She married my father without asking any questions or making any fuss. They have been a “happily married couple” ever since. Or at least that is what everyone on the outside is meant to believe.         	So, here I am falling into the same footsteps as my mother. Sitting in my bedroom half dressed in my corset and petticoats pondering a future that was never mine to decide. I watch the last of the snow dissipate from the ground, unable to keep my mind focused on any one coherent thought when my eyes begin to dart around the room, taking in all that will never be mine again. The shredded lampshade I ripped to pieces with my knitting tools. A result of the raging anger that burst from me when I found out I was to be married to a man I could never love. My custom wedding dress hangs ever so delicate on the oversized oak armoire in the corner of the room. It’s one of the most beautiful dresses I’ve ever laid eyes on. The exquisite beadwork runs up the torso and fans out across a high neckline to accentuate my small frame. The train is long and embroidered with satiny lace and tiny white jewels. It was shipped all the way from Paris. My mother loves French designers. My wedding dress, in her highly recommended opinion, would not be designed by any other than Callot Soeurs. It’s a shame I won’t be able to enjoy wearing it. Precisely in one hour, I will be expected to walk downstairs adorned in this lavish wedding gown tailored just for me with some semblance of a smile on my face. If only I could convince myself to put the wretched thing on.         	I anticipate my nanny will be up soon to check on me. It seems senseless that I even still have a nanny when I’m seventeen years old. My father thinks of me as an “ill mannered young girl with wild dreams in her head.”

Yet, he thinks I am old enough to be betrothed to a man near his forties.         	My fiancé, Andrew, is the son of one of the most successful plantation owners in the South. He inherited his family’s tobacco plantation outside of town, but he's been working for my father for the last five years. His interest has always been in railroads. We started a courtship only a few months ago after my mother met him at a dinner party. Both my mother and father

decided he would make for more than a suitable husband. Thinking more of his purse than his person, I wasn’t given the chance to refuse him and my father reminds me every day that “Andrew’s wealth exceeds our own by ten times our worth”

.         	We’ve been on numerous outings together over the past few months. He escorted me to a dinner party one evening recently, but barely spoke a word to me while we were out. He sat at the bar with some of his fellow businessmen and ordered his usual brandy to go with his ill smelling cigars. I was expected to mingle with the other young ladies who were brought to this party for the same reasons as me. I think of our kind as pigs being fattened up for slaughter. We were only there for one reason. It’s our destiny and the will of our fathers to be married off to someone of substantial fortunes. If I would have fallen in love with someone of that said worth before now I wouldn’t be in my current position. Only I am to blame for believing I could escape the fate so many before me have surrendered to. The only purpose for girls like me at balls such as these is to show off our dresses and make small talk with each other. Most of the girls were more than delighted to be invited, myself included up until I realized the intention of such charades. They have dreamed of nights like this their entire lives. I am only beginning to realize how substandard their ambitions are. The thought of it makes my stomach churn from the absurdity of it all.         	When Andrew finally chose to speak to me once or twice during the course of the evening he did so in such a tone to suggest I’m only a child without a clue of how the world works around her, while at the same time staring only at my breasts. When I spoke to my mother about this she only told me that it will be his God-given right only too soon to stare at my breasts as often as he chooses. She then goes on to argue how, “he’s a very handsome and powerful man around New Orleans and any bright young woman would feel flattered and fortunate to have him as a husband.” My mother can’t understand that it’s his power that frightens me the most.         	All of these things considered, today is still my wedding day. It’s supposed to be the most important and happiest day of my life, but I cannot be happy about something or someone that I did not choose. Every ounce of energy I had stored for this day has been drained from the last three days of uncontrollable sobbing and my frequent need to throw adolescent fits.

Regardless of the energy it takes, I try to make an effort to stand up. For the last several hours I’ve been lounging on the peach colored settee that has been in my room since childhood. I record a mental note in my mind to ask my mother if I can bring this settee to Andrew’s house. Maybe having one familiar object will help me feel more at home there. Glancing over at the clock I realize I’m down to ten minutes before I must go downstairs to meet my fate.

After my maids help me dress, I take a moment to gather my thoughts. Moving at a slower pace than normal, every step is just one step closer to my new life. I stand before the large floor-to-ceiling mirror that has also been in my room my entire life. The diamond necklace my mother passed down to me from her wedding day and the other family weddings before hers lies delicately on my vanity. Clasping it around my neck I curse the precious diamonds for their existence and the unending curse it holds for each new generation. As my fingers caress the glimmering diamonds, my breath catches. The dress suddenly feels heavy and tight, and the room gets smaller with every breath. The sunlight shining through the window seems dark and haunting. For a moment I feel as if I’m a small bird stuck in a cage, just waiting for someone to set me free. I’m afraid I may lose consciousness, but there is an impatient knock at the door. If only I could have been so fortunate to faint at that moment, but I didn’t.

Nanny is calling to me. It’s time.

Staring into my dark brown eyes on the other side of the mirror, I recognize a small glimpse of my mother. Her strained smile reminds me that I’m doing the honorable thing. Andrew is a decent man, and it’s only proper to do this without a fight. Her eyes, on the other hand, are urging me to run. A small tear runs down my cheek and into my mouth. The taste of salt on my tongue sends me back into my harsh reality. My time is up.

My eyes lock with the ones in the mirror once more and I can’t help but imagine the tiny bird stuck in a cage chirping loudly to be freed.


