Walter pulled out his flashlight as twilight fell upon them. He looked up to Benvolio who patiently lumbered alongside him on foot as they walked towards the village. “Odd question.” Walter spoke. “That is a statement, not a question, so I am a bit perplexed by your meaning.” Benvolio responded. Walter shook his head and continued. “Sorry, it’s an expression where I’m from. Anyway, I was curious, it seems like humans haven’t always been kind to you.” “That is putting it mildly.” Benvolio noted in a serious tone. “Why then, are you so kind to me? Why do you spare the lives of humans who attack you?” Walter asked. Benvolio swished his tail back and forth as he walked. He looked at the large open area around them, it was bordered by some trees. The meadow shared some similarities with a field he had seen before when he was still a hatchling, a field filled with strange stones. “I had every reason to hate humans, until I met someone very dear to me.” Benvolio replied. “It was she who introduced me to many wonderful books.” Benvolio’s thoughts drifted to the past. He remembered being transported to a strange place, the field he found himself in was filled with tall stones covered in writing. As a hatchling, Benvolio found himself curled up on top of one of those stones, shivering in the winter air. Due to his young age, he had not yet developed his internal flame. He looked to the gray sky above, the dance of the snowflakes as they drifted down onto his snout. He closed his eyes and began to wait for death. He was hungry, shivering, and his mind seared with the images of his mother’s eyes as they parted, the shattering sound of her death cries still resonated in his ears. After all her efforts to save him, he would die in a strange place away from their cavern, away from their mountain. It was all the fault of the humans. “Dad, look, a lizard!” A girl’s voice called out. “I’ve never seen one that looks like him before, it almost looks like he has wings and he’s bright red, like a tiny dragon.” Benvolio slowly opened one eye. A human, a bit smaller than the ones he had seen, but much bigger than himself loomed over his form. Benvolio let out a snarl, but as he was only a few inches long, the sound was not as ferocious as he had hoped it to be. “Samantha, leave it be,” a man’s voice responded. “He’s cold.” The girl called Samantha whimpered. Her eyes looked up, pleading with her father. “He could die.” Her voice was tender, but Benvolio knew better. Humans were cruel, he had witnessed it with his own eyes. “Sweetie, please.” The dad urged, trying to pull his daughter forward. The girl reached out to Benvolio. Benvolio snapped feebly at her, but he moved slowly in the cold air. Her hand scooped him up with ease. He moved to bite her fingers, but the warmth of her hand was comforting. Young Benvolio nestled into her palm as she pulled him close to her. “Please Dad, he was on Mom’s tombstone, it’s a sign. Mom wants us to care for him.” Samantha cradled Benvolio and once again looked up at her father with wide eyes. The man looked to his daughter and sighed deeply in resignation. “Fine, but if it makes a mess in the Airflyte I will fling that little lizard right out the window.” “Yes sir.” Samantha sighed. Benvolio should have tried to resist being taken, but they moved him towards some strange metal shape with wheels. As they entered the vehicle and Benvolio was out of the cold air, he swiftly drifted to sleep. When he awoke, he was laying on a bed of sand, there were a few rocks scattered here and there. There was a small dish filled with some sort of vegetation and strange pellets. Benvolio was skeptical at first, but his hunger won out and he eventually braved the food. The pellets tasted terrible, but they helped. He surveyed his surroundings, noticing the light acting strangely a few inches from where he was. He ambled forward, hitting an invisible wall where the light reflected strangely. Across the room, Samantha was stretched out on a bed with a book in her hands. “Oh, you’re awake!” Samantha smiled as she set down the book she was reading and walked over to the enclosure where Benvolio was trapped. Benvolio tried to snarl. Samantha reached down, gently scooping him up into her hand. It annoyed him how warm and comforting her skin was. “Would you like to read with me?” She asked. Benvolio was confused, but seeing as she was much bigger than he was, he could do little to protest. She carried him over to the bed and set him down by her book. “I am reading some plays by Shakespeare. Currently I am reading Romeo and Juliet, have you ever heard of it?” She asked. Benvolio blinked. “I think you will like it. It has feuding families, lovesick teenagers, swordfights, poison, and more.” Benvolio did not fully understand the words she was saying, but as Samantha began to speak, her voice had a soothing rhythm. Benvolio nestled next to the book. The paper had a pleasant scent, he liked it. Samantha gently rubbed his back with her finger. “Come to think of it, you need a name.” She smiled looking at her book. “I don’t think you’re a Romeo. Maybe Tybalt? No, Tybalt’s kind of a jerk.” Benvolio tilted his head. “Or, how about Benvolio?” Something about the sound of the word pleased the young dragon. “Benvolio suits you, he is cautious and gentle, like you.” Samantha smiled. Benvolio’s thoughts returned to the present as they neared the village. Upon their approach, some of the men ran out of their homes with spears and shields. Benvolio looked to Walter, then back to the armed men and sighed deeply. “Lower your weapons!” A man cried out. He walked out of his house wearing strange clothes. Walter blinked, noticing a small skull dangling from the man’s belt, it didn’t appear to be a human skull. The man approached Benvolio and raised his arms in greeting. “Benvolio my friend!” “Grimm, a pleasure as always.” Benvolio lowered his snout in greeting. He then turned his eyes to Walter, “Walter, I would like you to meet Grimm, a necromancer.


Patrick tried to stop smoking five times in his life. None worked, of course, because all sad people love some ciggies and, obviously, they are addictive, and also delicious and comforting as fuck, so Patrick couldn’t help but smoke two packs a day. Today, he said to himself, he would stop it once and for all. His antidepressant was working and his constant sadness was under control, even though he could not cum anymore and was being described as looking like an “emotional zombie”, a situation which made him coin an iconic phrase: “I had more fun in hell”. Noneless, he was sure this time he would not put a single cigarette in his mouth. The first method he tried was going out with his folks to smoke some weed instead. George and Mark, his best friends, were huge stoners and knew a guy in the neighbourhood who sold the best weed in the American continent, as a whole. On a side note, Patrick had never tried weed – and never wanted to, since he had an anxiety disorder which made him feel scared of everything and everyone. George and Mark were his best and only friends, the ones who he felt he could trust and who also understood what he was going through, you know, with mental illness and stuff. So George and Mark took Patrick to a penthouse in a random guy’s house, and there they were, rolling fat joints of marijuana. Turns out Patrick knew nothing about weed culture and how those gatherings worked, so he just waited while George, Mark and the random guy passed the joint. When the joint finally lied in Patrick’s hands, he kinda had an anxiety attack. His stomach was cold, full of butterflies, and his chest was achy as fuck. But then he thought to himself: What’s the worst thing that could happen? And nothing came to his mind. So he just put the thing in his mouth and inhaled it the way weed newbies do, and it didn’t take long until he had the worst panic attack of his life. It was a rough night. Patrick hallucinated, because even though few people are aware of this, weed is a hallocinogen. He had visions of demons and remembered things about his childhood he never knew happened. He shit his pants. He dehydrated and had cotton mouth. He thought he would die. But, therefore, he didn’t, but the next thing he knew was that he had Depersonalization Disorder from that traumatic bad, bad trip. So one day, at home, he grabbed a cigarette and thought about smoking it, but, afraid that it would worse that dream-like state he was living in, he did not. So he went to the doctor and was prescribed more antidepressants to try to snap out of the derealization and also asked if he could take some magic pill to stop the withdrawn symptoms. And, for Patrick’s delight, he was prescribed Bupropion, an antidepressant with the power of being able to quit smoking without suffering. “I already suffered enough”, he thought to himself. The first night Patrick layed in his bed after taking Bupropion, he took a long time to fall asleep, and when he finally did, he had the worst nightmare he could have had: He dreamed he was being chased by gigantic cigarette-shaped humanoids who were trying to eat his brain. When he woke up, he couldn’t move and couldn’t scream – Which would be useless, since Patrick lived alone. This condition, as he would learn, was known as Sleep Paralysis and was a side effect of Bupropion. So Patrick stopped the Bupropion and decided the only way he could quit smoking without it being too risky for his fragile mental health was an online chat. He grabbed his laptop and browsed to the website where he would find his cure. A lady called Beth was designated to support him, and she was very, very kind. He started typing words about his withdrawal symptoms, but before he could predict, there he was, playing the role of the lonely guy with almost no friends and still a virgin at twenty-one. Beth tried to warn him that his personal problems were not to be discussed on online “quit-smoking” chats, but that did not stop Patrick from trying to form a bond with her, whom he already considered a “friendaphist” – An adjective he liked to use to describe friends who are very comprehensive and sweet. The days went by, and Patrick couldn’t help but imagine what Beth looked like. Maybe he was in love with her, who knows. He kept browsing the online chat in the hope that Beth would be the one to assist him, but the shuffle mode that designated the person who would chat with him was definitely not on his side. One day, he stopped trying to communicate with Beth. It was an impossible romance, just like the movies – But that didn’t mean that he stopped thinking about her. He even found a therapist, an old man who was the opposite of Beth, to try to deal with his obsession with the online chat lady. Three months of therapy went by and Patrick was dissociated, having Bupropion withdrawal and biting his nails over a platonic love – And still wanted to smoke ciggies. Of course by now the nicotine withdrawal symptoms were gone, but that also meant an immense, painful hole on his heart that could only be solved by a piece of burning tobacco. So there he was. His depression worse than ever, his loneliness hurting his feelings. There must be a way to replace the nicotine missing in my psyche, he kept thinking. So he called George and asked for help. “Why didn’t you try the chewing gum?”, asked George. Of course. How dumb he was. There is always nicotine replacement therapy to save the day. Patrick went to the drug store on a Sunday morning, and ordered two boxes of nicotine gum. He went home and chewed two of those at the same time, both containing four miligrams of nicotine – He was chewing eight miligrams. Soon enough, Patrick discovered he had regressed: He was addicted to nicotine once again, and the gum only made him miss the taste of a cigarette even more. Also, the more gum he chewed, the more nauseous he got, plus a terrible headache due to nicotine superdosing. Turns out Patrick was one of those people who simply were not made to stop smoking. When he realized that, he bought three packs of king size ciggies and smoked all of them in one afternoon. Yeah. Sometimes we need to stick to what makes us feel good, because what else is gonna save our lives, even if it also kills you.