\ “This is it”, Eugene thought. He has succeeded the impossible, what hundreds of others before him had attempted, but all failed. Eugene drew his sword from out of the monsters body. He had passed all the obstacles in his way to his destination. He had reached the door of eternal life. Inside was the secret to immortality. Oh, all the things he would do with immortality. He would no longer fear the ever creeping hand of death, he would travel for all eternity, discovering all that there is to discover. As he went to the door to the final room, he thought of all what he had to do; slay hundreds of monsters, pass perilous traps, face his greatest fears. And now, finally, he would get his reward, he will be immortal, he shall be a true hero. Bards and minstrels would sing of his great deeds for decades ahead. He opened the door, held his breath and looked inside. To his surprise, it was a small and simple room, not bigger then 10 meters in any dimension. it was very plain, the walls were all made of stone and there seemed to Eugene nothing in it at all. As he looked around, he suddenly noticed there was a man looking at him in surprise. The man seemed ancient, his skin all wrinkly and pale. He was extremely skinny, almost as if he was just skin put over some bones. He looked into his eyes, they seemed cold and lifeless. “you must be the final guardian to immortality” said Eugene. “i guess you could say that, in a way” said the old man. Eugene drew his sword out of its sheath and advanced over to the man. “May the best man win.” He charged at the old man, and the man just kept staring at him with his unfeeling eyes, not doing anything to evade the attack. He slashed his sword at him, and to his great surprise, the man did not even flinch, and as the sword connected, it simply bounced off his skin harmlessly. Eugene’s jaw opened in shock at what had happened, all the while as the old man kept on staring into his eyes. Eugene backed away in fear from the old man as he understood that he was not just a mortal man. He had gotten the gift of immortality. Eugene realized he had no chance. The old man began to approach Eugene, and Eugene ran away in fear, going to the door out of the room to flee. But as he tried to open it, he noticed it was locked. He turned back and looked at the man who was still approaching, still staring at him with his cold and lifeless eyes. “Wait! No! Please spare me!”, cried Eugene as the man was barely a meter away from him. “Please don’t kill me”. The man stopped at arm’s length of him and cocked his head to the side a little. Eugene almost cried as he came to the realization that he was going to die at that moment. He closed his eyes and waited for the man to kill him. He started crying as he thought of how pointless it all was, all he did just to die so pathetically. He waited and waited for the blow to come, but it never did. He opened his eyes. The man was standing there, still as a statue as he kept on staring at Eugene. “i do not intend to kill you, lesser one” he said. “Quite to the contrary, in fact.” Eugene stared in disbelief. “Tell me, did you think of what you would do once you were immortal? Did you think about what it truly means?” “Of course”, said Eugene. “I would have wandered the world without having to fear how fragile I am, without the impending touch of death always getting closer and closer.” As Eugene gazed into the old man’s eyes, he thought he saw a bit of remorse in them. “That would be a good plan at first, but what about after 100 years? 200? 1000? Do you think you would still enjoy life as you do now?” “We-well…” Eugene stammered as he tried to think of a response. The old man leaned in a bit closer to him. “Would you enjoy it if you would be here for thousands of years, exhausting all possible ways to spend your time?” The man leaned even closer. “I have been here for so long…. Countless years…. I gained what I thought was the blessing of immortality, but it was a curse. They made it so that he who has received the curse cannot leave this room at all, left here to suffer for eternity. Do you know how many times I have tried to kill myself? Slitting my wrists, hanging myself, trying to suffocate, stabbing myself in the heart…nothing worked…“ Eugene was speechless. The man somehow leaned even closer. ”all this time I had to suffer… so do you see now? This is not a blessing… this is the worst curse anyone can hope to receive.“ the man leaned back a bit. ”do you now understand? Would you like me to open the door so you can go while you still can? “y-yes…” Eugene said. “i am sorry for you, and I wish you the best of luck with your life. I am sorry i cannot help you.” He started to open the door, which was now open. He was going to leave when suddenly the man clasped his wrist. “Oh how I wish it was that simple…” the man pulled Eugene back in. Eugene struggled against him but his grip was like iron. “Now… now you shall carry my burden…” he put his hand on Eugene’s forehead. Eugene then understood what he was going to do. “Wait no! Please don’t!” Cried Eugene. The old man stared at him once again in his eyes. “Now…” he said. “Now I shall be free.” For the first time, Eugene saw something in the old man’s eyes. Instead of the cold, lifeless, unfeeling eyes that once were, there was joy in his eyes. The man smiled and started crying from happiness. The little that was left of his body withered away, and Eugene saw the old man begin dissipate into thin air, with a smile on his face, he looked in peace with himself. Eugene bolted to the door in despair and tried to go through it, but an invisible force kept him within. Eugene fell down on his knees and started crying. Thinking about what was to be… Eugene lied down on his back and continued crying, for what would apparently be an eternity.


I had been told that Saut D’Eau is the Haitian celebration of the voudoun loas, or spirits, D’Ambala and Simbi, that takes place in a mountain oasis of a wonderful waterfall. It was a story that I could not miss. I told Davou, my photographer, about Saut d’Eau like I knew all about it. He got excited and we went, borrowing a Toyota Land Cruiser from a friend’s rental car business. He warned that he road was windy and that the falls were up, way up on a mountain. He was right. It was a lousy road and after numerous mechanical stalls because of the dust and eventually a wilderness roadside carburettor cleaning by the ‘greatest mechanic along the Carrefour Road’, and after eleven flat tires, that is eleven flat tires, we arrived at the town of Bonheur with about fifteen extra people also going on the pilgrimage to Saut d’Eau. They sort of joined the Toyota separately at each stop and directed us to the falls. The ever savvy Catholic Church coincidently had the Catholic miracle celebration of the Virgin in a Tree just up the street from the pretty Bonheur Chapel the same week as the popular good luck Saut D’Eau celebration. We had been told that there would be rains and there would be thunder with lightning throughout the three days of Saut D’Eau. The rains were from Simbi and the thunder and lightning from D’Ambala. The first drops started down as Davou arranged the cameras on the jeep hood for cleaning. We followed the pilgrims slipping in the mud our way down to the fall base and river start. Rounding a clump of vegetation we were treated to a glimpse of paradise. Before us in sheets of rain rising at a gradual pace were thick rivulets of falling waters, green and white and spreading pyramidically into a pool hidden by wild jungle. The shades and tints of green, climbing, hanging, lying as a bonnet to the flow of cascading thick waters. Before us rising at a gradual pace were bodies climbing, resting, bathing, in groups, solitary, drinking, coying, laughing and praying. They dressed in white, in yellows, in blues, greens and reds. Candles provided the flame of the spirit of their dedication, smoke twirling clouding in the mist of the falls and the light rain. Black skins glistening, brown skins were tanned and light skins glowing. A sight of wonder, eyes flowing upward to the falls’ beginning and the sky.

The rain came in showers and squalls whipping cool and warm, it was refreshing after the dust of the trip and the humidity of the town.

We went over to where an Italian film crew had set up to document the event from under a great banyan tree. And we were clicking: “Look at that, man.” “Get that woman in the river.” “The candles, get the smoke of the candles.” “That prayer group and the naked woman.” “Damn, look at that…” We paid no attention to each other, it was too good, too much and we had been blessed with beholding it. BOOM I looked down at my feet, a round white light exploded and imploded and vaporised. I looked up to see if anybody else had seen it and saw a man to my left and one to my right flying through the air. I turned to see Davou’s feet suspended, he clutching at his cameras protectively as he flew up and then landed on the wet uneven ground. Another man had landed with an oomph to the left of Davou. A bomb, I thought, but I was still standing. I touched my chest to assure myself that I was still alive. I looked for a place to hide, and back to Davou. “Come on man.” I called to him, as he was automatically checking his cameras, wiping wetness with his dust rag. “Okay, okay,” he looked around, “what was it, a bomb?” I looked at the one guy who had fallen slipping while running back into the bush up the trail. People were gathering around another and the other fellow was crawling toward me mumbling something. The Italians were trying to organise something for one of the fallen men. “I don’t think it was a bomb… I’m still standing. I think it was lightning.” I agreed with myself, my ears ringing it difficult to think. I looked at the branches directly over our heads. “But, lightning doesn’t strike under a tree, does it?” “It did.” Davou answered flatly, hardly masking his irritation. “What do we do, where do we hide?” “We were under a tree, man.” I reasoned, shaking the crawling man off my foot, “There is no place to hide. What the fuck this guy wants?” “Probably five Gourd.” Davou joked, referencing the beggars in Port au Prince who irritated him so much. I pulled my foot back from the guy’s groping hand as another man explained that the fallen guy wanted me to bless him and heal him. “Tell the guy to crawl over to the tree base of the banyan and rest until he sees me again, then he will be healed.” Davou chuckled. The stranger translated this and the fallen man happily mercy-ed me as he back crawled toward the trunk of the banyan. “We can’t run so let’s go to the source.” My voice called to Davou. “Hey man, let’s do something.” He responded. The light rain had stopped for a moment. The stranger begged us to be our guide and carry our cameras but we decided he was more frail than us and having the instant ability to frame your picture and tint it the way you wanted was not by ordering a part from a tired, sweaty fellow who doesn’t know what you are asking for anyway… The Italians were moving the fallen guy away with