The night is occupied by the squeaks of critters and the soft wind on the trees. It’s a time for the earth to rest. He stares into the base of the fire as he’s cooking his meat on a stick. Time itself seems to stop for him, but the fire continues to burn. The flames themselves seems to be caught in a cycle, and even in death the embers will provide nutrients and continue to live on in the earth, as do all things. He thinks to himself “I find myself caught in that cycle, an eternal flame that cannot die out. Will the warmth of the flames keep me anchored to this existence forever? What good will this flame do for me if I can’t go forward” . The bushes began to rustle, and he breaks from the self induced trance to his weapon ready and pointing in the direction of the sounds. His tight grip loosens as two small children creep out the bushes, dirty and famished. He breaks the silence as he lets the two children (older girl and younger boy) feed themselves. The children began to savagely rip into the cubes of hot meat, not even letting time for them to cool. “You’re not as mean as all the others” the little girl says. “To be truthful, I stop myself because of your brother... nothing but innocence fills his eyes. So much power. But when I say your eyes, I saw distrust, fear, and hatred, void of the life and love your brother has and replaced with a burning fire” he confesses. “It didn’t take me long to realize that I had no choice but to be strong, for my brother”. She seems to finally have a time to relieve all the stress and tension that has been consuming her. “These are dark times that lay on us, all we can do now is protect what’s dear to us. Never let that love your brother has for you or anyone else die out, its the seeds for the next era to grow. For that to be possible you cannot let the fire in you fade, stay strong for your brother... and for yourself. This is the burden of responsibility. Maybe one day I can fight to restore the innocence you once had.” The older child cuts back “And what, keep us blinded to the horrors that plague this land. I wasn’t going to survive with the naivety that I once had. I was left wondering what else I had left to sacrifice for the sake of my brother. I lost my parents, my friends and all that once knew to be fun... There’s nothing left for me.” He thinks to himself “The pain she holds is much too familiar. 1000 times over I have felt pain like that, and 1000 more times I will endure it if I can find an end to this suffering” He lifts his head up to gaze at the night sky “I want you to look up to the stars, each one of those flickers of light is a sun much like our own, with a whole other world that it harbors. The struggles of our existence can start to become so insignificant. It’s up to us to cherish what we hold dear, to hopefully give us some sense of validity to this reality.” He looks now to the girl “There is something left, your brother. Even though innocence can fade, it isn’t lost. The energies of love and peace can withstand the test of time, its the one truth we all share, the driving force of the universe, and it lives on in children like your brother. The energies of the universe lie within souls like your brother, and maybe even in us. The whole world may feel like it’s against you, but as long as you have your brother here, there is still something to fight for. “Well what do you fight for? What do you cherish?” She ask “Part of me is still trying to figure that out, but when I see eyes like your brother I feel like I’m getting closer to an answer” “Who are you?” The younger brother ask in a soft innocent tone He removes his gaze from the night sky and into the fireplace, embers fading into smoke and wood cracking, “Just a warrior lost in time” First draft lmk how y’all like it. Open to any criticism (or praise) If you have questions for clarification or curiosity ask away.


“What is this place?” “Just a spot I found a while ago.” The pair of them sat on that wooden skeleton of a rooftop, facing the endless forest. She rubbed her shins every so often when the wind picked up and nipped at them. He cracked open the tall can he’d gotten. “I hope this is as good as you say it is.” “It’s stupid that guys have to conform to only drinking beer.” She chuckled. “I promise I won’t call you a pussy.” He slurped a little. “You know, beer fucking sucks.” She snickered. “This shit,” he said, holding up the can, “is *great.*” She cracked hers open. “What’d you get again?” he asked. “I always drink this. Spiked seltzer.” “I can’t believe I love canned margaritas.” He shook his head as he took another gulp. “But fuck, if this is the gold standard, I’m gonna have a *lot* more of them.” “You’re funny.” “So,” he said after swallowing. “Where do you live again?” “The other side of town,” she replied, nodding. “On Hurst.” “I’ve got a buddy that lives there.” He scoffed. “Well, he was a buddy.” “What do you mean? Who?” “Jimmy Kenning.” “Is it bad that I don’t know him?” He shrugged. “I don’t know.” He sipped from his margarita. “We used to make movies together.” “Movies?” “Yeah.” He chuckled. “They were stupid little short films, mostly.” He turned and looked at her. “But we were planning a feature. I spent a whole summer writing it and revising it and table-reading it with other friends.” He shook his head with a smile. “It was awesome.” “That *does* sound really awesome.” She raised her eyebrows. He nodded. “What happened with you two?” “Well, when it got time to shoot it…” He buried his face into his palm. “No, it’s stupid.” “Come on, I want to know!” She tugged at his arm. “Well, the whole thing with the script was that it focused on a closeted gay man.” He looked at her briefly, pausing. She nodded with a smile. “And he has this friend through all three acts. Well, actually, two and a half acts.” He took a quick gulp of his drink. “By the end of it, he confesses his love to this friend. Of course, before then, there are little hints and blips of foreshadowing that lead up to it.” “That’s sweet.” “It was my way of confessing my love for Jimmy. We were going to play the two leads.” She looked into his eyes. Hesitant. “O-oh. Does that mean you’re—” “Oh!” He laughed. “I’m bi. I didn’t totally fool or catfish you or whatever. I *promise.*” She laughed too. “You see, you’re accepting of that.” He shook his head, and the rippling trail of his smile faded. “Jimmy wasn’t.” “What did he do, if I can ask?” The silence came, then. It was sharp and hot and prickly, but in direct dissonance with the birds and teeming insects. “Well.” He bit his lip. “He read it and was really enjoying it until he got to that point.” \*\*\* They only ordered a couple of coffees—which they drank black, because that’s what artists do—and some soup. People who had jobs, lives, and actual schedules hurried about the diner and talked on cell phones with colleagues. They seemed above the two of them, on another plain of existence. Jimmy read the title again, his steaming cup to his lips. “‘The Disconnect.’” He raised his eyebrows and bobbed his head. Cameron rubbed his cup of coffee with a stiff thumb. The ceramic could fragment at any moment with that amount of pressure. “Well, I hope you enjoyed it.” “I did.” Jimmy scratched his chin. “Their relationship is so—” “It’s not one-dimensional, is it?” Jimmy chuckled. “No, not at all. I was gonna say the opposite, actually. It’s really authentic.” Cam sighed, shakily. He tried to shed at least one layer of anxiety. “Thanks.” “And, at first the end was a shock, but it made sense to me once I thought it over.” He exhaled. “I’m really impressed, Cam. It’s such a you piece.” “Thank you. It means a lot.” “Who’d you have in mind for casting?” He took a sip of coffee. “You thinking about doing a call?” “Well,” he began. “I was thinking *we* could fill the roles.” Silverware clinked. Someone’s cell phone rang and wouldn’t stop. Each sounding of the ringtone blared and blared in a crescendo. “Cam,” Jimmy began. He stared, perhaps to draw an admission of sarcasm. “You’re serious?” “I mean,” Cam rubbed the cup of coffee harder and faster, “I know how you feel about being on camera, but as artists, we need to push ourselves out of each other’s comfort zones and—” “What is this?” He shook his head, script in hand. “Seriously, what is this?” Cam looked at him, tears on the fringes and legs shaking. “I love you,” he said. Jimmy scoffed. “Are you fucking joking?” He buried his face in both hands, which rubbed. “Oh my god…” “Jimmy, I—” He lifted his head up, shooting a glare. *That* brought silence. “I can’t believe you.” Jimmy hurried to his feet. He tossed the script toward their booth vaguely, the pages flapping until they hit the tile floor. Cam felt the tears come. He rubbed his mug hard at first, before befalling to his emotions entirely. He gave his wet cheek to the table. *Idiot,* he told himself. *Why are you such an idiot?* \*\*\* “I’m over it, though.” Cam finished the margarita, throwing the can into the forest. “Fuck that guy.” “Wow,” she said, half-ignoring his remark. “You’re so brave.” “What? No, I’m not.” He shook his head vehemently. “The whole thing was just stupid.” “No, I really mean it, Cameron.” She smiled. “You didn’t have to tell me that, and you did.” “Like I said.” He sniffled. “I’m over it.” “It’s okay not to be, you know.” She sipped from her seltzer. “I have regrets from, like, eighth grade, still.” “Regrets?” “Yeah. More than just an embarrassing tattoo.” She rubbed her shins. “Which I do have.” “You’ve got to show me before the end of the night.” “Yeah, we’ll have to see about that,” she said through her teeth. “What actual regrets do you have, though?” he asked. She hesitated. Sighed. “I don’t know. A ton.” “You don’t have to share, of course. That goes without saying.” “I will though, I will.” She laughed. “You know it’s funny, Cameron.” “You can just call me ‘Cam’ by the way.” “Oh, okay. Well, Cam, I was going to say I just think it’s funny.” She giggled. “What is it?” “I don’t know!” she protested, still giggling. “I just feel like I’ve known you for a while.” “Yeah, me too.” His fingers raked his scalp. “Well, actually, it feels like I’ve known *you* for a while, not that I’ve known me for a while, because obviously I have.” She took a sip of seltzer, humming quirkily. “You’re working through that drink pretty slowly, even though I’ve been running my mouth this whole time.” “Do you want to help me finish it?” she asked, shoving the drink in his face. “Okay.” He took the can. “A night of firsts. Margaritas, online date, spiked seltzer; what else?” Cam chugged. “It’s my first online date too.” She scratched her cheek. “I was kind of hoping for just sex at first, but, I’m glad it’s turned into more than that.” “Me too,” he said quickly. “And holy shit, this seltzer’s made me even *gayer.*” She started laughing with her nose scrunched. “You’re fucking hysterical.” “Hey,” he began, turning stern all of the sudden. “Regrets. *Remember.*” “Okay,” she said, begrudgingly. \*\*\* That highway always looked the same. Even if the sun hit the asphalt from a clear sky, the road appeared muddy. There must’ve been construction underway for the better part of a decade, and the same orange cones sat there, collecting weather. Meaningless traffic. Just watching the rain patter against the windshield. Following the wipers whir and skid across the glass. Mundane. Irritating. “I really have to go?” she asked. Her mother huffed. “It would mean a lot to your father.” “I didn’t even know this guy.” “But you know your father, right? And if this means a lot to your father, then it should mean a lot to you, Abby.” She sighed. Impenetrable silence. The sort Abby couldn’t really fragment with any quip or rebuttal. How could anyone, really? Even if she conjured the most incredible weapon of a sentence, a swift lecture would follow. Her mother enjoyed those. “You’re not even going,” Abby said. Perhaps an argument she could defend would do. “I can’t help with your tuition if I’m not seeing these extra patients.” Abby sighed. “But that doesn’t mean you get to just blow Kevin’s wake off.” Her hands smacked the steering wheel between each sentence. “I know it’s your day off, and I know you’ve been having a tough time recently, but…” *A tough time.* Abby’s mother knew the mere surface. She had told her about the time she tried acid, but not about the weeks of unbearable depression or random bouts of anxiety that crashed into her. Plus, the acid didn’t really bother her like she said it did. She may had even tried it again. But that wasn’t the point. Abby didn’t want to open up to anyone, let alone her mother, who judged first and gave sound advice second. It was already enough work hiding the smell of cigarettes, which she started smoking to cope with all this. Everything was gaining ground on her. “Alright, sweetie?” Her mother’s tone had lightened since Abby started ignoring her. “Yup.” They got off the highway. Exit forty-two. There was a deli near the funeral home. Abby didn’t eat breakfast or lunch, so, a roast beef sandwich appealed to her stomach. Most of the time she forgot to eat, and even though it was six-forty-five, she really didn’t feel too ravenous. She could wait until tomorrow if she really wanted to. Abby watched the deli pass. But after a few more buildings, the funeral home appeared, with a hive of cars surrounding it. “Text me when you and your dad get home,” her mother said as Abby stepped out of the car. “I love you.” Abby shut the door. And after her mother drove away, she pulled out a cigarette and lit it. \*\*\* “I never said it back.” The night’s ambient symphony filled the silence. The slight breeze. The groaning of tree trunks and rippling of leaves. “My mom died on her way to work. Some piece of shit in a ‘72 Gran Torino totaled her car.” She finished her drink and threw the can away. “I’m sorry,” Cam said. “I can’t imagine what that’s like.” “It’s so selfish of me, too.” Abby scoffed. “And for what? A stupid day off?” “I think you blame yourself too much, if I can say.” Cam scratched his cheekbone. “It was just another ordinary argument. And, I don’t know how things were between you guys, but you probably would’ve had some animosity for a day.” She fended off tears. “Then you’d make up. Someone would apologize before the other person would.” He snickered. “She wouldn’t want to see you like this, Abby.” “Thank you.” She wiped her eyes with pulled down sleeves. “That really does help me. I mean it.” Sirens echoed in the distance, over the trees. “What happened with you and Jimmy after that?” “I haven’t talked to him since.” “It would be worth it to try.” She gazed into his eyes. “If not for his second chance, then for yours.” “You think I should?” “I do.” She nodded. “You can come over before or after you do it.” Abby smiled. “You know what street I’m on.” He laughed. “Yeah, I do.” \*\*\* It was a small, yellow ranch. The front screen hadn’t been replaced since he’d been there, and the front lawn was overgrown in the same places. That identical plastic fence held nothing but weeds out back. But he didn’t recognize the car. He remembered Jimmy’s parents always driving Audis. It didn’t matter what sort of financial drought they were trapped in. It was always Audis. Today, beneath a powdery blue sky laced with strands of clouds, a Honda sat in the gravel. Cam rubbed his jacket zipper with a stiff thumb. Faster as the seconds passed. He took a step forward, prepping himself for whomever may answer. They could’ve moved. Jimmy could have left Hurst street and the town and all of it to pursue something else. What if Cameron was the reason Jimmy diverged from the path of an artist? What if it was all his fault? He knocked, gentle at first, half-regretting his decision already. But when he realized the choice had already been made, he knocked harder and more pronounced. Cam exhaled, tapping his foot on their stoop excessively. “Oh god, what are you doing? What are you doing, Cameron?” he murmured to himself. The front door’s seal broke. Its hinges groaned as it opened further. “Cam?” “Hey.” He was thinner—no, leaner—than Cam had remembered. But Jimmy stood before him, mind and soul, in the same—albeit trimmed—shell. “H-how’ve you been?” Cameron rubbed his nose. “Good.” “Come in, man, come in.” Jimmy opened the screen for him, allowing Cam to step foot into his home. “I’ve missed you.” They stood in the foyer for a second, inspecting each other to reacquaint. And as Cameron lingered on his chest—on the text of his sweatshirt—he felt the swift embrace of Jimmy. “I’m sorry,” Jimmy said through a heavy throat. “I was such an idiot, then, *such* an idiot.” “It’s okay,” Cam said, wrapping his arms tight around him. “It *is,* Jimmy.” The pair of them stood, the house’s walls sputtering with sounds of pipes. “Come on,” Cam said. “I want you to meet someone.