the help of the crowd on a crude stretcher. People were fanning him with palm fans as the group of them clumsily moved off. We walked, slipping and sometimes crawling through groups having spiritual ceremonies dressed in whites, mainly woven, and direct colours, people moist and dark. Many greeted us as we passed, us having to respond in a different greeting. “Bon soir, monsieur.” “Le plaisir eh moin, madame.” Bonsoir is pronounced the Haitian way similar to the French inflection when happiness is meant. In the greeting, bon is by far the predominant vowel. A flash of teeth and shy eyes seem to have to accompany the salutation by men and women. The higher we moved people would turn when we would be within three meters and greet us with smiled and bowed salutations. When we took care to be extra quiet they would feel our presence as pronounced as the jerking of heads round to view. Then they would smile and bow, urging us ahead of their ways. And the thunder and lightning accompanied us constantly with nobody seeming afraid. We looked out at the strikes shooting off in all directions and listened to the grumblings and booms without comment to each other. I felt no fear, just some need to accomplish this climb. It started the lightest of rainfall again. We arrived at a level where very few people roamed. At a four foot outcropping of stone I decided I had to urgently shit. The tropical traveler always carries toilet paper. A little hole covered by a rich brown soil later I felt totally refreshed, and this immediately after an exerted and humid climb through a peoples’ energy so uplifting it was profound. What a feeling to climb as though carried, still to enjoy the balance of footing, the climbing, the closeness of a spiritually accepting humanity, the greens, flowers, candles, waters. A rush of earthly smells, assailed only by the vivacity and freshness of flowing waters bouquets. The grace of movement among warmly intent peoples. All the while lightning crackling through active sun clouded skies horizontally, vertically, diagonally, alone, in clusters, thunder unceasing. To rid yourself, at the conclusion of the trek, of blocked passages. I rained sweat. Davou was swimming in his shirt and film carrying vest. My tee shirt, shorts and topsiders figuratively melted from my body heat. But, Davou was clicking away. I decided to go over to the falls and unattached myself from a tee shirt that tried its best not to move. People were standing on the other side of the main torrent atop a slightly rounded head of stone which gave a waterfall’s view of its creations. To get to the ledge I had to pass through the waterfall. There was a small trail behind it but that route almost gave me the notion to post a sign saying ‘other trail’. Grass grew tall on the other trail. I started descending a short slope at the beginning of the hard drops, solid wetness weighed me as I gained the centre of the hole in tone and fall. I strained to look up into its sharp rushing and discovered that I was under solid water as well as being under the fall and I was breathing. I stood there under the million fingering pressures of cascading waters in a small pool of rushing water rationalising why I should be breathing. Upon the conclusion, or near it, that enough air was present depending on the force from above at wavering levels to allow breathing, I started choking, inhaling water and choking. I ascended the hole with the help of laughing others on the ledge. When I sputtered my last sputter I looked at them and found them all standing back and staring at me. They didn’t look at me like how’d that guy get here, they looked at me like a guy who just performed a good card trick and what else did you have in your bag, my friend. I didn’t come all the way up here to perform for anybody so I thanked the ones who did for helping me and turned to look out and down upon the flow and vibrancy of colour. People becoming colours in a distantly radiating pattern of textures. I thought there must be a god to selfishly create this masterpiece of brightness to look down upon. I found my arms raised in an opening of my self to the vitality of pulsing energy in front of me. And something touched me, not like the palm of a hand but forcing, not like a strong breeze but not holdable. Inaudible sounds resonated against my chest and upper stomach. I was looking out at the river, people, jungle, horizon and sky while feeling an uneven cadence of what I could only conclude to be a spiritual essence trying to communicate with me. I could not figure out what to do to link up with this other dimension. I tried breathing, blanking out all stimulation, I tried ohms, I tried holding thought as still as a mirrored lake. It all felt false, not false but like I was trying… I lost it. Turning, I saw everybody else had their arms raised and in open eyed concentrated prayer. They wound down more or less together focusing on me and smiling, than bashfully shrugging and laughing to each other. One of the group who had spent some years studying in New York pointed out to me that my hands were glowing like day light phosphorescence. He said it was like I had been struck with lightning. I told him that I had been almost struck, maybe a foot away from the first strike of the day. His eyes opened wide.

“Can I see the stone?” “Hunh?” I answered studying my hands’ veins running with orange-yellow glowing lights. “The stone, Sobo’s stone, can I see it?” “What stone? Sobo?” “You don’t have the stone? The stone that was thrown to you from the sky?” “Naw… you think lightning is stones falling from the sky?” “Yet, you knew to come up here.” He thought aloud in English, ignoring my question. “You were touched, ya know, like blessed by Simbi or… ya see, by the stone’s being thrown to you, I mean you didn’t get hit… You were glowing, man…” “I could probably find it…” “Good. The stone is a gift to you from Dhambala, Simbi, Sobo, Erzulie, as was the glowing to mark you apart, dude. Let’s go find it.” he exclaimed softly so the others could not hear. I was gone. Back to our packs, telling Davou about the stone, us running back down the fall-side to the tree, to the spot… but no stone to be fund. We dug all round and no stone. The man we had left under the tree awakened from a rest while we were digging. As we slowed down he crawled, calling to us, on his knees, then raised a knee, squatted, raised another knee, then stood. He walked toward us saying hundred of mercies. He grabbed my hand and put it on his face where tears were falling. I told him, “You are your own strength, not me. Go, allez, monsieur.” He went bowing off and I knew I would never find the stone.


So, all of a sudden I’m 48. I started doing drugs with my older brother when I was 13. He had a good hookup for hash (I think he was doing a small time dealer/metal head who worked at the local gas station). I didn’t even smoke pot for a few months, only hash. By eighth grade, a few kids we hung with were smoking crack, including my weed dealer. He sold me dusted weed, said it was fun. I didn’t find it fun. We lived in a real city and were upper middle class or richer. Our parents sent us to good schools, but it was the eighties. When you went for a smoke outside the school, you crunched crack vials under you feet. I drank, smoked a lot of weed, stole money from my parents and got codeine pills and perks whenever I could. Malt liquor and Tylenol 3 was my twist. At recess we sniffed a liquid called rush they sold in a local record store. You learned to sit down before you sniffed it, because most of the time it would make you fall flat. So, around 16 I had a best friend. Call her Meg. We both liked to get messed up in the same way. And she slept with lots of my friends, but me and her were just cool. You know when you meet someone who uses like you do and you just click? Like you ride a tandem bicycle called drugs. That was me and her. Plus, her mom was in and out of jail for fraud so she wasn’t really concerned if we smelled like weed. Their dog peed on the carpet and nobody ever cleaned it up. You just stayed away from that side of the living room. Meg was dating my friend “Paul”. Paul was a wrestler, loved The Who and would generally take two pulls and say “I’m good!” His dad had him start wrestling at age five. His neck was wider than his head and he had a cauliflower ear. So Meg said that this other guy, “Phil” has a big score. Phil was a cool kid from the magnet art school. He had a beard when we were in 8th grade and talked like he owned a gallery in Chelsea. He managed a band. Anyway, we get to Phils house and he unwraps the stuff from tin foil. Looks like hash but lighter brown than the really dark hash I grew up on. He said it was opium. We smoked it from a bong if I remember correctly. Here is what I remember. Phil’s room was painted black and had a high ceiling. He had a table and chairs, upright, attached to the ceiling. So when you looked up it was like you were five feet underground. He was artsy like that. I smoked, and from the very back of my skull, slowly forward to my forehead, pain I never realized had always been there, disappeared. It was like, there had not been pain, but now in this total absence of pain, I realized what a searing crown of barbed wire I had worn all my life. I couldn’t believe I never got to do this before, this was how god intended me to feel always and forever. I laid on the floor, so did Phil and Meg. We all looked up at the table we were under. Paul hadn’t smoked, “I’m good”, and with a gennny cream ale in one hand, he lightly palmed Meg’s boob in the other. I made fun of Paul, but honestly, I was in love with Meg and her boobs. I don’t remember how long the high lasted, but not super long. I scraped the screen and resmoked the resin to little effect. Phil said the opium was a gift and he could not get more. I called every person I knew for a week looking for some but never found any. I wound up getting clean and sober at 17 and have been ever since. Honestly, looking back I can’t even say why, other than that I knew I would die from it all one day. Which is, in itself, ironic. Try going through college in aa. Not a lot of fun. I’m basically a business guy of decent success these days with treatment resistant depression. I realized I have been thinking about killing myself since age 8, hence, the irony. Heavy, old fashioned antidepressants from before anything you have heard of work best for me. Because of them I only sleep an hour a day and if I eat the wrong thing I could give myself a stroke. I’m still here, which is kind of a shock. I’m even happy now and then, and I have no idea what to do with that. Phil went to art college in la. He filmed porn for a few years until he had some shows and now is a tenured art professor at a big state school. I ran into Paul at age 30. He had disappeared and looked like he had been on a desert island. Gone bald, long beard, dirty clothes. We hung out twice and caught up. He told me some crazy stories that involved fights, hookers whispering through brick walls and calming himself down by smoking crack. Whenever he tried to stop smoking crack someone would blow crack smoke under his door until the smell of it filled his apartment and he had to smoke more. Turns out he was/is schizophrenic. Meg went off to college and never came home for another ten years. She was always smart, and wound up with a phd in history and a rotten heroin addiction. She went through rehab eight times. A friend bumped into her in front of a methadone clinic in our city when we were about 35. Finally, she poured gasoline on herself and her dog and that was that. That shit will always follow me like Paul’s crack smoke blowers, I can’t get away no matter how hard I try. Would I have been her? Should I have been her? I did feel that brain cleansing high one other time. My sophomore year in college, the depression (then untreated) was raging and I started making an honest, logical plan of exactly how to kill myself the next day. Steps and details. I jerked off so I could get to sleep and had a dream. It seemed inconsequential at first, I was in a warehouse next to the ocean and the sun was low in the sky. The wall between me and the ocean crumbled away and the light of the sun became incredible. Then the light lifted me off my feet, and as it pulled me towards it, that same pain rolled away, from the back of my head forward. Euphoria. In arms of goodness. I woke up and went to a 1am aa meeting. I shared about killing myself and the dream. A guy named Florida Bob took me to a diner where we stayed until morning. His name was Florida Bob because there was already a guy in the rooms named Bob when he started going and Florida Bob had been to Florida once.


The sounds of clanking filled the room when they dragged in the prisoner. Almost like bells , Anahera thought. What was that saying? “Every time a bell rings, an angel grows its wings,” she muttered. She leaned forward in the front row and the wooden bench creaked, a whisper against the grumbling chains. “What?” asked her sister, Charmeine, sitting beside her with her arms folded. Anahera shook her head. “Nothing.” Charmeine reached over and gripped Anahera’s hand. Two guards clutched the prisoner’s arms as they walked him down the courtroom. They wore cloaks as dark as night, a sharp contrast to the man in white between them. Chains wrapped around his every limb like iron pythons, snaking even around his neck. The shackles clattered against the floor as the guards shoved the man forward. Almost like bells . Across from the judge’s bench sat a high-backed chair covered in red satin. The guards walked the man past Anahera and her heart thudded. She could smell the sweat of the prisoner. She stared at him, willing him to look around. There was beauty beneath those chains. Strong arms. Bright eyes that did not meet hers. Anahera watched as the guards forced him into the high-backed chair. She swallowed hard and ignored the whispers of her brothers and sisters in the benches around her. “Peace, Ana,” said Charmeine. Her sister squeezed Anahera’s arm and gave her a warning look. Anahera nodded curtly before turning back to the prisoner. “All rise,” said another guard by the door to the courtroom, where the guards had just dragged the prisoner. Anahera stood, shaking, refusing to tear her gaze away from the shackled man.

The doors thudded open and a man in white cloak, not unlike the prisoner’s, marched into the courtroom. He walked down the center aisle, his nose held high, and stepped around the high-backed chair without taking a glance at its occupant. He took a seat behind the judge’s bench and cleared his throat before finally looking down at the prisoner. “One month of testimony, of evidence, of law, for a moment of justice.” The judge’s eyes flashed. “Michael, please,” whispered the man. His quiet voice echoed around the room.

“Gabriel,” said the judge, Michael. “We do not interfere with the humans. We watch, and we learn, but we do not interfere. And you have interfered in the most...lawless...way imaginable. You have saved .” Anahera felt her heart drop and her vision blurred red. An innocent life! she screamed in her head. W hat are we, if not protectors of the innocent? What are we, if not protectors of life? “She was just a young girl,” whispered the prisoner.