I think some people move through life with an intense purpose, you know? They’re the type of people when you meet them they just have it together- Just everything. I think my life was formed by a young God, learning how to knit strings of fate together haphazardly for the first time. I think if life was a river, then I’m a fish on the side of the riverbank, trying to walk. People get all sensitive when you talk about not wanting to be here, alive I mean, not like you’d ever do anything because then that would require you to you know- do something. I hope I’m not the only one like that, everyone I’ve talked to in support groups always has this phenomenal story; “And there I was! Holding my newborn son and I knew my life had a purpose.” It was the same for every group, I would patiently wait for them to finish, picking at my ugly thumb until they’d inquire why I’d chosen to stay. And of course, with me being a poet as I am, I’d eloquently respond; " I dunno, leaving seems like a lot of work." I’m not sure why I kept going for a while, it didn’t make me feel better. I mean, there I was; this monotone jerk who would ruin the vibe of the whole thing they had going on. Maybe in some odd way, it gave me a jaded hope, if these self-righteous jerks went through what I did, then maybe I too could one day care about something. Not that I didn’t care about things, I just couldn’t. I loved my mother and my father. But I didn’t really like them, or myself. I sometimes feel guilty, so many others could have been instead of me, but I just couldn’t care that I was alive. I think that’s why I moved to Paris, not for the sights, the culture, or the jobs. But for the people. My Dad had lived in California for his whole life, but my mother was from New York. She’d always like to tell me that Californians were nice but not kind, and New Yorkers kind but very not nice. French people were neither and that’s how I liked it. There was never any small talk at my job just the typical, “Salut.” “Hi, what can I get you?” “Oh you speak English-” “What do you want?” “Oh- a chocolate cross-” “Pain au chocolat- 3.25.” “Oh, ok.” Nothing interesting happens in Paris, I mean there’s always the idiot tourists that get scammed but everything falls into a pattern eventually. Each boring day went by in a blur, I guess if anything I liked it was the place I worked at. Very touristy, so I never had to worry about actually offending any actual locals. I think that the tourists liked that I was kind of rude, it added to- The Parisian Aesthetic

I didn’t really pay attention to my surroundings much, other than avoiding the crazies on the street. But I like them I guess, I think they add to the tres chic ambiance of my mediocre neighborhood, or as the French say. Very Chic. *hold for applause* I think then that’s two things I like then, crazy people and my job. Oh- and stupid kids doing stupid things. The concept always seemed so foreign to me, having a feral child was something my mother was always adamantly against. I had been thrown into so many activities as a little girl that I lacked the energy to be a feral child. My dad also refused to teach me anything other than sophisticated vocabulary so the most crazy I’d ever get was saying, “Could I possibly” instead of, “May I perhaps?”

I think the parents are mostly to blame, they always ignore their kids and of course, the kids look elsewhere for entertainment. Honestly? By the time I was eighteen, I had done all the living any reasonable person could want. It was just another day, I had gotten there at exactly 7:48am, like always. I went about my day on autopilot, rudely correcting tourists on their French, sometimes very wrongly, just to get a kick out of it.

Jean was always there on Wednesday, and he was always obnoxiously nice to everyone. Like the kind of sweet that hurt your teeth and gave you a headache. He always wore these wife beaters but they were from this awful designer brand and cost like 50 euros a piece. He purposefully spoke broken English- of course, unless he was complimenting what looked to be a well-tipping woman. It was a slow day, which drove me insane. I like having something to do when I am left to my own devices or I’d end up insane. I peered over to see Jean checking himself out in the murky sink water.

I sighed and threw a towel at him, “Maybe if you’d actually do something about the dirty dishes then you could stop being just a pretty face.” He turned around and smirked at me, “So- you think I have a pretty face?” “Honestly,” I threw my hands up in the air and walked over to the sink. I dipped my arms down and pulled out the drain. I shook the grimy water off my hands and held it in front of him, “you only hear what you want.”

The door rudely interrupts us with a chime. “Ah-” he coyly smiles, “I’ll get that customer.” “Oh no she has a child,” I apathetically state, “you don’t want to be a homewrecker do you?” She’s carrying a sweet little girl and is impossibly put together for a mother. “Ello, and welcome to the-uh how do you say-café,” he smiles flirtatiously at her, “You have the uh- ocean eyes no?” Oh my God, he’s pathetic

I roll my eyes as he continues to flirt with her shamelessly, she twirls her hair giggling like a schoolgirl. But I get it, if I was a tourist I’d be all over that act. I look over to see if any other customers are lining up behind her.