“Young girl, old man, goose, bear--when our Creator decides it is their time, we do not interfere!” said Michael in a low, creaking voice. Anahera shivered. “Please, Michael,” pleaded Gabriel. “Brother. Please!” Michael cleared his throat. “I, First in Command to our Creator Almighty, Leader of the Winged Ones, Lord of the High Court, do hereby sentence the archangel Gabriel… to the flames of Hell, for eternity.” “ No !” Anahera rose to her feet and lunged toward her lover. He craned his head around and met her eyes, finally, before shaking his head. “Stay back, Ana!” he said fiercely. “Stay back!” Charmeine grabbed her cloak and pulled, hard. Anahera sank into her arms. “Peace, sister,” whispered Charmeine. “Peace.” Gabriel looked toward Michael. “Please, Brother, Lord Michael! Please! Anything is better than the flames of Hell, anything , please--” “Enough!” roared Michael, standing. “Away with you!” As the guards took Gabriel away, Anahera’s sobs echoed through the halls of Heaven. *** Anahera shivered as she walked past the empty cells. Her breath clung to the air and she could hear a faint dripping somewhere close. “Here,” the guard said gruffly, stopping in front of a cell. “You have five minutes.” “Thank you, brother,” she breathed, touching the guard’s arm. She could see the blush even in the dark, and he cleared his throat before unlocking the cell door. “Not too long, sister,” he murmured before glancing around and walking to the end of the hallway. “Ana,” said a quiet voice near the back of the cell. Anahera rushed forward and sank to her knees, wrapping her arms around Gabriel. He didn’t wear as many chains as he had that morning, though a few still wrapped around his ankles. Blood dripped from a gash on his cheek and soot covered his face. She tucked her head into his shoulder and sniffed. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” “I should’ve--I should’ve told you to leave her alone, to let her die….” “Ana.” He pulled back and looked her in the eye. “What are we, if not the protectors of the innocent?” A warmth filled her as Anahera gazed at her lover, and she put her hands on his shoulders. “We are nothing.” He nodded. “A little girl, running in front of a truck… how could I not step in?” She sighed. “You are too good, Gabriel. Too good.” “A too-good angel. I never thought I’d hear that.” He gave her a weak half smile, and she caressed his cheek. “It’s not fair,” she whispered. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek, right above the gash. “The fires of Hell…” “The fires of Hell. Anything...anything would be better than this.” He looked at her pointedly. “If...if you are prepared.” Ana straightened and widened her eyes. “Anything?”

He would know what she truly meant. Are you sure? He nodded, and closed his eyes. Anahera took a deep breath, and pulled a dagger from inside her coat. With a cry and a mighty slash, she severed Gabriel’s wings from his body. He yelled out and slumped into her arms. “Thank you,” he whispered. There was a flash of light, and he was gone. Anahera stared at the blood on her hands as the guard’s footsteps thudded toward her. The blood was dark--a cherry red that reminded her of kisses with Gabriel in the moonlight, back before the humans. “Anything,” she whispered.


"I could get you some water, if you'd like," the Hangman's voice was muffled by the thoughts echoing in his head. "Sir? Sure you wouldn't like some water?" This time the words did not fall upon deaf ears. "Uh no thank you," he replied. He studied the Hangman, his face soft and pale. His eyes were shiny blue dots in his skull, hair thick, black and curly draped upon his shoulders. He’d always pictured a more menacing man to be the one to perform the executions. "Why are you talking to me anyway?" The man asked eerily. Why would a man want to be near someone who someone whose life would be stripped away by his own hand? "Every single man I have... relieved has had something interesting to tell me before I did my job. I don't come here asking why you did, and I don't particularly care to hear you if you did, whatever it is you have been found guilty of. I want to know what it is that you remember the most. What part of your life was worth living for," there was honesty in the Hangman's eyes. His voice did not waiver, the man could tell he had done this more than a few times. "I don't know what about my life would be so interesting to you. Many probably give you sob stories huh? Try to make you feel guilty about what you're going to do come dawn. Maybe it's something you get off to in some sick way, listening to the damned grovel before you, but I doubt that. I guess there's no harm in telling you..." the man's voice trailed off as the words dripped out of his mouth. He walked close to the bars separating him from the Hangman, he grasped the icy, black iron and leaned his head between the, resting it upon the gap. "Well, go on," the Hangman urged. The man paused, then began, "A friend of mine showed me how to paint. How to get the strokes just right, to admire a subject for its beauty and how to amplify that in the art. The world around me just felt like it took a back seat to art when I worked. We traveled frequently, painting hillsides and rivers, mountain peaks and small bustling towns. Even portraits on the rare occasion. Many wanted to pay us for them but with my other line of work money wasn't really a worry for us. So we more often than not let them keep it for free," "Must feel good to make those people happy," suggested the Hangman. "No, not really. It wasn't their happiness that made me feel good. It was the approval of my friend. With every painting he acknowledged my improvements, made me feel like I was actually doing something worthwhile. It's silly really, the thoughts of someone meaning so much to you that you base your entire happiness around it. How you perceive the world, all of it really," "That's quite the adoration," "Aye, adoration is one way to describe it." The man looked down at the dirt on the floor that he had been scuffing with his feet. His shoes had gone ragged from the rough floor, he had spent nearly 3 months in this cell. "And what of it now, Hangman? You got what you want from me, going to give me a spiel on redemption now? Are you a Godly man? Is that why you wish to have me open up, to feel safe and comfortable with you?" "You think a Hangman to be a Godly man?" He chuckled, "If redemption is what you seek then by all means, ask for it. But I won't be preaching it here, or anywhere else either. I just want you to think about these things, I want you to be in a place that makes you happy. Even as death looks you in the eye, you have these memories. And rest assured, I am that which looks you in the eye," The man slumped down to the ground and rested his back against the bars. "I think I'll take that water now, if it's not too much to ask." The Hangman left to grab the water as the man traced a small scenery into the dirt with the tip of his finger. When the Hangman returned he glanced at the work. "Not too bad for being shorthanded on supplies," the Hangman smiled as he gave the man his water. He drank deeply from it and tears formed in the pits of his eyes. Steadily, the tears increased as they poured down his cheeks, dripping into his canvas of dirt. "It's hard, I know. I have seen many men in your predicament." The man finished the cup and choked back the tears. "I loved him, you know." The Hangman looked down at the man, his fingers were erasing the artwork. "Years we spent together, and it's all gone. He doesn't even know I am here. Probably thinks I ran off with another. Do me one thing tomorrow, please?" "Go ahead," "Make it quick.