This is a mistake because I make eye contact with the little baby on her hip, she's a sweet little chubby baby, the ones you’d see on a yogurt ad I guess. I don’t know why but there’s something about her little gummy smile across her chubby face that makes me all fuzzy inside. Ok, maybe I can add that one little girl to the list of things I like. Jean is a flirt but he makes orders quickly, at the end of the day his whole act is for his ego and for his pocket. I look out the large window at the front trying to find an excuse to not talk to him. But I’m not sure why, something about today just feels a bit off. I sigh, peering back at the little girl who is now sitting on the lap of the woman, she is smiling as she squeals and gnaws on strawberries her mother brought in an old cookie tin. Normally I’d happily and quite rudely tell the woman that no outside food was permitted but- Babies don’t eat croissants, right? “Aren’t you gonna go yell at that nice lady?” he peers over my shoulder, usually I’d reply in a huff. “Hmm,” I pause and shake my head, strands of my hair falling down my forehead, “actually not feeling it today.” “When do you not feel like rudely correcting tourists,” he scoffs and throws a towel over his shoulder, pretending like he had been working hard, “even though you are a glorified one.” “How long do I have to live here to not be a tourist then?” I raise my eyebrow, playfully inquiring. “Eh-” he thinks for a moment, “since birth.” “Hm,” I returned to examining the baby, anxious to see if she got strawberries on her yellow duck dress. “You seem distracted- what’s on your mind,” he sighs and looks down at me, adjusting his apron, “and I know it isn’t me.” “I just-” I turn to him, rubbing my forehead, “something feels off today- I’m not sure why.” “Maybe it’s the weather?” he liked to hear himself talk as he wiped down the counter, “or there was that weird customer earlier the one with…” His voice trailed off as I focused on the little girl, the patio was out in the sunshine and a soft breeze carried an air of serenity. The mother placed the baby back in the pram as she turned to grab something out of her stylish bag.

An azure-colored butterfly danced around the patio, darting from flower to flower. It twirled around and danced with wondrous color. The butterfly landed on the handle of the pram as the baby cooed at it. It reached out to it as the butterfly crawled into its hand, and then in one swift movement. It. ate. It. “Oh my god-” my eyes widened as I grabbed onto Jean’s sleeve, “did-did you just see that!” “What?” I turn back to see the mother leaving the café, a large tote in her left hand, and the pram in her right. I hesitate to try to figure out how to tell her that her precious child-  Ate. A. Butterfly. I slid down behind the counter, sweat beading on my forehead, “That baby ate a butterfly!” Jean looks at me in disbelief and concern, he pauses, his brow furrowed, “Is it gonna die?” “The butterfly is definitely dead.” “No!” he threw his hands up and sighed, “The petite baby!” “I-” I pause thinking back to my wasted years at medical school, “maybe!?” “We have to tell her,” I panic and grasp his shoulders, “do you still have the card she paid with?” “Yes,” he throws his apron off, “I’ll look to see if she’s ever had a delivery under the same card.” He scuttles off, leaving chaos in his wake. “Closing early today-” I hissed out to the few tourists in the shop, “French holiday!” He hurriedly runs back out with several addresses written down on his wrist, “It has to be one of these.” We both usher the customers out as he locks up the place quickly. “Excuse me,” a sour woman sneers, “what holiday is it?” Jean throws me an extra helmet from his obnoxiously red bike, I sigh, putting it on I snap my head to the woman quickly responding, “Mercredi!” I snap back to Jean as I mount the bike before him, “You’re delusional if you think I’m gonna wrap my arms around your little waist.” He sighs annoyed, “Fine, let’s go!” We dash and dart down streets, nearly avoiding crazies and tourists. He holds onto me like a scared child scolding me for my rough driving. We’re met with several very confused family members who cannot place her and moreover think I can’t speak French. “Le bebe! Elle a mangé un papillon!! “Quoi!?!” I’m getting increasingly frustrated, I know all too well that we’re racing against time as tears form in my eyes. Jean sees me out of the corner of his eyes, he looks at me all concerned with his puppy dog eyes, “Hey- we’ll find her ok?” “I just-” I shake my head, the tears stinging against my skin, “I need to do something that matters for once.” “Turn-turn turn!” he hastily grabs the left hand of the bike as it scratches up against a broken pipe, “oh, that hurt me spiritually-” “Shush!” I rev the bike, picking up speed, “This is the last place right?” “Ye- '' Before he can finish I drift into the courtyard of a stately-looking house, I begin to run to the door throwing off my helmet. “Not my helmet!” he picks it up brushing off the dirt. My heart skips a beat as the woman opens the door all flustered, she’s holding her baby who is all red in the face and coughing. “Please,” she, very distraught, begins to close the door, “I’m very busy and I just can’t-.” “Your baby-” I pause and catch my breath as Jean examines his bike, swearing fervently, “your baby earlier at La Peche Cafe, she ate a butterfly- I know it's hard to believe but it's true-” Her eyes open wide as she stares helplessly at her baby, “Oh my god- oh my god” She pulls out her phone from her side, making a call to the emergency line, “Hi- yes- my baby is sick and-and.” The baby begins to gag and cry, trying to throw up the butterfly. A lightbulb goes off in my head as med school memories are brushed off. The cobwebs in my mind begin to clear once more. “Hydrogen Peroxide,” I simply state, regaining my nerves and entering doctor mode. “What?”

She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Our best bet is to get her to throw up that butterfly,” I place my hand on her shoulder trying to calm her nerves, “hydrogen peroxide in small amounts induces vomiting.” She pauses, nodding along with me, “Ok-ok It's in the sink cabinet, first bathroom on the left.” Jean darts inside, tracking dirt as he tears up the bathroom, a few seconds later he emerges proudly with a bottle of the exact thing. “What’s your baby's name?” I try to calm her as I pour a small amount of the substance into the cap she shakily feeds it to her frantic baby. “Mariposa-” tears run down her face as she holds tight to her baby, “her name is Mariposa!” You have to be kidding me. The makeshift nauseant works as the baby starts to gag before hurling all over the sweet mother's elegant pantsuit. An all too familiar pair of blue wings slide down the front of her blouse. The woman is unfazed by this and begins to sob relieved tears as she holds onto her baby. Me and Jean, not knowing what to do with ourselves, sit on the front steps of this grand house as the mother dotes on her baby inside waiting for more help. I sigh, relieved and slightly smile to myself. I did that- I actually did something.

We pause and stare at each other, unsure of how to break the silence. “How did you do that?” He looks at me like I’m something special, “how did you know to give the baby that awful-smelling stuff, the same stuff we use to kill mosquitoes in the fountain?” “Um, before I came to France,” I hesitated before sighing, “I was in medical school.” “Oh,” he pauses, unsure of how to respond, “and you didn’t become a doctor here?” I huff, glaring at him He frantically defends himself, “N-not that’s there’s anything wrong with that!” “I dropped out.” “Oh.” He pauses, clearly curious he squints at me, “...why?” “I-”, I looked up at him, “I was in a dark place. I didn’t care about anything, I was just burnt out and tired. I-I was so tired of being this perfect daughter who never complained- and never did anything wrong.”

I traced my fingers along the cool steps and looked up at him, “So I guess I kinda just snapped, and well now I’m here in Paris- with you.” “Wow- I’ve really fallen from grace huh,” I tease him as he rolls his eyes, failing to hide his smile. “Well,” he smiles at me, “it’s too bad, you would’ve been a really good doctor.” “Do you,” he looks at me with concern in his eyes, “do you still feel that way?” “It’s gotten better,” I put my head on his shoulders, “I just feel like I don’t have a purpose-you know?” “Like sometimes I wonder,” I look down at my hands, “is this really it? Is this all there is?” We’re interrupted by the woman sitting down next to me, she’s thrown a towel over the mess on her shirt, “The medics will be here in just a minute.” She has relief and gratitude strewn all over her face. She looks at me with slight scrutiny, “That was very clever you know, not many people know about that.” Jean speaks for me, “Not everyone has been to medical school.” I give him a punch in the side as I clarify, “ Half , I went to half of medical school.” She laughs at us and peers back to me, “You know, Sorbonne is still accepting students, if you ever wanted to put your talents to good use.” “It’s impossible to get into,” I try to conceal my hope, “I don’t think they would accept a dropout.” “Not without a glowing recommendation,” she shakes her head, agreeing with me, “say, from a tenured professor?” “Unlike butterflies,” I chuckle, “I don’t think any recommendations are going to appear out of the blue.” “You know, you always think that you know everything until it's your own kid in danger,” she smiles holding her giggling baby, “I’d love to write a glowing letter for you, it’s the least I can do.” “You work there?”

She nods, smiling wide, “I’ll tell them to look out for the butterfly girl.” I’m still not sure why it happened, but I’m glad it did. Because something inside of me comes back to life as if to yell at me; Do something! Do something with your life. Jean drives me to the same boring meetings on the same red bike of his after my medical school classes, the massive scratch is still there.

He says it adds character. I’m really still awful at telling my story at the support groups, which I still really only go to for the free muffins. “So, can you tell us why you are here today?” I sigh, knowing the questions that will ensue.  “I saw a baby eat a butterfly.”


Arthur held his father’s hand tightly. His cap fixed to his head, breeches cinched at his waist with a small leather belt. His first tie knotted at his collar, his father showing him how to tie it as he did it for his young son. Arthur was studious, even at the young age of seven. Serious. Determined. He absorbed everything he could and kept records. First in his head. As he aged, in journals. Anything he found interesting or useful. He peered from the bench into the casket, seeing for the first time a dead body. He knew this one before. Before it was a body, it was his grandmother. Afterwards, Arthur endured the awkward family time at his grandmother’s house, with the awkward consolations, each sounding more contrived than the previous: “Now the healing begins”; “She’s in a better place”; “She’s at peace”. Arthur couldn’t picture his grandmother being peaceful. She always seemed worried to him. Even at his age, he recognized his grandmother as a nervous and sad person. His last visit with her was just three weeks earlier. She had been napping in her bedroom. Arthur’s parents took the brief moment of peace to slip away to rest and collect themselves, leaving Arthur alone to watch his grandmother’s chest rise and fall, her breath coming in long wheezing draws. It startled him when she spoke. “How long have you been there?” his grandmother asked. Arthur didn’t know. “A while,” he said. His grandmother began to cough, waving frantically for Arthur, who obligingly came to her bedside, his grandmother directing him to the nightstand and a glass of water that Arthur handed her, his grandmother, holding it with both hands, sipping with her eyes clenched shut. A pause, a deep breath, and relaxing as the cough subsided. She passed the glass back to Arthur, who returned it to the nightstand. “Hand me my mirror,” his grandmother instructed. The small hand mirror lay on the stand next to the water, a handkerchief, vase of gardenias, and a copy of the King James Bible. Arthur watched as his grandmother looked into the mirror. She had an expression like she was staring at something far away, not just her reflection inches before her. She finally sighed and closed her eyes, pressing the mirror closer to her chest. “Life goes so quickly,” she said to no one in particular and then to Arthur, “I was your age only yesterday.” Arthur didn’t understand. He wasn’t sure how old his grandmother was. He was told it was impolite to ask such things. But he was certain she was much older than seven yesterday. “Look at yourself,” his grandmother said, passing him her mirror. “Take a good look at yourself, Arthur.” Arthur again did as instructed. He saw his reflection, his blue eyes, his dark hair, combed neatly for the visit, the small scratch on his left cheek he’d gotten from a tree branch the day before. “Don’t forget this moment, Arthur,” his grandmother said. “It will all go by so fast. Never forget who you are. Now. In the present.” Arthur didn’t quite understand what his grandmother was saying. He did know it was making him uncomfortable and that he wished his parents would get back soon, glancing back over his shoulder towards the door. “Do you know why they call it the present?” his grandmother asked. Arthur shook his head. “Because it’s a gift,” she said, and she smiled for the first time that Arthur could remember. And for the last time. Arthur slipped into his grandmother’s empty room and sat in the chair, staring at the empty bed. He felt better being there. Sad, but better. The quiet was interrupted by his mother, calling in to him. “Arthur, come out here and talk with the guests,” she said, ducking her head in the door quickly. “Now.” “Yes, ma’am,” Arthur said, but waited a few moments more. He ran his hand over the mirror on the bed stand where he’d left it. Turning it over, he looked into it and remembered what his grandmother said but didn’t feel like the present was a particularly wonderful gift at that moment. He was tired of adults ordering him around. He just wanted to be older and respected and no longer treated like a child. In his hand, the image of himself in the mirror, shimmered. He thought he imagined it. Then it happened again, and then it blurred, and the reflection was no longer of Arthur at age 7. It was Arthur, at least it resembled Arthur, but older now. In uniform. And looking confident. Arthur turned to his parents, shaking his father’s hand, kissing his mother on the cheek, swinging his bag over his shoulder and heading to the waiting car to drive him to the train station and the train to San Francisco, and the ship waiting there to take him overseas. On the train, at night, Arthur the only one still awake, he watched the dark shapes of the fields of Nebraska whir by and wondered when and if he would ever get home. He wondered if he would ever see his parents again, his sister, his dog. Whether he would ever have a career or a family of his own, or if he would just join the constantly growing list of young men who would not. Arthur dug around in his pack and found it. The mirror. He’d stolen it from his grandmother’s bedside that morning of her funeral. He’d felt an attachment to it, to his grandmother through it. His talisman he never told anyone about. Not even his sister to whom he felt he could tell everything. He wasn’t sure if he could keep it safe or hidden once on his ship, but he was going to try. He glanced at it, at his reflection in it. He saw himself, thought he saw himself, but Arthur wasn’t sure. The dim light of the train car provided just enough to make out his features, but so dim his features appeared to alter with each jostle and bump of the tracks, altered his hair line enough that it began to recede, the corners of his eyes to crease, his forehead to wrinkle. Arthur sat at his desk, a pile of overdue warehousing reports on the most recent project the huge food conglomerate he worked for had ordered, involving the processing, storage and distribution of cherries in Wisconsin and Michigan, from where he had just returned. A two-week trip away from his wife and children, a formal portrait of them squarely on Arthur’s desk. Arthur in his usual brown suit, his son in a similar version, each with mustard yellow shirts and matching orange and brown striped ties. His wife, bouffant hair freshly coiffed from the salon, his daughter in a handmade dress with zoo animals on it. Three of them smiled. Arthur just looked like he wanted the picture over with. The phone rang. His wife calling with a request to stop at the market and pick up pork chops and a head of lettuce. Arthur felt a grumble grow in him. He was exhausted. He just wanted to go home. How did this mundane errand fall upon him when he was out working fifty hour weeks to provide that food for his family. After dinner that night, when the house was asleep and Arthur was not, Arthur slipped from the bed and to the chest he kept in the basement. No one else had the key but him. It contained the remnants of the life before now. Jar of marbles, Boy Scout sash and memorabilia, Navy uniform, and his grandmother’s mirror. In the dust of the basement illuminated by the bare bulb in the fixture overhead, Arthur looked again into the mirror, hoping for something better. Whether that better existed in his future or was left in his past, he wasn’t certain. He just hoped. And the reflection that remained was that of an old man, blue blazer, striped tie, bifocals, his head almost completely bald save a thin gray rim around the edge. He looked like he was smiling, for Arthur. For many people it would have appeared he was only trying to not not smile. In his small one-bedroom apartment in the retirement home, Arthur looked at the wall of pictures over his breakfast table. Faded black-and-whites of his parents, his childhood, his time in the service. Once bright kodachromes of his wedding, his early years with his wife, his early years with his children, the color bleaching out over years along with Arthur’s expression. Then only pictures of him with his wife and daughter. And then only with his daughter. Arthur looked at his grandmother’s mirror in his hand and wondered where the time had gone.

He set it down on his bed stand, his hand unsteady, his daughter catching her father’s arm and the mirror before either crashed onto the stand. She lay the mirror safely to the side and Arthur’s arm comfortably back across his chest. Arthur closed his eyes. His breath came in deeper gasps, longer gaps between them. And then it stopped. “Dad?” his daughter asked. Seven-year-old Arthur stood behind his daughter, watching her cry on the old man in the bed. He turned back to look over his shoulder as a gentle hand rested upon it.

His grandmother, younger than he remembered her ever being, looked down on him and smiled. “I told you,” she said. “It all goes so quickly.”