The sounds grew louder as I got closer to the tree. A loud, hiss-rattle sort of buzzing, almost impossible to articulate, but as familiar as my own voice. I stood beneath the crepe myrtle, no actual shade at all to protect me from the excruciating Texas sun, wondering where it was. Suddenly, I was smacked in the face with a fierce and angry flutter, as it scuttled off higher up into the branches. “Bastard,” I muttered. “I hope my cats find you!” It hiss-rattled louder in defiance at my intrusion. “I’m just trying to water my fucking tomatoes!” I yelled at it, knowing it couldn’t care less. It was getting darker, as the sun had already begun to set, which was basically the only good time to water anything, unless it was early morning, and I am not an early morning person. I thought maybe those little alien fuckers would be asleep, or gone, or just NOT THERE, but they were, and they left creepy, crispy, brown shells everywhere in their summer wake. I plucked them off the tomato cages and the fence, crushing them like eggshells with a disgusted satisfaction. I continued my watering, and one flew down and landed right on the top of the tomato cage, staring at me. I stared back, studying his big black beady eyes, and large wings that were almost beautiful, if they weren’t hiding all of their icky legs beneath them. “Don’t you have someone else to bug?” I asked. “Get it? Bug?” I laughed at my own punny joke. “Yeah, I got it,” it grumbled back at me. Huh? Am I having a heat stroke? “It wasn’t that funny, and anyway, you’ve been a bitch since you came out here. I’m just trying to live, how is that even bothering you?” “You’re really loud, dude. I get migraines. Your loud ass buzzing all day doesn’t help.” “I don’t know what a migraine is, but I have to find a lady friend, and she’s not gonna know that I exist if she can’t hear me, soooooo…..” I start to feel dizzy. I am having a heat stroke, surely. Or is it a mirage? Have I had too much sun? Or worse, am I developing schizophrenia? I walk over to the table under the patio and sit down. I’m sweating buckets, even in the near dark. The cicada follows me, perching on the edge of the very full ashtray kept outside for our roommate. “This is disgusting,” he muttered. “I hope I don’t smell like an ashtray if a lady actually shows up,” he made a face. Yes, this talking cicada just made a pissy face at me. Maybe I’m high. “You’re not high or having a heat stroke,” he answered me, reading my thoughts? “I AM actually talking to you.” “Why? No cicada has ever bothered to speak to me before. I feel so lucky!” “I detect your sarcasm, but you are not wrong. You should feel lucky. Not everyone gets to talk to me.” I look inside the house, through the mini blinds. The kitchen lights are on, but no one is around. I thought my boyfriend was doing the dishes. Yes, he does the dishes. Instead, though, it was empty, and quiet. Even my little dogs were nowhere to be seen. Usually they came outside with me, but since the temperature said it “felt like 109”, I made them stay inside so they didn’t burn their little feet. “See, you’re so kind. Even to those little rat things.” Reading my mind again! What the hell?! “The hairier one ate my friend last week,” he continued. “You didn’t even help him. You got your phone out and made a video of her playing with him. Biting him, dragging him around the yard by his wings, his legs. You thought it was CUTE.” “I did not think it was cute, I thought it was pretty gross, actually, and I tried to get her away from it, IF YOU REMEMBER CORRECTLY. I don’t want my dog eating bugs and then licking my face later–” “BUGS!!!!” He was indignant. “You’re in for a surprise…” “I think I am plenty surprised, already, and quite possibly losing my shit. Anyway, she was very determined. I think she’s part cat. Every time I tried to get it away from her, excuse me, HIM, she grabbed him and ran to the other side of the yard. Didn’t you see me cover him with a giant leaf when she finally dropped him for a minute? She couldn’t see him anymore, so I was able to get her inside the house. So she didn’t actually eat him, she just.. Played with him.” If you could see beady black eyes without irises roll, this is what he did. My explanation was exact, though! She didn’t EAT his friend. “He still died, Human. Died from those injuries.” “Furthermore, I don’t know why I even care if she played with him, or why you care, either. He may have been your friend, but isn’t that less competition for you with the ladies? Isn’t it better that he’s gone?” “You’d think so,” he said wistfully. “But we did live in burrows next to each other for 17 years, so we grew up together. We had many, many long conversations. So aside from the fact that in an odd way, your dog leveled the playing field, so to speak, it is bittersweet.” I blinked the sweat out of my eyes, and wiped my forehead to no real avail. The air was almost suffocating. I am sure that has to be why I am sitting here, having a conversation with a cicada and not actually freaking out, other than wondering why the hell I am sitting here, having a conversation with a cicada. The least of which because I have never liked them, because when I was six years old, a boy at my babysitter’s house used to snatch them off tree branches, and squeeze them so they would scream loudly, and chase me, up and down the street. Once he was chasing me through the yard, and I tried to climb the chain link fence to escape him, snagging the inside of my knee on the top of the metal fence, blood pouring down my leg. I have that scar to this day and have never forgotten how or why I have it. “You have that scar to always remember us!” He said, butting into my thoughts. “Nick shouldn’t have been chasing you on the daily with us, but we can’t transform in broad daylight and blow our cover, so we just went along with it. He was a sadistic prick. He was soon removed.” “Removed???? Wait, what the fuck, how are you doing that? How are you talking, and how are you reading my mind? Where is everyone, why are your loud ass little buddies quiet all of a sudden?” “We’re not alone. They aren’t quiet, you just can’t hear them, the way we truly speak. With our minds. Which is how I can hear yours.” I started to feel unnerved, and then I remembered he just said we can’t transform in broad daylight and blow our cover . My blood ran cold, and I began to wonder if I was still breathing, because I could not move. “You’re breathing, chill. Everything is fine.” “I suppose we have different definitions of FINE.” Suddenly, the cicada jumped off the edge of the ashtray, and into the air, almost upright. His many legs began to meld together, until he had two arms, two legs, one body, one big head, but still, two giant black eyes. He was a greenish brown, like a cicada, and his skin reminded me of clay. Somehow I was calm. Not moving. Waiting. “I guess clay isn’t so bad, you aren’t actually disgusted by me, so, that’s a plus.” His lips and mouth, which were very small, did not move. He … smiled? “YES WE SMILE! We can’t help ourselves, just like you lot can’t.” You lot. “Look, I’m not going to hurt you, I just want you to come with me on a little field trip. You may even enjoy it.” “I don’t really have time to go anywhere right now, I’m sweating like a pig, I need to take a shower, my boyfriend is probably wondering why I’m taking so long out here,” I sputter. It’s one thing I was talking to a cicada. It’s another that the cicada morphed exactly into the alien-like creature that I always thought they looked like. I think about all the cicadas I’ve seen in my life, wondering if they were all aliens. “Yes.” He said abruptly. “It’s how we keep our eyes on you. Well not you specifically, except in this case, of course,” he chuckled. “Humans in general. Some of us get eaten by cats or birds or squished by cruel little six year old humans chasing other humans, etc, but that’s just how it goes. We are the soldiers on the ground.” My head began to feel like a fishbowl, sloshing around. “Just relax,” he said. “You’ll be back before you know it.” Panic suddenly shoots through every one of my cells and limbs like lightning. “Hey Marco!” He turned around, talking to someone, another alien, again without moving his lips. The alien walked up out of the darkness of the backyard and joined him. “I found my lady friend.” His big black eye winked.