About fifteen Novembers ago, my mom told me during the long ride to grandma's, “People grieve in different ways.” Gray haze veiled the road and icy rain, dinged on the windshield like BB pellets. “Grieve?” Later that afternoon, I danced a metal cookie cutter around the kitchen table while my grandma dumped a heap of brown sugar into a mixing bowl. It looked a little like a sandcastle. “Run, run, as fast as you can, you can’t catch me I’m the Gingerbread Man!” I sang between pursed lips like a ventriloquist. “Remember to keep a good eye on them once they come out of the oven.” My grandma winked. “I won’t let them get away, Grandma,” I said, squeezing the cookie cutter. My grandma’s gold earrings swung from her ears like monkeys on vines as she flitted between ingredients. She poured molasses, darker as chocolate syrup, into a measuring cup. “Yuck, what’s that?” I cried. “Molasses,” she laughed. “Like Melissa , but not so sweet.” She showed me the measurements printed on the side. “Is that right?” I looked down at the recipe I’d printed at school. I’d begun learning about fractions, and my teacher had thought baking might be a good way to practice them. “M-O-L—” “I see it, I see it, Grandma. It says…half a cup.” I squinted at the lines on the cup. “Yes, half a cup.” “Very good,” she said, a smile spreading on her mulberry lips. "And then?” I beamed while I ran a finger over the steps. “Oh, we need…half a teaspoon of ‘al-spis.’ For the other bowl.” Her smile waned. “Why do we need allspice for cinnamon rolls?” I scrunched up my nose. “Cinnamon rolls? We’re making gingerbread men , Grandma.” I waved the recipe in the air. “Oh. You’re right.” Her face became pink under a film of foundation. She picked up a measuring spoon and scooped out what looked like grains of dirt from a small bottle. “Did we get everything?” she asked as she emptied the spoon. I checked the recipe. “Um, ginger.” She snatched the paper from me. “Let me see that.” Frowning, I said, “Well, for gingerbread men we need it, right?” I leaned over the table to peek at the list. At home, when my older brother and I fought, being “right” was paramount: yeah huh, vanilla is the worst flavor in Neapolitan ice cream, and duh, pancakes are better than waffles. But that day, being right didn’t feel as good. I might as well have been the weatherman watching the storm I predicted swell on the radar. Maybe my fear had something to do with what else my mom said to me on the way over. “See if it’s in the cupboard,” my grandma said, pointing over her shoulder. I jumped up and towed my chair to the cupboard. Opening the doors, I began parting the sea of half-empty spice bottles, some unlabeled, and packages of flour separating at the seams. Behind me, a Styrofoam carton squealed when my grandma took an egg out. While I scavenged, I noticed a mound of something scattered in the back like leaves. Reaching into the darkness, I pulled out a trading card with a picture of man in a baseball uniform kneeling on a field, a bat balanced on his thigh. It said “Dale Murphy” along the bottom and “Braves” on the top in steel blue. I didn’t know much about baseball then, so I assumed it meant he must be courageous. His hard squint into the stands seemed to cement the notion. "Hey, these are kinda cool!” I exclaimed, shuffling a handful of cards. “Why are these up here, Grandma?” Her reaction startled me. “Put those back!” she screeched. One of the cards escaped and sailed to the floor. “I don’t want Jerry to find them!” My eyebrows tented. “Uncle Jerry?” She cracked the egg on the bowl. The yellow goop seeped out of the shell. “He’s not allowed to take those to school.” In the car, my mom had said that if this happened to just go along with it, throw my grandma an “m-hm” if I had to. But don’t try to argue. So, no matter how confused it made me, I bit my tongue when she asked, “Did you find the yeast?” “Yeast?” I smirked from where I stood on the chair. I slipped a few cards in my back pocket and returned the rest of the stack to the cupboard. “I thought we…” “The yeast is in a little packet,” she said, attaching the whisks to the mixer. Pulling my chair back up to the table, I laid the packet beside the nutmeg. Then, I smoothed out my recipe. For the sake of the gingerbread men, I told her, “It’s not on here, Grandma. Should I put it ba--” She shook her head. “No, stay out of the cupboard.” My face felt hot with frustration when I heard the  shrrrip of the packet being torn. She shook it empty into the bowl with the spices. After combining the wet and dry ingredients, she made circles in the cocoa-colored sludge with the mixer, whirring like a buzz saw. I took the cards from my pocket and held them in a fan in my lap while the mixer flicked batter onto the tablecloth. I wondered if I only reminded Grandma about Uncle Jerry, I would be allowed to keep the cards. Certainly, if my mom saw how awesome the they were, she would understand, I thought. “Grandma, Uncle Jerry doesn’t go to school anymore,” I said over the sound of the mixer. She flipped the switch and set it aside. “He got sent to the principal for having those cards, and he won’t be getting caught with them again.” Color bloomed in her face. “M-hm.” Using a rubber spatula, she scraped the gooey batter from the sides of the bowl. Her forehead wrinkled with disgust. “He tried to say they were that boy Todd’s”—she hit the spatula off the edge of the mixing bowl— "He won’t make friends that way.” “M-hm.” “Always so stubborn,” she mused. "Always so lonely in there." I tucked the cards back in my pocket. “Well, I wouldn’t get caught with them,” I assured her. She snorted and shook her head. “You know, I tried to get him to just sign up for real baseball and he said, 'the team won't like me.' 'I'm not good enough.' Laziness, he learned it from his father.” I grew annoyed with her game. “Grandma, Uncle Jerry went to Texas.” “Texas?” she scoffed. “He’s never been there.” “That’s what dad always said. Uncle Jerry went to college in Texas before I was born.” "No, he’s only fifteen,” she seemed to say more to herself than me. “He’s never even talked about college.” She sighed and gave the bowl another whack. “Now, it has to sit for a while before we can cut it. What time is it?” I stared at the clock. “Uh, almost three.” She whispered, “While we’re waiting, why don’t you sneak back there and see if he’s hiding any more of those? Before he gets off the bus.” My shoulders fell. Just go along with it, don’t be worried , Mom had said. I headed down the hall, unsure of what “back there” meant. I poked my head around every door, buzzing with a little excitement at the thought I might find more cards. I would say to her, “I’ll hide them good, Grandma, so he can’t take them to school anymore,” and have a whole collection. I jiggled the knob of the only room I had yet to check. A rush of cool air hit me like standing at the entrance of a tomb. Discarded clothes and torn magazine pages laid scattered on the carpet. A batting helmet, CDs, and a studded leather jacket bellied out of the open closet. Posters of more “Brave” baseball players curled as the tape came loose with time. One of them said, “RUN HOME!” An unraveled yo-yo rested on the floor by the bed. Seeing a backpack slouching by the foot of the bed, I entered the room and unzipped it, fast in case Uncle Jerry somehow caught me in there snooping. “Aha,” I murmured to myself when I felt something thin and flat hidden in an inside pocket. I couldn’t suppress a smile. “Who do we have here…” When I tugged the card out, I didn’t see a suntanned player posing on the field. Instead of baseball stats, I saw a column of Ds and Fs. I wondered how Uncle Jerry could be in college for so long if he hadn’t gotten As in regular school. Standing by the bed with the report card, I thought about what to do. Like putting flowers on a grave, I took the baseball cards out of my back pocket and slipped them into the musty pillowcase. When I returned, I helped my grandma dig the dough out of the bowl and plop it onto a bed of flour she’d sprinkled on the table. I used the rolling pin to flatten it out. She didn’t ask about the baseball cards. Grabbing my cookie cutter, I felt the confusion in my heart fade. Before I could cut the shapes, however, my grandma took a stick of melty butter from the dish and rubbed it across the slab of dough. Then, she coated the surface in cinnamon. The aroma burnt my nostrils. At that age and even today, I didn’t know the difference between what she chose to forget and what she didn’t. She rolled the dough into a log and held the dough knife out to me. My mom had told me what to say, but not how to cope. Fighting the feeling of disappointment, I put the cookie cutter aside. “Cut about a dozen. About…an inch and a half thick… Is that what it says?” she asked, pointing at the recipe. My palms sweaty, I glanced at the paper, trying not to notice that it didn’t say to spread cinnamon on the dough or roll it up or pour yeast into the mix. “Yeah, inch and….” “Is it a one and a two?” I nodded. “Oh,” she chuckled. “You know what a ‘half’ looks like, you just told me half a teaspoon only a little bit ago.” “I know.” “Ah.” She rubbed her temples while I made a crooked cut in the dough. “He should have just put it down.” “M-hm.” "Out there in the street when they told him, he should have just put it down.” ` “M-hm.”


I found the girl’s bones in the church, tucked inside the attic. They had been picked clean and were colored stone gray. The only flesh that remained on her skeleton was the skin stretched taut across her skull. It cradled her eyes precariously in their sockets, and I watched a spider wove delicate webs on her irises. Her spine had been dislodged and splayed apart. They looked like the desiccated wings of an angel who had tried to fly but ultimately had failed. I wouldn’t fail. Something glinted in the faint light. A thin gold bracelet encircled the delicate bones of her wrist. Allegra, it read in fancy script. Allegra. I knew her. I had known her. Everyone spoke about her in lovely, hushed tones. I wanted to be talked about. I wanted to be worshipped, so I sought her in the church and I found her. This house wasn’t haunted; it was infested. There were spider webs everywhere. I had come because there were rumors about a church and its deity. She granted you every wish if you were brave enough to seek her out. And I was brave. I stroked Allegra’s bones and marveled. “I’m so jealous of you,” I whispered to her. “But I can be much better.” When I heard the breathing behind me, I thought my chest would burst open. My heart wouldn’t stop beating, and acidic bile filled my throat. The Goddess emitted harsh and rattling gasps. She smelled like blood and death. She reached over my shoulder and entwined a long, furry appendage around my neck. I tried to turn and see the deity. Who was I speaking to? But it held me in place and rendered me immobile. “Not yet,” she whispered to me. “Not yet. What do you want, my dear….” She asked. I pointed to Allegra, stripped to the bone, and left to hang on a web. She hadn’t wanted it enough. She never deserved it, but I did. “I want to fly,” I said boldly. I had found my voice. “I want to fly and touch the heavens. I want everyone to know and love me.” She said nothing. She didn’t have to. Instead, she lifted me into the air and turned me so I could finally see. She was beautiful. And her beauty enhanced as she smiled at me and plunged an arm into my chest. I watched my blood spray and then sputter. I watched until everything went black. I remember flying. Yes, I flew. I flew higher than Allegra, and I went farther than anybody that I have ever known. It’s dark and empty here, but I don’t feel lonely. I would never be alone when worshipped. I can see them calling and crying for me. They sink onto tired knees and pray about me. I have become the angel. I am who they talk about. In the church, I found my wings, and my name is now a legend. You will never forget me.


I know. I know. I half choke and half sob. I realize I am in shock but there’s no way I can stop myself from reacting. Instead of letting my emotions reign I try to sum up everything from a technical point of view. This has always been my way to cope with anything difficult. Look, I tell myself. You have something precious to you. And you’re in danger. Now the thing that is precious to you isn’t something that’s materialistic. You need to understand…its, in fact, a sort of self sacrificial love. Stop, I warn myself, you’re getting too emotional So I start over again. You’re in mortal danger and you will die within a short time frame. Correct. Out of human instinct you must protect something valuable and since you’ll be dead soon you need to carry out a protective measure. Correct? Yes… so what’s the hesitation for? Just put your cargo in this capsule and hope for the best. No, hope is emotion and my nerves are already fragile. Let me rephrase it I tell myself. And just in time before I lapse into a nervous break down. Rephrasing: the probabilities of my possession surviving in this capsule is fifty, fifty. in contrast, not putting my precious into the capsule means a hundred percent destruction. Correct? Yes, but….. Then why can I not put my baby into the time capsule? Is it because its not built for humans? Of course it isn’t. But still, this machine isn’t as primitive as seven years ago, God-forbid. We’re far beyond sending just letters, sheet by sheet. Wasn’t it in the news just yesterday that they’ve successfully just sent the heaviest load up till now. 20 kilograms was it? Oh, what would I remember of yesterday? It feels like ages ago. Like paradise. My brain runs overdrive in despair. I am connecting vast and various data that lies in my subconsciousness out of survival instinct. Yesterday, was when these rabid robots weren’t after us. It was when I was making vegetable soup in the kitchen and my baby was sleeping in his pen in the adjoining living area. Yesterday was when I was thinking what groceries had to buy this weekend. I half smile from the irony. I’m stuck between the past and future. Present is formidable. What will my child do without me in the future? That is if he survives. I survey the slick, metal machinery. Its a huge pill with a seam in the middle when it’s closed. Right now its slit open a meter wide and I stare at the insides. Plain metal again with a tray to place items. I shall soon be placing my ‘item’ here. A beep resonates on the screen to my right. “AI entering lobby” the message states and above that, on the digital blueprints of the building the lobby area blinks red. Somehow, the peaceful and systematic movements of the robots is petrifying. Its more chilling then what the 21’s movies showed of robots being on a rampage. It was like comparing a classical, roaring monster to a skilled serial killer. So smooth and serene that the silence seems to strangle you. I am being strangled from a fear and despair deep within me. But I, too, must act in complete quietness and swiftness. I surf through the monitor, selecting from what little choices I have. “Approximate weight:” the machine blankly asks. I type in 7.3 kg and immediately the monthly doctor’s checkup come to mind. My brain runs overdrive recollecting every second as if it might save me from making this decision. I have at most 15 minutes before the AI slowly scans its way through the rooms, detecting potential human life to eradicate. I am then politely asked to load my luggage onto the capsule. I turn around. And face the baby basket. My baby sleeps peacefully enveloped in a soft blanket. He will reach the other side. He will, I decide. I must match my competition with an equal hardheartedness. If I am to save him from the AI, I must be of equal resilience. This is not the time to breakdown, we discussed this I remind myself. I reach over for my purse. Unzip it, and smoothly bring out the first item inside. Its not something visually important. A sheet of paper I tore from the five dollar spiral notebook from the general store. Inside is written a letter to the ‘futurers’. And nested in the folds of the same page is the photograph I removed from the frame on top of the rack at home, last minute. Its a picture of us. Our family. This will be for the baby. I marvel and despair at my quick thinking. How easily I planned everything the moment it was certain I would die. The plan was as smooth as if I had been a week old. I wedge the paper underneath the baby, below the blanket. I am about to give a parting kiss but I am too afraid to wake him up. Or perhaps to hurt myself. Without thinking, without feeling I place the basket onto the tray. But unlike usual, this time I don’t manually slide the capsule shut. I would never have the guts too. I know I’m in shock and can work without my heart’s presence but I don’t want to push myself too far and come out of this spell. I must match the robots. A final touch to the monitor and the capsule slides backwards slightly. I ignore the movements and focus on the screen, acting like I am on usual loading duty. The system asks me to wait as it takes an estimate weight of the contents I placed on the tray. Matches it with my entered value. I glance to the clock. I have ten minutes. The security command delivers the message I was anticipating. It is as if my patience is being tested. The machine has detected my baby’s breath and wants me to check for human trace on board. I override the command and continue. This is it. The end and start. A glass dome looming above makes its way down and settles on top. A few seconds later the count down starts, I stare. This is so impossible I don’t believe it is possible. I stare blankly. Minutes pass. To the side, most of the building has turned red on screen and soon the AI shall greet me. I will respond with open arms after this deed. Then, slowly the glass dome pulls back up. As it moves upwards I feel my heart sinking. Its going into oblivion just like my baby. Despair, regret and finally melancholy replaces the place it used to be. The weight is too much and I collapse onto the floor. Behind me is the empty capsule now open and dormant again. It is emotionless as if it did not just write the destiny of my only love. A destiny I don’t know. It is vacant and empty. In the middle am I, heart broken and disoriented. I want this over before the shock pulls out of my body. From the other side, the doors open and in enter the machines similarly vacant and empty as they approach me.


Somehow, and nobody really knows how, the James Webb telescope and the SLS saw no further delays after the coronavirus. This obviously led to the imprisonment of Jim Bridenstine on account of suspected witch-craft, but also led to the first permanent moon base which everyone thought was a great idea until one of the astronauts asked the engineers how to bake bread in space. It had been such a clear requirement that everybody had just assumed that somebody else would have sorted it out already. So now all they had was a bag of flour, a couple of sachets of yeast, a lump of butter, a standardised pinch of salt and six ravenous, carbohydrate deprived zombie astronauts. “Have you ever seen the Martian?” Capcom replied after several heated discussions in Houston, “Because you might have to crack out the emergency potatoes.” This wasn’t exactly what the astronauts wanted to hear but after being reassured that when you think about it potatoes are basically just a type of Peruvian bread and that no, they couldn’t use their rocket engine as a heat source, they started to adapt to a bread-free diet. But, in the wise words of Neil Armstrong’s local baker, ‘You can only stay sane for so long without bread’. Many people in mission control doubted whether they’d be able to last three months before the next resupply mission. Sure enough, two weeks into the mission the lack of bread related supplies was starting to create a serious toll on the astronauts and the first to crack was their resident baker. He wasn’t interested in studying moon rocks, growing potatoes or having a one in six chance of holding the record for the high jump, he was just in it for the bread. Something I think we can all relate to. The only reason he’d gone to the moon was to get in the history books as the first person to ever bake bread on the moon and since he couldn’t even do that, he started seriously questioning the point of even being there in the first place. So, when the other astronauts went off to take lunar selfies for their Instagram profile pictures, their baker spent the time he should have been thoroughly investigating the possibility of cooking potatoes using a toaster, to instead stage the greatest space mutiny of all time. At 22:10 UTC, if there had been an atmosphere the group of five would have heard the rocket engines roaring as they propelled the rocket high into the lunar sky. Mission control had been unsuccessfully trying to contact the baker for half an hour, anxiously waiting to see if they could justify advertising toasted potato as astronaut food next to freeze-dried ice cream in museum gift shops. After all that’s where most of NASA’s budget came from. But when the remaining astronauts came home to their moon base, everybody forgot about toasted potato and instead began to panic. “ Houston, we don’t have a rocket anymore,” Jane the lunar base commander stated knowing that when someone would inevitably make a film of this, they’d need something for the trailer, “do you have any we could borrow?” Capcom then replied, “Well at the moment not really, if there’s an emergency evacuation we could always try calling an uber.” “Copy that,” Jane said in probably the most disapproving tone in the history of ‘copy that’. Uber had expanded to offer space taxi services but until now NASA had always detested the idea of giving Dave from down the road controls of a space ship instead of astronauts who’d been specially trained for years. At that point though, they didn’t have any choice. All the officials at NASA were forced to announce the latest mutiny. Cancelling the long-awaited ‘foods which really shouldn’t have been invented, if you give us more funding we promise we’ll stop’ press conference would seem incredibly suspicious. So, they did what they had to, 20 minutes after Jim the baker had successfully completed his trans-earth injection burn the news was broadcast around the world, the first ever space-bread-mutiny and what some were already saying was the greatest mutiny ever. But it had only just started. The Basingbourne Bread Bandit first heard about it whilst patrolling Basingbourne woods, always looking out for easy bread to be made. Whilst stalking another of his unsuspecting victims, hiding in every bush along the way, he heard them talk on the phone to a friend about it. He then proceeded to sprint out and snatch the ciabatta from her grasp without stopping, with such skill, perfected over so many years, no relay runner could ever compare. That night, he climbed up the tallest tree in the woods and got out his stupidly powerful binoculars to gaze into the sky. Finally, he found what he was looking for – a faint light which turned out to be the space craft heading for re-entry. Whilst nibbling away on part of the ciabatta, he followed the spacecraft in the sky and did quite a bit of maths in his head to work out its trajectory. It was heading for the middle of the Atlantic. Four days to get to the middle of the Atlantic and find the capsule before the US Coastguard was a walk in the Basingbourne Park for the Bread Bandit. On the way he’d probably even be able to get some more bread stealing done. Parachutes flapping in the breeze, and Jim the Baker gazing out of the tiny window over the sea wondering when he would next fill his stomach with some bread sticks, cornbread or banana bread, the capsule gently splashed down into the ocean. Then, in the distance, he saw the Bread Bandit with half a loaf of ciabatta in one hand and the steering wheel of his speed-boat in the other, wearing sun glasses on an overcast day like the true madman he was. The bandit opened the door and at the sight of the ciabatta, Jim leapt into the speed boat. And not a moment too soon because right at that moment the US Coastguard helicopters showed up and they weren’t very happy. “Mate, you’ve got to come with me, if they get a hold of you, you’ll be court-martialled because you’re a military baker or something,” the Bandit said, although Jim needed no persuading. “Just give me that bread, please you don’t know what I’ve been through! I’ll do anything!” He cried in his breadless state. Smiling to himself after hearing that he’d do anything, he handed the bread over as they sped away, followed by quite a few helicopters out of blind hope more than anything. Afterall what could they ever do to a boat? Once they’d finally reached dry land, the Basingbourne Bread Bandit finally explained to Jim what he wanted him to do, “I gave you a fair amount of bread so I’m going to ask you for a small favour in exchange. You see, I’ve called an uber to the moon and I want you to take some bread from my stockpile and tell the astronauts that if they pledge allegiance to the Basingbourne Bread Bandit they can have an unlimited amount of bread.” Obviously, Jim carried this out since he’d said he’d do anything and obviously the other astronauts obliged, they might have been suffering from human bread-deficiency syndrome but they weren’t insane. As Jane put it ‘I don’t care just hand that rye bread over’. And that is how the moon became a pirate colony and uber became the most popular launch provider.