I recently found this subreddit and decided to share something I wrote a long time ago. Enjoy!   The giant red sun illuminated the countless cities on the three most populated planets in the universe. Its already dim and weak light was even further weakened by the millions of satellites orbiting around the star and focusing the light onto artificial dwarf planets which saved up some of the energy into giant batteries that occupied most of their volume and reflecting everything else to smaller collection stations on all of the planets. There was no other light to be seen; there were no stars illuminating the void, partially because of the fact that they were all torn apart by the expansion of the universe and partially because there weren't all that many stars left; most of them exploded into clouds of gas or transformed into black holes. The cities on the planets were not normal cities, but tightly packed complex tridimensional structures, designed to keep in them as many people as possible, and there was not a single square meter of the planets that was not designed according to that principle. All the necessary resources were supplied by the countless artificial dwarf planets that contained aeroponic farms, oxygen synthesizers, nuclear fusion reactors and other complicated machinery necessary for keeping a population of hundreds of billions humans alive. Automatic spaceships roamed the dark universe in search of resources, bringing entire planets to be combusted and transformed into energy. The people lived in small apartments dimly illuminated by bluish energy-efficient lamps. Most of them were scientists trying to figure out how to make it so humanity can survive for just a little longer, as even though birth was made illegal thousands of years ago advances in medicine made humans live forever and the resources of the universe were very rapidly depleting. This was not the fault of an evil government, however, as everyone lived this way and it was the most efficient way of keeping humans alive.  There were only a few thousand years left until the star keeping humanity alive would explode. Humanity had already found a potential new home, a yellow dwarf located around three thousand light years away with four planets, three of them in the habitable zone around the star. Spaceships with equipment and dyson swarm satellites were already flying towards the new home at speeds hundreds of times faster than the speed of light, quickly draining the energy saved in the last billion years. Special devices were harvesting the matter of the dying sun and transforming it into energy for the spaceships. After all of the preparations were completed, spaceships with humans in them started being sent, powered by the combustion of their old homes. They glanced back at what remained of the old sun before the superliminal engines were turned on; the light of the old star would never reach them in visible to the human eye form again.  It had been already four billion years since humanity had moved to its new home. The yellow dwarf had transformed into a red giant, consuming the nearest planet to itself and leaving the second nearest inhabitable. There were ten thousand years left until it would explode and collapse into a black hole, but this time there was no backup plan. There was nothing, not a single star left. This was it. This was the last star in the universe. Sure, humanity could survive a few thousand years on the saved energy and on combustion of planets, but that is such a short time... The only hope left was finding a new universe. There were theories about the possibility of black holes being portals to other universes, but there was no way to check: light was not able to leave a black hole, and technology that allowed for superliminal travel relied on the deformation of space-time, and black holes already deformed space-time so much that there was no way for these engines to work. But it was the only hope. So when the star was about to explode, spaceships flew out of the radius of the explosion, and then flew into the black hole. There is no way to know what happened next; information about it cannot escape the event horizon.