The year is 3003. The world has seen great strides in technological advancements, specifically space travel. Every planet in our Milky Way is now inhabited by Humans, but not all planets are thriving. The planet Togo for example is used for human experimentation by the government in order to see how people would react to an extremely hot climate. They wanted to see the psychological and physical effects of extreme heat and how heat strokes affect the body in a different planet, so they could effectively find ways to colonize planets in extreme weather conditions. It was advertised as the dream planet, beautiful landscapes, high paying mining jobs and a better life for my family and I. We were deceived. Tricked into believing that this place could be our home. When our ship arrived near the ground, what we saw was horrifying. There was nothing but a scorching lava bed greeting us, with magma overflowing everywhere we looked. The agents took us to a large, abandoned, wooden shack that was atop of a cliff. This cliff was away from all of the magma and lava below. Surely this must of been some sort of mistake, this place is not what was advertised, at all. I knew that we had to escape, soon. When we took our first steps off of our shuttles and on to this foreign place, the heat was extreme. I felt my sweat evaporate. They took us to our tiny rooms, with no insulation or windows. I told my family that we have to get out of here. The room next to us, someone was screaming. "Jake, wake up!". I was unsure of what just happened, but I assumed that the mother had just lost his son to a heat stroke. I started getting delirious, the heat was getting to me. I needed to escape, we needed to escape. I needed to find the perfect opportunity to leave, but the problem is I don't know when nightfall is on this planet. It's always day time. We waited hours on end until we decided now was the time to leave. We left our things here and my wife and I busted down the door. The exit was to our left, but two platinum clad guards were to our right. I told my wife to leave without me while I distract the guards. As my family left on the shuttles without me, I was taken to the Administrator and he said to me that I was banished from this place. The guards threw me off of the cliff-side into the lava bed below. Little did they know, I survived the fall, just barely though. I had scratches and bruises everywhere from the fall, and I could not see from my left eye. It was over. Never again will I see my beautiful family, or at least I thought. I saw it. My escape shuttle, but it was beneath a crumbling surface. I crawled towards the shuttle, but I was unsure if I could make it. I was getting delirious, dizzy. Tired and sweaty from all of the heat. I nearly fainted until a small blob of lava hit my backside, immediately putting me back to reality. I kept crawling towards the shuttle and got into the small, closed off container. I didn't know how to operate this machine, and the ground was shaking quite rapidly. I needed to leave this planet immediately. There was a huge button labelled "LAUNCH", I pressed it. The thrusters were not elevating my ship off this planet. I must have pressed it over a million times before my finger started bleeding, but the ship finally started moving away from this terrible place. My ship landed in a mysterious place. And that is the story of how I ended up on this peaceful planet. I do not know where my family is, but I hope they are as happy as I am. \ Yikes. I don't think this is that good of a story but I decided to post this so that way some other people could see for themselves if it is good or not. It's no secret that I'm an amateur(In high school at that). If you are interested, I have similar stories but beware of the writing quality. Thanks for reading.


Next!” The voice droned from behind the dusty desk stacked with papers, some in neat piles and others in disarray. The young man was plain under his inconspicuous mustache that hid any emotion. He pushed his thick-rimmed black glasses back into place, closer to his brown eyes. “Next!” His voice tolled out to the line of people waiting outside of the abandon warehouse’s storage room. “We don’t have all day,” his voice flat and unyielding to anything other than monotony. An oversized woman in a brown oversized coat came around the corner and approached his desk. She spoke in a low tone, thickly glazed with a Russian accent. “That’ll be $10.00 ma’am. Just sign here.” He turned a pen towards her thick hand as she hunched over part of his desk, still contemplating if what she was about to do was right. Once, long ago, she had been a young and successful dancer at the Bolshoi. It had been her ticket out of poverty, yet a one-way road into a life of control and neglect. Which one would have been better — the poverty or the neglect? She was still unsure of as she hovered over the table, gripping the pen between her fingers, which still showed an air of delicacy to them. As she stood, her feet splayed out into first position. It had been part of the drills she went through in ballet, to master that one position before going onto the next. And though it seemed easy to stand with feet turned out, she still remembers her tiny feet kicked at and forcibly moved about by impatient hands. Oh, the impatient hands! always moving her little body about. She had shown so much promise, but it was never good enough. Not even when she had turned fifteen and was the lead ballerina. Her hands had been rapped on so often, that even as she still hunched over the table she could feel them rapping on her knuckles, and she dropped the pen. Other people waiting in the long line were growing impatient. Only moments had passed, but her memories were flying as if she were ending her life. She wanted to see the memories and proclaim to herself she had made all the right decisions, that without them she would be worse off. But there was no way to know, unless she signed the paper. The other people were eager. Some had made their decision and were unquestionably itching to hold that very pen, encased in her large fingers, smothering the time that each expectant customer had to wait. All while their own quiet memories played out in each of the waiting people. Some were old, some very young — just children, holding their mother’s hands. Was this pen meant for them? The old woman looked back over her shoulder after she had reestablished her grip. The man behind the desk had all day. It didn’t bother him how long she took, he would always be there, day after day. Pushing his punch card into the slot to hear the familiar clank of time in, and clank of time out each day. But the woman’s focus was behind her, and she was not moving slowly, it all was just moments — more moments that racked onto the pain of her life. Or had her life not been the pain she thought it to be? Had it been a good life? Could she miss it, when she could not remember it? She paid the fee and held the pen that was to erase everything. All she had to do was sign.
Sign the name she was given, the name that had been screamed to her for years, the name that had been whispered by the other children sympathetic to her at night. The name that had been dragged and tormented by others through the crevices of her life, that she rather just forget. “Yes!” she said, as she straightened herself up, and looked kindly to the clerk behind the counter. Her feet turned forward, and she smiled for a moment to him. She was not seeing the man behind the counter but her father’s face. His sweet, joyful smile that made her so proud to be his daughter each month when he came to visit her at the orphanage. Without another thought her hand moved, scrolling across the dusted paper with thick black ink and highlighted sections that went unread. There her name ended it all. “Thank you, NEXT!” the man in the checkered shirt and tan pants pushed his glasses closer to his brown eyes and forced a large stamp onto the paper in red ink. “Next”. He drawled out, his voice echoed out to the people around the corner, lined down the warehouse, and down the street to a thick yellow line on the ground that read. STOP, line ends here. Those who had missed lining up early enough, turned back, dejected at their opportunity to leave their old lives behind, to forget forever and start a new. Maybe tomorrow… they would tell themselves. But for the ones that had made it into the line, all awaited his face. They talked of the man with the thick-rimmed glasses and longed to hold the coveted pen. After the old woman in the oversized coat had turned and left, the line moved smoothly. The man with thick-rimmed glasses never left his swivel seat that creaked when he turned to get the next application. He never removed himself from behind the old metal desk, the color of the top unknown, covered with papers, but the front showed a worn pea green, left over from the 70s. Around him were stacks of papers and boxes, dusted over with the remains of all those who had come and stood before him. Those that had held the pen and then left with not a trace of their old life active within their memories or bodies. Free, he often thought to himself. I am in the business of freedom, he often told himself, to justify his work and actions. As if to liberate himself from the haunting memories of all those faces who passed by him, never to remember their old lives. And he wondered, would he as well one day come to the yellow line that said, STOP, line ends here. Would he stand before the one that would take his job and wear the thick-rimmed glasses, checkered shirt and tan polyester pants that were always a little too short, and hold the heavy pen in his hand while looking over the papers with highlighted sections and thick black ink? Would he look down to see the red stamp? COMPLETED Would he be happier as he turned to leave and live a life free from checkered shirts and glasses? ~ On the beaches of Maui, it is said you can touch the edges of pleasure and hold them the longest within your senses. There are not many places in the world that can promise such pleasure, but Maui does. It is said that if while in that pleasure you are beholding the beaches and waves, the organic life of birds, seals, and turtles that you could reach a place of ascension and become that which you have always long to be. It is said that if you fill yourself with goodness, then goodness you will become. He had lived on Maui for two years. He had made it passed the dreaded island fever and found that the perimeter of his life was to remain within this island forever more. What brought him was pure curiosity, but a reoccurring dream of an abandon warehouse and dusted papers played out in those uncontrolled moments of sleep, the ones he tried to escape, and pushed him out to the islands. He often awoke in a sweat and would rub his eyes as if he once wore glasses. But now on Maui he was tanned, and only wore sunglasses when necessary. He avoided checkered shirts, an aversion he could not understand, but adhered to and donned the flowered apparel of the islands instead. The most remote side of the island was a jungle, and there in the dense forest is where he slept and called home. The thought of four or even two walls was cloistering to him and called up dreams of a dusted old warehouse, which he avoided as much as the checkered shirts. Today he was going to the market. Fresh papayas, mangos and the Maui gold pineapples were his favorites. He filled himself with the goodness and beautiful colors of the island itself. The only fruit he avoided were the coconuts. He even arrived early to the market, before the people who cracked open the coconuts with short machetes’ began their work. The thirsty customers, always eager, always lined down the isles waiting for the sweet and refreshing waters of the islands. He avoided them for the sound of the thumping on the log with the machete. They would become like machines, hacking off the tops the thumping sounds would pull him from his life of pleasure into that dusty warehouse of papers. “Here!” a man with a checkered shirt placed a paper onto the table before the tan man dressed in the Hawaii apparel. It was a map, showing where the young man could go to find bulk fruit that would be tossed into compost if not eaten, a working fruit farm that needed an extra pair of hands. But the tanned man just looked down at the paper. “Just sign here and I will get you set up to work there.” His voice was friendly and helpful but the tanned young man with brown eyes could only see a form with yellow highlighted areas and thick black ink, a stamp in red was across the form COMPLETED. “You okay there, its not like you are signing away your life.” The young man snapped from his daydream and saw before him a colorful map with green palm leaved drawn around the edges and a mapped village with a hut circled in the middle.
He picked up the heavy pen and signed very slowly his name. He didn’t want to remember whatever was trying to be remembered. “They will pick you up next week here at the market, it’s a pink bus with green leaves painted on the sides, you won’t miss it.” The man in the checkered shirt behind the pile of apple bananas smiled as if he had done a great deed. He fixed his glasses and tucked the paper into his pocket while replacing the pen into his money bin, awaiting the next purchase. Customers were lining up where the people with machetes and coconuts were soon to be stationed. Their beat up truck was parked nearby, and the deeply tanned men hoisted plastic buckets filled to the brim with coconuts over the sides of the truck, the customers growing with anticipation. The young man in a Hawaiian floral shirt and beach shorts that stopped at his knees turned to leave. The flip flops had been a challenge to adjust to, and as he turned, it became lodged and the young man jolted forward into a woman’s arms. She was a robust woman, draped oddly in a brown coat. She caught him by the arm, her large hand pushing him back up to standing. His judgments passed quickly as she smiled innocently at him. She looked happy, he thought. “The flip flops may be the death of you.” Her voice was boisterous and thickly laid with a Russian accent, but her happiness seemed to alter it into something else, though the happiness could not hide who she really was. He nodded, thankful to her, but needed for some strange reason to get as far away from her as possible. He had also delayed too long and the men with machetes had started at their chopping block. With the first thud, the man with a broken flip flop turned and ran from the crowd of lined customers.